(no subject)
Early Saturday morning, April 8th at 1:14 am, there's been a message left on the answering machine, the phone number being that of the Worthington House. The voice is quiet, hesitant but an effort is made to sound confidant: "Detective Rossi...You met me a few days ago outside the safe house, when Rogue came up to you. I...I know you told me to call you if I heard anything about...that girl...but I'm calling for another reason. I figure if--Well, you're the only one I thought I could call. I was...assaulted tonight, a few blocks away from the house. I'm alright, but I'd like to talk with you about it...if I could. My name is Blindspot." There's a pause, as if unsure if anymore should be added on, before the subtle click of the phone cradling the receiver.
***
Notice posted on Worthington House door.
High Security measures now in effect.
---
Worthington House
Behind a security gate and a perimeter fence of high chain link with barbed wire coils along the top, a short concrete path takes you between a row of low boxwood hedges to the front door of New York City's mutant safehouse. Elegant design masking sturdy solid-core construction of the door, and with the two long side windows and overhead half-circle coated with safety film, even the attempts at aesthetics are based off of security and defensibility. The reception area is spartan: tiled floor and unadorned walls are resistant to any runaway mutant powers, and the reception desk could be borrowed from any hospital admissions area. There are rows of bench seating to either side of the doorway, and a few magazines and newspapers provided. Access to the rest of the facility is solely through one solid steel security door behind the desk.
Blindspot's smirks looses its sarcasm, warming to include true humor as Madrox claims that she's never told him just what it is she can 'do'. Sleepless eyes lose the harsh, irritable spark as they turn towards the boy from Kansas. "Like I'm just going to blurt something like that out?" she snickers, knowing she's done just that though he can't remember it. "I'm not interested in getting that intimate with you, Madrox." Unfolding her arms she drags a weary hand over her face though her light amusement is still apparent upon quirked lips.
The door bumps open, swung wide on the thrust of a straightened arm. Brow dug dark and furrowed, Det. Rossi prowls into the recreation room, overcoat flaring in black, flapping wings behind his long stride. A swift gaze skims over the room, measuring its inhabitants against private recollection; his mouth thins slightly in recognition of both teens before he routes his path that way. "Hey," he greets, baritone abrupt. "Blindspot." A nod greets Madrox.
Madrox own smirk begins to warm along with Blindspot's, his right eyebrow arching, "Your...it requires /intimacy/. Interesting." He mutters with his amused and curious smirk before the door opening catches his attention. His lips shift into a friendly and more relieved grin as he spots Rossi, and he nods his own greeting towards Rossi, "Detective Rossi, good t'see you." Other than that though, he shifts over to lean lightly against the arm of the couch, giving Rossi and Blindspot uninterrupted space.
Humor seems to be fleeting, however, as the new arrival to the safe house creates a heavy feeling in Blindspot's gut. There's an uncomfortable shift upon the couch while her gaze starts being indecisive about where to look; her throat is lightly cleared as suddenly antsy finger tuck rich hair behind her ear. "Hey," she ackowledges her name quietly, remaining awkward despite her own reassurances that she called the detective for a reason, that he should help.
"Got your message," the detective says, baritone gentling, hard eyes skimming across Blindspot in automatic assessment. The brows twitch slightly closer, shadowing the professional inspection; fabric sighs as he drops to his knee by the girl, an elbow hooking over the other thigh. "Sorry it took so long to get to me. You okay? You need to go to the hospital?"
Madrox simply remains quiet, an observer willing to speak up or help - or even simply leave - as requested. His eyes flicker between Blindspot and Rossi as he was still wondering the same, slightly skeptical of Blindspot's initial response she gave him, but his gaze also occasionally slips off to flicker around the rec room.
"Yeah, thanks." Assessment shows no visible bruises or abrasions and, in fact, other than looking like she needs a good night's sleep, Blindspot seems physically fine. "I wasn't sure who, if anyone, to call." Her gaze flickers to his, then away again, reluctant to stay in one place. "No, I'm fine, it's just..." A glance is cast towards Madrox then swings up, away, to the offices upstairs. "Could we go somewhere private?"
"Yeah. C'mon. We can use the offices." Rossi rises, a glance to Madrox acknowledging him in passing as he does. A hand thrusts into his pocket, pushing the coat's drape askew around his wrist; the other, extended, offers Blindspot a hand up. "There's an empty one. We can be private there."
Madrox starts to stand as Blindspot responds to how she's doing, hearing confirmation that she's fine, and nods with a hand lifted, "Yeah, I'll be around anyway, wanted to catch a few others too. Good seein you, Detective Rossi. I'll be around, Blindspot." A hand is waved in parting, then he heads off towards the kitchens.
Blindspot accepts the offer, using Rossi's hand to help stand, though her hand is quick to slip out of his once steadied upright. Madrox is given a thin-lipped smile, a visual thanks for understanding, and a quick nod. The stairs are ascended and a darkened office is approached; a hand flicks out to catch familiar light-switch which bathes the room in a fluorescent glow. The door clicks shut behind Rossi, and only then does the teen girl speak, her arms crossed about her midrif protectively. "Thanks. I, uhmm, I'm not sure...how to start."
"Start at the beginning," Rossi suggests, scraping out a chair for Blindspot before pulling out a chair of his own to sink into it. A hand mines a notebook from an inner pocket, flipped open to show the pen pinned between the pages; the detective slouches forward, elbows propping onto knees. "Where were you?"
Blindspot sinks into the seat while eyeing the pocket-sized notepad, smirking faintly as she always thought such things were made for movies. "I went out, I guess around eight, after dinner. I always try and be careful, make sure no one sees me. They were on the roof of a building across the street." A pause, a consideration as if to further explain this information, but she continues. "They caught me a few blocks away. Two of them. They said they've seen me with physically mutated people...so they had been watching for some time."
Det. Rossi lifts his brows, pen scrawling shorthand transcription across the notepad, and settles back a little, molding his spine to the chair's rickety frame. "Can you describe them?" he asks, glancing up across the span of his lap to study Blindspot, brow dipping. "The two of them."
Blindspot blinks before complying with mild hesitance, her eyes elsewhere. "Men. One was about my height, very stocky, full face, bad hygiene, short dark hair. The other was taller...more...muscle-big than big-big. Crooked nose, little eyes." Her descriptions are short and chopped, quietly if not nervously spoken.
The pen scratches quietly in the office, following the girl's descriptions. "Okay. So two men. They said they'd seen you with physical mutants." Rossi's shoulders settle; the pale eyes regard Blindspot, unreadable behind the quiet expression. "What happened next?"
Blindspot's gaze shifts away from the detective once regarded - the considerations dark upon giving him the specs, not wanting to be linked to bodies. Carefully her eyes return to his, squarely, and she asks: "If these men are found...will I need to hear about it?"
"Why don't you tell me what happened, first," the detective suggests, Brooklyn's accent mellow. "Until I know what happened, I can't say what we're looking at. They assaulted you, you said in the message."
