2007-08-12: DF: Take A Gun, Grab A Cookie


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Summary: Jack and Candy think ahead. Or think backwards? Time traveling is hard, so let's focus on the present.

Dark Future Date: August 12th, 2009

Take A Gun, Grab A Cookie



Jack shakes his head, then cranes his neck so he can dab his nose against his shoulder. "Man, it's dusty in here." Carefully, he slides the box he's carrying on top of the slightly precarious stack he's formed in the corner of the room. "I guess political humor's outta fashion these days. God forbid anyone get caught makin' fun o' Boy Wonder the Pretend President." He turns to shoot a quick grin and a wink over his shoulder at Candy. Around them, a long-unused set is starting to take shape as boxes are shifted, dust is cleared, and surfaces are wiped down. The White House mock up lives again.

Candy is letting Jack do the heavy lifting, largely. Now that a box filled with loose sheets of paper has been moved off the chair, she's taken up a seat behind the mock-up Resolute desk, smoothly her hand across the dusty surface and wrinkling her nose when she observes her palm. "We could start up our own show," she says, dusting her hands off. "It'd take 'em a while to find this place." She stands up again, glances down at the surface of the desk, and giggles, stage-whispering, "Hey Jack? Think anyone's ever done it on this desk? Not this desk, but the real one?" She seems rather tickled by the idea, bending her knees a fraction as if to measure the height of it.

After slapping his hands against his jeans several times to take off the worst of the grime, Jack rummages through yet another box until he comes up with a bottle of glass cleaner, some wood polish, and a few rags that suit him. He mosies to the first window so he can spray it, wipe it down, then shine up the frame, humming absently under his breath all the while. "Hm? Shit, I bet a bunch o' people have. If I were a chick, I'd let the President hump me on his desk." He shrugs pragmatically, then hastily adds, "Once we got a new President, o' course. 'Cuz Nate Petrelli? Nuh uh."

Moving around aforementioned desk, Candy digs around until she finds the perfect tool for somewhat-useful cleaning. A feather duster. With big sweeping arches, she starts to make the desk a little more presentable. "Not Petrelli," she agrees. "Kennedy, maybe. He was a cute one. He'd probably let you get on your back. Well not you, Jack, just a general you. Me, mostly." There's a slight twinkle in her eye when she glances at Jack, as if saying yes, yes she will continue this inane chatter until something of an explanation comes up.

"I. What?" Jack pauses in mid-wipe to shoot a puzzled glance over at Candy. Then he shrugs and moves on to the next window. A small smile pulls at one side of him mouth. "To be fair, Kennedy was a damn good President, too. A man's man. I'll put my trust in a man who'll sleep around, lose money at craps, then sleep in past breakfast the next day without apologizin' for any of it. Y'know why? Because that's what I would do if I was President."

Though Jack's back is turned to her, Candy gives a wrinkled-nose look at the other Saint. But. No prying. The feathers make a rustling sound as she finishes off the desk, tossing aside the duster and moving to work on that third window. "I'd vote for you," Candy says, with a wink his way as she steals the glass cleaner liquid for spritzing purposes. "Hell, I'd even remember to vote if we got another shot at it."

Jack lets out a snorting laugh as he scrubs away at a particularly stubborn spot. "Me? I'd make a terrible President. I'm too grouchy and I like my alone time too much. Plus, I doubt it would go over well when I made you the Secretary of Boobies." He leans back to survey his work critically, then groans and goes back to scrubbing. "Man, I wanna live somewhere I can hire a maid to do shit like this for me."
You paged Caleb with 'whee'

Candy glances at him, and smiles a little sadly. Spritzy spritzy, she adds a little more cleaning liquid to that troublesome spot Jack's dealing with. "I remember back when I didn't even have to make my bed in the morning," she says, after returning back to her task, cloth squeaking a little at the increasingly clean surface. "There are maids for everything if you have enough money." Small pout. She misses that era of brief but fabulous fortune.

"S'not even like we can't afford it, but people who aren't supposed to exist can't really hire maids." Rarely displayed frustration is starting to come to the fore. As always, Jack is most comfortable grumping around big sis. The Irishman works his issues out on the stubborn spot, which finally smears and wipes away to nonexistence. "I miss strip clubs, and hot breakfast at Denny's in the middle of the afternoon, and hockey games via satellite. Damnit."

Giving her window a few quick, broad swipes, she steps back, inspecting her work. "Well think of it this way," she says, setting down her cleaning tools to move around to the edge of the set, crouching down once to check a few hidden wires. "This can't last. Something will give, whether it's Nice-Peter or the Saints or… well. Lots of things. We can't not exist forever." She stands up again, reaching for something, and then calls, as if there were lots of people to hear it, "Striking!" A switch is flicked, and artificial daylight suddenly streams in through the windows.

The bright light illuminates Jack's face, accentuating the wrinkles and crags he's aquired and the grin that Candy's antics brings to his lips. "Beautiful. Perfect. Thanks for loanin' me the space, doll." The gratitude is genuine, but a secondary issue. He's more concerned with agreeing on that whole this-can't-last-something-will-give bit. "You're right, o' course. I'm hopin' this bit o' mischief will give the everyman a little incentive." As he speaks, he follows a second set of wires back to a laptop set into a bulky, impact-resistant attache case. After typing in a few commands, he flashes a thumbs up to Candy. "Uplink is green. One thing I'll say for Gene, he knows how to idiot-proof shit for me.

