Benjamen Isaac Braeden (mr_hero) wrote in spn_nextgen, @ 2011-03-15 00:27:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | 1x01 - chance meetings |
Episode 1x01: Pilot - Chance Meetings (Part 1)
“That’ll be $110.”
Benjamen Braeden tried not to flinch at the price, reaching into the depths of his jacket to find his worn-out wallet.
“Can I pay half cash, half credit?”
“Yes, sir,” the hotel clerk replied. It was just as well, since he’d only had about $65 in the billfold. He was going to need to find another poker game or pool table in the near future in order to make up the difference. Of course, there had been the option of staying at Kim’s apartment on the couch, but the problem with that was that he wouldn’t be able to spread out like he was prone to do.
Besides, Kim had a new boyfriend, and that would be all kinds of awkward.
His mom would understand the charge on the card. After all, she’d been the one to push it into his hand and tell him to use it if he needed to. It didn’t make the guilt go away, though. Ben hated having to rely on his mother’s help.
Once the exchange of money and services was made, Ben picked up his bag from where he’d rested it at his feet and headed out of the lobby in the direction of his room. He was barely through the doors before he’d started getting to work.
The bare wall just to the left of his single queen bed was quickly filled with taped-up newspaper clippings and computer print-offs, names and key phrases standing out in bright yellow highlighter. Once that was finished, out came the city map. Four separate thumbtacks were pressed into its surface, forming a visible trail in the shape of a crooked J midway through the city. Ben took a few steps back and looked at his work, his hands automatically flipping up his laptop and pressing the ‘on’ switch. He reached for the phone in his pocket with the intent of calling up the police station when it suddenly buzzed in his hand, startling him, the ring-tone picking up after a second or two of delay.
Mama, I'm coming home / Times gone by seems to be / You could have been a better fri--
Ben flipped the phone open and tucked it between his ear and his shoulder.
“Hey, mom.”
“I thought you were gonna call me when you got into Detroit?” came the little voice on the other end. Ben knew that tone better than anything and winced automatically even though she wasn’t in front of him. It was a reflex.
“I didn’t have any signal,” he lied, his fingers rapidly typing in the password that the front desk clerk had given him to access the Wi-Fi. “If I’d known, I’d’ve called at the rest-stop.”
That seemed to appease her, but only enough to change the anger to concern. “How much did the hotel cost? Do you have enough to get food?”
“I’m fine, mom,” Ben replied, scowling a little. “I’m 24, okay? Not twelve. I can handle it.”
“I’m just--”
“How’s Krysta?” he asked, cutting her off. It was much easier to get his mother to talk about his kid sister than to give her enough headway to ramble on about Western-Unioning him cash or something. Sometimes he wondered if she ever registered that he was growing up. Krysta had just turned thirteen. She’d be going to high school in two weeks. It was no wonder his mother was in full-on maternal mode.
Ben allowed her to go on for about fifteen minutes before he finally told her he had to go. There was a job to do, after all. He couldn’t keep letting his mother’s worry cut into his time.
“Will you call me tonight before you go to bed?”
“I’ll try,” he answered, dodging the promise he knew she wanted to hear. He had no idea how long he’d have to work that first night. There was a lot of ground to cover.
“Just be, safe, okay? I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he parroted, forcibly holding back a sigh. “‘Bye, mom.”
Ben frowned down at the screen as the minutes elapsed blinked back at him. “Okay,” he exhaled, dialing in the area code as he brought up the local number of the police station through a quick google check. It was going to be a long afternoon.
***
The laptop screen cast a blue haze that cut through the unlit darkness of the basement office in St. Ireanus Episcopal Church. Claire pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed at the impending headache. She’d meant to run to the corner 7-11 for a package of light bulbs when she discovered the office’s one desk lamp burn-out, three hours ago. Somehow it just kept escaping her attention.
Instead, she’d been focusing on the time-line drafted on her screen, which mapped a string of too-similar instances across the Midwest for the last three years; piece by piece connected after what had been, at that point, a full day of researching. But right now, her eyes were spent. She needed a break.
Blue eyes squeezed shut, then opened wide--as if that would stretch the fuzzy discomfort behind them. Claire closed her laptop, laced her arms through the worn canvass jacket, and headed for the door that lead through the church’s Sunday School, and ultimately for the LaFayette Street exit.