A large intake of air is released in what's intended to be a calming sigh, Blindspot acquiescing after nibbling on her thumb-nail for a moment. "The big guy stopped me, talked some bullshit about community watch, and suggested I stayed away from obvious mutants. They didn't know." A shadowy smirk tugs at her lips, then vanishes. "One guy pushed me against the wall, the other guy punched me. I...stunned the guy holding me...and I ran away." The ending is abrupt, though aqdequately convincing.
Eyebrows arch, curiosity scything towards the girl. "Stunned the guy holding you," Rossi says with some interest. "How'd you do that?"
Lips twitch with dark eyebrows, briefly hooding the girl's eyes as she peers towards the man. "Something I can do." Blindspot murmurs lamely, guardedly as she props elbow upon knee to lean upon.
"What do you do, exactly? Your mutation." The cop's brows crimp again, and he flips the notebook closed, a hand fanning across its cover. "Just between us. Off the record."
Blindspot's not stupid and knows Rossi isn't either - even if notebook is closed, words can be remembered. Skeptical scrutiny is paid to the closed book and eventually this seems enough to satiate the girl. "I steal memories. I stole a week's worth of memories from the guy and it really confused him." The information is given with casual indifference, as well what she next offers. "I could show them to you, if you wanted."
Detective Rossi sits back, straightening; eyes show white around the rims, surprise flared and rimmed with black. "You steal memories," he echoes, flat. "You -- actually steal them. Take them away? How the hell do you ... they're in your head?"
A tick flinches in Blindspot's jaw and though her eyes wash over his face, wavering, they do not look away. Straight-lipped, she nods, once. "They are in my head. They don't trouble me, though." Just in case he was worried. "I can forget them, if I want to." If they're no longer useful.
"And you can give them to other people?" Rossi asks, borderline rhetorical. A hand scrubs through hair, rumpling it into a prickle of hedgehog bristles. His brow wrinkles, quizzical and watchful. "The memories tell you anything about the guy? His name, his friends, anything like that?"
Again, another inclination of the head to the rhetoric. Finally sapphire eyes dip away while lower lip gets brought between her teeth to chew thoughtfully. "His name was Smitty. The guy with him was Fielding. I don't know if those were real names or not. There were other names...Hemingway, Harrison, and Tom. I'm pretty damn sure they were a part of Friends of Humanity." The last words are spoken quietly, hopeful to be believed.
The raking hand stills. A light flares in the man's face, abruptly incandescent. "/Tom/," Rossi rasps -- and there it is, belief, immediate and visceral. The detective leans forward, notepad momentarily forgotten; a muscle jumps in his jaw, leaping to its flex. "What about Tom?"
Blindspot counters the detective's lean with a mild retreat, shoulders straightening and head carefully pulling back with the rasp of a man's name. Her eyes widen, unsure just what to say to Rossi. "They...joked about him, what little was said. Said that he was dead, that people were paranoid cause of it," she murmurs, briefly pausing with distant eyes. "Fielding said he'd bet anything that Tom wasn't dead."
"You said you could show me." The arm drops, folding over the thigh. Rossi stirs and physicality growls, unfurling to stretch into the limits of the office: feral energy, restless, eager, confined to the room's claustrophobia and the man's demanding voice. "How can you show me?"
Another deep breath is taken, though this time the sigh that's released is infrequently shaky. "I can...transfer them to you. I would think it'd be pretty confusing for you cause I think you'd think you were someone else for a week." A hand slips up to rub the back of her prickling neck, unnerved. "I can't say people have willingly been test subjects for me," Blindspot admits quietly. "But I could take them out again afterwards, if you didn't like them." Then, in an effort to appease the openly agitated man: "It's through touch and it doesn't hurt."
A hand opens, extended palm up under the level, unblinking gaze. "Do it," Rossi says, harsh. "Show me."
Surprise is blatant and unblinking in bright eyes as Blindspot finds herself demanded - by a cop no less - to perform. With a bat of lashes an amazed smirk lights up on her lips, marvelling briefly at the request. "Alright," she offers softly, standing. There's a moment's hesitation, a flutter of a personal memory, and then she extends a simple index finger towards Rossi's forehead. An incandescent, iridescent jewel no larger than a pebble appears at the padded fingertip before it's pressed into the detective's mind. A pause, a deception of time re-writing, of grey matter struggling to accept foreign cognizant thoughts and action, and then Blindspot pulls away. Concern and curiosity battle upon the teen's face, looking ready to unmake the motion should Rossi think, for a moment, that he is indeed Smitty.
The green eyes are wide, and dazed: blank, with the confusion of inconsistent, discordant memories behind them. Rossi exhales, a shuddering breath; then the black head drops, face buried into hands and cool and concealing blackness. "Shit," the muffled baritone manages, Brooklyn's accent jostled and thinned by another. "I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Sick? Really?" Curiosity has won. "I'd offer you the trash can, but it's filled with holes," Blindspot murmurs conversationally, her alto voice near perky, as if simultaneously pleased that it worked and unburdened from the thoughts that are now in Rossi's mind.
"Jesus Christ." A hand gropes out, sight unseen, to reach for the edge of the office desk. Eyes still buried behind the other, Rossi unravels himself slowly to straighten, lips tightened to a long, white line -- taut as the rest of him, from stiffened shoulders to the brace of legs against the floor. "Yeah. Great. I'm -- Rossi. Chris Rossi. Right. Shit."
Blindspot still stands before her chair, deep eyes still carefully regarding the detective, still unsure what the final decision will be. Slowly, once confirmation to the correct personality is obtained, she shifts over to his chair to position it behind the man. "You can sit down, Detective Rossi." Her words are soft, sympathetic. A return is made to her own chair, into which she settles, leg pulling up to clasp onto while attentive gaze never leaves the man.
The tense, powerful frame resists the invitation for a moment -- under the rigid angle of jaw, a hasty pulse flutters time to adrenaline and anxiety -- but the sway of vertigo leans Rossi too far into the desk's support. He drops into the chair again, its plastic squeaking unhappily under the sudden weight. "That was fun," he manages at last, eyes opening into a painful squint as the hand slides away. "So much for looking before I leap. You still have this crap in your head? Or is it all mine now?"
Avid interest affects the tilt of teenage girl's head - the seated lean towards the man similarly showing attraction - while a gleam of relief sparkles within fluorescent-lightened blue eyes. "You'll be okay, Detective?" Though Blindspot poses this as a question, the underlying note is cool confidance, assuring. "They belong to you now. I have my memories of last night and a few bits of information I remember from looking through his memories, but..." she fades off, shoulders lifting and dropping in lackadaisical shrug.
"Fanfuc-- fantastic," Rossi says, Brooklyn's tincture deepening as equilibrium slowly establishes itself. The detective draws his hand across his face, as though to wipe away the remnants of that other life; a swift shake, dog-like, sheds the most obvious signs of discomfiture, though a tightness remains around those green, stained-glass eyes. "So I atta--" a glance at Blindspot's ribs breaks off into a flinch. "He attacked you. You stunned him. You ran away. What about the other guy?"
