Scene Listing || Scene Schedule || Scene Schedule RSS
Owner Pose
John Rizzo It's the way of life that, just as you get accustomed to something, a big shake-up happens. Sometimes, that shake-up comes with much fanfare. Sometimes, it's quietly dropped onto your door as if you'd gently pick it up and go on about your business. The letter remained open on the table. He hadn't told Marcus about it. Some things are better left out of mortal earshot. There are some mortals that bend the rules, though. Mortals like Eithne Sullivan and Sir Bedivere, perhaps John's newest--and only--friends, save for Marcus. He sits in the lobby, waiting for the knocking.

     He wonders how he'll explain it to them, this favor that he's going to ask them. All he told the both of them was that there was a favor. A huge favor, one that might make a lot of people angry. What choice does he have, though? These two are Union types. Marcus is in the best shape of his life, but he's just an average Joe, and the thought of them getting their hooks in him would be more than he could bear. John leans over and picks the letter up, holding it protectively, hoping to control the flow of information, to safeguard it from Bedivere and Enya and divulge only that which he allows.

     Is that what friends do, though? Do they keep secrets? Do they ask favors of their friends that could change the world without telling them? He taps the folded letter against himself, several times, pondering what to say when they walk through the door. Whoever enters first is going to notice a marked difference in John and a certain atmosphere in the agency. The place is quiet, oppressively so. The TV in the lobby is off, and so is John's record player. John himself sits in one of the lounge chairs, retreated inwards, his gaze boring into the wall. His expression is grim, worried.
Sir Bedivere   Come prepared and come quietly, John had told him, and there is nothing better that Bedivere of Albion is better at. He had handled the venomous backbiting of King Arthur's court with finesse and distinction, despite what it had cost him in blood and years.

  Thus has he arrived, and by his mode of dress, one would never know that the knight doesn't belong in this city. A crisp button-down grey shirt is tucked into charcoal slacks, and over that is a charcoal jacket, neatly buttoned. His shoes are new, or well cared for; his long, silvery-blonde hair is drawn back into a simple understated queue, bound with a cuff of bronze tooled in Celtic motifs. It's not old-looking but its style suggests it probably belongs in a museum.

  He's carrying a briefcase -- a quick check with Saber had suggested it would make him look a little less out of place -- and uses his radio device to double-check the coordinates given him.

  The knock that comes at the door is swift and punctual; three precise, sharp raps in staccato sequence.

  None of the pedestrians notice something flit through the darkening sky; the shadow of wings, carrying something long and suspiciously sword-shaped, or the smoky gold eyes thatw atch from the shadows. The Black One is waiting in the guise of an eagle, but for now, he remains out of sight, clutching Bedivere's nameless sword in his talons.
Eithne Sullivan     He'd asked her to come over to the agency, and told her he needed to ask a favor. She hadn't hesitated. Arriving with Bedivere, Eithne is dressed in something a little more formal than her usual casual outfit, but just barely - a black shirtdress with breast pockets and a black pair of heavy leather boots, that shiny charm bracelet on her wrist the only nod to jewelry. She'd thought to match Bedivere's air of business-formal, but this is the best she can do. Eithne doesn't own a suit.

    What could he want to ask that can't be said over the phone? He's not going to ask her for that good death so soon, is he? She'd do it, of course, because she'd offered it freely, but... well, she was thinking she would get to know him a bit longer, is all.

    Sheela doesn't have to blend in. There's nothing unsual about a crow perched on a telephone wire. Eithne glances up at him ('behave') and waits behind the knight on the stoop.
John Rizzo John looks up, as if the knocking at the door were some distant summons. He rises, moves to the door, and opens it, greeting Bedivere solemnly. "Hey, pal," he says, with a strained attempt at camaraderie. "Enya, kid, good to see you. You two come on in, help yourselves to some coffee." In the months that the vampire has hunted Bedivere's forest, the knight wouldn't know him to be a vain or proud creature. In fact, he's the sort that's humble enough not to take offense at being called a creature, and likely to agree. That said, he and Enya both will notice there is something absent in the man, a distinct and noticeable lack of his usual quiet confidence. Rizzo is worried, clutching a letter in his hand, his grip as tight as it can be without crumpling the paper. He swallows, stepping aside to allow the knight and the scion in.

