(no subject)
Caught.
Hubris, I suppose--
Should have happened before now. I belong at the compound.
Should have happened with worse consequences. I will burn candles tonight.
There is a woman waiting for a bus at the ruined kiosk down the street from Worthington House. She is dressed in muted colors, masked by the long dark coat clasped closed over her tall frame. Her hair whispers pale blonde and loose about her shoulders, no longer. She is for all intents and purposes reading a newspaper in the grey-clouded daylight. The kiosk provides limited shelter from the drear drizzle sputtering on and off, but for whatever reason, the other denizens of Hell's Kitchen do not spend long sharing it with her.
Down the sidewalk, another lone figure paces - head bowed against the damp chill in the air, with the black wool of his overcoat held in tight around his chest by folded arms. He has a generally worn out look to him - not entirely unlike the droop of the Times gasped somewhere in that fold across his chest, succumbed to the drizzle that defines the greyness of the day. Across the street, there is a kiosk. He looks both ways, and then begins his approach.
Ellen marks his passage with a flicker of her gaze. Her eyes are dulled grey by the lackluster light; they measure the approaching figure, and then drop back to apparent absorption in her (dry) newspaper.
Vincent is not an overly threatening figure. Just a guy, mostly balding, with hair more of a grey black shading around the back of his head and the sides of his jaw than it is...well. Hair. Nearly black in this weather, his gaze is quick and calculating the one time it cuts up from the wet pavement scraping past underfoot - flicking over Ellen from head to toe before he makes it to the near curb.
Ellen pages past the sports section without interest. She does not as yet look up again.
"Fucking weather," mutters Vincent, stepping boldly in under the shelter of the kiosk. Shoulders hunched, he doesn't yet look back at the company he's keeping. "Been here long?"
"Long enough," Ellen answers mildly. Her body tightens upon being addressed, stance increasing wary, but she does not look up from her newspaper.
"Oh." Ok. Vincent situates himself in a position not unlike hers now that he's out of the wind and the drizzle, feet apart, left hand clasped loosely over the wrist of his right at his middle, still gripping the paper when he finally does glance over at her - aside, and then slightly down. "It's just -- your paper is dry, so I figured maybe there's something wrong with the bus."
"The bus is on schedule." Ellen slants a sideways look at Vincent, a flicker of irritation coloring the pale gaze before her head turns again, eyes straight front; her paper folds in on itself with a few brisk hand-movements. "I was inattentive."
"Yeah. Buses, you know. The fucking drivers won't stop for shit, either. You could be being chased by a tiger and they wouldn't even look twice." Another glance slanted over at Ellen, Vincent half-turns to toss his paper back onto the unoccupied bench behind them, where it slaps a bit wetly before his hands find their way back into the same position again. "You in this area often?"
One of Ellen's shoulders lifts in part of a shrug. She does not seek out eye contact. Coolly, she answers, "From time to time."
"Were you around yesterday?"
Ellen does narrow a look at him now. "Why do you ask?"
Vincent shrugs, hands dropping away from each other so that the right can lift with the intention of tucking in beneath his coat as he speaks. "These two guys are missing, and some of the scum around this part of town seems to remember seeing them around here yesterday. So, just curiousity, I guess, with you being an escaped murderer and all..."
The tension corded tight across Ellen's lean frame snaps into sudden motion, paper flung careless to the side in a spew of newsprint and pages as she turns and lunges for Vincent with eyes wide to flash mingled fear and fury.
"Holy fuck--" Vincent's reflexes are fast enough to deholster the glock under his coat, but he can only get the damn thing jerked halfway out into the open before she's on him - that lifted arm catching the brunt of impact as he her momentum carries him violently towards the kiosk wall.
"You know what I am." Ellen's voice has lost every taint of refinement, every shred of poise; all that's left is a fierce and feral rasp as she slams him up against the wall. The impact is not important. The /gun/ is not important. What is important is the splay of one of her hands over the side of his face and neck. Her eyes glitter across their disparity in height as she snarls, "Does that mean you know what I can /do/?"