The relief falters as Blindspot recognizes that the struggle isn't quite finished; a flinch of young eyes and a flash of white-knuckles about curled up and restrained leg made when tenses are slipped. A hiccup of a released breath, a failed attempt at a chuckle, and she nods. "The other guy realized what I was, got pretty pissed. There was enough of a quick confusion for me to slip away." Smooth and soft alto remains strained and quiet while a fingers begin a tangled weave through dark hair, idly playing.
Det. Rossi sinks back, slouching slightly in the chair. His gaze meets hers, creased and shadowed by a frown. "He knows you're a mutant now," he points out. "And he knows where to find you. He knows you live in the neighborhood, anyway. And he's definitely one of the Friends. He'll have his guys out canvassing for you, asking around ... you have anywhere else to go?"
"No," Blindspot replies quickly to the last question. Her lips part again to make an addition to the negative reply, but the words falter on tongue's tip. The fingers pause in their playing, moving up to rub the area between her eyebrows. "I don't need to worry about them." The murmur, despite the hesitance, is certain.
"Unless you've got immortality stashed away in that little body of yours, you damn well do," Rossi says, expression grim. "They'll come after you, and probably anybody you're with. The Friends don't give a rat's ass if you're human or not, if they think you're a traitor to their gene pool."
Blindspot lowers her chin to the kneecap in front of her while her lips tighten and shaped brows begin to stitch down and together. "I know," she murmurs stubbornly. "Look...They're...not the problem. I'm concerned about the safehouse. I mean, whether I leave or if I don't, I still think this place is in danger."
That Det. Rossi agrees is obvious enough, the pull of his mouth to one side sketching a deep and abiding exasperation. "Yeah. Those wings Worthington's growing must've been to match the feathers in his-- the smart thing to do would be to get you guys out of here and into a new place. Problem is, I'll be damned if I know what place is good for this. I can think of one, maybe, but I'd have to talk to some people, and parking a squad car out there...." A grimace creases his brow. Rossi focuses on Blindspot. "Well, shit."
Blindspot's nose flares a little while a frustrated sigh slips through. Now pensive gaze relinquishes its hold on Rossi to travel across the unoffensive blue carpet while she listens and nods. "I haven't told anyone yet that they were from the Friends, but I have warned some of the...younger people to stay inside. People are still coming and going, though." As is evident by Madrox wandering around downstairs. "If there's something I can do..." Blindspot seems clueless for a solution and turns her eyes to Rossi for an answer.
"I'll talk to the guys in charge here," Rossi says, answering that searching look with authority's reassurance. "And we'll keep some plainclothes on site to make sure everything's okay. Even if the safehouse hasn't been cracked yet, it won't hurt to keep them around, just in case. And you--" The pen, reclaimed, points at Blindspot with a squinted look down its length. "You stay out of sight. Got that? No going outside. Not for any reason."
A grateful hint at a smile curls the corner of Blindspot's lips upwards, accepting of the answers she receives from the man with the badge. The last demand, however, reigns smile back down into reluctant submission and a slow nod shows her compliance. "I was planning on it anyway," she admits breathily, words spoken amidst a sigh. "Thanks." Gratitude is sincere though it takes a moment in coming.
The detective rises warily, a caution rewarded by his body's obedience. One hand drops to Blindspot's shoulder as he passes, the other tucking the notepad into an inner pocket. "We'll take care of it," he says, squeezing gently before settling to the doorknob. "Just do the smart things. Your friends, too. Tell them to keep out of sight if they're obvious, and -- you know the drill. No public demonstrations. The last thing you need is more attention paid to this place."
Dark lashes flutter in a brief show of surprise with the physical comfort; Blindspot doubted the man would want to come close to her after the vertigo she put him through. A quick nod and then she rises, speaking, "I'll tell 'em." Doubt touches the words, unsure if they'll listen. "You know...I could try and take them out if you didn't want them." The suggestion is quiet at his shoulder, wondering and curious.
And there. There is the anxiety, the twitch away under the light overcoat, of shoulders drawing back and flattening in repulsion. "No, thanks," Rossi says swiftly, eyes flaring over the door's bump open. Cool, fresh air filters in, washing away air grown stale. "Sorry. I appreciate the thought, but--" His mouth crooks into a lopsided, stiff smile that fades on a sudden thought. Brows lower. "Hey. When you put that stuff in. Did you get anything out? See any of mine?"
Blindspot smiles, knowingly, not in the slightest perturbed with the response she receives from Rossi, both physical and vocal. "No skin off my nose." A step is taken towards the cracked door and then a pause, eyes lifting again to regard the detective's face. "No," she replies simply, smirking. "I was honest. I doubt I could do both at the same time, giving and taking. I need to focus on a certain...chunk to take anyway." A casual shrug matches the tone of her voice.
The green-eyed gaze searches Blindspot's face, suspicion couched deep behind the frowning face -- but finds nothing. "Just checking," Rossi says, nudging the return swing of the door to knock its pendulum back. "My job, I need all the memories I can keep. --You okay?"
Blindspot is familiar to the many guises, concealed and not, of suspicion and continues to look to the detective with a squeaky clean shine of innocence. She is, for once, telling the truth afterall. "You can keep them. I don't want them," she intones indifferently with false cheer - smile toning down with his last question, growing genuine. "I'll be fine."
"Okay, then. Scoot." Rossi steps out of the office into the hallway, skipping a quick glance down its passage before scratching at his jaw. Nails rasp against stubble, still too short to be more than a hint of shadow. "I've got to talk to the guys in charge here. Lazzaro or me -- Detective Vincent Lazzaro -- might be back with some more questions. You'll be around, right?"
Blindspot strides out of the office, an askance glance cast over her shoulder to the man. A smirk dances over her lips. "I'm not leaving," she reminds him, skimming down the circular stairs once reaching them.
Rossi chuffs a snort, hand rummaging one last time through the rumpled black hair. Youth. He sighs in the wake of that swift departure, face setting briefly into harsh, cynical lines. Then it is time to take the stairs, and the foyer, and the attention of the volunteer on duty. Trish? Your name's Trish? Detective Rossi, NYPD. I need to have a word. We've got a little problem.
[Log ends]
---
Clinton
Clinton, or Hell's Kitchen as it is commonly known as by the locals, is definitely one of the worse neighborhoods of New York. Although crime rates have been cleaning up in this section as opposed to what they used to be, it is still not uncommon to hear the explosion of gunfire out in the alleyways at night or the occasional prostitute leaning in wait against a graffiti'd wall. The rent here is low, and only a few brownstones don't lend it a particularly homey feel. However, if you're looking for somewhere cheap and have the guts, well...Hell's Kitchen is it.
It's later in the day, and still drizzling when Vincent finally emerges from the alley he's been in for some time, now - still pulling his coat snug over his gun. He's wet more than he is damp, now - the black shoulders of his coat made all the blacker by the moisture they've soaked up. He does not look like he is in a very good mood.
Rossi, on the other hand, is -- also not in a very good mood, by the crimp of his brow and the slash of brows pushing down over his gaze. The grey overcoat darkens quickly with moisture; hands thrust in his pants pockets, the detective hunches his shoulders, head outthrust, and stalks at a long, swift stride away from the safehouse.
