Players:
Summary: Cyril's power gets him into trouble. Very bad trouble.
Date: April 21, 2012
Log Title: The Man Who Knew Too Much
Rating: R (Violence)
Westchester - Harry's Hideaway
The typical bar. Dim lighting, wooden tables, booths and, of course, the bar. It sits in the center of the room and wraps around the liquor cabinets and taps in a rectangular shape. Posters hang around the room, famous, older bands, such as The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and so forth. Music plays lightly through the room, upbeat melodies to aid in keeping the drunks from getting too depressed. The wait staff is at your service.
It's early Saturday evening, just as the sky is beginning to lose its rosy orange glow from the magnificent sunset. The sky is cloudless and clear, promising a cool night to come. Outside Harry's Hideaway with the clamor of revelry and the sound of the jukebox muted to a soft, persistent thrum, a young woman stands with her back resting against the building a dozen feet from the entrance, alone and awkward. Her dark brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and the casual attire of blue jeans, t-shirt, and light leather jacket make her appear as nothing more than a college student out for the night, albeit not having a very good time of it. Pushing herself away from the wall, she ambles on in further imitation of said fictional college student, looking for something to do on a Saturday night.
Indeed, throngs of people pass by Echo on their way into the bar. Giggles, laughs, and shouts reverberate from the crowds of jubilant teenagers. Such noise is an excellent white noise to those who may walk by the young, awkward teenager by the bar entrance. Or for those who may just stop by their side. Cyril is one such man to simply halt next to Echo with a serious expression. For the evening, Cyril is wearing a black jacket with khaki pants and a nametag that reads, "Doctor Cyril Ozrel". It's likely that he just got out from his own clinic, though odd as it may be he's so far from Hell's Kitchen. With a calm but firm voice, Cyril says, "Hello, didn't imagine I'd see you again so soon. Small city."
Echo comes to an abrupt halt, black Adidas sneakers scraping on the sidewalk's concrete. Slowly she turns to face the direction of the voice addressing her, hands in her pockets. She blinks at Cyril once, then twice. "The doctor from Hell's Kitchen," she says evenly. There's a short pause before she lies, "I'm afraid I don't remember your name."
Cyril shrugs, and grabs the nametag pinned to his shirt, "Cyril. I don't quite recall your name, either." The doctor grins sheepishly, "I suppose we can't fault each other if we can't remember each other's names. I don't suppose you'd mind taking a walk with me? I'd enjoy the company." Could the doctor already be hitting on Echo?! No — the demeanor implied isn't quite that, it's more of a friendly offering, given the context.
The woman's eyes flick briefly to Cyril's nametag, then back up to his face. "Echo," she says, apparently her name, followed by a good attempt at a friendly smile. Before answering his question, she glances up and down the street and finally nods. "Alright. I've been told I need to be more social. Approachable. I could use the practice."
"Who told you that?" asks Cyril with a chuckle as he gestures for Echo to walk in a direction that she pleases. Cyril would then simply follow alongside the younger woman with hands in his pockets, "It's a pleasure to see you again, Echo." A friendly smile is flashed in return to Echo.
"Someone I met at the shopping mall. I might have been a bit…" Echo makes a short, calculated pause. "Brusque. Social niceties really aren't my thing. I'm used to being more direct." This seems all the more true as the pair walk on, away from the noise of the bar. The woman doesn't make way for other pedestrians, trusting more that they'll get out of *her* way that making any allowances. "You're a long way from Manhattan, doctor. But then, so am I."
"I don't know what brought me here," replies Cyril, thoughtfully, "Like me, I see you're walking alone." It would appear that Cyril is heading off that statement with a completed thought, but there isn't one. Just a void in which the silence fills the air, leaving that comment up for interpretation. After such a pause, Cyril continues, "Do you feel that social etiquette is a skill you need to acquire?"
"It's not something I've needed extensively before," Echo answers indirectly. "There were others to handle that sort of thing." Her grey eyes narrow momentarily. "On my own now, it's something I'm definitely noticing by its absence. I'm, apparently, not very nice."
"Well, I can help you if you're interested." says Cyril lightly, "We could even start with basic greetings. Usually when I meet someone I offer them my hand and shake. Hand shakes are sort of complicated but important. They must be firm but gentle, and you look the person directly in the eyes." Cyril offers his hand towards Echo, "Like.. A pleasure to meet you, Echo. My name's Cyril."
