2009-12-22: Everyone's a Tool



Date: December 22nd, 2009


Looking out for the welfare of Nathan (honest), Angela enlists the assistance of an old friend and comrade-in-Company.

"Everyone's a Tool"

Angela's Hotel Room

New York City

Welcome to the hotel room that has been the lair of Angela Petrelli for the past several weeks — a time limit which is nearing its end, should she retain any sense of safety, for she is not, in fact, in Fiji as she has Nathan telling anyone who so much as says her name. It is not as welcoming as a vacation spot, nor as colourful, though it may be as warm: the windows are fastened tight against the cold winter and the heat is elevated, making it quite toasty.

Cozy, however, it is not.

The walls are white, much like the blank slate that Nathan has commandeered on a floor below. It's also smaller, and the layout is different, backwards. More cramped than Angela would like, despite being split in two sections: bedroom and sitting room/dining room/kitchen. The furniture seems almost antique, and paintings decorate the wall in blacks and whites. A few fresh flowers add colour, but there is no sense of home.

Angela herself sits on a chaise lounge, part of the arrangement of furniture facing the bedroom. She stares past a butter-yellow flower in a shallow vase and waits, legs crossed. Despite secreting away, there's little change in her wardrobe except that it now has limited selection. Today, the hound's-tooth blazer and black slacks match the monochrome art on the hotel walls.

There are perhaps two or three people on the planet that Lawrence would just drop what he was doing for; he wasn't really doing much of anything when Angela called him over, but regardless he pried himself out of his apartment to come over. It wasn't an emergency either, so he's taken his time. The sounds that herald his arrival are the metallic clinks of keys on keys and the key in the front door. It may be best anyway if he acts like he isn't a guest- for the building security, surely. When the door opens to admit him, he is firstly quite critical of the lack of colors here- it is actually very saddening. In contrast to his tie, which is essentially brown- with a reindeer head sewn into the bottom. It's the one that blinks when you squeeze his nose!

"Oh, gee, all you're missing is a dalmatian." Church is already smiling at his brilliant show of wit, lifting a hand to brush snow out of his brown hair.

The very first look Church receives from Angela is immediately incredulous, dark brows raising in an unimpressed stance. "Oh for the love of— I see you have some holiday cheer. Nathan would've liked that tie; thankfully he's come to his senses." In regards to fashion or in general, she does not clarify. A thin-lipped smile stretches her mouth long enough to greet the man properly, if briefly; a hint of warmth, then gone. She waves him in. "I don't have to tell you to lock the door behind you." In other words: hello, Church, how are you. Sitting back, she reaches toward a glass end table at her left to pluck a glass of chardonnay into her grasp.

"I think he'd still like it." At this, Church presses the button on the Abomination, and its nose flickers a red light. Blink blink blinky. "He missed you too." The reindeer! Duh. The door is shut as the man moves inside, still shaking the layer of dusty snow off of his head and locking the doorknob and chain with a trailing hand. He shrugs off his coat, though only so much to tuck it under his arm. The warmth is obvious in here, so there is no use baking himself.

The reindeer is ignored. Poor fellow.

"Have a seat," Angela offers in her way which is less of an offer and more of a demand to be obliged immediately. She flicks her brows up a moment before she sips from her glass. A brief sip, barely a taste, as she is compelled to add: "You're making me feel lazy standing there." A true sip is taken before the matriarch of the Petrelli clan sets the glass down slowly, taking her time, perhaps, to allow for Church to sit. "Did you see him on TV?" she asks, remaining casual, but there the underlying seriousness is present, creeping. "Nathan," she clarifies quickly as an afterthought. Her son is clearly at the forefront of her mind.

She doesn't really have to tell him twice- but it helps. Church does move into animation to sit down on an opposite piece of furniture, managing first to find a coathook. Thankfully, the tie stops on its own, and Angela isn't talking to that little red light. He can recognize when Angela is leading up to something that has been on her mind- Lawrence has no trouble seeing it right now either. Years of practice. Time to tread carefully; it's not only the case, but it is one of the boys that has been on her mind. Those Petrellis. "Yeah, I did. Hard to miss him on local news. Might as well be wearing day-glo orange clothes."

With any luck, Nathan will remain out of day-glo orange clothes — prisoner colours, exactly what Angela wants her whole family to avoid. And others. She does not voice this thought, but a curt smirk touches her face as though amused, transiently, by Church. "Well." She settles with her hands upon her lap. "The playing field continues to change. Nathan is in a position to change things for the better, but only if all goes according to plan. I'm almost certain it won't, but for every wrench, there's a way to twist every wrench." At least when your name is Angela Petrelli. "He's a Senator now but he's vulnerable. How do you feel about the personal security business?"