"Fuck," says Vincent again for good measure - reaching into his damp coat for a damp box of cigarettes. "Fucking rain." Slow steps track him lazily back towards the kiosk.
The other detective pauses on the entrance to his alleyway, hands withdrawn to draw the coat's collar up around his ears. His gaze scans wide, sweeping the street for the presence of witnesses, only to pause at a familiar, shiny head. "Lazzaro!" Rossi glances both ways before breaking into a lope, sketching a new path to intersect with Vincent's. "Hold up."
A damp box of cigarettes produces a damp cigarette, which Vincent pushes into his mouth without discrimination. Not optimistic enough to bother with lighting it, he actually jumps at the call of Rossi's voice after him - the box dropped to even wetter concrete before it can find its proper place inside his coat. He clears his throat and stoops after it - brows knit, calm forced. "I'm holding up."
"Shit," Rossi says, his route angling to head into the kiosk instead, water streaking down the black hair into the funnel of his coat. "I hate wet. Nothing but rain between now and summer. Christ." His shoulder bows into the sheltering wall, smearing damp against the glass; his own packet of cigarettes is somewhat dryer, and taps out a stick into a waiting palm. "You'll never believe what I got."
Having less hair for water to soak into, Vincent is better off in that respect at least - his cigarette drooping somewhat when he steps in after Rossi. If he eyes the wall at his side for a little too long...well, he's tired. And far dryer in tone than he is in his clothing. "Try me."
Chris turns on a foot, settling both his shoulders and spine against the wall, cigarette pinching between lips before he scrounges for a lighter in the outer pocket. "Two guys," he mumbles through the lighting of that flame. "Bill Smitty and Jake Fielding. Members of the Friends of Humanity. Out keeping watch one night to keep people away from one of their meeting places, when suddenly, who should they spot but a neighborhood kid they've spotted with a mutant."
"Oh yeah?" Vincent slouches sideways into the opposite wall, cigarette barely managing to hang on in the corner of his mouth. He is listening, if not watching - glare brooding out at the damp street.
Rossi's face is pale against the black halo of his hair; the lines of his face show slightly haggard, shadows plowed in the hollows of eyes. "Figure you can finish the rest without me telling you," he says, accent dragging. "What the fuck's wrong with you? You look like someone's cat shit in your condom."
"Fucking prick." Vincent rolls his eyes back onto Rossi, brows at a resigned tilt. "Finish your story, and I'll give you what I've got. Cats shitting in condoms. Christ. I hope a telepath never takes a wrong step in the direction of your brain."
"Turns out there's the girl they picked to pound on has this spiffy trick where she can steal your memories and give them to someone else," Rossi says, the cigarette flaring red at a drag. He taps it out, ash wafting away on a stir of wind; his foot scrubs the ground, scraping against asphalt before lifting to rest on the bench's edge. "So she steals a week's worth of memories from one of the jackasses, and ... gets away, somehow."
"You don't look all that great yourself." Vincent eventually comments once he's had a better look at Rossi, wet cigarette extracted, glanced at, and dropped. "You catch Magneto in bed with your mom, or what?" Again, his cigarette pack is produced, only this time, he takes enough time to pick out one that's dry enough to be lightable. "She 'gets away, somehow'?"
A grimace flashes across Chris's face, chased by the ball of his cigarette-holding hand. "Fuck," he says, succinctly. "I should've -- yeah. Somehow. Thing is, shit. I got a little distracted. I'll follow up with her on that later." A dismissive, if uncomfortable promise. He reaches into his pocket to dig out his packet again, extending it in an offer.
Vincent waves it off as he tucks his own pack back in, exchanging it for his usual bic lighter. It takes a few tries, but finally he gets an ember going, and inhales. And exhales. The lines around his scowl ease a little at that. Chemical relief. He looks back to the street. "They're both dead."
Chris retrieves his pack, shuffling it back into his pocket. "How do you figure? Witness didn't say anything about that."
"Had a pair of hookers confirm from the photos. Smitty and Fielding. Said there was a struggle. Suspect probably a mutant - tall and blonde, in good shape, somewhere in the 20-30s range." Vincent exhales again, long and slow, brows quirking. "Good looking. Happened a couple of alleyways over. There was another girl - younger, teenaged, with dark hair. They said she ran away."
"Probably my witness," Chris says, slouching into the wall with an arm draping across his thigh. "Girl named Blindspot. In the Worthington shelter. You believe that chicken-winged dipshit? Has the fucking idiocy to set up shop -- anyway." He shakes his head, stuffs the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth, and scratches at his cheek. "What the mutant do to them?"
"Working girl number one said it looked like whatever she did, she did it without actually bothering to hit them. I think girl number two was on something at the time, so - there's really no telling. But they both ran off after the girl did."
Chris's brows quiz together. "They know for a fact they're dead? My witness didn't say anything about any killing." He fishes again in those capacious pockets; notepad found, he flips it open to thumb through its pages, paper hissing to the flick, flick, flick of search.
"Gut feeling." Vincent mutters, looking away again. "We have a struggle, zero bodies, and a witness that isn't telling the whole story. Question your girl again. Tell her you found the bodies and she's a suspect."
"'Gut feeling,'" Chris mocks. Eyes slant up at Vincent, considering, then grin. "Sure. Why the hell not? She's not telling me everything, that's for damn sure. --You hear Magneto's been spotted around here?"
"Didn't ask. Can't say I'm surprised, though." Vincent flatly ignores the 'gut feeling' jab and looks back to Rossi, smirking. "Why? Worried he might be cheating on you?"
Irritation skips back at Vincent, darkening the pale flare of eyes. "Thinking he's keeping an eye on the place," Rossi says with exaggerated patience. "Asshole. You, that is. Not him. He's more of a ... dancing prick. Should introduce the two of you. You'd be shining stars on Broadway."
"I'll ask around while I'm out tomorrow. The weather's supposed to be a little better, so there may be more people out anyway." Right hand lifted to scrub at the darkening circles beneath his eyes, the left is lifted enough for him to glance at his watch. "I'd do it today, but I have witnesses to meet with for another case in an hour."
"I'll follow up on the two guys," Chris says, expression fading to distracted blankness as he peers out into the fall of rain. "I have a feeling those memories'll get us a lead on Friends in the area. At the very least, their local hangouts."
"About fucking time we picked up something useful on those assholes. Potentially useful, anyway. Let me know if anything pans out. I'm parked a couple of blocks over. And fuck you and your asperations to be a director on Broadway." Out into the rain, a sodden Vincent steps yet again.
Rossi's cigarette glows dull, diabolical red. Teeth flash in a white grin. "Producer, man. Producer. I wanna be a producer, wear a tux on opening nights; I wanna be a producer, and see my name 'Leo Bloom' in lights." A choir boy's remembered talents, applied to a mellow, sardonic baritone. Chris wraps up Mel Brooks and lobs it after the departing Vincent, New Yorker born.
"I wanna be the greatest grandest and most fabulous producer in the woooorld!" Vincent gives the puddle in front of him a dramatic skip kick, and continues from there in a more manly fashion. Cops are gay.