The sun was ten times worse than the laptop glow, stabbing at her brain before she had a chance to slide a pair of almost superstitiously loved Aviators from her hair and over her eyes--one thin hand extended toward traffic to hail a cab. Caffeine would knock the migraine back a few levels--Claire just hoped there was a Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts next to the police station.
Thirty-five minutes later, the side trip put her through the lobby doors a little too close to her appointment time--or rather, ‘Helen Garison’s’ appointment time with the department’s PR officer’s assistant. Fortunately, like every police department in the frickin’ country, the bureaucratic nature of the beast assured she’d still be waiting a half hour or so. Maybe more. She’d heard stories about this city.
“Hi there!” A bright and bubbly grin greeted the uniformed ‘receptionist’ at the front desk; the tone was like chalky candy in her mouth, and left a bad aftertaste. The middle aged woman didn’t look up at first, intent on her computer screen and the keyboard under her fingers. Claire could see by the reflection in her glasses it was an intense game of Mine Sweep.
“Reporting or picking up?” the receptionist finally tore herself away for a look at the picture of Abercrombie College ads ‘beaming’ down at her.
“Oh--oh, neither. I’m Helen Garison, I have an appointment with Mister...um...” Claire made a show of looking incompetent by pushing her shades into dark blond waves to glance at the palm of her hand, like she’d written something there. Of course, she hadn’t. “Davis. I’m from Wayne State?” She gave the older woman another grin that hurt her head.
The other woman frowned thoughtfully, then went silent as she pulled up a few things on her screen.
“Officer Davis is in the middle of speaking with a U.S. Marshal,” she replied. “Have a seat. He’ll be with you in a few moments.”
No surprise there. “Great! Thanks a lot.” Claire started to turn, readjusting the shoulder strap of her bag, but paused, bellying up to the chest-high counter. “Seven down, three to the left.” She forced a friendly smile, tapped the counter with two fingertips, and headed to the string of benches that lined the lobby wall. The woman cocked a dyed-red brow, then looked back at her screen. Seven down, three to the... left...
“I’ll be damned...” she muttered when the little tip won her the game.
“...anything, feel free to call my direct line.”
“Thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful.”
Two men came through the main lobby -- one clearly older with graying hair at his temples, a heavy moustache, and wrinkles around his forehead and eyes; the younger a taller, wiry man with dark brown hair, dressed in a suit rather than an officer’s uniform. The younger man had a manilla folder tucked beneath his arm, and paused to shake the officer’s hand briskly.
“Good luck.”
The younger man flashed him a polite smile. “You, too.” He started to leave, but paused at the receptionist’s desk.
“Where’s a good place to get a decent cuppa coffee ‘round here?” he asked her, clearly dialing up the charm. The receptionist smiled up at him.
“There’s a little diner about three blocks down. They’ve got a really great strawberry pie, too. Probably the best I’ve had in the city.”
His brows arched and his smile lengthened. “Sounds like my kind of place. Thanks for the tip, Miss...”
“Walters. You can call me Nells, though.”
His smile only lengthened. “Thank you, Nells. Maybe I’ll seeya there some time, while I’m in town.”
Some used the phrase ‘never forget a face’-- however loosely, the concept was always the same. It was a bit different for those with an eidetic memory, like Claire; a useful tool, especially when it came to keeping her stories, identities, and facts straight. Of course, the unrelenting streams of information tended to keep her from sleeping. That, and a number of other things. Her eyes were always methodically wandering, usually behind her shades, catching detail without effort and filing it away to be pulled up again later, or gather dust in the back of her mind. The file cabinet slammed open when she looked at that younger man’s face.
Claire honed in on the conversation as a default whenever something caught her attention--the pair of them had just filtered out from the office door with the ‘Jacob Davis’ placard on the side. She was subconsciously trying to figure out the reason why she recognized him, but knew she’d never seen him before.
Claire flexed the fingers on her right hand, one by one, popping old tension in her usual habit whenever she had to decide something. That man’s familiarity, combined with the previous location of the file he was holding was starting to weigh a little more than a fake (and probably sugar coated) interview for a college paper on local happenings.
The young man --no doubt the US Marshal the receptionist had mentioned-- moved out from behind her desk and started heading out through the door, oblivious to his being watched.