     Rizzo moves quietly to one of the seats, and runs a hand through his hair. "Thank you both so much for coming," he utters quietly, a sigh quick on his lips after the fact. "I... need a big favor from you two. I need you to drive me to Chicago. We have to drive, we can't fly. They have people in the airport, in customs, that'll find me, stake me, and kick the two of you out on trumped up charges. You'll need to take turns so you can save your energy, and I'll need to be in the trunk so the sun doesn't burn me. Even with us going that way, it's still going to be dangerous. They'll have people looking for me, and I don't know what they'll do to you if they figure you're working with me."
Sir Bedivere   In the time spent hunting in Dun Realtai's forest, John would have learned several truths about Bedivere, as well: That the steward was more than fair to one such as John, that he valued honour above all else, and that his powers of perception were keen -- frighteningly so. The man could determine the state of a room with a cursory glance, and he remembered details subtle enough to escape the notice of most.

  He's not carrying a weapon, but that doesn't mean much. Bedivere seems confident in spite of that, and he had explained to Eithne that the Black One would accompany them, out of sight, and provide his sword if needed.

  It was his hope that it wouldn't be.

  At the mention of coffee, the knight's mouth twitches in an almost-frown. He had tried the stuff, once, and he had never gone back to it again. Even in its mildest forms it was entirely too strong for his tastes.

  A glance is all he needs to determine that John is terribly upset about something, and that the man is feeling a distinct lack of self-confidence tonight. The frown deepens, but it's not about coffee. What could so upset a person who had put aside their very humanity?

  In answer to John's thanks, Bedivere only folds his arms, alert and paying attention to every word, every gesture, in spite of his understated posture. One brow slowly arches throughout John's explanation.

  His frown deepens, just a little bit more.

  "You realise," he says softly, "that I cannot operate such a machine? You would have been better served asking such a thing of my king; she is adept in the use of such things, but I am not." Bedivere shakes his head. "Were such a trip made a-horse, it would not be a problem; I was my king's master of horse in Camelot. But I have not been taught how to do such a thing, nor would I seek such."

  A glance is shot to Eithne. Help.
Eithne Sullivan     Sheela cocks his head, staring down at the humans as they enter the detective agency. Mammals and their strange square nests...

    The air in the ofice seems strangely subdued in a way that Eithne isn't used to, an undercurrent of not-quite-tension leaving a bitter tang in the back of her mouth. She makes the effort to smile at John, though she's visibly puzzled at the unusual mood. He's always been, well, not /loud/ or anything, but not this dismayed creature that clutches a sheet of paper like a talisman. "Good to see yeh too, John," she tells him, and goes to the coffee pot to fix herself a cuppa, glancing questioningly at Bedivere in a silent offer of 'do you want one too?', and gets a mouth-twitch in return. Right, no coffee for you then, boyo.

    Eithne stirs non-dairy creamer into her mug with a spoon, turned so that she can watch them without having to crane her head around. She throws the plastic spoon away and carries her cup back to the seating area, plopping down in one of the chairs with just enough care to keep from spilling it, and sips slowly as they talk.

    Driving's fine. But... Chicago?

    She thought he was never going to go back. It must be something powerfully important, to drag him back there like a hook through the heart.

    "They can try," she snorts unkindly, all youthful bravado and bloody-minded eagerness for battle. "I'll kill them first. /But/," she notes, sighing at Bedivere's ineptitude with modern machines, "I can drive." She got her learner's permit two years ago! It's probably still valid!
John Rizzo John runs his hand through his hair. It's clear that, in his current state, he hadn't thought about Bedivere's inability to drive. When Eithne volunteers, some part of his usual, cerebral self shines through. "Good," he says. "I'll switch out with you when the sun's down so you can sleep. I still need the both of you, though." The vampire begins to pace, tapping the paper against himself to collect his thoughts. "They'll listen to you," he says, looking in Bedivere's direction. "You might not be one of them, but you can play their game. And if things go south..." There's no one he'd rather have at his side than a real life knight and the descendant of some pagan god. "It's gonna be a long trip. A day and a half at least." He stops his pacing.

     "Drive the speed limit," he advises Eithne. "If we get pulled over..." He lets that thought die, then continues pacing, running one hand through his hair and repeatedly tapping the paper against himself. "Look," he finally says. "This is going to be dangerous. There are some very powerful people who made me promise I'd never go back there, but I can't keep that promise and live with myself. I need to make my peace, but you two have to know what you're getting into. If things go badly, all three of us might get put on the Red List, and that's exactly as bad as it sounds. You two wouldn't be able to come visit me, and I'd have to go into hiding."