[Log ends]
Rossi answers Blindspot's phone message and goes over to the safehouse to take her statement. She offers to give him some memories from a Friends guy. He is a nincompoop, and goes for it. It is all seriously weird. Meanwhile, Vincent is off making best friends with Ellen Dramstadt, and afterwards, the two cops run into each other for hugs and kisses. Lazzaro proves that he is gay. Close scene.
***
Notice posted on Worthington House door.
High Security measures now in effect.
---
Worthington House
Behind a security gate and a perimeter fence of high chain link with barbed wire coils along the top, a short concrete path takes you between a row of low boxwood hedges to the front door of New York City's mutant safehouse. Elegant design masking sturdy solid-core construction of the door, and with the two long side windows and overhead half-circle coated with safety film, even the attempts at aesthetics are based off of security and defensibility. The reception area is spartan: tiled floor and unadorned walls are resistant to any runaway mutant powers, and the reception desk could be borrowed from any hospital admissions area. There are rows of bench seating to either side of the doorway, and a few magazines and newspapers provided. Access to the rest of the facility is solely through one solid steel security door behind the desk.
Blindspot's smirks looses its sarcasm, warming to include true humor as Madrox claims that she's never told him just what it is she can 'do'. Sleepless eyes lose the harsh, irritable spark as they turn towards the boy from Kansas. "Like I'm just going to blurt something like that out?" she snickers, knowing she's done just that though he can't remember it. "I'm not interested in getting that intimate with you, Madrox." Unfolding her arms she drags a weary hand over her face though her light amusement is still apparent upon quirked lips.
The door bumps open, swung wide on the thrust of a straightened arm. Brow dug dark and furrowed, Det. Rossi prowls into the recreation room, overcoat flaring in black, flapping wings behind his long stride. A swift gaze skims over the room, measuring its inhabitants against private recollection; his mouth thins slightly in recognition of both teens before he routes his path that way. "Hey," he greets, baritone abrupt. "Blindspot." A nod greets Madrox.
Madrox own smirk begins to warm along with Blindspot's, his right eyebrow arching, "Your...it requires /intimacy/. Interesting." He mutters with his amused and curious smirk before the door opening catches his attention. His lips shift into a friendly and more relieved grin as he spots Rossi, and he nods his own greeting towards Rossi, "Detective Rossi, good t'see you." Other than that though, he shifts over to lean lightly against the arm of the couch, giving Rossi and Blindspot uninterrupted space.
Humor seems to be fleeting, however, as the new arrival to the safe house creates a heavy feeling in Blindspot's gut. There's an uncomfortable shift upon the couch while her gaze starts being indecisive about where to look; her throat is lightly cleared as suddenly antsy finger tuck rich hair behind her ear. "Hey," she ackowledges her name quietly, remaining awkward despite her own reassurances that she called the detective for a reason, that he should help.
"Got your message," the detective says, baritone gentling, hard eyes skimming across Blindspot in automatic assessment. The brows twitch slightly closer, shadowing the professional inspection; fabric sighs as he drops to his knee by the girl, an elbow hooking over the other thigh. "Sorry it took so long to get to me. You okay? You need to go to the hospital?"
Madrox simply remains quiet, an observer willing to speak up or help - or even simply leave - as requested. His eyes flicker between Blindspot and Rossi as he was still wondering the same, slightly skeptical of Blindspot's initial response she gave him, but his gaze also occasionally slips off to flicker around the rec room.
"Yeah, thanks." Assessment shows no visible bruises or abrasions and, in fact, other than looking like she needs a good night's sleep, Blindspot seems physically fine. "I wasn't sure who, if anyone, to call." Her gaze flickers to his, then away again, reluctant to stay in one place. "No, I'm fine, it's just..." A glance is cast towards Madrox then swings up, away, to the offices upstairs. "Could we go somewhere private?"
"Yeah. C'mon. We can use the offices." Rossi rises, a glance to Madrox acknowledging him in passing as he does. A hand thrusts into his pocket, pushing the coat's drape askew around his wrist; the other, extended, offers Blindspot a hand up. "There's an empty one. We can be private there."
Madrox starts to stand as Blindspot responds to how she's doing, hearing confirmation that she's fine, and nods with a hand lifted, "Yeah, I'll be around anyway, wanted to catch a few others too. Good seein you, Detective Rossi. I'll be around, Blindspot." A hand is waved in parting, then he heads off towards the kitchens.
Blindspot accepts the offer, using Rossi's hand to help stand, though her hand is quick to slip out of his once steadied upright. Madrox is given a thin-lipped smile, a visual thanks for understanding, and a quick nod. The stairs are ascended and a darkened office is approached; a hand flicks out to catch familiar light-switch which bathes the room in a fluorescent glow. The door clicks shut behind Rossi, and only then does the teen girl speak, her arms crossed about her midrif protectively. "Thanks. I, uhmm, I'm not sure...how to start."
"Start at the beginning," Rossi suggests, scraping out a chair for Blindspot before pulling out a chair of his own to sink into it. A hand mines a notebook from an inner pocket, flipped open to show the pen pinned between the pages; the detective slouches forward, elbows propping onto knees. "Where were you?"
Blindspot sinks into the seat while eyeing the pocket-sized notepad, smirking faintly as she always thought such things were made for movies. "I went out, I guess around eight, after dinner. I always try and be careful, make sure no one sees me. They were on the roof of a building across the street." A pause, a consideration as if to further explain this information, but she continues. "They caught me a few blocks away. Two of them. They said they've seen me with physically mutated people...so they had been watching for some time."
Det. Rossi lifts his brows, pen scrawling shorthand transcription across the notepad, and settles back a little, molding his spine to the chair's rickety frame. "Can you describe them?" he asks, glancing up across the span of his lap to study Blindspot, brow dipping. "The two of them."
Blindspot blinks before complying with mild hesitance, her eyes elsewhere. "Men. One was about my height, very stocky, full face, bad hygiene, short dark hair. The other was taller...more...muscle-big than big-big. Crooked nose, little eyes." Her descriptions are short and chopped, quietly if not nervously spoken.
The pen scratches quietly in the office, following the girl's descriptions. "Okay. So two men. They said they'd seen you with physical mutants." Rossi's shoulders settle; the pale eyes regard Blindspot, unreadable behind the quiet expression. "What happened next?"
Blindspot's gaze shifts away from the detective once regarded - the considerations dark upon giving him the specs, not wanting to be linked to bodies. Carefully her eyes return to his, squarely, and she asks: "If these men are found...will I need to hear about it?"
"Why don't you tell me what happened, first," the detective suggests, Brooklyn's accent mellow. "Until I know what happened, I can't say what we're looking at. They assaulted you, you said in the message."
A large intake of air is released in what's intended to be a calming sigh, Blindspot acquiescing after nibbling on her thumb-nail for a moment. "The big guy stopped me, talked some bullshit about community watch, and suggested I stayed away from obvious mutants. They didn't know." A shadowy smirk tugs at her lips, then vanishes. "One guy pushed me against the wall, the other guy punched me. I...stunned the guy holding me...and I ran away." The ending is abrupt, though aqdequately convincing.
