2020-08-12 - We Are All Just Prisoners Here

August is, per the surgeon's orders (and his fiance's...and his busines co-owner's, and his employees', and basically most of the town), spending most of his days at home. The sun's finally behind the trees, so it's cooling off; the ducks and geese are splashing around in their ponds, and Erica's been by to feed so the goats and pigs are picking at their troughs. He's sitting on the front porch, reading a book (with his reading glasses) and drinking a glass of what's probably peppermint sweet tea with oregano. the book is a collection of Blake, clearly a 70s printing to go by the cover design.

He's in a set of OSU sweats and hard-soled slippers, and if not for the sling immobilizing his left arm, the circles under his eyes, and the pallor of his skin he'd seem to be relaxing in retirement. The robins are hopping around, calling the evening to one another and searching for bugs. he pauses now and then to watch one, returns to his reading.

Itzhak's big shimmery-orange pickup rolls up. Anticipating a flurry of angry honking geeze, Itzhak swings out of it already wincing. He brings with him a canvas grocery bag. "Hey," he calls, crunching his way up to the porch. "Man, you look terrible." Always with the honest (and impulsive) opinions, this guy.

For once, the geese don't come at Itzhak in a flurry of wings and alarm-raising. Mei Mei lifts her proud head to hiss, but otherwise stays where she is, paddling in the sunken kiddy pool. Has Eleanor taught them to behave? ...maybe.

August smiles at the honest greeting; it's their tradition, after a fashion. "And you're still moving like that Dream ran you over with a steamroller." His levity fades a fraction. "That healing up alright? Since it's not, you know," his mouth flattens, "normal." He's trying not to say 'since you were pumped full of evil shit'.

He nods at the other chair. "Take a load off, I can get you some of the tea."

Itzhak grunts, almost smiling, kinda like Ruiz will do; just a warming of his ever-running mouth. He clonks up the porch steps. "Yeah yeah. You up to checking me?" He looks over at Mei Mei. "Aww, she's bein' so nice. I brought bribes, too. For you and for them." The bribe for the geese is a baggie of grapes cut in half; the bribe for August is a hefty tupperware of homemade Mexican food. "De la Vega cooks when he's grumpy."

August follows Itzhak's gaze to the geese. "I think it's Ellie, to be honest. Her being here and working with them, it's really settled them down."

The home-cooked Mexican food is the intended bribe, yes it's Itzhak asking August to check him over that works the charm, a gentle smile that's relief and satisfaction mixed together. He sets the book down and pulls off his reading glasses. "Ah, the girls will love those. And, thanks, I could use a night of not cooking with one arm." He takes nods at the cabin, negotiates the tricky situation of managing book, glass of tea, and glasses with one arm (this involves tucking the glasses into the crook of his elbow and downing the rest of the tea so it's an empty glass). "Here, we can do that inside. So he's a stress cooker. Guess that's not a surprise."

"Stress shooter, too. He's going through a lotta ammo." Itzhak's eyebrows go up, somewhat surprised at the smile that August gives him. It makes him smile back, hesitant, not exactly sure what he did to deserve it. He gathers up the bag again and follows August inside. "Okay, I hate that nobody has air conditioning, but these sunsets almost make up for it. Almost."

August makes a low sound. "Can't really blame him, considering." Considering someone tried to assassinate Itzhak in a church, considering what happened to Joe. August would probably be stress-shooting and -cooking too, in Ruiz's position.

The ceiling fans are all on and the top-level windows open, keeping the air circulating and the lower floor from getting too hot. He deposits everything on the kitchen counter and opens the fridge, pulling out a pitcher. "You get used to it, or you get AC installed. But out here, eh," he shrugs with his good shoulder. "Not enough city to really hold in the heat." He gets down a glass and pours Itzhak's tea, pushes it across the breakfast bar. "So. Normally you'd have to be in danger of a permanent injury and listen to me guilt trip you for a few days before you'd cave. Something different this time?" He arches an eyebrow, maybe to allow for an explanation of 'your stag party is soon and I need to be in top shape'.

Itzhak wastes no time downing a healthy swig of the tea. "Fuck that's so good!" His tone is more complaining than appreciative though. That's how he does. He complains about things--and people--he likes. Leaning his elbows on the counter and folding one long wiry arm in, he tips his head, looking wry at getting called out. "Couple things. Before, I just had to suffer with myself. But now I'm livin' with Javier and..." Itzhak rubs the smooth glass, making it squeak a little. In time. "Don't got just myself to think about anymore, you know?"