Brows knit, eyes showing white around black, the side of Vincent's face is rough against Ellen's palm, and more recently, broken out in a cold sweat. Whatever initial struggle there was ceases immediately upon skin contact. His gun is out, but pointed harmlessly (to Ellen) in at his own ribs - his lifted elbow somewhere up around her shoulder. This has all, it seems, happened very quickly and very slowly all at once, and in this position -- conversation -- black eyes flicker minutely aside, over Ellen's shoulder, and with a *thunk* the heavy weight of Vincent between Ellen and kiosk wall is replaced by black smoke furling out of the kiosks grasp before it dissipates. And just as quickly, there he is again, three steps behind her and off balance enough to thump back into the opposite kiosk wall.
Ellen stumbles and falls forward into the wall, her elbows and forearms bearing the brunt of the impact. She cries out, startled and wordless, and pivots, thin brows swept high and hands dropped to her sides as she steps away from the graffiti'd surface.
Vincent is quick to regain his bearings once he's pushed off the wall. When Ellen turns around, it is to find Vincent's glock pointing bluntly at the space between her eyes. He does not look very happy.
Ellen stands very still, watching him. Her gaze is grey and solemn as the grave, chin lifted high. Very softly, she says, "Mutant."
"Beauty /and/ brains," comments Vincent through his teeth, black humor etching into his tone, though it can't seem to take hold in the hard lines of an expression that still reads flatly of intense anger. "If I blow your fucking head off, is it going to grow back?"
Ellen shakes her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. "No."
"Ok." That, at least is somewhat comforting, but Vincent still doesn't seem to be doing much blinking or breathing. "I just want to talk. A few questions. But not out here in the open."
Suspicion heavy in the slow blink, though the present situation is not one for quibbling, Ellen cocks her head. Single word flat, she asks: "Where?"
With that tilt, Vincent's aim adjusts slightly. His jaw works, and the gun moves with her. "I don't know. An alley or something. Start walking."
Ellen levels a long look at him. Then she nods and starts walking, stride carefully measured as she moves out; her hands stay at her sides.
Vincent watches her, nostrils flared - not moving until she's out of the kiosk. And then he's out as well, keeping pace a few steps behind her, with his gun tucked back into his jacket. Out of sight.
Stiff and straight, Ellen stalks away from the kiosk. The rain patters down, damping her hair against head and neck. When she reaches the unfriendly crevice of an alley opening out onto the street, she turns into it to wait.
"Keep going. All the way in." Vincent is glancing aside often - wary even as he steps into the alley, with his hand already reaching back into his coat when he crosses the threshold. The cold of the rain, it seems, is not helping his mood.
Ellen keeps going: she paces further into the alley, and still further. Then she turns around again, clasps her hands primly behind her back, and once again lifts her head. Quietly, she prompts, "Your questions."
For whatever reason, Vincent does Ellen the favor of not pushing his gun in her face again - allowing it to rest ready at his side. He stops walking well out of her reach, a good ten or fifteen feet away, and eyes her. "The two guys I mentioned. You know anything about that?"
"Perhaps." Ellen smiles, not pleasantly. "Useless miscreants. They came to torture the weak. The vulnerable. Our little brothers and sisters."
"Ok," says Vincent, brows pressing low and cynical in the drab shadow of the alley, "I'm going to go ahead and take that as a 'yes'." Still eyeing her, glock still in hand, he reaches it back into his coat and some how manages to extract a pen in that same hand, while the left fishes out a small, heavily worn black notepad. The note pad is flipped open, and Vincent starts writing with only his bare wring and pinkie fingers still wrapped around the butt of his gun. It's an awkward arrangement, and he glances back up to Ellen frequently. "Are they dead?"
Ellen watches his progress, almost amused. She answers first with only silence. After a long moment, she says, "Rotting."
