For the most part, Rachel Dawes has found herself a routine. It serves as somewhat of a comfort when nothing else seems to be. The stress of taking on other people's emotions and finding no release or reason for them starts to wear on her. Frustration forces her to act and she finds jogging is effective.
After every jog she treats herself to a cup of coffee (she stays aware from the one that keeps exploding for obvious reasons, the narration would like to state) and reads the newspaper. She's walking past a man's table to get to the one across from it when she does a double-take.
Den looks up, eyebrows raised and expression mild--I'm sorry, have we met?
"Hmm?" He doesn't so much as acknowledge the finger's existence. "I beg your pardon--is something wrong?"
He glances down at the table, following the signal of her gaze, and then lets out an apologetic laugh. "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry. It's not real--I make prosthetic limbs for the hospitals around here. Sometimes work follows me home."
A smile--just for Rachel--his dark, dark blue eyes on hers.
No one should have eyes so blue. Jonathan Crane did and she's never forgotten them, their paleness as he splintered her mind and those of others - Rachel's arrested by the darkness of his eyes for a minute, it's only a minute or maybe more and then she shakes it off.
"No, no." She smiles back at him a little sheepishly. "I'm the one who should apologize. I can understand work following you home." She's been known to jump to conclusions. But when you take into account where she's from and where she's ended up - it isn't far-fetched.
"Not at all! Please--" He motions to the other chair, checks with his hand over the table, and quickly pockets the finger. "No need to keep that between us."
Scout's been zooming around the city like an airplane, making the noises. "Nrrrrrrrrrrrrr, nrrrrrrrr, nrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," she whirs, changing pitch as she gets higher and then lower, before she skids to a stop by the finger.
And she reaches out and pokes it, then rolls her eyes and looks up at the man sitting at the table.
"Gypped," she says calmly. "Not real, yeah? Bummer." A pause. "Can go get real, if want, yeah?"
That finger, as far as Conway is concerned, is a cheap imitation of a real one. It smells far too much like rubber and plastic to pass for a real finger.
Callie, meanwhile, doesn't seem to care that it's rubber and plastic. She wants to eat it. This is why Den now has the company of one dogboy and one actual dog.
He lets his shoulders droop, grinning up at Conway with a sheepish expression. "Damn. Guess I still have some work to do. It's supposed to be for this zombie movie a friend of mine's working on, but-- Well, never mind. I was testing it."
He rubs the tip of his nose with one finger and goes to pet the actual dog, stopping just before he's in range to be bitten. "Uh, can I? Pet her, I mean."
"Well, that's good I guess. Don't have to worry about smell in film. Yet." He gives a low sound that could be a chuckle and ruffles the dog's ears. "Hell of a sense of smell you have."
Sark can't ever have a normal day. He also, apparently, deserves to run into every member/potential member/etc. of the Organization, without knowing exactly that that's what they are. For that reason, he is in the coffee shop, enjoying what is probably a very classy and expensive brew.
Given that his table is very close to Den's table, he's also eying the finger. If it's a real finger, which he'll assume it's not until proven otherwise, then this man has about as much subtlety as McKenas Cole, which is both terrifying and annoying. If it's not, then he's clearly the sort of person who just wants to gauge what the public's general reaction is.
"Strictly speaking," he muses over his coffee, "that tactic works better when you mail the appendage to the appropriate party."
Den raises an eyebrow. "That sort of defeats the purpose of a public behavioral study, wouldn't you say?"
He shifts, so he's facing Sark as much as possible, and offers a polite smile. "Though I'll definitely be cataloging that as one of the more atypical reactions I've gotten today. Really, was that the first thing that came to mind?"
Sark makes a soft hrmph sound, but doesn't bother glancing Den's way. His coffee is far more fascinating. That and Sark is just naturally flippant to people unless they're his superiors.
Behavioral study. It's either a lie or there's a great deal of people in this city who have a splendid time picking people apart.
"If it wasn't, then I doubt the other responses were as interesting," he deadpans. "I prefer the atypical. Or perhaps I've just seen too many movies."
Or sent too many ring fingers to husband with kidnapped wives and the like.
It's more like both, really. Den is never quite happy unless he can make a situation seem like more than it is, or be more than it is and seem simple.
His eyes track over Sark while he talks, taking in every inch of a man used to rich living and someone who would seem rather out of place in a movie theater. "Or perhaps you're just very comfortable with lies and dismembered body parts."
He adds a chuckle to it. "Or I've seen too many movies myself."
Den sits back in his chair, turning his coffee on the table with little twitches of his fingers and scanning the newspaper's headlines for anything he doesn't already know about. "I don't mean to pester, but you did make the first move--did you consider alerting any figure of authority when you saw what you believed to be a finger on my table? Or were you--questionably--disinclined to act in any way?"
Katja has acquired a sandwich and a giant cup of iced coffee, and Katja wants to sit outside to eat it because the shop's staff keep telling her she can't smoke inside. Keeping others' lungs clean was never in Katja's interest -- often it's exactly the opposite, really. Breathing is overrated anyway, for other people. Katja could care less.
But she's outside so she can smokesmokesmoke and not have to deal with people asking her to leave. It's nice enough out anyway, and not too warm so she isn't uncomfortable under her jacket.
Of course, the only empty seat is by that guy with the finger. While other people might not be too pleased by this, Katja probably would have plopped down at his table were there not other people around
( ... )
He smiles at her, open and inviting. "There are better ways to collect bacteria than cutting off someone's finger and leaving it in a public place. Surely."
There's enough of a pause between the two to make it clear that the sentence is a fact, not a question. "You sound like a fan of bacteria."