"Not bad, huh? Learned it from Erica's mom, she's..." August gets a thoughtful look. "I wanna say Lebanese, but maybe she's a Cypriote." His eyes narrow, though he gives up after a second. "Could be both," he admits. "Real good on a rough stomach, too, and with all these antiinflammatories and pain killers..." He trails off, making a face.

The first explanation makes him nod. "I ah," he looks down at his tea, "had that thought myself, about my hospital issue." Related to Ellie, he means. "I can't keep refusing to go, if I'm gonna be her husband, maybe even a father to her kids, you know? So." He flicks a glance at Itzhak, has more tea. "What's the other?"

"Yeah, whaddaya gonna do if the kid breaks their arm falling out of a tree or something? Gotta work on that shit. Look at us, gettin' responsible in our old age." Itzhak pats the lovely glass countertop. "Check me first. Then I'll tell ya."

August gives Itzhak a look that's not quite the Face. Not quite. He straightens, sips from his tea, sets it aside. "Alright. Just remember--it's gonna hurt more than it used to." Warning given, he flattens his right hand out on the cool concrete of the counter, eyes going unfocused. He squints, wrinkles his nose. "Ugh. It's sort of like if you'd...gotten something caustic in your bloodstream. Except it doesn't flow from an entrance point like your throat, or a major blood vessel."

And, as August said, the healing is uncomfortable. The dead tissue and leaked blood cycles out significantly faster, the new tissue springs to life in its wake. Black and purple give way to yellow and blue. Several days worth of soreness fades. Not all, but a fair amount. Enough to make moving easier.

When he's done, August shudders, sips from his tea. "That oughta get you a good chunk along, at least."

Itzhak bows his head, turning his face away and grunting through his teeth. Goosebumps rise all up his bruised arms. "That...that sure don't feel like it used to," he mutters, making himself breathe evenly. "Now it feels like snakes are wriggling around inside me. Don't...hurt...exactly but also it kinda hurts." He's actually relieved when it's done, and sighs deeply, eyes closing a moment.

"Thanks. Yeah?" Itzhak looks back at August. The healing didn't make him prettier, now he's yellow and green where he was black and blue. But he feels better, that's obvious just from the way he holds himself. He straightens up, stretching backwards and making his spine crackle with a satisfied wince. "Ugh. Okay, guess I owe you now. But you're not gonna like it."

August grunts in response to the assessment. "You didn't have broken bones." Which Joe had, and oh Lord, that had been bad. Healing a lot of weird, internal necrotic damage: better. A lot better.

He has a bit more tea, moves to put the food from Ruiz into the refrigerator. He casts Itzhak a hooded look over his right shoulder. "Aren't I," he says, dry. He shifts some things around, then opens the freezer and gets out some ice cream. Bittersweet chocolate, in a small pint container, which he pushes across to Itzhak, along with a spoon. What's better for a hot summer evening?

This is normally when August would rest his hip on the counter and fold his arms, yet he can't do that right now, and it's evident how much the lack of this subtle, surly gesture annoys him in the way he fidgets with his right hand. "Alright. Let's hear it."

Itzhak's eyebrows pop up comically, he's so excited about ice cream. "Hell yeah, ice cream. Kinda been off my feed but now I'm starving." So he needs a couple bites of that good stuff before he can tell August what else is going on. He licks the spoon with a stupid, sensual expression. "Mmmmmglrh, so good." Sticking the spoon in so it stands upright, he leans his hands on the counter, looking seriously at August with his serious face on. "Here's the deal. I gotta talk to Joey Kelly, and I gotta tell him some things he's not gonna like. I don't know how he's gonna react but punching is a safe bet, and he's a big step above me when it comes to punching. Would not surprise me if he really comes after me."

August grins at the reaction to the ice cream. He has a bite for himself once Itzhak pauses, though doesn't bother to fetch a spoon for himself. Some things are still the same from college, including shared utensils.

His brows gather in a confused frown. "Why not just take someone with you who can keep him from getting pissed and using you like a punching bag?" He gestures with the spoon. "Alexander, maybe."