Echo draws to a stop, looking down at Cyril's hand skeptically as if he were trying to offer her a weasel-flavored muffin. Slowly, she pulls her right hand from her jacket pocket and mirrors the gesture, taking the man's hand. The handshake is definitely firm, Echo's fingers nearly immovable as if welded in place, but she doesn't apply much in the way of squeezing pressure. "A pleasure to meet you," she repeats exactly, down to mimicking the tone and cadence. "My name's Echo. … Like that?"
"Perfect," says Cyril exuberantly while shaking Echo's hand. Eventually, Echo's hand is released when the exchange is complete. "You've mastered the handshake, Echo," says Cyril, glancing around to see if anyone is nearby, "And looking human, apparently." The stare is drawn back to Echo, "Lesson two, handshakes say a lot about a person."
The woman's face is stony, betraying nothing, the polite half-smile fixed there as if painted on. "And what does my handshake say about me, pray tell?" Casually, her left hand slips from its pocket as well, hanging loose at her side. Its fingers are flexed, drawn into a fist and then relaxed. Echo matches the stare, unblinking.
It's Saturday, so even Cale is out and about doing stuff - despite his rather terrifying experience with that crazy woman who is… standing… right… there. The boy pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, tugging on a lock or his hair somewhat nervously. She is in between him and where he wants to go… So he screws up his nerve, jams his hands in his pockets, and attempts to just walk past them both.
Cyril's voice levels out at a lower pitch, "I know that you're certainly not human." The man's voice is completely stoic, a poker face, and it equally betrays not a single emotion or thought. As Cale approaches, Cyril looks towards the younger teen, "Well, hello there, Cale. What a coincidence to see you here, tonight."
Echo's steel-grey eyes flit briefly away from Cyril's, landing on Cale, then quickly back. "Quite a coincidence, yes," the scary lady agrees. There's a tension between the two adults, as if something were about to happen. Or is there? They both look equally impassive at the moment. "You know Dr. Ozrel, then?" she asks without looking away from the good doctor.
"H-hi!" Cale says pretty cheerfully, if a bit nervously, nodding at Echo. "He knows my friend Taylor and… we met, you know?" he shrugs a little, glancing towards Cyril too, "And I know Echo, too," he tells Cyril; it's important to be honest! At least that's what he figures.
"Yes, something about a time traveling girl. There seems to be a lot of oddities in this city, of all places." says Cyril with a cryptic smile. The doctor glances back towards Echo, "I just met Echo myself, she is rather nice woman once you get to know her."
The half-smile on Echo's face hasn't budged an inch. "Cale was the person I mentioned earlier." Echo looks to Cale and nods, once. "And Dr. Ozrel here was just telling me the finer points of a good handshake. Apparently you can learn quite a lot from them. Though what that could be and how you do it," she says, eyes fixing back on Cyril. "I have no idea."
"You mentioned me?" Cale looks over Echo to see if she's wearing the new clothes that they bought; he, for one, left his kitty hat at home. Safely stashed beneath his bed somewhere, probably. "Yeah, I suppose that's true. Intentions, I guess, too… like if someone squeezes your hand really hard, they are trying to prove how tough they are." Cale pulls his right hand out of his pocket, wiping it against his jeans (there's nothing on it, but it is perhaps habit); then he offers it to Cyril. "Since I didn't before?"
"It's very true," admits Cyril, taking Cale's hand in a firm and friendly shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cale. Sometimes you can even tell more from a person from a handshake, but it all depends on your experience." The handshake is released after proper greetings, "There are other finer points of social etiquette, too. The best way to learn is trial and error, however." The doctor looks back over to Echo.
Idly, Echo glances up and down the street again. For a small town, it's still rather busy on Saturday evening. Shoppers, joggers, students young and old out for a bit of fun or to take in a movie. Her hands come to rest in the pockets of her jacket, the one Cale helped her pick out just the day before. "Oh yes, I'm sure I have a lot to learn. Up until now, my work was pretty much my life."
"Your work? What was that? And… what do you do now, then?" Cale looks at Echo, curiously and perhaps a little sadly. Usually, losing one's life work is a sad thing; even if it's just retiring after a long and fruitful career. He looks back at Cyril, somewhat questioningly. "Yeah, I suppose that's true. So, what does my handshake say, then?" he asks curiously, as if the older man were a palm reader.
