ArchivedLogs:On the Case
| On the Case | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2014-05-01 Doug runs into an old friend...kind of. |
| Location
<NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village | |
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival.
One of those activities is probably not standing at the entrance of said park and staring at a tablet screen, but that's just what Doug is doing. Dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt with ASK ME ABOUT MY HARD DRIVE on the chest in white lettering, the blonde is facing the entrance, and the camera positioned there. He frowns as he taps at the smooth surface of the tablet, chewing on his bottom lip as he...well, it's probably /some/ kind of work. There is a commotion near the entrance to the park; a tall figure -- likely male -- runs at full tilt along the sidewalk, clasping something to his chest (a small briefcase) as if he were afraid to lose it. The man is dressed in comfortable black pants, a leather jacket and a T-shirt, and is trying to keep his head down as he heads in the direction of the photographer. That is when another figure -- this one in the uniform of a police officer -- rounds a corner and points a small, standard-issue firearm at the fleeing individual. "Alright, that's enough!" he bellows in a hammed-up Manhattan accent. "Get your hands where I can see 'em!" The 'chasee' turns his head to look behind him and flashes the cop a brilliant, mocking grin. "That's what she said!" he calls back, mere moments from possibly colliding with the photographer. A New Yorker who doesn't pay attention to nearby commotion these days is a New Yorker who might be tired of living. Which Doug is not, and he turns as the fleeing man barrels his way. "What the -- " he hops to the side as the man approaches, and some instinct (and possibly the cop) has him shoving his foot back into the man's path, to bring it up as soon as it's easily tangled. "Hold up a sec." "Hey -- !" The assumed-criminal trips on the outstretched leg of the photographer and pitches forward before he can finish his exclamation. The man successfully tucks his legs in and turns his fall into a roll -- but the briefcase breaks free of his grasp, and skitters across the ground before settling in a gutter, where it pops open. There is nothing inside but a handful of assorted coupons, and some pornographic magazines that look like they're from the '70s. The cop catches up a few seconds later, smirking triumphantly, and then motions with his sidearm at the man he has been chasing. "Serves you right, punk. Now stand up 'n spread 'em." He glances at the man who tripped the criminal and tips his hat. "Thank you for your cooperation, citizen," he remarks -- again hamming up his performance. "Give us a second," three voices say in perfect unison from the place in the shadows where the 'criminal' landed. "Hey, I can't feel my leg!" one voice exclaims a second later. "That's mine, genius," says another, sounding exactly the same -- as if it were one man speaking to himself. "I vote we call it a draw." Realization comes crashing down on Doug just as surely as the would-be criminal comes crashing to the ground. Especially when the cop comes up, and Doug gets a good look at his face. The voices from the shadows cement his suspicion, and he groans as he begins to move in that direction. "God damn it, Madrox. Do you /ever/ just walk up to me and say hello like a normal person?" The 'policeman' almost flashes a grin at the photographer -- then conceals it (poorly) behind an overdone frown as he makes a show of holstering his pistol. "Uh, excuse me, sir, but you must have me confused with someone else. I'm Officer ..." he frowns again, tucking in his chin to peer at the surname sewn into his uniform. 'Sweet'. See there? I'm Sweet." From the shadows comes a chorus of chuckles, all sounding the same. One 'perp' puts his face in the palm of his hand with an audible 'slap'. The officer shoots the trio a glare and then motions with a hand at Doug. "Okay, okay -- fine. Shaddup. I give up. You know this guy?" his hand forms a thumbs-up which he jerks in Doug's direction. "Nope," replies one. "Not me," says another. "Officer, I have never seen this man before in my life," insists the third -- who then adds: "Hey, Doug. How's it hangin'?" The officer facepalms. Doug doesn't look convinced at the show from the Madri, and he shifts his weight as he tucks his tablet under his arm. Still, it's a show worth watching, so he avoids the bait until the third dupe acknowledges him. "/There/ you are," he says with the measured patience of one accustomed to dealing with These Sorts of Shenanigans. He waves a hand at the assembled, and furrows his eyebrows. "What the hell are you doing, anyway? Some kind of weird NYPD Blue LARPing?" "Nice one," says one of the three Madri still sitting in a heap at the park-entrance -- glaring at the dupe furthest away from Doug. "Drinks're on you, genius," replies the second, who crosses his legs and folds his arms across his chest. "I'm outta here," the police-Madrox chimes in before he turns on his heel to walk past the other dupes and across the street. "Gonna grab a donut and get this uniform back to the dry-cleaners before someone misses it. Or frisk a nice blonde for conceal weapons..." He continues muttering as he walks away. Madrox-three stands up, brushes down his pants and plants his hands on his hips while the two remaining dupes sit there chatting quietly together. "Just havin' some fun, reliving some adventures -- used to be a cop once. Well, one o' me. You still doin' your photo-takey-thingy? How's that workin' out for ya?" One of the dupes reaches for the briefcase and sifts through the contents. "Cool. Free latte!" he exclaims, pocketing a coupon. "Makes sense," Doug says, of the explanation, his eyes watching the cop as he walks out of the park. "I mean, it explains the whole private eye thing." He furrows his brow into a hard V at the question, though, frowning deeply. "Photo-takey thing?" he echoes, jutting out his lower lip as he pulls the tablet from under his arm. "I guess you could /sort/ of say that," he says, swiping his fingers over the screen. "In the sense that I'm checking security footage from that camera