Itzhak winces at the thought. He rubs his fingertips through his hair, the way he does when he's struggling with something. "God, I dunno how to explain this to you." He drops his hand and his expression now is somewhat hapless. How can he look so specifically hapless? It's all in the eyebrows. "Okay. For one, this is important, I'm his man now. He bought me out from Monaghan. So I'm his guy in a way that nobody else really is."

August mmmms, low and thoughtful. "Well, that's better than being Monaghan's, I guess." He can grudgingly acknowledge Joey's not the shitbag that Monaghan is (not that this is a particularly high bar to clear, yet this other crew have somehow managed to limbo right on under it with room to spare). He glances up in between bites. "He doesn't strike me as the 'smack around the messenger' type."

"He ain't. Usually. But a lotta shit has gone down, everybody's messed up over it, and...I may not strictly speaking just be the messenger, here." Itzhak winces again, worse. "My loyalties are divided and he fuckin' knows it. And, Christ, I've come around on the guy. He's a fuckin' thug but when he gets the chance to do the right thing, he does it. He's not Monaghan. Not by a long shot."

He pauses to rub his inked knuckles. STAY and DOWN in faded blue. "I have to tell him this stuff because if he finds it out from someone else, that's gonna be a problem for me. A bad one."

"Divided loyalties, and, not, strictly, the messenger." August repeats that carefully, eyes fixed on Itzhak's. A brittleness begins to settle over him, a gradual cooling of his mood into something much less pleasant. He sets the spoon down on the counter, as slow and careful as he spoke. "So, let me get this straight. Because Joey Kelly is gonna be mad about some shit, you get to have the tar beat out of you." It's said lightly, could even be taken as a casual repetition of the situation, if not for how there's an energy simmering around August like a kettle coming to boil. "Is that what you're saying. Because I'm unclear on how beating the shit out of you is 'doing the right thing'.."

Itzhak hesitates. "Maybe. Maybe have the tar beat out of me." But maybe is a probably and his eyes say so. "No, of course it ain't right, but--" he grips the air at August, making one of those frustrated Yiddish gestures, "I can't fucking figure out how to tell you why if he comes at me I gotta fight him. Do you wanna," and his fingers flick at his temple, then sign 'talk'.

August doesn't appear to buy 'maybe', not one bit, but it's 'gotta' that makes his jaw set. "You do not have to let people--" He cuts himself off when Itzhak indicates his temple, nods in agreement. Yes, if words aren't working--and they're not, pretty obviously--then the alternative might be better.

The link is a little hazy with the pain meds, and the injury in the mindscape is a big swath of trees wiped out, charred to nothing. Everything is in a phase of quiet recovering, like a gentle rain storm after the ravages of a forest fire.

Gratefully, Itzhak closes his eyes and sinks into the kythe. He's not half bad at the mind Song, these days--maybe what comes of falling in love with mentalist after mentalist. A sigh of pleasure drifts out of him, and the black-bronze unicorn, dappled like a fallow deer, steps out of the trees alongside the river. His tail lashes anxiously; he doesn't like that he's failing so badly to communicate. He's never any great shakes at it, but this is going really badly even by his standards.

The swath of charred trees, he turns his head towards. Instinctively he wants to go there, soothe the damage with his presence, but he holds back, and paws at the springy loam underhoof. Where to begin?

<<I know I keep a lot of this stuff from you,>> his violin-voice sings soft. <<I dunno how else to protect you.>>

The raven-stag is slow to appear, because it's moving at a reduced speed. There's no visual injury on it to track the one on August's body, yet the vines and flowers in his antlers are in a state of regrowth after what looks like a forceful pruning. The orb weaver is busy reconstructing her web, tireless and patient. This is simply life as she knows it, a reflection of August's own understanding that life is a work in progress with setbacks and do-overs a-plenty.

He picks his way towards the unicorn, one ear tilted back. The frustration and anger aren't as obvious right now; instead, it's just exasperated amusement. <<Protect me? From what, the shitty things that go on because of the debt?>> There's a sense that he finds this funny, not because Itzhak protecting him is funny (that part he greatly appreciates, being well aware he needs it), but because the idea of being protected from, well, someone's rough life is ironic considering Bosnia.

There's a flicker of it in the sky, old memories like photographs: kids playing soccer (football) in the ruins of buildings, pausing now and then as a shell falls; people racing through alleys, looking like they're dressed for work, while bullets ricochet off buildings; arguments in a foreign language over the smashed remains of some piece of furniture, bundled in layers of ruined clothes to keep warm in the light snowfall around them.