Claire anticipated each footstep once he left her peripheral vision. She’d made the decision to follow him, but not yet. Time wasn’t very reliable, but at least she had a good idea of which way he was headed. She just hoped he didn’t get distracted while she dealt with--
“Miss Garison?” the older man spoke down at her quickly, after having veered away from Nells Walters and her cougar smile and new game of Mine Sweep. Claire flicked her eyes up at him; the well practiced smile was brilliant, automatic, and completely false.
“Yes! Please, call me Helen.” She stood and shook his hand when he offered it, then put her own back in the pocket of her coat, purposely fingering the pre-paid cell phone’s memorized keypad. “I promise I won’t keep you very long, but I just had a few questions for the Wayne Chronicle about--”
Prepare yourself, you know it’s a must... You got a friend in Jesus. The tinny but recognizable Norman Greenbaum lyrics suddenly erupted from her pocket. Claire made her face look surprised, then apologetic. If she gave him hope of a quick reprieve of this little meeting by answering the fake phone call, all the better. “Gosh, I’m--I’m so sorry. Just’a sec...”
...he’s gonna recommend you to the spirit in the sky... chimed the phone, only stopped when she put it to her ear. Officer Davis looked mildly perturbed as his appointment went on with a one sided conversation, and broke in with an excusatory touch on her elbow, to get her attention. Of course, he had it the whole time.
“I’m sorry, Miss Garison,” he pointed at the reception desk and gave her a smile. “This isn’t the best time anyway--if you’ll reschedule--”
“Oh totally! Yeah, no problem.” Claire laid it on thick by lazily dismissing his quick withdraw with projected indifference. Thirty-seconds later, she was back outside, heading for the best pie in the city.
***
Unfortunately, Ben hadn’t been able to afford the pie. He refused to use the card for a second time that day, and had managed to find enough change in his car cupholder to pay for the refillable coffee.
Ben drank mechanically as he worked, the computer open and off to the side while he read through the reports Davis had given him. There appeared to be no known clear connection between the choices and the subjects. Ben paused at the photo of Kim’s dad, his frown deepening. He was still in custody as a suspect. Seeing the picture made him reach for his phone to text her with where to meet him.
Claire shifted against the back of the bar seat where her coat had bunched uncomfortably, twisting her mug of coffee between her fingertips on the counter. She’d only been there for about five minutes, keeping an eye on the back of the familiar young man. No point in making any move yet, but she was happy to have a vantage point that gave her a near-complete view of his open laptop.
Why do I know you. She caught his profile when he angled a look toward his phone. Claire caught the quick flash of the name ‘Kim’ before the track-bar announced a sent message, but the glare prevented her from reading it.
Ben waited for the answering text and when it didn’t immediately come, he pocketed the phone again and sighed, reaching for his coffee mug. It was empty. When the waitress came by he signalled her with a gentle hand raise and a smile.
“Ready for some pie, honey?” she tilted the steaming coffee pot over the porcelain mug.
“Wish I could,” Ben said with a sigh and a laugh. “I’m a little short on cash at the moment. Rain-check, though?”
“It’s a date,” the older woman replied, smiling genuinely, if only for customer service reasons. Claire’s mouth pulled into one cheek, then looked at the screen of his open laptop again. Among the Google windows and something open in Word, she caught a Craigslist search for local poker venues. Interesting...
As the waitress headed off, Ben turned his head to watch her go. It was only then that he connected eyes with the blonde at the bar. His brows arched slightly.
Claire’s first instinct was to smile, for several reasons. Her upbringing, for one; politeness and temperance and all the like, which she found in her worldly experience to be complete hogwash. She smiled mainly because putting on a defensive front was likely to be counterproductive. Also, because she wanted to make her being caught watching seem to have a purpose other than overt spying.
When she didn’t look a way, Ben met her smile, obviously pleased. He licked his lips and took a breath, speaking loud enough so that his voice carried: “Care to join me?”
Apparently her smile worked better than she thought. Claire pressed her lips together in a show of contemplation, then shrugged lightly--more with her expression than actual movement of her shoulders. “Why not?” Maybe a name will help, she thought, gathering her coat and shoulder bag. It was only a few steps around the counter corner; Claire slid into the seat across from him.
Ben waited until she was seated before leaning over the table slightly, speaking in a low voice.
“Just so you know,” he told her evenly. “I’ve got a gun pointed at you.”