"Wiz kid," Candy agrees, moving around to where a bulky TV camera has been set up at the edge of the set. Which actually, that's nothing unusual - almost every set has such machines standing around like dead robot guardians from another time, or something, gathering dust - much like this beast. She picks up the feather duster to clear the lens, frowning. Need to maintain upkeep of this place. She fears the day things just start to not work. However, after a little bit of fidgeting, a light flickers to life, and she smiles, moving to peer through the camera, slowly turning the thing to point at Jack. Nothing is recording, she's just playing, it seems. "Anytime, sweetheart," she says, as she squints through the camera. "It's not like these sets get a lot of action anymore." Then, she peers around at him, finally absorbing what he says about the everyman. "You looking to start an uprising?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"And what if I was? I couldn't do a worse job of it than Peter's crew or those lackluster blowhards Lee's been headin' up." Jack smirks, eyes still on his laptop's screen as he secures the link between it and Archimedes, the Saints' computerized nerve center back at WCH. "I might not know politics, but I know how to get men to pick up a rifle an' march in the same direction. It seem like that'd be a decent start."
Candy slowly turns the camera back around, panning over the old set. "We'll need new drapes," she murmurs to herself, still turning the camera as Jack does things on the computer far outside her scope of understanding. "Sounds like another war to me," she says, over her shoulder, then grins, bringing the camera back around and pushing the zoom in onto the war-roughened young man. "Jack Derex, the face of the revolution. Ready for your close up?"

Self-consciously, Jack tugs his collar higher around his scars and the tattoo of a child's hands clasped in prayer that he got as a memorial for soldiers under his command who fell during the war. "Just make sure you get me from my good side," he jests. He hesitates for a long moment, then shrugs. "If another war is what it takes, then so be it. Better that we strike first."

The self-consciousness isn't lost on Candy, and she steers the shot away with a wink. The camera is switched off, allowed to gather dust once more as she moves away from it, pacing towards Jack. "That would be a nice change," she agrees, if reluctantly. The prospect of war? Not exactly a fun idea to ponder on. "Or maybe Nice-Peter will figure out how to change everything and we'll wake up one day with everything back to normal."

"Good God, that'd be ideal. I'm sick o' lookin' at dead people." A whoosh of air escapes from between Jack's teeth as he rattles out a few more commands on the keyboard. In response, a throaty, husky female voice (Trina's) purrs, "Terminal three secure. Thanks for turning me on, sugar."

"That's my girl." Jack pats the laptop affectionately, then glances back over at Candy. "You ever wonder what would happen to us if it worked? Peter goin' back to fix things, I mean. Do you think we'd remember everything that's happened?" Absently, he reaches up to touch his tattoo.

Sitting down beside Jack, Candy gives him an arch look, blowing a few locks of hair out of her face. "I think we'd need a Doc Brown for that kind of talk," she says with an almost nervous giggle at a memory, before shrugging. "I've been thinking about that ever since I met him, actually. And I think we'd all just… I think we'd disappear. Or the past two years would just vanish, and…" She looks uncertain, inspecting her manicured nails carefully. "That's good. I'd have everything I ever wanted back. You wouldn't— " A quick glance his way. "Well you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

Jack nods in a manner that he deems to be decisive, though there are still hints of apprehension on his face, also. "Yeh. Nothin' that's been gained is worth what's been lost, I know. I've been figurin' things would turn out the same way, an' the thought of makin' two years disappear for a whole world fulla people is a little daunting." He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs again, unsettled but unwilling to give up on the idea.

Candy doesn't look very certain either, and squeezes Jack's arm. "Well it's not really up to us, is it?" she adds, as if attempting to inject a little optimism. "Nice-Peter doesn't even belong here, really, he has a right to… to do whatever he thinks is best. I mean, you know, the idea of never having anything with Desmond is a little scary…" And that one is a definite, should Peter right the world - fate threw them together when the Saints were well formed and rescuing detainees. "But he'd probably not lose his voice." She kicks the floor lightly with her heels. "This time traveler crap is hard."

"Tell me about it, kiddo." Jack smiles wanly at Candy and leans his shoulder against hers companionably. "Hoyle didn't write a rulebook for this one, that's for damn sure. All we can do is make our best guess and hope it works out. And. Uh. If we remember any o' this, I'll introduce you to Desmond when shit's right again. We knew each other before the war." He coughs into one gloved fist and shuffles his feet against the floor.

Candy grins at him, bumping her shoulder against his before leaning again. "Deal!" She casts her gaze around what's left of her to-be empire, the lights of the set humming away and making the area a little hotter as time goes by. "So I guess in the mean time…" She makes a little mock enthusiastic fist swing motion. "Viva la revolution? Grab a gun, take one cookie each?"

"An' last one to kill a bad guy buys the first round o' drinks," Jack grins and inserts his rallying battlecry, albeit at a much lower volume than usual. "I think we're good here, hon. I gotta jog on. I'll see you in a couple days, yes?"

"Will you?" Candy says, but then smiles easily and nods once, leaning in for a cheek-smooch. "See you then." There's a flash of concern in hazel-green eyes, but she maintains the smile all the same. Something's going to happen. She knows that much. "Just be careful, Jack."

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