<<Don't think I don't appreciate it. It's not easy, knowing you go through what you do.>> A flicker of annoyance. <<Not that I know, because you never tell me, just show up half-dead and won't talk about it.>>

The unicorn watches the sky. His skin shudders at what he sees there. <<They're so brave,>> he whispers. Real awe is in his tone. <<When I think of how much we didn't know about what was goin' on.>> He snorts. <<You're brave too, but...>> he comes towards the stag, muzzle stretching out to whuffle at him. The orb weaver, he's glad to see. Yes. Even if they argue it's not forever. Everything that can be broken can be fixed. Though, that said, his violin sings a rueful note at the part about showing up half-dead and also refusing to talk about it.

<<...but you been through so much already.>> His dark eyes flick upwards to the sky. <<I wouldn't put more on you when what you already got fucked you up so good. Not for the world I wouldn't, Guskha.>>

The stag huffs a heavy sigh, steps closer to the unicorn to nudge him gently in return. <<Am I brave, or just stubborn?>> His feathers ripple in rueful humor. So much cross-over between the two.

<<I thought they were brave too. They said it wasn't bravery, just living. I didn't know how to tell them that continuing to live even when your world's gone to hell is incredibly brave.>> Snippets of conversations in heavily accented English drift on the wind. Some are nihilistic, some are hopeful. All express the same notion, though: their survival is their victory.

August is quiet a bit, weighing what to say next. <<And you haven't been through a lot? Plenty of which I'm sure you've had to carry alone.>> The stag turns its head so one dark eye is on the unicorn. <<I know you can't tell me everything. I won't ever ask you to, don't expect it of you. But allowing me to help you like that, as much as you can let me--doing it's not an extra burden. Not the way you mean.>> The stag's coat shudders. The orb weaver pauses in her work, still stone. <<The standing by and doing nothing--that's what I can't take.>>

The unicorn listens quietly, his violin playing barely audible in the background, taking in what he's being told. There's an echo of agreement from his song, repeating the points the stag makes in music. Continuing to live is incredibly brave. I've been through a lot, carried most of it alone. I can't tell you everything. Harmony weaves itself, twines lovingly among the trees. He stands still, ears swiveling, tail relaxed coiled on the ground. The breeze lifts his mane, giving him a rakish noble-unicorn-poised-in-a-forest air.

Which he completely ruins by snorting, loud, in surprise. Standing by and doing nothing-- He swings his head around to the elk, but carefully, because of the horn; his eye rolls white. <<Is that what I been asking you to do? Christ. It IS.>>

The aspens in the caldera shiver, their leaves flashing silver green in counterpoint to the violin. The elk is lulled by the music, and so surprised by the snort. Its feathers flare in surprise, settle when it sorts out that it was realization that made the unicorn startle.

<<Not asking explicitly. But if I want to respect you, I have to give you your space. And that means if you get fucked up and don't want to talk about it, standing by and watching is what I'm left with. Waiting.>> To scrape Itzhak up off the pavement, maybe browbeat him into being healed. <<Not that I don't appreciate you wanting me to not have to go through more bad things. But,>> more morbid amusement, causing the river to splash, <<I think with Them always ready to come at us, there's not much avoiding that anyways.>>

The unicorn hops in place a little, half a buck out of high spirits. <<Yeah, I mean, of course that's terrible for you. I just--I never knew. I never realized.>> But self-recrimination stops there and he dips his head to clack his horn against the stag's branch antlers. <<I could be less of an asshole about letting you heal me. Only I really do get scared that I take a lot of hits and you heal me up a lot and then you get munched on by Them. I couldn't take it if you were pulled in and never came out again, like Easton. But he couldn't even heal. He hardly did anything with his Song and it still happened.>> His tail lashes. <<So....isn't it better to do what we can? And give Them the middle finger?>>

<<It's not a thing I talk about a lot. It's hard to explain to people why I feel like that, because...>> The stag blows out a breath. Because it means talking about knowing thousands of people were being slaughtered while they guarded hospitals, helped move patients, set up MASH units. It means explaining the snipers just sat in buildings and murdered people in cold blood, and August couldn't so much as fire a single shot back, only help them to cover. Only take the ones who survived to the hospitals. <<No one likes to hear that kind of thing.>> A soft grunt. He can't blame anyone for not wanting to hear it. Yet it's the core of why standing around and doing nothing is no longer in his vocabulary. Certainly it makes him appear prone to recklessness, and maybe in some ways he is. But it's a recklessness borne out of inability to let others be in pain when he could do anything about it.