"Dead." echoes Vincent, as if she had simply said, 'Yes sir.' "Are they rotting any place in particular? Like, here in the real world, not in hell, or some kind of bullshit like that."
Ellen shrugs her shoulders. Disgust ripples through her expression, but she offers no answer in words.
"Ok, I won't pressure you on the bodies, since you've been so helpful up to this point." Dry, Vincent scribbles as he talks. Dead, and dead. "But you're back again. Unfinished business?"
"I am here," Ellen answers blandly, her body still held quite still with her hands behind her back, "to observe."
Vincent hesitates, there, pen lifting away from paper as Vincent looks hard at her, unbothered by her stillness. "You should probably look that one up in the dictionary next time you're in a bookstore, sweetheart." Slower, another note is taken down while he watches her, and quickly enough the rest of his attention trails after it, to check over what he's written so far. "You plan on 'observing' anyone else anytime soon?"
Vincent hesitates, there, pen lifting away from paper as he looks hard at her, unbothered by her stillness. "You should probably look that one up in the dictionary next time you're in a bookstore, sweetheart." Slower, another note is taken down while he watches her, and quickly enough the rest of his attention trails after it, to check over what he's written so far. "You plan on 'observing' anyone else anytime soon?"
Ellen glares at him. "I'm not here to kill anyone not attacking mutant children."
"If anyone else around here starts decomposing prematurely, the next detective that comes stomping around down here isn't going to ask what happens before he shoots you in your fucking mouth." But Vincent has adjusted somewhat, and only the barest edge of malice makes it through his voice, in the end. "Were there any witnesses?"
"The girl," Ellen answers quietly.
Vincent's brows lift. "Ok, well that narrows it down to around four million people."
"Give me a pencil and a few hours and I could attempt to diagram her internal organs from memory," Ellen snaps. "I do not require identification when saving lives. I healed the minimal damage she suffered during her ordeal and sent her on her way."
"Oh good. I'll have posters printed up and everything. 'Have you seen this colon?'" Jaw clenched again, Vincent is back to looking at her as if he's having a hard time keeping himself from snapping right back. "Give me approximate age, height, and hair color."
"Young. Teenaged." Ellen flicks her fingers dismissively. "Hair dark. Five foot six, five foot seven." Irony curves her mouth. "She might not be entirely forthcoming. I requested her discretion."
"I'll leave her out unless someone else gets her to rat on you." Muttering as he writes, Vincent lifts his hand away long enough to scratch at his brow with the side of his gun before he goes back to finishing his sentence. "Stop smiling. It's creepy."
If Ellen finds the request peculiar, she makes no sign; her expression washes to blank impassivity. "Very well."
Again, Vincent glances over his notes, and again, he itches at his brow, his posture having become a little more uneasy in the past few minutes. "We're nearly done. Where did it happen?"
Ellen lifts a hand to point toward the wall of the alley in the correct direction. "There is another alley a block, perhaps two, in that direction."
"Good. Good - ok, look--" The pen is tucked back into his coat as he speaks, as is the notebook. As a result, his right hand is free to regain full control over the glock once more...and that is precisely what it does, pointed back up at her head. "--I want to know what your boss is doing about this Mutant Registration bullshit."
Ellen raises her eyebrows at him, expression quite solemn.
"Look, Princess, I'll be a fucking hero if I bring you in, and I get the impression that you like the freedom to run around and fuck with people as much as you like having a head on your shoulders." 'Intense' is the all-purpose word, here. Vincent is hardly moving. "Tell me."
Ellen stares back at him, gaze hardening. "He'll do whatever he can and chooses to do."
Vincent's brows work a bit, warring with uncertainty and frustration. "Ok." That's it. 'Ok'. "Get out of here. And stay away from this part of the Kitchen."
Ellen takes a step forward. And another. And a third. She does not run; she walks away, slipping past him and out into the street proper. As she passes, she says, "Thank you."
Vincent says nothing in reply, gun falling back to his side once Ellen is past. "Fuck."