     "Do I have your help?"
Sir Bedivere   Where John is nerves and tension, the knight must have icewater in his veins. He hasn't so much as twitched a finger in fidgeting despite the unusual situation. Chances are he might be more comfortable if Arturia were here and offering her expertise to the situation, but she had not been invited.

  He takes confidances in grave seriousness. Officially, he had been the master of horse at Camelot, the man who personally oversaw the cavalry and army... but he had also been a keeper of secrets, too. He takes secrets seriously; they have the curious ability to ruin lives in the wrong hands.

  "Politics? Yes, I would consider myself qualified for such a thing... but I do not know that I could play such a dangerous game in this modern era. I cannot play the game if I do not know the rules," Bedivere points out levelly. "Perhaps I can improvise, but that is likely of no comfort to you. As to danger, I hardly expect you to frighten me with tales of shadowy government conspiracies."

  He smiles, grimly, but it's the cold smile of moonlight on a knife-blade. "The story-books will not tell it to you true, but Sir Lancelot and I essentially /were/ my king's spymasters. I cannot be frightened by such vague insinuations, Master Rizzo, nor swayed by the threat of danger. You forget, I think, what I am. What I represent."

  "I do not know what role you intend me to serve, but I shall do so to the best of my ability." Bedivere does not bow, but he does incline his head respectfully. "Once you have concluded your business in Chicago, you are welcome to remain in Dun Realtai, if that is safer for you. Only a fool would dare challenge its defenses." Several Knights of the Round Table, a Servant or three, and many other powerful Elites besides would probably take exception to anybody stomping around their vacation spot. Or residence, in the case of several.

  Even so, Bedivere seems to consider for a few moments, thoughtful; head canted very slightly to the left, reaching up to tug at the blood-coloured stud in his ear in familiar contemplative gesture. His mouth is set in a straight line, as though weighing something.

  "I would hardly be worth my vows if I did not assist you," he finally points out. "Of course you have my assistance."
Eithne Sullivan     Her eyes follow John as he paces, flickering sometimes to the letter as it tap-tap-taps against his chest or thigh. It's good that he asked Bedivere too, she thinks. Eithne isn't one for the Long Game. Political intrigues are the bane of her existence, and possibly even the one thing she'll run from so she doesn't have to deal with them.

    People like Bedivere are good at things like that so that people like her don't have to be.

    "I passed driver's ed with great marks," she nods confidently. The danger of it doesn't bother her, because some things simply aren't worth worrying about. A Red List? Sure that's worrying for most folks, but there's a maggot the size of a county burrowing underneath Ireland right now. It doesn't like Scions.

    Eithne knows you have to keep perspective on these things or they'll get away from you.

    The Scion puts her coffee mug down on the table with a quiet clack of ceramic and crosses her arms. "Of course I'll help. Like yeh even had to ask twice!"
John Rizzo Rizzo sighs a breath of relief, perhaps his first all night. "If you two are ready, we can go now. I filled up the Polara as soon as I got..." He looks down at his hand. "This." The vampire seems to be having a debate with himself, as he stares intently at the letter. His grip begins to falter, but he quickly tucks it into his jacket and steels himself. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he retrieves his car keys. "Sun's already down so I can take first shift." Some of his usual confidence returns, and he attempts to lighten the mood somewhat.

     "Who wants shotgun?" This is also, much to Bedivere's dismay, a return to his usual manner of speaking, though at least this particular expression is more contemporary than his usual. At the very least, Eithne might understand it. The vampire isn't aware that Bedivere brought his own transportation, although, to the Polara's credit, it'd probably look more at home on the interstate.
Sir Bedivere   Those pale violet eyes haven't missed the incessant tapping of the letter, either. Far be it for Bedivere to pry, but part of him wonders what kind of power-play game John's gotten himself caught up in. Criminal elements, supernatural elements, or criminal supernatural elements? With his luck Bedivere is inclined to think 'all three.'

  If he knew what Eithne were talking about, he might be a lot more worried.

  When John asks who wants to ride shotgun, the knight continues staring blandly at him, and it doesn't take a genius to suss out the unspoken question.

  "Now?" Bedivere casts half a glance to Eithne, quirking a brow. She knows how he got here; he looks back to John. "I arrived here by way of one of the Fae. He will conceal himself and hide, and he will bring my sword. If it must, my sword will ride with you in the trunk." Saber at least explained the basics of 'what is car' to him at some point in the past, so he knows the gist of what a trunk is.