The stag cranes his neck to nibble on the unicorn's mane. <<I know you don't like what healing does to me. And it's okay if you let someone else heal you instead. Easton,>> a pang of regret for their Lost friend, <<was adamant that we spread the load. And we should, as much as we can. I can't be a husband and a father and take it all on--it'll put more than just me at risk.>> That comes with a quick rehash of what Itzhak said earlier, about it not being just him anymore. About how it effects Ruiz.

<<So.>> Dryness creeps into his mindvoice. <<Why you gotta let Kelly smack you around.>>

<<I don't tell nobody about prison, neither,>> the unicorn's violin murmurs. <<People can't understand, and if they do understand, well, they already know all about it. Like you.>> He sighs a big horse sigh through his magnificent nose. <<I hate asking ANYBODY to heal me. But...but maybe I oughta anyway.>> Because, yes, it's not just him he has to think about anymore. It's Ruiz, and actually it's a whole lot of people, August included. <<A tank needs healing, right?>>

Right. Maybe. He's not convinced. In a video game, healers don't pay for their healing in blood.

But now they've come to the core of the issue, and the unicorn drops his head to lip at the grasses growing along the riverbank, pretending to do something else that's very important for a moment. Then he lifts his head again, looks at the stag, and lets the feelings he can't put into words rise to the surface.

A man like Joey Lee Kelly can only speak in one language. He understands strength, weakness, and war. Joey, like Itzhak, knows that strength can be used to protect others--but what Itzhak suspects is Kelly can't think like that right now. That he sees the war and that's all he sees. So it's not about letting Joey beat him up, exactly. It's about needing a dialogue in a language that can only be expressed via violence and pain, strength and weakness, victor and victim. A way that Itzhak can take, and he's almost alone in that ability now that Poe is gone and now that Jaime is gone.

And he's Joey's man. He feels that duty keenly, in a way Monaghan never had from him and would never have. But Joey fired loyalty in Itzhak by his unlikely kindnesses and his rough affection. Not unlike Ruiz, actually, not unlike him at all.

<<...don't worry,>> he finishes, dryly. <<I ain't about to let him hit me without my shields up. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.>>

A soft sound from the raven-stag of wordless agreement. <<Sometimes there's a reason to say it, though. Even to the ones who might not understand, they can share the burden of knowing.>> Faces appear in the river: his mother and sisters, Alexander, Eleanor. <<I didn't ever want to tell anyone. About...the bad parts. I didn't want to do that to them. But it helped, and they...I think they appreciated I was willing to let them see it. What had hurt me.>> These thoughts come without a request attached to them; he's not implying Itzhak tell him anything. Just sharing the alternative possibly.

<<I've thought about that a lot. About how our healing is simply bringing the pain onto ourselves, in a way. And...if you think about it, it makes sense. Conservation of matter and energy. Even our own doctors spend their time, their personal energy, to heal us.>> The orb weaver begins her spinning again, a golden spiral slowly forming between the raven-stag's antlers. <<It's not particularly fair. But people like us, we know life is anything but fair. It just is what it is. And if the choice is for me to bleed a little to get you back on your feet?>> Aspen and fir creak in the wind. <<Any day of the week and twice on Tuesday.>>

The landscape falls quiet as Itzhak's emotion flows through the link. Violin music weaves into the river's rush, leaves shift in tempo with it. August has known people like Joey Kelly, grown up with them, served with them. August could have become him, with a few small changes in his life. Certainly neither had grown up wealthy or overburdened with the advantages of middle or upper class life. On that level, he can understand Kelly quite well.

Which is part of why it's so hard to let Itzhak walk up to Kelly and take a beating in place of a talk. A conversation. He knows this is how it has to be sometimes. How many teens with a less-than-friendly eye on his sisters and friends had he 'conversed' with using his fists and growth spurt? Too many. He knew then, knows now, it's the only way to properly express some things, like 'fuck with the people I love at your peril'.

