Nina Clarke: ᴍᴀʏᴏʀ, ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴ ᴛx & sʜʏ ʙʟᴏʙ (commonlaw) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-10-17 01:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2018 [10] october, calvin davidson, nina clarke |
Who: Nina Clarke & Cal Davidson
When: Backdated to Thursday, October 2, evening
Where: Nina's apartment
What: Two dummies scream at each other over a kitchen table about right versus wrong and a bag of tortilla chips doesn't get eaten. Cal drops by to visit Nina and gets much more than he'd originally wanted. Secrets come out, loyalties are tested, and regimes are questioned.
Nina jumped at the knock on the door, her mind moving swiftly to the worst possible scenario: the Mayor's goons were there, ready to haul her in. She'd not even been at home for more than four minutes. Surely her moment of reckoning wouldn't come before she'd even set her purse down? She prepared herself for the worst, then opened the door to reveal Cal. "Oh. It's you." Despite her words, relief was clear on her face. His arms were crossed, and he didn’t exactly look the picture of composure either. There was tension around Cal’s eyes, his mouth. None of them were particularly well-rested these days. “Were you expecting someone else?” he said dryly, but there was genuine curiosity in the tilt of his head. Nina couldn't help the pang of guilt that twisted in her stomach as she looked at her friend -- a man she'd barely given thought to over the last twenty-four hours, though she was sure the prior day's events had affected him, too. "I don't know what to expect anymore," she said, stepping back to let him in. (She hoped he didn't notice the way her eyes swept the hallway before she closed the door.) It felt a bit like entering a safe fortress, the way Nina was careful to shut the door behind them. Cal’s own gaze drifted to the lock; the woman’s jumpiness was contagious. “Came by to check on you, see how you were doing. Maybe see if you wanted some company for dinner or something.” There was a troubled cast to his expression. “And my condolences for the DoJ.” "Thank you," she said automatically, though it grated on her to accept. She'd done nothing to save them, after all. Then, belatedly: "It's nice to see you again." And at least this much was true. She looked over her shoulder, towards her kitchen, and tried to picture the sparse contents of her fridge. Nina had a bad tendency to forget to eat in times of stress. "I don't know how much we'll find, but I'm sure we'll manage." “It’s fine, I don’t really have much of an appetite anyway. The priority’s you.” Taking liberties, Cal found her dining table, drew out a chair, and settled into it, kneading his forehead while Nina took to the kitchen to forage for food. Yesterday had cast a pall over the entire week, and both of them seemed to be walking around it like mincing past a minefield after a landmine’s gone off. There was an unusual jumpiness to the woman he normally knew as so composed, and so Cal’s eye—so accustomed to sizing people up in the field, under harrowing conditions—finally caught it. “You alright, Nina? You worried about them getting in again or something?” The fact that they’d been inside the walls, that security had been breached, was a thorn in his side. Maybe more like a spear. Nina set down a jar of canned salsa and a bag of tortilla chips on the table as an appetizer, so to speak, and bit her lip to suppress the smile that threatened at the true reality of the situation. How could she tell him that what scared her the most were the people who already lived and worked in the Capitol? She knew what she was supposed to say, though: "I don't know how they managed it." She was grateful that it wasn't a lie. "I just can't believe how -- Everything's going to change. There's no going back after this." Vague words to hide the the truth of what she'd settled on the moment she chose to not warn the Department of Justice. “Yeah,” Cal said, at a loss for words. He snared a chip and started chewing it dry while she worked on opening the jar. There was a stretching gulf between them, widening by the week, and neither were fully aware of it—he wondered, briefly, if one could technically say it was his fault things had changed. Tipped the status quo. Broken the stalemate of Austin. There was something twisting in his gut, and the phone in his pocket suddenly felt unnaturally heavy, weighted like a stone. “I mean, it’s always been the case that the DoR and patrolmen got killed. It’s just the way things go. But it feels fucking different now, with your colleagues targeted. Like we’ve opened that damn box and it can’t be closed again. And—sorry if me bringing it up is shit. I know it’s fresh. I just…” A vague wave of the hand. Cal had never been good at talking out his feelings. "It is. Shitty, I mean." No point in mincing words, was there? It was too soon; the wound had barely scabbed over. But would there ever really be a good time to discuss this? She owed that much to this man who'd badgered her until she accepted his offer of friendship. The tricky part was knowing exactly what she could say to Cal. But after they'd both eaten a dozen chips between them, she came up with an idea. James had once mentioned the MC turning over a new leaf; there was one way she could see if that was the case and check on her friend simultaneously. "How have things been for you, though? You haven't