Hubris, I suppose--
Should have happened before now. I belong at the compound.
Should have happened with worse consequences. I will burn candles tonight.
There is a woman waiting for a bus at the ruined kiosk down the street from Worthington House. She is dressed in muted colors, masked by the long dark coat clasped closed over her tall frame. Her hair whispers pale blonde and loose about her shoulders, no longer. She is for all intents and purposes reading a newspaper in the grey-clouded daylight. The kiosk provides limited shelter from the drear drizzle sputtering on and off, but for whatever reason, the other denizens of Hell's Kitchen do not spend long sharing it with her.
Down the sidewalk, another lone figure paces - head bowed against the damp chill in the air, with the black wool of his overcoat held in tight around his chest by folded arms. He has a generally worn out look to him - not entirely unlike the droop of the Times gasped somewhere in that fold across his chest, succumbed to the drizzle that defines the greyness of the day. Across the street, there is a kiosk. He looks both ways, and then begins his approach.
Ellen marks his passage with a flicker of her gaze. Her eyes are dulled grey by the lackluster light; they measure the approaching figure, and then drop back to apparent absorption in her (dry) newspaper.
Vincent is not an overly threatening figure. Just a guy, mostly balding, with hair more of a grey black shading around the back of his head and the sides of his jaw than it is...well. Hair. Nearly black in this weather, his gaze is quick and calculating the one time it cuts up from the wet pavement scraping past underfoot - flicking over Ellen from head to toe before he makes it to the near curb.
Ellen pages past the sports section without interest. She does not as yet look up again.
"Fucking weather," mutters Vincent, stepping boldly in under the shelter of the kiosk. Shoulders hunched, he doesn't yet look back at the company he's keeping. "Been here long?"
"Long enough," Ellen answers mildly. Her body tightens upon being addressed, stance increasing wary, but she does not look up from her newspaper.
"Oh." Ok. Vincent situates himself in a position not unlike hers now that he's out of the wind and the drizzle, feet apart, left hand clasped loosely over the wrist of his right at his middle, still gripping the paper when he finally does glance over at her - aside, and then slightly down. "It's just -- your paper is dry, so I figured maybe there's something wrong with the bus."
"The bus is on schedule." Ellen slants a sideways look at Vincent, a flicker of irritation coloring the pale gaze before her head turns again, eyes straight front; her paper folds in on itself with a few brisk hand-movements. "I was inattentive."
"Yeah. Buses, you know. The fucking drivers won't stop for shit, either. You could be being chased by a tiger and they wouldn't even look twice." Another glance slanted over at Ellen, Vincent half-turns to toss his paper back onto the unoccupied bench behind them, where it slaps a bit wetly before his hands find their way back into the same position again. "You in this area often?"
One of Ellen's shoulders lifts in part of a shrug. She does not seek out eye contact. Coolly, she answers, "From time to time."
"Were you around yesterday?"
Ellen does narrow a look at him now. "Why do you ask?"
Vincent shrugs, hands dropping away from each other so that the right can lift with the intention of tucking in beneath his coat as he speaks. "These two guys are missing, and some of the scum around this part of town seems to remember seeing them around here yesterday. So, just curiousity, I guess, with you being an escaped murderer and all..."
The tension corded tight across Ellen's lean frame snaps into sudden motion, paper flung careless to the side in a spew of newsprint and pages as she turns and lunges for Vincent with eyes wide to flash mingled fear and fury.
"Holy fuck--" Vincent's reflexes are fast enough to deholster the glock under his coat, but he can only get the damn thing jerked halfway out into the open before she's on him - that lifted arm catching the brunt of impact as he her momentum carries him violently towards the kiosk wall.
"You know what I am." Ellen's voice has lost every taint of refinement, every shred of poise; all that's left is a fierce and feral rasp as she slams him up against the wall. The impact is not important. The /gun/ is not important. What is important is the splay of one of her hands over the side of his face and neck. Her eyes glitter across their disparity in height as she snarls, "Does that mean you know what I can /do/?"