Eyebrows arch, curiosity scything towards the girl. "Stunned the guy holding you," Rossi says with some interest. "How'd you do that?"
Lips twitch with dark eyebrows, briefly hooding the girl's eyes as she peers towards the man. "Something I can do." Blindspot murmurs lamely, guardedly as she props elbow upon knee to lean upon.
"What do you do, exactly? Your mutation." The cop's brows crimp again, and he flips the notebook closed, a hand fanning across its cover. "Just between us. Off the record."
Blindspot's not stupid and knows Rossi isn't either - even if notebook is closed, words can be remembered. Skeptical scrutiny is paid to the closed book and eventually this seems enough to satiate the girl. "I steal memories. I stole a week's worth of memories from the guy and it really confused him." The information is given with casual indifference, as well what she next offers. "I could show them to you, if you wanted."
Detective Rossi sits back, straightening; eyes show white around the rims, surprise flared and rimmed with black. "You steal memories," he echoes, flat. "You -- actually steal them. Take them away? How the hell do you ... they're in your head?"
A tick flinches in Blindspot's jaw and though her eyes wash over his face, wavering, they do not look away. Straight-lipped, she nods, once. "They are in my head. They don't trouble me, though." Just in case he was worried. "I can forget them, if I want to." If they're no longer useful.
"And you can give them to other people?" Rossi asks, borderline rhetorical. A hand scrubs through hair, rumpling it into a prickle of hedgehog bristles. His brow wrinkles, quizzical and watchful. "The memories tell you anything about the guy? His name, his friends, anything like that?"
Again, another inclination of the head to the rhetoric. Finally sapphire eyes dip away while lower lip gets brought between her teeth to chew thoughtfully. "His name was Smitty. The guy with him was Fielding. I don't know if those were real names or not. There were other names...Hemingway, Harrison, and Tom. I'm pretty damn sure they were a part of Friends of Humanity." The last words are spoken quietly, hopeful to be believed.
The raking hand stills. A light flares in the man's face, abruptly incandescent. "/Tom/," Rossi rasps -- and there it is, belief, immediate and visceral. The detective leans forward, notepad momentarily forgotten; a muscle jumps in his jaw, leaping to its flex. "What about Tom?"
Blindspot counters the detective's lean with a mild retreat, shoulders straightening and head carefully pulling back with the rasp of a man's name. Her eyes widen, unsure just what to say to Rossi. "They...joked about him, what little was said. Said that he was dead, that people were paranoid cause of it," she murmurs, briefly pausing with distant eyes. "Fielding said he'd bet anything that Tom wasn't dead."
"You said you could show me." The arm drops, folding over the thigh. Rossi stirs and physicality growls, unfurling to stretch into the limits of the office: feral energy, restless, eager, confined to the room's claustrophobia and the man's demanding voice. "How can you show me?"
Another deep breath is taken, though this time the sigh that's released is infrequently shaky. "I can...transfer them to you. I would think it'd be pretty confusing for you cause I think you'd think you were someone else for a week." A hand slips up to rub the back of her prickling neck, unnerved. "I can't say people have willingly been test subjects for me," Blindspot admits quietly. "But I could take them out again afterwards, if you didn't like them." Then, in an effort to appease the openly agitated man: "It's through touch and it doesn't hurt."
A hand opens, extended palm up under the level, unblinking gaze. "Do it," Rossi says, harsh. "Show me."
Surprise is blatant and unblinking in bright eyes as Blindspot finds herself demanded - by a cop no less - to perform. With a bat of lashes an amazed smirk lights up on her lips, marvelling briefly at the request. "Alright," she offers softly, standing. There's a moment's hesitation, a flutter of a personal memory, and then she extends a simple index finger towards Rossi's forehead. An incandescent, iridescent jewel no larger than a pebble appears at the padded fingertip before it's pressed into the detective's mind. A pause, a deception of time re-writing, of grey matter struggling to accept foreign cognizant thoughts and action, and then Blindspot pulls away. Concern and curiosity battle upon the teen's face, looking ready to unmake the motion should Rossi think, for a moment, that he is indeed Smitty.
The green eyes are wide, and dazed: blank, with the confusion of inconsistent, discordant memories behind them. Rossi exhales, a shuddering breath; then the black head drops, face buried into hands and cool and concealing blackness. "Shit," the muffled baritone manages, Brooklyn's accent jostled and thinned by another. "I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Sick? Really?" Curiosity has won. "I'd offer you the trash can, but it's filled with holes," Blindspot murmurs conversationally, her alto voice near perky, as if simultaneously pleased that it worked and unburdened from the thoughts that are now in Rossi's mind.
"Jesus Christ." A hand gropes out, sight unseen, to reach for the edge of the office desk. Eyes still buried behind the other, Rossi unravels himself slowly to straighten, lips tightened to a long, white line -- taut as the rest of him, from stiffened shoulders to the brace of legs against the floor. "Yeah. Great. I'm -- Rossi. Chris Rossi. Right. Shit."
Blindspot still stands before her chair, deep eyes still carefully regarding the detective, still unsure what the final decision will be. Slowly, once confirmation to the correct personality is obtained, she shifts over to his chair to position it behind the man. "You can sit down, Detective Rossi." Her words are soft, sympathetic. A return is made to her own chair, into which she settles, leg pulling up to clasp onto while attentive gaze never leaves the man.
The tense, powerful frame resists the invitation for a moment -- under the rigid angle of jaw, a hasty pulse flutters time to adrenaline and anxiety -- but the sway of vertigo leans Rossi too far into the desk's support. He drops into the chair again, its plastic squeaking unhappily under the sudden weight. "That was fun," he manages at last, eyes opening into a painful squint as the hand slides away. "So much for looking before I leap. You still have this crap in your head? Or is it all mine now?"
Avid interest affects the tilt of teenage girl's head - the seated lean towards the man similarly showing attraction - while a gleam of relief sparkles within fluorescent-lightened blue eyes. "You'll be okay, Detective?" Though Blindspot poses this as a question, the underlying note is cool confidance, assuring. "They belong to you now. I have my memories of last night and a few bits of information I remember from looking through his memories, but..." she fades off, shoulders lifting and dropping in lackadaisical shrug.
"Fanfuc-- fantastic," Rossi says, Brooklyn's tincture deepening as equilibrium slowly establishes itself. The detective draws his hand across his face, as though to wipe away the remnants of that other life; a swift shake, dog-like, sheds the most obvious signs of discomfiture, though a tightness remains around those green, stained-glass eyes. "So I atta--" a glance at Blindspot's ribs breaks off into a flinch. "He attacked you. You stunned him. You ran away. What about the other guy?"
The relief falters as Blindspot recognizes that the struggle isn't quite finished; a flinch of young eyes and a flash of white-knuckles about curled up and restrained leg made when tenses are slipped. A hiccup of a released breath, a failed attempt at a chuckle, and she nods. "The other guy realized what I was, got pretty pissed. There was enough of a quick confusion for me to slip away." Smooth and soft alto remains strained and quiet while a fingers begin a tangled weave through dark hair, idly playing.