seemed as banged up lately. Have the Hellhounds still been dogging the DoR as hard as they had before?" And then, belatedly, she winced at the terrible pun. The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest acknowledgment of the ridiculous phrasing. “I guess not? I figured they’d gotten busy with this mysterious new group homing in on their territory,” Cal said. That was the last thing Austin needed: more fucking raiders. “I mean, whatever it is, I’m fucking grateful for the break. I’ve been finding trouble for myself just fine without ‘em.” "You are the only person I know who's gone into quarantine without even having been attacked by a zombie." Nina had never been the type to pass up an opportunity to tease, even if her sense of humor's drier than most. "Still, that seems pretty significant." She paused, approximating the wait of a woman who didn't know what she'd say next, then added, "But you and your trucks have been making your rounds just fine?" He thought back, wondering. Remembering the last few supply runs he and Kay had done this week, and even before he checked into quarantine… True enough, they hadn’t been raided in a while. He hadn’t exactly been counting the days since the last incident (the mind tended to pull away from them instead, focusing on the future rather than stewing on the past), but seeing the Hounds at the Chestnut Tree was the most recent he’d seen them in a while. “Just fine,” Cal finally acknowledged. He didn’t realise there was any particular significance to it. It just felt like a break in the clouds, a brief dappling of sunlight, the eye of the storm before the inevitable raids would commence. But then he was looking more carefully at the woman sitting across from him, with her hand on the prow with this careful steering of the conversation. Remembering the Hounds. Remembering the sight of Demi with the Hounds. Remembering the name that he’d texted to the mayor. So before he could reel the words back in, Cal had ploughed down another train of thought that he hadn’t considered properly until now. But if his oldest friend could turn out to be connected to those bastards, then who else? Paranoia had seeped into him ever since that night at the bar, contagious. “James Hawkins,” he said suddenly. Nina's jaw tensed at the name, a subtle movement but one that was noticeable nonetheless. “The leader they posted on the network. He was the Austin Cop Killer, wasn’t he? Your case.” Her mind reeled, jumping and pivoting from excuse to deflection to smokescreen. There was a tiny part of her, too, that couldn't help but be impressed; she'd written Cal off without her realizing it, but he'd finally figured out what those in her Department already knew. The respect she had for him grew even as she worried about what he'd do if he ever knew the extent of her connection to James. "The one and only," she said slowly, willing herself to remain calm. "He's got the biggest knack for trouble that I ever did see." Nina tried to remind herself that this didn't mean anything, not until she knew more. And, if it came to that, she knew that Cal didn't have the authority to arrest her. (The man outside her apartment door certainly did, and he was but a shout away.) But Nina knew about how he'd found Demi out only a few days ago, too. He hadn't reported her for it. Would he extend that same mercy to Nina? “How well do you know him?” he pressed. Just as Nina had started digging at the corners of Cal’s knowledge, now he’d flipped the tables. Because paranoia was creeping and insidious, a poison in the well, and he could feel it starting to flood him now. His skin prickled. Her eyes met his once more. "We got to know each other pretty well when I was representing him." She'd often wondered if their friendship had crossed some kind of lawyer/client line; were you supposed to get so attached to the people you were defending? James had reminded her of Kevin, though, and she'd been an inexperienced lawyer. Nina knew, though, that Cal likely wasn't asking about how well she'd known him then. He was asking about now. Nina also knew that Cal hadn't yet turned in Demi for her connection to the Hellhounds, so she added, "I only just found out that he was alive a few months ago. I haven't seen him since we lost the case." And then, her voice shaking only slightly: "But I've communicated with him once or twice." Those words rang through him. They could be exactly what they sounded like, just what it said on the tin—but then again, if pushed, Cal was likely to say the same about Willa. How often had he been in touch with his sister since she’d left? Oh, once or twice. But he sighed, a long slow exhalation, and shifted in his seat. Chair scraping backwards on the floor as he stretched out his legs, shoving it back slightly, eking out some space between them. His headache, a near-permanent thing over the last week or so, was getting worse. Even contagious, apparently; as she watched him seek more distance between them, she could start to feel pressure building behind her eyes. “Did he warn you too? About the f— about the attack.” If he started swearing up a storm, he was afraid he’d never stop. "Yes." There was no point in lying by now. Cal had eyes, didn't he? She hadn't been able to hide the wince that had flashed on her face as he asked about her greatest sin. And once she'd said that simple word, the rest of her shame tumbled out. "I knew it would happen and I did