2007-08-03: I Would Like An Explanation


DFLogan_icon.gif DFCyprus_icon.gif

Summary: Let's all agree that Cyprus might just have the hardest job in the world.

Dark Future Date: August 3rd, 2009

I Would Like An Explanation

Marriott Marquis

Time is never truly clear when you're in an elevator. Which is probably why Cyprus is glancing down at his watch. He carries a briefcase in the other hand, dressed in his normal dark suit. The tie this evening is a solid cobalt blue. He shakes his head, and glances up at the elevator panel. Finally, it dings an arrival chime, and the doors slide open. The luxury of the hotel is clear, but Cyprus does not halt to admire it. He's striding down the hallway, reaching the door once again guarded by two soldiers in combat uniforms. Cyprus smiles to them. "Schmidt, Jaspers," he greets as usual. He holds out his ID badge to be scanned, and waits.

"Mr. Donovan," one of them responds, as the other scans, like clockwork. Inevitably, Cyprus is admitted entry, and once inside the lavish hotel room, well… it's not quite chaos. Perhaps it should actually be more chaotic, but those that are there look frustrated and pensive. Two agents talk quietly amongst themselves in the corner, a woman in a not-so-classy but still professional suit looking visibly nervous as she's interrogated, another quiet conversation. Across the room is the open bedroom, Logan sitting up in bed and looking a little spaced out, shirt off and extreme bandaging about his shoulder, and not quite listening to the medic currently talking to him.

Well… it's better than last time, at least. Cyprus takes a second to take it all in, and he stops when he sees the heavily bandaged and spaced out President. He tilts his head slightly to the side narrowing his gaze for a moment on the President, before turning towards the agents in the corner. He strides over there, and waits for the recognition to set in before smiling a chilling smile. "I would like an explanation," he says simply, patiently, and without a hint of negotiation in his tone.

"Oh no," Logan says, now glancing towards the doctor. "I'm in trouble now." He may or may not be a little medicated. Just a bit.

The doctor gives Logan a patient smile (haha, pun), before extending a hand towards Cyprus. "I'm Dr. Kuhr," he says. "The President was shot through the shoulder. We were able to give it the necessary treatment, but the damage is relative— "

"You're giving away the good bits," Logan interrupts, then makes a dismissive hand gesture. "I'd like to talk to Mr. Donovan alone, thank you, doctor."

Cyprus glances at the doctor as he speaks, his gaze remaining cold and unfazed. As Logan dismisses them, Cyprus seems to give his tacit assent. The agents are the first to the door, followed by the woman in the not-so-classy suit. The doctor is the only one to really protest, and even that is silenced by a glare from Cyprus. What the President wants… Once they are alone, Cyprus sets his briefcase down, and turns back towards Logan. He makes a bit of a face. "Sir, you've been shot." Blatantly stating the obvious. "I can only assume that the healer is back in Washington, and is on her way here?" Cyprus steps forward, and narrows his gaze slightly. "And whomever did it is a very bad shot. He didn't even clip an artery or organ."

Logan rests his head back against the headboard, though refuses to lie down. Whatever he was given to dull the pain is certainly doing its job, although the pale quality to his skin suggests that it's not doing it's job enough. But his gaze on his aide is a little unfocused, and his voice remains mellow. "She… she said she didn't want to hit anything vital," he says, with a pained smile. "So in that respect, she was a very good shot, Donovan." His good arm slowly comes up so that he might rub his hand to his face wearily, before wincing and lowering it again. "Like I told Kuhr, the healer stays in Washington."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Cyprus furrows his brow. "You spoke with your would-be assassin, sir?" he asks, his voice sounding a little incredulous. "Only she just wanted to shoot you, not risk killing you." He lifts a hand from his chest and rubs his own face a little, especially the brow line. He lifts his face once again, and takes a breath. "Mr. President… why is the healer staying in Washington?" Because there has to be a good explanation for this.

"That's our secret," Logan says, simply, watching Cyprus in that same lazy way. "Made a deal. It'll be worth it." He pushes himself to sit up a little further, and promptly grunts in pain, giving a full-bodies shudder. "Well it better be fucking worth it," he murmurs, a little savagely. He raises his good hand to Cyprus, indicating he give him a moment, before continually, voice back down to that same neutral level. Pain tamed, for now. "A little girl walked into the restaurant downstairs, cleared the area with a bomb threat, and sat down for dinner with me. Then she shot me in the arm and took off."