Det. Rossi sinks back, slouching slightly in the chair. His gaze meets hers, creased and shadowed by a frown. "He knows you're a mutant now," he points out. "And he knows where to find you. He knows you live in the neighborhood, anyway. And he's definitely one of the Friends. He'll have his guys out canvassing for you, asking around ... you have anywhere else to go?"
"No," Blindspot replies quickly to the last question. Her lips part again to make an addition to the negative reply, but the words falter on tongue's tip. The fingers pause in their playing, moving up to rub the area between her eyebrows. "I don't need to worry about them." The murmur, despite the hesitance, is certain.
"Unless you've got immortality stashed away in that little body of yours, you damn well do," Rossi says, expression grim. "They'll come after you, and probably anybody you're with. The Friends don't give a rat's ass if you're human or not, if they think you're a traitor to their gene pool."
Blindspot lowers her chin to the kneecap in front of her while her lips tighten and shaped brows begin to stitch down and together. "I know," she murmurs stubbornly. "Look...They're...not the problem. I'm concerned about the safehouse. I mean, whether I leave or if I don't, I still think this place is in danger."
That Det. Rossi agrees is obvious enough, the pull of his mouth to one side sketching a deep and abiding exasperation. "Yeah. Those wings Worthington's growing must've been to match the feathers in his-- the smart thing to do would be to get you guys out of here and into a new place. Problem is, I'll be damned if I know what place is good for this. I can think of one, maybe, but I'd have to talk to some people, and parking a squad car out there...." A grimace creases his brow. Rossi focuses on Blindspot. "Well, shit."
Blindspot's nose flares a little while a frustrated sigh slips through. Now pensive gaze relinquishes its hold on Rossi to travel across the unoffensive blue carpet while she listens and nods. "I haven't told anyone yet that they were from the Friends, but I have warned some of the...younger people to stay inside. People are still coming and going, though." As is evident by Madrox wandering around downstairs. "If there's something I can do..." Blindspot seems clueless for a solution and turns her eyes to Rossi for an answer.
"I'll talk to the guys in charge here," Rossi says, answering that searching look with authority's reassurance. "And we'll keep some plainclothes on site to make sure everything's okay. Even if the safehouse hasn't been cracked yet, it won't hurt to keep them around, just in case. And you--" The pen, reclaimed, points at Blindspot with a squinted look down its length. "You stay out of sight. Got that? No going outside. Not for any reason."
A grateful hint at a smile curls the corner of Blindspot's lips upwards, accepting of the answers she receives from the man with the badge. The last demand, however, reigns smile back down into reluctant submission and a slow nod shows her compliance. "I was planning on it anyway," she admits breathily, words spoken amidst a sigh. "Thanks." Gratitude is sincere though it takes a moment in coming.
The detective rises warily, a caution rewarded by his body's obedience. One hand drops to Blindspot's shoulder as he passes, the other tucking the notepad into an inner pocket. "We'll take care of it," he says, squeezing gently before settling to the doorknob. "Just do the smart things. Your friends, too. Tell them to keep out of sight if they're obvious, and -- you know the drill. No public demonstrations. The last thing you need is more attention paid to this place."
Dark lashes flutter in a brief show of surprise with the physical comfort; Blindspot doubted the man would want to come close to her after the vertigo she put him through. A quick nod and then she rises, speaking, "I'll tell 'em." Doubt touches the words, unsure if they'll listen. "You know...I could try and take them out if you didn't want them." The suggestion is quiet at his shoulder, wondering and curious.
And there. There is the anxiety, the twitch away under the light overcoat, of shoulders drawing back and flattening in repulsion. "No, thanks," Rossi says swiftly, eyes flaring over the door's bump open. Cool, fresh air filters in, washing away air grown stale. "Sorry. I appreciate the thought, but--" His mouth crooks into a lopsided, stiff smile that fades on a sudden thought. Brows lower. "Hey. When you put that stuff in. Did you get anything out? See any of mine?"
Blindspot smiles, knowingly, not in the slightest perturbed with the response she receives from Rossi, both physical and vocal. "No skin off my nose." A step is taken towards the cracked door and then a pause, eyes lifting again to regard the detective's face. "No," she replies simply, smirking. "I was honest. I doubt I could do both at the same time, giving and taking. I need to focus on a certain...chunk to take anyway." A casual shrug matches the tone of her voice.
The green-eyed gaze searches Blindspot's face, suspicion couched deep behind the frowning face -- but finds nothing. "Just checking," Rossi says, nudging the return swing of the door to knock its pendulum back. "My job, I need all the memories I can keep. --You okay?"
Blindspot is familiar to the many guises, concealed and not, of suspicion and continues to look to the detective with a squeaky clean shine of innocence. She is, for once, telling the truth afterall. "You can keep them. I don't want them," she intones indifferently with false cheer - smile toning down with his last question, growing genuine. "I'll be fine."
"Okay, then. Scoot." Rossi steps out of the office into the hallway, skipping a quick glance down its passage before scratching at his jaw. Nails rasp against stubble, still too short to be more than a hint of shadow. "I've got to talk to the guys in charge here. Lazzaro or me -- Detective Vincent Lazzaro -- might be back with some more questions. You'll be around, right?"
Blindspot strides out of the office, an askance glance cast over her shoulder to the man. A smirk dances over her lips. "I'm not leaving," she reminds him, skimming down the circular stairs once reaching them.
Rossi chuffs a snort, hand rummaging one last time through the rumpled black hair. Youth. He sighs in the wake of that swift departure, face setting briefly into harsh, cynical lines. Then it is time to take the stairs, and the foyer, and the attention of the volunteer on duty. Trish? Your name's Trish? Detective Rossi, NYPD. I need to have a word. We've got a little problem.
[Log ends]
---
Clinton
Clinton, or Hell's Kitchen as it is commonly known as by the locals, is definitely one of the worse neighborhoods of New York. Although crime rates have been cleaning up in this section as opposed to what they used to be, it is still not uncommon to hear the explosion of gunfire out in the alleyways at night or the occasional prostitute leaning in wait against a graffiti'd wall. The rent here is low, and only a few brownstones don't lend it a particularly homey feel. However, if you're looking for somewhere cheap and have the guts, well...Hell's Kitchen is it.
It's later in the day, and still drizzling when Vincent finally emerges from the alley he's been in for some time, now - still pulling his coat snug over his gun. He's wet more than he is damp, now - the black shoulders of his coat made all the blacker by the moisture they've soaked up. He does not look like he is in a very good mood.
Rossi, on the other hand, is -- also not in a very good mood, by the crimp of his brow and the slash of brows pushing down over his gaze. The grey overcoat darkens quickly with moisture; hands thrust in his pants pockets, the detective hunches his shoulders, head outthrust, and stalks at a long, swift stride away from the safehouse.
"Fuck," says Vincent again for good measure - reaching into his damp coat for a damp box of cigarettes. "Fucking rain." Slow steps track him lazily back towards the kiosk.
The other detective pauses on the entrance to his alleyway, hands withdrawn to draw the coat's collar up around his ears. His gaze scans wide, sweeping the street for the presence of witnesses, only to pause at a familiar, shiny head. "Lazzaro!" Rossi glances both ways before breaking into a lope, sketching a new path to intersect with Vincent's. "Hold up."