Brows knit, eyes showing white around black, the side of Vincent's face is rough against Ellen's palm, and more recently, broken out in a cold sweat. Whatever initial struggle there was ceases immediately upon skin contact. His gun is out, but pointed harmlessly (to Ellen) in at his own ribs - his lifted elbow somewhere up around her shoulder. This has all, it seems, happened very quickly and very slowly all at once, and in this position -- conversation -- black eyes flicker minutely aside, over Ellen's shoulder, and with a *thunk* the heavy weight of Vincent between Ellen and kiosk wall is replaced by black smoke furling out of the kiosks grasp before it dissipates. And just as quickly, there he is again, three steps behind her and off balance enough to thump back into the opposite kiosk wall.
Ellen stumbles and falls forward into the wall, her elbows and forearms bearing the brunt of the impact. She cries out, startled and wordless, and pivots, thin brows swept high and hands dropped to her sides as she steps away from the graffiti'd surface.
Vincent is quick to regain his bearings once he's pushed off the wall. When Ellen turns around, it is to find Vincent's glock pointing bluntly at the space between her eyes. He does not look very happy.
Ellen stands very still, watching him. Her gaze is grey and solemn as the grave, chin lifted high. Very softly, she says, "Mutant."
"Beauty /and/ brains," comments Vincent through his teeth, black humor etching into his tone, though it can't seem to take hold in the hard lines of an expression that still reads flatly of intense anger. "If I blow your fucking head off, is it going to grow back?"
Ellen shakes her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. "No."
"Ok." That, at least is somewhat comforting, but Vincent still doesn't seem to be doing much blinking or breathing. "I just want to talk. A few questions. But not out here in the open."
Suspicion heavy in the slow blink, though the present situation is not one for quibbling, Ellen cocks her head. Single word flat, she asks: "Where?"
With that tilt, Vincent's aim adjusts slightly. His jaw works, and the gun moves with her. "I don't know. An alley or something. Start walking."
Ellen levels a long look at him. Then she nods and starts walking, stride carefully measured as she moves out; her hands stay at her sides.
Vincent watches her, nostrils flared - not moving until she's out of the kiosk. And then he's out as well, keeping pace a few steps behind her, with his gun tucked back into his jacket. Out of sight.
Stiff and straight, Ellen stalks away from the kiosk. The rain patters down, damping her hair against head and neck. When she reaches the unfriendly crevice of an alley opening out onto the street, she turns into it to wait.
"Keep going. All the way in." Vincent is glancing aside often - wary even as he steps into the alley, with his hand already reaching back into his coat when he crosses the threshold. The cold of the rain, it seems, is not helping his mood.
Ellen keeps going: she paces further into the alley, and still further. Then she turns around again, clasps her hands primly behind her back, and once again lifts her head. Quietly, she prompts, "Your questions."
For whatever reason, Vincent does Ellen the favor of not pushing his gun in her face again - allowing it to rest ready at his side. He stops walking well out of her reach, a good ten or fifteen feet away, and eyes her. "The two guys I mentioned. You know anything about that?"
"Perhaps." Ellen smiles, not pleasantly. "Useless miscreants. They came to torture the weak. The vulnerable. Our little brothers and sisters."
"Ok," says Vincent, brows pressing low and cynical in the drab shadow of the alley, "I'm going to go ahead and take that as a 'yes'." Still eyeing her, glock still in hand, he reaches it back into his coat and some how manages to extract a pen in that same hand, while the left fishes out a small, heavily worn black notepad. The note pad is flipped open, and Vincent starts writing with only his bare wring and pinkie fingers still wrapped around the butt of his gun. It's an awkward arrangement, and he glances back up to Ellen frequently. "Are they dead?"
Ellen watches his progress, almost amused. She answers first with only silence. After a long moment, she says, "Rotting."