Thankfully, he picks up the vibe straightaway; Angela gets one of those omniscient auras whenever she is planning something. For this, Church is not too surprised when she asks him how he feels about personal security. "There are also a thousand ways to end up screwed. As long as we're on the tool jokes. I'd have to say I'm neither here nor there when it comes to something like that- never really though much about it. But then again, that's what, a quarter of what I've been doing for years. You thinking that he needs some-" A pause. "-real protection?" Real being a keyword for 'science fiction' in the populace.

"Something to that effect, yes," Angela promptly answers. "He's undoubtedly going to make more enemies than he already by virtue of being himself— " Not an insult. Truly! A Senator who can fly, trying to work for the government who wants to lock away his kin… "He needs someone on his team who can actually protect him. Someone he can trust who knows what's actually going on." A pause. "At least you'd be paid."

"I probably wouldn't pass for an actual bodyguard-" Not to sell himself short, but. "But I would think I'd fit perfect supervising them. And being paid won't be too bad." Lawrence laughs, mostly to himself, lifting a hand to rub at the shadow on his jaw. "Am I going to have to do this the old-fashioned job-search way, or do you think you're going to just be frank with him and try to hand me over? What if he's resistant? Wouldn't be the first time he'd think he could do something by himself."

"Oh I'm sure you'll have no trouble," Angela waves dismissively. "He's stubborn, but he's not stupid — he gets that from me." The woman's otherwise thinned lips into another smirk; this one lingers. "You should have no trouble getting set up into a supervising position. He's in the process of arranging his staff, he'll need it. I'll tell him you're coming, of course." The chardonnay is once again reached for. The luxury hides the reality: that she's a fugitive in all of this, too.

"Let's just hope he takes what he's given." Church sinks back into his seat, though his hands remain somewhat fidgety and there is some sort of preoccupation. Possibly formulating things to do once he gets in. Methods never change for Company agents. Not really. "Is there anything about current staff I should know? Or is this strictly tossing me in ass-first?"

"Well why don't you ask him yourself," Angela says with a light, flippant air. Give her son a little faith. Once she sips her chardonnay, most of it absnent from the glass by this point, it's over the rim that she regards Church for a moment before waving her free hand. "I'll set up the meeting."

Despite the fact she is always drinking something, Church finds now a good time to glance at the glass rather than Angela's face. "Alright." Church nods once, some thoughts flickering around his face before he decides on another one. "Are you going to come out of this hole in the wall anytime soon? Even with things as they are-" Dangerous, sure, but there is safety in the limelight, isn't there? "Nathan could probably use you as much as he could use bodyguards."

"I see him." Angela shrugs, a motion mostly hidden beneath the squared shoulders of her jacket, sets the glass down once more. "Nathan's own position is … tenuous at best with the government, given that he's definitely in a file somewhere no thanks to us. Until I'm sure things have moved away from Peter and I— one step at a time. You'll have to take an alternate identity, too, you know, to work for Nathan's office." A pause. The matriarch eyes Church pointedly, but her words are lighter, not one-hundred percent serious. "But not literally."

There is a shudder of relief when Angela amends that. He was wondering about if he needed an assumed name- and of course his thoughts drew to the partition in his mind- and somewhere in there John winks like some misappropriated little shoulder devil. Church sighs, mouth having already been half open, eyes looking worriedly off to her right. "Oh, right." Buaaaahnot again. sometimes he still thinks about the rest of the Smith clan out of obligation- but mostly his memory has been scarred by the various times he has woken up to constrictive denim, big belt buckles, and to lots of Budweiser in his fridge. There was a cowboy hat, once. Cigarettes too.

Lawrence laughs nervously, mostly forcing it. "Was wondering about that. I won't use anything too strange, I promise." Like names that are also puns.

A nod or two is sent in Church's direction and she folds her hands, one atop the other. "Mmmn," she murmurs. Nothing too strange indeed. With that business out of the way, she's already thinking of other things; a thousand pressing matters. It would be a stretch to call her distracted, but there is a certain distance between her gaze and her attention. She does sigh, a long and quiet exhale. "I'll arrange for you to meet with Nathan as soon as possible," she says as though suddenly jarred back, delving back into the topic to, perhaps, finish it for good.


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