2019-06-01 - Someone Should Keep An Eye Out

The park is serene this evening, half-lit by dwindling light from the setting sun washed across a cloudless sky. A father and his two kids are feeding some ducks at the edge of a little pond some short distance off, and a small pack of teenagers are horsing around on the carousel intended for children. Settled at one of the benches near the east entrance is a dark-haired gentleman, ankle resting across his knee, shoulders slouched as he enjoys what's left of a cigarette. He's dressed in a reasonably nice suit and tie, though nothing approaching tailored. Eyes on the kids feeding the ducks, a flick of his thumb to ash his smoke while he watches; his mind seems elsewhere.

A picture of solemn contemplation. Alexander is really sort of here to ruin it. He ruins things like that. He stopped at the police station, first, and harassed people by staring aggressively in their direction until someone gave in and pointed him towards the park. Now he's walking in his typical slouched posture, head down but eyes scanning the lovely grass warily. The teenagers and adorable kids receive equal frowns of suspicion, even as he angles to approach the bench where Ruiz is sitting. He sits down on the other end, a graceless sort of thump, followed by a wince. Ow. "Captain," he says. Then, after a moment, adds, "Smoking is bad for you."

A flurry of quacking accompanies the sudden flush of a group of the birds from the water's edge, webbed feet skimming the water as they take wing and sail off into the evening sky. Destination? Who the fuck knows. The kids both give chase, and Ruiz almost.. almost smiles at the sight of it. Fortunately Alexander is there to stymie it, and his eyes flick over when the familiar figure flops down next to him. A pause, and then the cigarette is brought to his lips and dragged off of, slow. "I guess I am fortunate that I have you here to tell me this," he offers in that sloping accent, drenched in the pseudo-Spanish of his home country. "What can I do for you today, Mister Clayton?"

"Clearly." There's no suggestion that Alexander is joking. But then he frowns. "Oh. You were being sarcastic." His eyes track the ducks flying away, then the children chasing after them. He doesn't answer the last question for a while. But then he says, "You didn't come to the play." It's toneless, but he cuts a sidelong look towards the other man, and his lips tighten, fractionally. JUDGEMENT.

Ruiz makes a little noise in his throat. Thoughtful, apologetic and dismissive all at once. It's accompanied by a lift of one shoulder, and an exhale of smoke politely away from Alexander. It's funneled through his nose and slightly parted lips, muddled eyes returning to the other man after a few moments have passed. "I did not come to the play," he confirms. As if it was a question that had been posed. The judgemental look is received somewhat impassively. "I have heard things might have gotten.. interesting." The subtext there, of course, is 'what do you know about what happened?'.

Alexander slumps into the bench, his eyes seeking out the carousel and the teenagers playing there, avoiding meeting Ruiz's regard by studying them instead. "Yes. Interesting." His brow furrows, smooths, furrows again. "How much do you want to know, Captain? Really." And the unspoken subtext there, easily read in Alexander's weariness, is 'how much are you going to believe?'. His shoulders hunch a bit, as if anticipating a less than satisfactory answer.

Ruiz doesn't seem to be much for eye contact, so the mutual carousel-watching seems to suit him just fine. He drags off his smoke again, taps some ash off the end, and it peppers the ground and the toe of his boot once it settles. "It is not about what I will believe," he murmurs, squinting slightly as the teenagers manage to get the carousel spinning fairly fast. One of them's going to get hurt. It's only a matter of time. "It is the facts that make me curious. It is the truth I am interested in." He looks sidelong to the other man finally, gaze skimming his hunched shoulders, the weariness that's mirrored nearly perfectly in himself. And he quirks a brow slightly, waiting.

"All right." Alexander continues to stare at the horseplay, his voice soft. "The actors were...unpleasant people. Who had been stalking and ambushing some of the townsfolk, trying to get them to," he glances up at the red-stained sky, "feed others to darkness. To my mild surprise, no one seems to have taken them up on the offer, so they escalated. Kidnapped some of us during the play, demanded that we turn over one person to be sacrificed. My name was particularly suggested," he adds, sourly. Then laughs, brief and rusty. "To my very great surprise, no one took them up on that offer, either. There was a struggle. One of the actors escaped."

Silence from the captain, unless the weight of his gaze on Alexander has a sound. Which it very well may. He furrows his brows as the man continues, and at some point there isn't enough left of his cigarette to smoke, and he drops it to the dirt and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. "Go on," he murmurs, when Alexander seems to pause in his telling of the tale.

Alexander sighs. "And we were all returned back to the playhouse, alive. Some people were impaled by things, I got burned and hit with a large rock, but no one died." A pause. "Except most of the actors." He looks down at his hands, flexing them slowly. His mouth twists a bit, and he opens it, then closes it again. A slow breath. "It might be a good idea to discreetly look for the remaining actor. If you think you can." His hands close.

It might be a good idea. It's almost like the guy's trying to tell him how to do his job. There's a soft chuckle from Ruiz, and he watches as the teenagers get bored of trying to throw each other off the carousel, and disappear into the woods with their beer. "I do not know." What, he doesn't specify. It's a rumination more than anything. There's a long pause before he adds, "Where he has gone, I am not sure I can follow. But you give me a name. I will see what I can find." The booted foot that was propped up on his knee is slid to the ground, as if in preparation to leave. He's wearing his badge and he's almost certainly armed under that suit jacket. Which means he's undoubtedly still on duty, and out on a smoke break of some kind; sanctioned or not.

"She," Alexander says, curtly. His head ducks. "Blond, pretty, gets inside your head. You can probably find a playbill or poster. Probably. I don't have a name." He eyes the badge, and then the suit jacket where the gun might rest. "Captain--" he starts, then stops. He stands as the boot hits the ground, head ducking. "I'm sorry. I interrupted. I just thought." A pause, and then his voice goes toneless. "Someone should keep an eye out. In case she continues to lurk. You're in a better position."

The fact that it's a woman doesn't seem to phase the man. He scratches his nose as he considers that, then pulls to his feet. Definite flash of a weapon, holstered easy at his left hip. You can never be too careful in this city. "I will see what I can find," he repeats, the cadence odd and melodic, in the way of his native language. And then he proceeds to stand there and watch the other man, long after most people would have simply departed with a polite farewell. "Que ibas a decir? You should finish what you start, Mister Clayton."

"I don't speak Spanish," Alexander says, a flash of irritation, like that fact /really bugs him/. But, let's face it, the intent of the sentence came through pretty clear. He stands, head down, shoulders hunched for long enough that it might seem like he's just decided to be Silent Jerk. Instead, eventually, he says, "You carry a gun. Have you used it? On a person. A real person."

The irritation may, or it may not amuse Ruiz on some level. But odds are that he's a bit of an asshole, and thus it does. On some level. The question, though. That gives him pause. And he works his jaw briefly before stepping in real close. Close enough for Alexander to pick up the soap he uses and the nicotine on his skin when he murmurs, "It changes you, my friend. It changes you, and once you have gone there. You never go back." He doesn't touch him, doesn't offer anything in parting, but simply turns and trudges off with a crunch of boots in the gravel, gaze cast the way those ducks went. Greener grass, maybe.