nothing to stop it." Nina's gaze dropped to her hands and the tortilla chip they still held. She set it down on the table and stared at it. "I could've done something, but I didn't." That was guilt in her voice, and he recognised it: that insidious self-doubt creeping out through a little telltale wobble, a sound he’d literally never heard from Nina Clarke before. Frankly, it sounded too familiar. It echoed with that little rot inside him, and Cal’s chest felt heavy as he watched her across the table. “You didn’t cause this,” he said firmly. (Because he did, he did, he did.) They were words he could have been saying to himself and should have taken to heart himself. Her eyes lifted to meet Cal's at his words, almost defiant. How could he say that to her when he had no idea? Summarize and dismiss all her concerns, wrapping them up in one neat little condolence? "I could have chosen a different ending," she said, her voice regaining some of its steadiness as she stared back at this man in front of her. "It didn't have to be like this, but I let it happen." “Did you let them in?” "Not -- personally." A technicality, she thought. Then a rebuttal: "I could've sent Patrolmen to the Department." “You could’ve, yeah. And that would’ve been great. But you know, others probably could’ve too.” Cal’s anger was a wide and far-ranging thing these days: aimed outwards but also devouring itself like a collapsing sun. Everywhere he looked, there was disappointment. Including internally. “It was a colossal goddamn fuckup on all sides, as far as I’m concerned. The mayor himself probably could’ve contained the showdown better, too. There’s room for everyone to second-guess themselves, Nina. But you didn’t let them in. Whoever fucking did that, they’ve got more blood on their hands. And the raiders, they have the most.” It was like everything Cal said just then had gone in one ear and out the other. Nina didn't want absolution; she wanted to be convicted for her crimes. Recognized for the role she'd played as James' accomplice. Maybe she'd only had a bit part to play in the grander scheme of things; in her eyes, it didn't matter. She was breathing heavily, she realized, her hands clenched tight around the edge of the tabletop, as she sought to control her emotions. Somehow, though, simultaneously, both of them remained seated at the table as though everything was all right. Nina swallowed heavily, forced herself to breathe in and out through her nose to settle herself. "We'll never know the whole story of what happened. We can only make do with what's been told." Her eyes searched his face, seeking absolution. "But I need to know. Do you forgive me for what I've done?" “I ain’t your priest,” Cal said lightly. His old fallback of humour, one of the only ways to maintain a safe distance from this. But he was already in too deep to avoid the subject, both of them were, so his smile came out fractured, mirrored by a pathetic attempt at a smile that sparked on Nina's face for only a moment before it disappeared. He was hedging, not quite answering, not just yet. He absolutely 100% couldn’t admit what he’d done, so any forgiveness coming from Cal Davidson would be rife with hypocrisy, reeking with it. Not that she would even know, but it mattered to him. “Are you still—” He faltered then, unsure how to phrase it. “Are you still in tight with them? After what they did?” "I'm not happy and I've let them know." But murder and mayhem considered, even, there was still no way she could go back to being entirely on the Capitol's side. "Their way of life -- it's not right, nor is it sustainable. They're going to crash and burn if they keep this up. But let me ask you this. Are you still in tight here, even after knowing what they do in La Quinta?" Cal’s hands were locked against his knees, as if by holding himself at careful right angles he could maintain a grip on this conversation. He hadn’t come here for this, but then again, perhaps some intrinsic part of him knew that was where they were headed all along; he’d had that nagging thought in the back of his head, a grit he couldn’t clean from the lens. “There’s a difference,” he said, “between there being a few fucked up cogs in the gears, versus the entire setup of the machine being to prey on others. One’s a messed up execution. The other’s broken from the start.” He was pressing all her buttons, challenging the justifications she'd made to find some peace with what she'd done over the last few days, and she was rising to the occasion. "You know, it's funny." (It wasn't in the slightest.) "I can't even keep track of which one you're talking about now, because from where I'm looking you could say the same damned thing about both sides." In another time, he might not have been sure why he considered defending and forgiving her at all. All his instincts rebelled against it. Except that he needed this—needed to find some kind of easy catch-all peace of mind for the both of them. Of course, it didn’t exist. “I dunno, it’s pretty damn clear from where I’m sitting,” Cal said. (It wasn’t.) But his voice was rising; he’d never been that good at holding his temper in check when being explicitly goaded. It was a damn near miracle he’d even been able to keep his cool at the Chestnut Tree last weekend. “Capitol ain’t the ones who steal medicine from hospitals, for one.” He had to pick out one of the biggest problems with the Hellhounds' way of life that