  He shakes his head, slightly. "Those are my terms. My king would accept no less; if there is to be battle, I will not be without a weapon, and the Black One has bound himself by oath to serve as my... guardian, of a sort." The unspoken implication is that if anything happens to him, the Black One can also carry word back to Arturia. Or drag him home if he gets mangled.
Eithne Sullivan     "I'm ready whenever, though we ought to tell folks," Arturia, "where we're going, shouldn't we?" They can use the radio!! It's not like they have to stop back in at the castle first or anything. "Oh, and I want shotgun if Bedivere's not too tall to ride in the back. He means the front passenger seat," she explains to the knight. Like hell is she going to volunteer to sit back there! Being the only child of a single parent no doubt spoiled her vis-a-vis car seating arrangements. Besides, the Black One can become small and cute and fit into backseats, as opposed to Sheela who can only become louder and more obnoxious.

    As long as she can lock her bicycle in the office, it's all gravy.

    Eithne eyes the letter. She's curious, but she has a feeling that she'll learn about what's in it before they return from the Windy City. "Right then. John can drive first. I'll try to get some sleep, I guess." Give her two hours of staring out the window; she'll be dead to the world.
John Rizzo "I accept your terms, Sir Bedivere," offers the vampire. "The trunk would be the best place for your guyardian, too. People know about the Multiverse, but Washington's got John Q all riled up. You know how it is. Best not to attract attention to ourselves."

     He makes to leave, exiting and holding the door open for his friends. Should Eithne wish, she can easily fit her bike inside the agency. John pauses, reaching into his pocket. The girl does raise a good point--and that nagging voice in his head is telling him that if he expects the Union's trust, he should consider it a two-way street. Clicking the radio on, he transmits a message. As he speaks, he can't help but feel the weight of his words. "Hey, folks. It's John. Me, Sir Bedivere and Eithne are going on a road trip to take care of some personal business. If we're not back in a few days, send a good politician or a better spy." He ends his transmission, looking at Bedivere and Enya for confirmatioh.

     "Let's hit the road," he says once the two of them are outside and ready. Closing the door and locking it behind him, he opens the trunk of his black '68 Dodge Polara, leaving it open for the knight and walking around to the driver's side door. Opening it, he falls in with purpose, unlocking the passenger side door for whoever wants to climb in first. It's a 2-door coupe, but thankfully, one from the golden age of cars where even high-performance models like this were roadboats. "Hop in," he ihvites.
Sir Bedivere   Mention of John Q only earns a blank look. Bedivere is too used to this to even be annoyed at the lapse in understandable language; it seems to be either nervous habit, careful act, or thoughtless mannerisms in John's interactions. He can't decide which it is just yet; hasn't known the vampire nearly long enough to venture a guess.

  He trails through the open door in silence, even the rustling of his suit quiet in the doorway. Some people might take silence for disapproval, but Bedivere seems neutral. He isn't talking because he feels he has nothing constructive to add.

  The car is eyed a little. He's still not used to modern machinery. It's a mark of favour that he's even entertaining the idea of a road trip, in a car, with anybody. Horses? Yes. He's an expert horseman. Cars?

  A gesture aimed at the shadows calls the Black One down and the shadow of silent wings descends, clutching the sword. Those smoky gold eyes rake over John, understanding and disdainful and intrigued all at once -- this thing, twice or thrice Sheela's size, is unquestionably as intelligent as the knight it has vowed to serve.

  The sword is relinquished, and no sooner does Bedivere lay hands on it than the dark figure flows like smoke, and where there had been a broad-winged eagle, there is now a tiny black bat with eyes of the same smoky gold. The bat obligingly crawls into Bedivere's pocket, poking its head out and eyeing John.

  <Perhaps the steward's blade may ride in the trunk, as the cargo that it is, but this one is not cargo and will not--> The Black One doesn't get to finish his complaint, because an index finger reaches up to push him firmly into the pocket. He manages a muffled squeak of indignation before shuffling to settle more comfortably and falling silent.

  For his part, Bedivere adopts a dry expression. "He will hardly be noticed, and if he is, I will throw him from the window." A finger is jabbed at the longsword. "Do not let that be damaged," he says coldly, "nor let it be lost. That is my blade, and I hardly need tell you what it means to a knight of the Round Table."

  With that, he nods, and climbs into the passenger seat, because he's probably entirely too tall for the back seat (but Eithne will probably end up stuffing him back there once she takes her turn behind the wheel, anyway).

  And with that, they're off.