His eyes go back to the paper. Nothing unusual here.
The smile's all the invitation she needs to plop down in the chair in front of him. Not that she wasn't going to do that anyway, given the finger. She pokes at it a bit, then unwraps her sandwich. "That depends on what, exactly, you're looking to get and where you leave the finger. Though really, fingers aren't the best way to go about it; better to just leave a hunk of meat out for awhile."
She takes another drag on the cigarette, and gives him a rather wolfish grin. "Not so much a fan of as I make the plagues, O одно кто бродяжничает , out of whatever I can get my hands on. What I can't, well, you'd be surprised what a little bit of elbow grease and a helluva lot of sleepless nights in a lab will get you, even if by the end of it you're just dumping that vial into this beaker and hoping the resultant reaction won't blow up the entire place. Least of all because you've just spent five days inthe same damn pair of pants and managed to spill ramen on them the night before but you don't have any damn time to run home and get a
( ... )
Comments 36
After every jog she treats herself to a cup of coffee (she stays aware from the one that keeps exploding for obvious reasons, the narration would like to state) and reads the newspaper. She's walking past a man's table to get to the one across from it when she does a double-take.
She nearly drops her coffee.
Rachel frowns as she backtracks. "Is that a - "
She doesn't even finish her sentence.
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"Hmm?" He doesn't so much as acknowledge the finger's existence. "I beg your pardon--is something wrong?"
He glances down at the table, following the signal of her gaze, and then lets out an apologetic laugh. "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry. It's not real--I make prosthetic limbs for the hospitals around here. Sometimes work follows me home."
A smile--just for Rachel--his dark, dark blue eyes on hers.
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"No, no." She smiles back at him a little sheepishly. "I'm the one who should apologize. I can understand work following you home." She's been known to jump to conclusions. But when you take into account where she's from and where she's ended up - it isn't far-fetched.
"I'm sorry for bothering you."
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He holds out a hand. "Please, I insist, miss...?"
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And she reaches out and pokes it, then rolls her eyes and looks up at the man sitting at the table.
"Gypped," she says calmly. "Not real, yeah? Bummer." A pause. "Can go get real, if want, yeah?"
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One might hope he's referring to the ones on his hands. One would be mostly right. "You look like you could use something to eat."
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She shrugs. "Eat, shmeat," she says. "Dunno if could use, yeah? Om nommity nom 'n all." No, she doesn't make a lick of sense. Oh well.
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There's only so many kinds of people who would run around Chicago pretending to be airplanes. "Something sweet?"
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Callie, meanwhile, doesn't seem to care that it's rubber and plastic. She wants to eat it. This is why Den now has the company of one dogboy and one actual dog.
"'s not Halloween, y'know."
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He rubs the tip of his nose with one finger and goes to pet the actual dog, stopping just before he's in range to be bitten. "Uh, can I? Pet her, I mean."
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Conway makes shifty eyes. He really needs to learn to not go around telling people what things smell like. It's weird.
"Yeah, sure! She's very friendly. Aren'tcha, Callie?"
Callie confirms this with a wag of her tail.
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Given that his table is very close to Den's table, he's also eying the finger. If it's a real finger, which he'll assume it's not until proven otherwise, then this man has about as much subtlety as McKenas Cole, which is both terrifying and annoying. If it's not, then he's clearly the sort of person who just wants to gauge what the public's general reaction is.
"Strictly speaking," he muses over his coffee, "that tactic works better when you mail the appendage to the appropriate party."
Have some snark, Den.
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He shifts, so he's facing Sark as much as possible, and offers a polite smile. "Though I'll definitely be cataloging that as one of the more atypical reactions I've gotten today. Really, was that the first thing that came to mind?"
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Behavioral study. It's either a lie or there's a great deal of people in this city who have a splendid time picking people apart.
"If it wasn't, then I doubt the other responses were as interesting," he deadpans. "I prefer the atypical. Or perhaps I've just seen too many movies."
Or sent too many ring fingers to husband with kidnapped wives and the like.
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His eyes track over Sark while he talks, taking in every inch of a man used to rich living and someone who would seem rather out of place in a movie theater. "Or perhaps you're just very comfortable with lies and dismembered body parts."
He adds a chuckle to it. "Or I've seen too many movies myself."
Den sits back in his chair, turning his coffee on the table with little twitches of his fingers and scanning the newspaper's headlines for anything he doesn't already know about. "I don't mean to pester, but you did make the first move--did you consider alerting any figure of authority when you saw what you believed to be a finger on my table? Or were you--questionably--disinclined to act in any way?"
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But she's outside so she can smokesmokesmoke and not have to deal with people asking her to leave. It's nice enough out anyway, and not too warm so she isn't uncomfortable under her jacket.
Of course, the only empty seat is by that guy with the finger. While other people might not be too pleased by this, Katja probably would have plopped down at his table were there not other people around ( ... )
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There's enough of a pause between the two to make it clear that the sentence is a fact, not a question. "You sound like a fan of bacteria."
His eyes go back to the paper. Nothing unusual here.
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She takes another drag on the cigarette, and gives him a rather wolfish grin. "Not so much a fan of as I make the plagues, O одно кто бродяжничает , out of whatever I can get my hands on. What I can't, well, you'd be surprised what a little bit of elbow grease and a helluva lot of sleepless nights in a lab will get you, even if by the end of it you're just dumping that vial into this beaker and hoping the resultant reaction won't blow up the entire place. Least of all because you've just spent five days inthe same damn pair of pants and managed to spill ramen on them the night before but you don't have any damn time to run home and get a ( ... )
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