A damp box of cigarettes produces a damp cigarette, which Vincent pushes into his mouth without discrimination. Not optimistic enough to bother with lighting it, he actually jumps at the call of Rossi's voice after him - the box dropped to even wetter concrete before it can find its proper place inside his coat. He clears his throat and stoops after it - brows knit, calm forced. "I'm holding up."
"Shit," Rossi says, his route angling to head into the kiosk instead, water streaking down the black hair into the funnel of his coat. "I hate wet. Nothing but rain between now and summer. Christ." His shoulder bows into the sheltering wall, smearing damp against the glass; his own packet of cigarettes is somewhat dryer, and taps out a stick into a waiting palm. "You'll never believe what I got."
Having less hair for water to soak into, Vincent is better off in that respect at least - his cigarette drooping somewhat when he steps in after Rossi. If he eyes the wall at his side for a little too long...well, he's tired. And far dryer in tone than he is in his clothing. "Try me."
Chris turns on a foot, settling both his shoulders and spine against the wall, cigarette pinching between lips before he scrounges for a lighter in the outer pocket. "Two guys," he mumbles through the lighting of that flame. "Bill Smitty and Jake Fielding. Members of the Friends of Humanity. Out keeping watch one night to keep people away from one of their meeting places, when suddenly, who should they spot but a neighborhood kid they've spotted with a mutant."
"Oh yeah?" Vincent slouches sideways into the opposite wall, cigarette barely managing to hang on in the corner of his mouth. He is listening, if not watching - glare brooding out at the damp street.
Rossi's face is pale against the black halo of his hair; the lines of his face show slightly haggard, shadows plowed in the hollows of eyes. "Figure you can finish the rest without me telling you," he says, accent dragging. "What the fuck's wrong with you? You look like someone's cat shit in your condom."
"Fucking prick." Vincent rolls his eyes back onto Rossi, brows at a resigned tilt. "Finish your story, and I'll give you what I've got. Cats shitting in condoms. Christ. I hope a telepath never takes a wrong step in the direction of your brain."
"Turns out there's the girl they picked to pound on has this spiffy trick where she can steal your memories and give them to someone else," Rossi says, the cigarette flaring red at a drag. He taps it out, ash wafting away on a stir of wind; his foot scrubs the ground, scraping against asphalt before lifting to rest on the bench's edge. "So she steals a week's worth of memories from one of the jackasses, and ... gets away, somehow."
"You don't look all that great yourself." Vincent eventually comments once he's had a better look at Rossi, wet cigarette extracted, glanced at, and dropped. "You catch Magneto in bed with your mom, or what?" Again, his cigarette pack is produced, only this time, he takes enough time to pick out one that's dry enough to be lightable. "She 'gets away, somehow'?"
A grimace flashes across Chris's face, chased by the ball of his cigarette-holding hand. "Fuck," he says, succinctly. "I should've -- yeah. Somehow. Thing is, shit. I got a little distracted. I'll follow up with her on that later." A dismissive, if uncomfortable promise. He reaches into his pocket to dig out his packet again, extending it in an offer.
Vincent waves it off as he tucks his own pack back in, exchanging it for his usual bic lighter. It takes a few tries, but finally he gets an ember going, and inhales. And exhales. The lines around his scowl ease a little at that. Chemical relief. He looks back to the street. "They're both dead."
Chris retrieves his pack, shuffling it back into his pocket. "How do you figure? Witness didn't say anything about that."
"Had a pair of hookers confirm from the photos. Smitty and Fielding. Said there was a struggle. Suspect probably a mutant - tall and blonde, in good shape, somewhere in the 20-30s range." Vincent exhales again, long and slow, brows quirking. "Good looking. Happened a couple of alleyways over. There was another girl - younger, teenaged, with dark hair. They said she ran away."
"Probably my witness," Chris says, slouching into the wall with an arm draping across his thigh. "Girl named Blindspot. In the Worthington shelter. You believe that chicken-winged dipshit? Has the fucking idiocy to set up shop -- anyway." He shakes his head, stuffs the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth, and scratches at his cheek. "What the mutant do to them?"
"Working girl number one said it looked like whatever she did, she did it without actually bothering to hit them. I think girl number two was on something at the time, so - there's really no telling. But they both ran off after the girl did."
Chris's brows quiz together. "They know for a fact they're dead? My witness didn't say anything about any killing." He fishes again in those capacious pockets; notepad found, he flips it open to thumb through its pages, paper hissing to the flick, flick, flick of search.
"Gut feeling." Vincent mutters, looking away again. "We have a struggle, zero bodies, and a witness that isn't telling the whole story. Question your girl again. Tell her you found the bodies and she's a suspect."
"'Gut feeling,'" Chris mocks. Eyes slant up at Vincent, considering, then grin. "Sure. Why the hell not? She's not telling me everything, that's for damn sure. --You hear Magneto's been spotted around here?"
"Didn't ask. Can't say I'm surprised, though." Vincent flatly ignores the 'gut feeling' jab and looks back to Rossi, smirking. "Why? Worried he might be cheating on you?"
Irritation skips back at Vincent, darkening the pale flare of eyes. "Thinking he's keeping an eye on the place," Rossi says with exaggerated patience. "Asshole. You, that is. Not him. He's more of a ... dancing prick. Should introduce the two of you. You'd be shining stars on Broadway."
"I'll ask around while I'm out tomorrow. The weather's supposed to be a little better, so there may be more people out anyway." Right hand lifted to scrub at the darkening circles beneath his eyes, the left is lifted enough for him to glance at his watch. "I'd do it today, but I have witnesses to meet with for another case in an hour."
"I'll follow up on the two guys," Chris says, expression fading to distracted blankness as he peers out into the fall of rain. "I have a feeling those memories'll get us a lead on Friends in the area. At the very least, their local hangouts."
"About fucking time we picked up something useful on those assholes. Potentially useful, anyway. Let me know if anything pans out. I'm parked a couple of blocks over. And fuck you and your asperations to be a director on Broadway." Out into the rain, a sodden Vincent steps yet again.
Rossi's cigarette glows dull, diabolical red. Teeth flash in a white grin. "Producer, man. Producer. I wanna be a producer, wear a tux on opening nights; I wanna be a producer, and see my name 'Leo Bloom' in lights." A choir boy's remembered talents, applied to a mellow, sardonic baritone. Chris wraps up Mel Brooks and lobs it after the departing Vincent, New Yorker born.
"I wanna be the greatest grandest and most fabulous producer in the woooorld!" Vincent gives the puddle in front of him a dramatic skip kick, and continues from there in a more manly fashion. Cops are gay.
[Log ends]
Rossi answers Blindspot's phone message and goes over to the safehouse to take her statement. She offers to give him some memories from a Friends guy. He is a nincompoop, and goes for it. It is all seriously weird. Meanwhile, Vincent is off making best friends with Ellen Dramstadt, and afterwards, the two cops run into each other for hugs and kisses. Lazzaro proves that he is gay. Close scene.