Though she was careful to keep her expression from changing much from the initial arch of both eyebrows, something in her eyes sharpened. Claire held still for a second, then mimicked his lean over the table, and tried to mirror his tone.
“Is that the new take on the old ‘gun in my pocket’ euphemism?” She balanced on the edge of friendly sarcasm and even toned alarm--wondering just which way this was about to go.
“Nope,” he replied. A moment later, she could feel the barrel press briefly into her knee. “Definitely a real gun.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly at her. “I saw you at the police station. Why are you following me?”
Interesting. Claire kept herself still, her fingertips half-curled on her jeans to vent the tension that wasn’t showing. She kept her eyes on his, and found the color to be another distinct point of the unexplained familiarity; the strongest yet.
Finally, she inhaled and exhaled slow, and let her breath carry her voice a little lower. “Why are you impersonating a U.S. Marshall?” She’d made that distinction early on, in the way he walked when he didn’t think the police were watching. Not to mention the fact he was clearly too young, or possibly right on that edge.
Ben’s face immediately pinched in a scowl. “Who are you? What do you want?”
There were bells going off left and right in the back of her brain, pieces of this little puzzle falling into place, even though the picture was still veiled. Claire was definitely glad God pointed her toward the decision of following him.
His gaze narrowed, and she smiled at him, rather gently. “Cherry.” She looked up for the waitress a few steps away and beckoned her with a quick wave, then looked back at him. “How’bout you? I’d guess pumpkin with a ton of whipped cream...”
Just the barest hint of color crossed his face, and after a few moments his hands reappeared on the tabletop between them.
“Yeah, actually.” The strawberry had been tempting, but one couldn’t go wrong with a classic.
The waitress approached and shot a smile at both. Claire’s eyes lingered a bit longer on her company’s face before turning up to the woman, smiling. “Piece of cherry and pumpkin, heavy on the whip cream?”
“Sure thing, honey,” she replied, jotting the order down as she left Claire looked back at the fake federal employee, her brows arched in expectation. It was odd, this tenuous level of recognition. He had a small handle on her, she had a slightly bigger one on him--or so, she’d like to have thought. The gun had been a little surprising.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ben prompted again after the waitress had wandered off, though his tone was considerably less hostile than previously. Despite himself, this girl had managed to get under his skin. Maybe it was those big blue eyes. It was like looking into the sky on a clear, bright day.
“Actually, I did answer one,” she corrected him lightly, and sat back against the red vinyl booth. “You didn’t even attempt to answer mine, but I’m not gonna ask again.” As a courtesy, she placed her elbows on the table top, lacing her fingers together in front. She held his eyes, and despite her aversion to attaching such details to her observations, found herself wondering just how many colors someone could fit into that shade of dark hazel.
“Let’s review: you quite successfully pulled the wool over the PR Officer’s eyes, enough to grant you ‘take-home status’ of that right there,” Claire’s eyes darted pointedly to the file under his elbow. “Which means, one--you’ve done it before and two--whatever it is you do want has to do with someone on the other side of the law.” She gestured with one hand, flippant and girlish. Part of the act she hadn’t quite let go of yet. “Should I go on?”
“Are you a reporter or something?” he asked, trying to sidetrack her. He didn’t like how easily she’d picked apart his cover story. If she had, there was no telling how long it would take the police officer to figure it out.
“Do I look like one?”
You look like a Catholic schoolgirl, actually, he wanted to say. Fortunately, he bit back the words, though the images that came flooding into his mind were a little harder to stifle.
“You could be for all I know. Suffice to say, I’m not sayin’ another word to you if you’re planning on ratting me out. I have a job to do.”
A dimple cut into Claire’s cheek when her lips twitched into something between a smirk and a smile. She was quiet, only because the older waitress was rounding the corner with their desserts. As soon as they were set on the table, Claire anticipated the next question, and cut it off before it left the woman’s lips.
“We’re good, thanks.” Then back to him, she assured him: “If I wanted to turn you in, I would’a done it by now.”
“Believe it or not, that doesn’t reassure me,” Ben said with the hint of a frown.
“Alright, tell me one thing. And keep in mind, I’m watching for a lie...” Claire began with a somewhat casual glance down at her pie. She picked up the fork and sliced off a small bite. “Who’s the file on?” Her eyes were back on him, sharp and focused blue, even as she closed her lips around the glazed cherry and cream.