"Hmm," ponders Cyril, "Your handshake tells me that you enjoy handshakes." The doctor chuckles, obviously feeding a line to hint that he really doesn't know much more about Cale. Or at least, that he isn't admitting that he knows more. "Echo," says Cyril suddenly, looking over, "You should come to my clinic later tonight if you want to talk more. I just remembered I have some work left over that I need to get, anyways."
"I used to work with private military contractors," answers Echo plainly. "I don't anymore." That's about as much as she's apparently willing to tell, though. Her eyes stay on Cyril for a moment, a long moment before she simply nods. "I'll walk you to your car, if you have one," she offers with a smile.
Cale peers at the older pair curiously, furrowing his brow at Echo's somewhat strange offer; as if Cyril really needed escorting to his car… if Cyril even owns a car! Strange to Cale, but lately he's found out that a lot of New Yorkers don't. "I like handshakes?" That's odd - because he really doesn't like them for the most part! Too many people try to crush his hand, it seems like.
Cyril chuckles, "You could walk me to the bus stop if you'd like, I don't own a car myself. I find that walking is the best substitute for any real physical activity." For someone who just chuckled, Cyril seems to get awful serious right quick. A soft smile is flashed at Cale, "Perhaps not, but I don't have much context with which to read your handshake. I hope you have a good evening, Cale."
"Of course," Echo agrees obligingly, taking her hands from her pockets. "I'll be staying here a few more days, so I won't be joining you tonight. But I can at least see you off safely." To the teenaged boy she nods slightly. "Goodnight to you too." Very politely, she opens a hand and gestures at the sidewalk ahead, inviting Cyril to go first. She'll follow.
Cale gives the two a wave, fingers waggling a little bit, before he continues on his way to wherever it was he was going. Likely some place to go out and get food, yeh? Because teenagers are always hungry like that.
Cyril digs his hands into his pockets and begins walking ahead of Echo, "Farewell." He says to Cale as the walking happens. It is a gratuitous amount of walking to the next bus stop, where Cyril then gets the opportunity to watch Echo with a rather blank expression. The blanket of silence is awkward.
"You're a very curious man, Dr. Ozrel," Echo says into the quiet moment. She comes to a sudden stop, the streets around them conspicuously empty once outside the boundaries of the small shopping area that forms the focal point of Salem Center. "Trying to save the life of someone you don't even know at the risk of your own."
"And you, robbing a gunstore. A military background. And not a biological component to be found on your entire body." Cyril says with a frown, without missing a beat. The doctor stops as well, turning to watch Echo, "I didn't know they let military robots walk the street unsupervised."
Echo's right hand gives a brief flick outward, something flashing there in the dim light between street lamps. "They don't." Several things happen with alarming speed. Her left hand makes a grab for Cyril's shoulder, right foot snaking out to plant between his own. And the knife in her right hand. Well, that goes where it needs to.
Cyril jerks with alarming speed to avoid the knife, but the military android is just that much better than the organic counterpart with which it is modeled after. The knife plants itself firmly in Cyril's chest, sinking between flesh, bone, and organ. In response, Cyril can only sharply gasp a "Grrk!"
"I'm sure you understand," says the android, a calm entirely alien to the situation on her face and in her tone. The knife's blade twists, jerks free, and is used again. Her hand is tight on his shoulder, keeping him from pulling away, keeping him from falling.
Red blotches begin forming on Cyril's chest where the blade enters, twists, and is removed. "Aaagck!" cries Cyril as he struggles against Echo, trying to stop the blade from entering again. He fails, ultimately, and the second entry causes the man to go limp after a short period. How unfortunate, what a way to die.
The body is moved easily, Echo not needing to struggle with its weight much. Decorative bushes a few meters from the sidewalk provide ample space to hide it, for now. She busies herself briefly by going through the dead man's pockets, taking wallet and identification to leave as non-descript and mysterious a thing as possible for whomever might find it. Wiping the knife clean on his trouser legs, she stands, hands in pockets, and simply walks away.
A couple hours later, a dead man bolts upright from the bushes, gasping for air. Cyril grabs his chest and coughs haggardly. Slowly his breath returns to him and the doctor is able to amble up to his feet, "Ugh.. I hate it when that happens. I really should learn not to let people know that I know about what they don't want people to know. I bet she won't even pay for my dry cleaning… Ugh.."