over the entrance." He lifts a shoulder, and glances down at the tablet. "Speaking of which, it's kind of lucky I ran into you. I could use a good P.I. about now." "Yeah, whatever," Madrox-3 remarks blandly with a wave of his hand at Doug's explanation. "One o' these dupes thought he'd try some 'recreational chemical stimulants' -- y'know, for scientific, investigative purposes -- " he crosses his arms again, rolling his eyes. "Had to absorb six more just to... beat the effects, if ya know what I mean." The two dupes chuckle, causing the (presumably) 'Prime' Madrox to point a finger at them, and then at the ground directly under his feet. "Aww, what -- ?!" both Madri exclaim as they are instantly absorbed into the third. The suitcase and magazines also vanish. "Better," he muses aloud. "Y'know I got outta the P.I. business, bud. Real money's in... well -- okay. I'm curious. What's the job? And the pay? I'm only chasing a cheating partner if she's hot." Doug wrinkles his nose, and shrugs. "That happens," he says, accepting the explanation at face value. He watches the dupes disappear with a small twitch of his eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth tips upwards in a half-smile. "That is really kind of amazing to see," he says. "Every time." He glances back down at his tablet, skimming his fingers over the surface and tapping at it a few times. "It's a bit different than a cheating spouse," he admits, frowning a bit at the idea that Madrox is no longer a gumshoe. Maybe he digs the noir. "You had to have heard about my building getting blown up, right?" He taps a the screen again in indication. "I want to find out who did it." Madrox preens. "I am pretty amazing -- wait, huh?!" The man's face contorts into a frown and he unfolds one arm to lift his hand to his temple, tilting his head to the side a bit so he can see the tablet. Then he curls his fingers to press a knuckle against his lips, and he starts to pace back and forth a few steps. "I heard," he admits with a shrug of his shoulders. "Always got an ear-or-ten to the ground -- shit, someone did a real number on your place! What's the pay? I'm charging extra if I hafta knock some heads together." He demonstrates by slapping a fist into a palm, and cracks a bright smirk. The tablet screen shows...computer stuff, right now. A rolling string of ever-shifting numbers in one window, video footage of the entrance to the park in a smaller window. Doug taps the screen, and the windows change places, the video feed showing a time stamp from two days prior. "Yeah, the place couldn't even be repaired. They really knew what they were doing." His mouth tightens in memory, and there's a small stiffening of his spine that's followed by a roll of his shoulders. "It was totally fucked up." He falls silent as he considers payment, and tips his head from side to side slowly. "I can scrape up a couple grand," he says, offering a small smile. "But you probably won't have to break any heads. There are other people who'll probably be more than willing to do that for free." "I know a guy," Madrox replies simply after he is finished having a glance at the tablet. "I'll ask around -- gonna need a contact number or something for ya then. Where're you staying at?" He pauses again, frowns, and itches the stubble on his chin. "How'd you know it's not an accident?" "I'll have more information when I get to the time of the explosion," Doug says, swapping the windows back before sending them both behind a lock screen. He spreads a hand at the question, indicating the rubbled remains of the Lofts across the street. "Authorities have already ruled it /not/ an accident," he says, pursing his lips. "So that was the easy part. Finding the bastard who did it -- that's going to be tricky. The security cameras that I put up on the exterior of the building all went down shortly before the blast. Which I don't think is coincidence." He fishes in his pocket for his wallet, and extracts a business card with his name and cell phone number on it. "You can call or text me at this number," he says as he hands the card to the older man. "I'm out in Westchester, but I can be in the city in a half hour on the train." Pocketing the business card without looking at it, Madrox purses his lips and gives a shallow shrug of his shoulders. "Sounds like someone's got it in for you then, bud," he remarks quietly. "Aw hell, sounds like fun -- consider me hired." He cracks a grin. Then he promptly slaps himself across the face -- first with his right hand, then with his left. Two more Madri emerge from the center-man, each one rubbing his face in perfect unison and wincing. "Was that really necessary?" they both ask of the Prime Madrox. They glance at 'their' friend and wave their free hands at him. "Hey Doug," they both say. "Fucking drugs," the Prime mutters under his breath. "Ahh! Needed that. Scoot!" He orders the two dupes with a jerk of his thumb. "Get to work." "Not me," Doug says, rolling a shoulder. "Well, not me in particular. Our building had a lot of mutants, including Ryan Black and Jackson Holland." He offers a tight, humorless smile. "They're not exactly low-profile, you know?" He winces with each slap, like he might feel them himself, and wrinkles his nose sympathetically as the dupes appear. "Hey," is an automatic response when they greet him, and he blinks. as they're ordered off. "I'm still examining footage," he says. "Not just the park stuff, but the stuff from my cameras before they went out. I'm trying to determine if it was a glitch, or an actual physical removal." He scratches at his chin thoughtfully. "If you've got an email, I can send you what I find as I find it." "It's 'two-man-ee-four-you-thirteen-oh-four at gmail dot com," Madrox replies easily. "I'll put it in a text or something. One o' me'll be in touch, but I gotta see about another job. If anyone asks -- I was never here, okay?" He takes a step to the side, as if preparing to leave. "Cool. I'll look for it," Doug promises, tucking his tablet under his arm again. He waves a hand at the request, moving off as he responds. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Man of mystery, and all that crap." He sounds amused, and he lifts a hand without looking back. "Talk to you soon." | |