Nina, too, couldn't stand. Of course. "I'm never going to say there ain't nothing wrong with the Hellhounds so if you're thinkin' about givin' me a list of all their sins I think you'll find I agree with you more often than not." Cal was making her so mad, that Texan accent of hers was starting to creep back into her speech the more she reacted without thinking, measuring her words and considering the weight of each one. "Adelaide Lansing was arrested because of who she happens to call her kin. We both know she wouldn't have been given any kind of fair trial. I see that every day I go to work, Cal. If you have any ties to them -- We both know what would've happened next. To her and to Charlie. They had her little boy right there in jail with her. At least before --" Nina cut herself off then, startled and horrified to find that she was near tears. Her thoughts were running together into something she couldn't sort out, but even if she was losing Cal she needed to know she'd at least managed to express herself clearly to him before their friendship was over. "I am never gonna to agree with everything the Hellhounds do. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna sit around and do nothing while a system I used to believe in forgets that every man is deserving of the same fair treatment, sinner or saint. Especially one that tortures, assaults, dehumanizes their prisoners." That ragged edge to her voice, the gleam in her eye. Cal found that he couldn’t look at it directly, and instead had to fix his gaze on a nick in Nina’s wall. But after a moment, weathering her tirade as if he’d been physically struck, he managed to echo a careful response: “And on that, I think you’ll find I agree with you more often than not.” She'd been prepared for him to yell back at her. To leave, maybe, and head back to his apartment or even just a few feet out the door to the Patrolmen who were ever-present now. Cal agreeing with her hadn't been a possibility she'd considered even for a moment. "Really?" They were caught inside a flawed machine. They’d skirted this edge before, but never quite called it out as baldly as she did now. “What’s that saying about throwing the baby out with the bathwater?” he said. “I just keep thinkin’ it might be shit but it’s the best we got for now, and it’s better than the anarchy out there in the streets, at the greenbelt. We can try to fix it and make it better, yeah, but I don’t even fucking know where to begin.” The end of his sentence fell into a note of almost desperation, pleading. The tortillas on the table were abandoned and forgotten, whatever paltry excuse for an appetite he had was now fully banished. This entire conversation made him sick and queasy instead. Nina bit her lip hard, hoping for a distraction from the aching emptiness she felt in her chest. Instead, all she was left with was a sore, swollen feeling that got in her way as she tried to talk. "Me, either," she admitted. There were tears on her face now, but she made no move to wipe them away. She'd never cried before in front of Cal. First time for everything. "There has to be a way to fix this." She looked at him head-on, almost begging him to interrupt her with an answer." That's what I keep telling myself. We'll do what they used to do before the world went to hell: throw some kind of revolution, call for reform, go through all the problems and make 'em right. But I just don't know anymore. Is there a way for us to even win?" “You should trade thoughts with my sister. She and I were talking about elections.” It was a wry aside, a drained and exhausted admission… an accidental reveal of the fact that he was still in touch with Willa and a detail Nina would bring up later, knowing it was a sore subject but not all the reasons why. Nina had been bleeding herself out into the air between them, it only seemed appropriate to let a vein in return. The two of them had been sitting harmlessly in these chairs, but might as well be two opposing armies smashing into each other on the field. He was as tired, inside and out, as if he’d run a goddamn marathon. A balloon popped, all of that building rage simply deflated and leaving him raw and empty in its wake. So Cal finally rose to his feet, ostensibly to stretch his legs, but mostly to pace and drum out this nervous energy. When the going got tough he tended to want an entirely different outlet, but Nina wasn’t exactly the right type to provide. (Though he’d tried, years ago.) And it was in respect of their friendship, and the times they’ve seen between them, that Cal wasn’t just storming out right now. He couldn’t burn bridges. Not these days. Not with the world so bleak as it was. Pausing by Nina’s side of the table, Cal rested his hand on her shoulder, then gently swiped one of the wet tear tracks from her cheek, the smallest dewdrop on his finger. Nothing romantic about it. Just the comfort of touch. “I don’t know, Nina. I’m just a mook with a gun. I’ve no goddamn idea.” She reached up to cover his hand with her own, drew a little shuddering breath as she sought to regain control of herself. "You're more than that and you know it." Nina leaned her head against his arm, seeking that steadiness he'd always provided for her. Cal hadn't left her after all. "You and me, we'll fix this together." Reassuring words, a near-call to arms for the both of them. Still, there were those questions rattling around in her head: Where did they go from here? |