It's the same language Itzhak has to use now. So. <<At least let me prep you. Make you stronger. You can use it to protect yourself.>> Not much better than healing him, when it comes to Their attention, but that ship has sailed.

The unicorn fidgets uncomfortably. This is a very uncomfortable conversation for him, no fists needed.

<<I'd do the same for you,>> his violin murmurs. <<And if you told me to stop I'd tell you to go fuck yourself.>> And indeed, he makes every attempt to trade August's pain for his own. Like when he threw himself at a gunman. He's thinking too about the Dream he was in, the way his light had been hollowed out of him like marrow scraped from a bone, how the dark had flooded in to take its place. The trade.

He curves his long graceful neck around and whuffles gently, blowing over the stag's muzzle. <<Yeah. A little something extra? This I will accept.>>

<<I know you would, you ridiculous man.>> The raven-stag shoves against the unicorn. <<We're more than a little ridiculous, attempting to one-up one another that way.>>

Permission given, the sky overhead shifts, filling with the sight of Itzhak's Song. August sees them like great biological stars; the movement Song is a great, swirling shape of light and power, dancing to the beat of Itzhak's soul. A smaller, sattelite of power, the mind Song, moves in counterpoint to the movement's rhythm. Dueling violins, the voices of power within him. The vision bathes the landscape in a shifting, shimmering glow of silvery, lavender light.

The raven-stag lifts his head and calls, a simple command, just like he'd give any seed sitting dormant in the soil. <<Grow.>>

Itzhak can defend himself well enough with his own shield, so that's not what August strengthens. He does the rest: agility, quick thinking, stamina. All the things he'll need to stay whole. And maybe a little more: Itzhak's mind Art sings louder, takes on a new melody.

None of this will last; Itzhak can tell this is on borrowed time. For now, though, he feels it coursing through his Song, enabling him to withstand what's coming.

(The raven-stag shudders. He's going to pay for that. One day from now, he'll find out just how much.)

Lifting his head, the unicorn watches the sky. He's fascinated by the way August perceives his Song, mover and reader, a massive gas giant and a more modest satellite. One's innate to him, and one is thanks to his multiplicity of lovers, who all had the mind Song in powerful common. (Even Alexander, who Itzhak crushed on the moment he met him; even Hyacinth, to whom Itzhak entrusted the life of his next violin; even Ignacio, his brother from another mother. Readers all.)

Grow, comes the call, and the unicorn squeals, tossing his head. The power fills him and flushes him, like it's those early days of their experiments with the Song. A curse word that's half an English jesus fucking christ and half oy gevalt spikes in the kythe.

Then the connection dissolves, and Itzhak, bright red, is hunched over the kitchen counter. "You didn't have to go that hard," he says, voice a little unsteady, eyes wide.

August is bracing himself with his unslung arm on the counter, swaying in place. "Sorry, I don't think I know how to empower people any other way," he says, laughing. It's a little regretful, a little happy. The later that power always comes when he needs it most--to protect people, make them stronger--and the former for the price he knows, down to the marrow of his bones, is going to come due.

He can worry about that later. (Twenty-four hours from now, give or take.)

He spends a second getting his bearings, willing the dizziness to stop. He's still recovering from the stab wound, come down to it. "Be careful with this, yeah?" He cracks open his eyes. "This whole thing, it's gotten so ugly. Oh, and," he snaps his fingers, "I was thinking. That knife, that got me. Abitha's not a bad candidate to read it. If you'd rather not...overtax Alexander and Ruiz."

Itzhak reaches out to clamp a hand on August's forearm and steady him. He's blushing vividly and looks at him with an expression of repressed hilarity. "You sure don't, do ya?" Biting his lip, his hilarity fades some. "Yeah. Don't expect it to get prettier."

But he has to stay like that, mysteriously bent over, elbows on the counter, talking about nothing for a while before his blush fades and he can stand up.

August make a low sound, finally stabilizes. He blinks, opening his eyes, and gives Itzhak an amused look, bright and brief. Then, "Anyways. Abitha. She likes to be called Mac. I'll text you her information, send her yours. She's cagey, after the fire, so don't be surprised if she hacks some database to look up everything about you before agreeing to meet at some neutral location." He says all this with the casual air of a man who has come to accept this is their new life: secret meetings to exchange evidence. "She can pass it on to Alexander or Ruiz once she's done."