"Dead." echoes Vincent, as if she had simply said, 'Yes sir.' "Are they rotting any place in particular? Like, here in the real world, not in hell, or some kind of bullshit like that."
Ellen shrugs her shoulders. Disgust ripples through her expression, but she offers no answer in words.
"Ok, I won't pressure you on the bodies, since you've been so helpful up to this point." Dry, Vincent scribbles as he talks. Dead, and dead. "But you're back again. Unfinished business?"
"I am here," Ellen answers blandly, her body still held quite still with her hands behind her back, "to observe."
Vincent hesitates, there, pen lifting away from paper as Vincent looks hard at her, unbothered by her stillness. "You should probably look that one up in the dictionary next time you're in a bookstore, sweetheart." Slower, another note is taken down while he watches her, and quickly enough the rest of his attention trails after it, to check over what he's written so far. "You plan on 'observing' anyone else anytime soon?"
Vincent hesitates, there, pen lifting away from paper as he looks hard at her, unbothered by her stillness. "You should probably look that one up in the dictionary next time you're in a bookstore, sweetheart." Slower, another note is taken down while he watches her, and quickly enough the rest of his attention trails after it, to check over what he's written so far. "You plan on 'observing' anyone else anytime soon?"
Ellen glares at him. "I'm not here to kill anyone not attacking mutant children."
"If anyone else around here starts decomposing prematurely, the next detective that comes stomping around down here isn't going to ask what happens before he shoots you in your fucking mouth." But Vincent has adjusted somewhat, and only the barest edge of malice makes it through his voice, in the end. "Were there any witnesses?"
"The girl," Ellen answers quietly.
Vincent's brows lift. "Ok, well that narrows it down to around four million people."
"Give me a pencil and a few hours and I could attempt to diagram her internal organs from memory," Ellen snaps. "I do not require identification when saving lives. I healed the minimal damage she suffered during her ordeal and sent her on her way."
"Oh good. I'll have posters printed up and everything. 'Have you seen this colon?'" Jaw clenched again, Vincent is back to looking at her as if he's having a hard time keeping himself from snapping right back. "Give me approximate age, height, and hair color."
"Young. Teenaged." Ellen flicks her fingers dismissively. "Hair dark. Five foot six, five foot seven." Irony curves her mouth. "She might not be entirely forthcoming. I requested her discretion."
"I'll leave her out unless someone else gets her to rat on you." Muttering as he writes, Vincent lifts his hand away long enough to scratch at his brow with the side of his gun before he goes back to finishing his sentence. "Stop smiling. It's creepy."
If Ellen finds the request peculiar, she makes no sign; her expression washes to blank impassivity. "Very well."
Again, Vincent glances over his notes, and again, he itches at his brow, his posture having become a little more uneasy in the past few minutes. "We're nearly done. Where did it happen?"
Ellen lifts a hand to point toward the wall of the alley in the correct direction. "There is another alley a block, perhaps two, in that direction."
"Good. Good - ok, look--" The pen is tucked back into his coat as he speaks, as is the notebook. As a result, his right hand is free to regain full control over the glock once more...and that is precisely what it does, pointed back up at her head. "--I want to know what your boss is doing about this Mutant Registration bullshit."
Ellen raises her eyebrows at him, expression quite solemn.
"Look, Princess, I'll be a fucking hero if I bring you in, and I get the impression that you like the freedom to run around and fuck with people as much as you like having a head on your shoulders." 'Intense' is the all-purpose word, here. Vincent is hardly moving. "Tell me."
Ellen stares back at him, gaze hardening. "He'll do whatever he can and chooses to do."
Vincent's brows work a bit, warring with uncertainty and frustration. "Ok." That's it. 'Ok'. "Get out of here. And stay away from this part of the Kitchen."
Ellen takes a step forward. And another. And a third. She does not run; she walks away, slipping past him and out into the street proper. As she passes, she says, "Thank you."
Vincent says nothing in reply, gun falling back to his side once Ellen is past. "Fuck."