It takes Cyprus a long moment to let it all sink in, and he just nods slowly. When you're around the President long enough, apparently you learn to take certain things in stride. "You do realize, Mr. President, that this will make my presence more necessary, until you have naturally healed enough so you'll be able to move without the pain or painkillers?" Pause. "And that you need to get some rest. I'll have some papers for you to sign, once you're capable of reading them. I need access to certain files only you can authorize, sir."

Especially this President. And that is why Cyprus is hired! Logan groans when the man indirectly reminds him of exactly how long this is going to take, wearing his heart on his sleeve way more than usual. His usual stoic mask has also been somewhat shot to hell. "Call me in the morning and maybe I'll've changed my mind," he says, with a breathless chuckle. Then, he reins it in a little, shakes his head. "I'm capable. I need a distraction."

Shrugging slightly, Cyprus walks over to the briefcase. He opens it, and pulls out another of his ubiquitous folios. He carries it over to Logan, and holds it out to the good arm. "It's an executive order, Mr. President," he says simply. "Granting me the authority to access the personnel files and histories of the Cabinet members." There is a long pause there, and Cyprus focuses, dulling Logan's pain and sharpening his attention. "There may be reason to suspect an informant close to, or in the Cabinet, Mr. President."

The folio is taken and places on his lap, flipped open. "You'd think we'd've culled out all the rats by now," Logan says, a little grumpily. "What's the situation?" Easier to hear it said out loud than to simply read about it, although he can feel his attention spike up, the fuzzy edges of his vision clearing just a little, although the drugged haze stays in place. "Thanks," he adds. "Got a pen?" Of course he has a pen.

Cyprus pulls a pen from an inner coat pocket, and holds it out to Logan. "Apparently, the opposition keeps on finding the right price, sir," he states casually. He waits for clearness to level off, and continues. "The facilities that were struck by the terrorists yesterday. The first was to the armory, and had a much bigger flash than the second. The second was where a small cadre of skilled Evolved struck. They bypassed security, shut down communication, and surgically attacked an administration building. Only, they seemed to be going after documents of a sensitive nature. I am still attempting to figure out the precise nature of the documents they stole… but the fact of the matter remains that the list of people who knew what was there was small. And knowing what the terrorists were after gives us a better idea of where they are planning on striking next, sir."

Logan listens as he scans the document, and when he gets down to the bottom to pen his name— call it a lapse of concentration, the affect of the meds, although personally, Logan is going to blame Jessica, because an L, o, and a g are penned out before he realises what he's doing. He sucks in a breath, and hastily draws a line or three through these letters, heart skipping a beat. God/damn/it. He quickly signs the proper name and closes the folio. "Right, great," he says, passing pen and paper back towards Cyprus. "How do we not know what documents they took?"

"Because they torched a great deal of what they didn't take, Mr. President," comments Cyprus. And despite Nathan's lapse, there's no reaction from the man, though it's impossible for him not to have noticed. He'd have noticed the reaction, every aspect of it, all the unconscious signs. Cyprus takes the pen and the folio, and clips the latter shut with the second. "I have someone I can trust going through the remains as we speak, reconstructing what he can. I expect to know what was taken within the next few hours. Once we know that, our list can narrow." He carries the folio over to briefcase, and stores it away. Cyprus turns back to Logan and lifts the briefcase. "I'll be in the lounge, sir. It is best if you rest now. Your body needs it to heal." The clearness fades, but the edge is still off the pain. Cyprus nods, and moves to close the door, giving Logan his privacy.

"Thank you, Donovan," Logan says, then adds before the man can shut the door, "Good work." Not that this man in particular really needs positive affirmation, nor encouragement to do what his hefty salary requires him to do, but it seems like the right thing to say. Maybe. It's getting tricky, keeping up this show. But Cyprus is gone and now Logan has to wait for someone else to stop by before cracking and asking for that healer. Maybe he can— yeah. He can just sleep. Maybe he'll feel better later, after taking advantage of the solitude. Right.

Well this is a fun trip.

…not quite solitude.

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