For a moment, Ben was completely fixated on her mouth. He almost forgot she’d asked a question. If anything, it only made him angrier at himself. He should have just packed up and left the moment he recognized her, but no doubt she would have just followed him back to his hotel. He didn’t want to risk it.
“Max Riley,” he said finally, bringing his eyes sharply back up to hers again. His pie was left untouched in front of him.
The previous ringing in the back of her memory became a chorus of bells. The only apprehended suspect in the string of robberies just odd enough that it had brought her up to Michigan in the first place: Max Riley. Claire’s smile was faint, and the look behind her eyes, complicated.
She started wiggling off another bite, and continued in tones that kept her mind grounded. One thing at a time, Clairey. “If I would claim that vampires jump from bed to bed in nightly orgies, what would be wrong with that statement?”
“Succubi, not vampires,” Ben answered immediately. The nagging sensation in his skill faded instantly and his lips quirked. “Vampires might have orgies, but typically they mate for life and they don’t like to share.”
Well, at least there’s that. Claire smirked back at him around her fork, which slid from her lips and pointed at his pastry. “Haven’t touched your pie.”
He took up his fork without further prompting, slicing through a large bite and putting it smoothly between his lips. The flavors hit him in all their delicious euphoria and he barely resisted closing his eyes to further enjoy them.
“I take it you’re not into modern gothic literature,” he said around a mouthful.
“Not unless I have to be,” she answered casually, watching him with a new, clarified perspective. So he was a Hunter, and logic dictated they were working the same job. That didn’t explain why she had his face previously mapped out in her memory before ever having met him. So... she took a leap of faith.
“I’m Claire.”
Ben bit his lip for the briefest moment. Did he lie, or tell her the truth? What were the chances she’d find him again?
“Ben,” he said, reaching for his coffee to take a swallow from it. It had started going cold. “How far into things are you?”
Ben. Claire filed that away, and cross referenced it with any distinct memory that might match the name with the face. Again, the attempt left her unsatisfied; she stabbed quietly at a corner of her pie crust and lathed it in whip cream.
“Been here six days,” she answered quietly. “Two days after I arrived, the police picked up Mr. Riley. Unfortunately, Detroit’s Finest aren’t attributing three other minor burglaries since to the connection.” She’d been listening on the scanner. “I’ve been on the damned thing’s tail for the last, and just barely got out of being nabbed myself.”
Ben’s brows furrowed just a little at her use of the singular. “There’s no way it’s only one,” he said slowly. “The times on the surveillance tapes are too close. They’re within minuets of each other, so unless the sucker has a teleporter, it’s gotta be at least two.”
Claire shook her head a little, not because she disagreed with his logic, but more by skeptical habit. She propped her cheek with one loose fist, bent from the table, and poked at her pie with the other--to the casual observer, the pair looked like they could be discussing politics or gas prices (which were fucking criminal, by the way). “You ever seen two shifters get along, let alone work with each other?”
So it was a shifter. Or as it was, shifters. He’d had an inkling, given the fact that there hadn’t been any real leads on any one person up until the last hit, and Kim’s dad had said in his report that he had never been at that convenience store before ever. The print from the camera --flare in the eyes and all-- had said differently, though. Ben frowned.
“Never seen two shifters around at the same time, period,” he replied with lift of his shoulders, eyes pointed down as he slowly devoured the piece of pie. “Don’t change the fact that there’s no way it’s just one of ‘em. It’s either two shifters or two of somethin’ else.”
The logic made sense, all save for the general extreme territorialism that usually categorized the creatures. “I found two skins,” she added thoughtfully, looking up from her last bite of pie. “It’s definitely shifters--on the same turf, and apparently not tearing each other a part.” Fantastic.
“Hey, s’not like things can get any weirder, right?” Ben offered, arching one brow as he looked up and gave her a crooked sort of smile. He finished the rest of his pie a few bites after she did, then drained his glass. Three cups of black coffee in less than an hour. He’d need to go run or something to get all the energy off, or Kim was going to think he was tweaking out.
As though summoned by his thoughts, his pocket vibrated and chimed with an incoming text message. Ben pulled it out, flipping the phone open to read the little screen.
@ Wrk til 6p. Called in. CU@7?He quickly replied in a similar fashion that he’d meet her wherever he chose and to be careful, then closed up the phone again and tucked it back into his pocket.