2007-08-02: DF: They Bite


DFLachlan_icon.gif DFGeorge_icon.gif

Summary: A man's patience, among other things, is tested.

Dark Future Date: August 2, 2009

They Bite

New York City, outside Lachlan's apartment

It's a typical dreary August day in the shambles that once was New York City. Lachlan's got Abby today and is on his way home to pass her off to Cass before he actually has to go out and do that work thing that he does. Even still, he's enjoying the time spent with his daughter. Carrying her in what might be considered a less-than-manly wrap close to his chest that allows his hands to remain free, he exits a grocery and starts heading down the sidewalk. It's not typically crowded in this area of the city, but it's a little more populated than some. Accompanying the Scotsman are the two Dobermans that he's most often seen with.

Waiting on the street near the residence is a nondescript but nonetheless unmistakable Homeland Security van, with some guys in suits hanging around outside it and looking impatient. This is not a good sign. The one guy not in a matching uniform glances down at a clipboard, then steps forward, gesturing with one hand. "Excuse me, sir— you're Lachlan Deatley? This is your house?"

As soon as he spots the van, Lachlan gets the urge to turn and run. Were Abby not strapped to his chest and easily within the line of fire, he might do just that. His steps slow as he approaches his apartment building until he finally comes to a halt when the non-uniformed man steps forward to address him. The dogs go stiff and alert at his side, but they do not attack. Eyeing the man warily, the Scotsman grunts, "Dunno wha' yer talkin' 'bout." It's a rather venomous utterance.

George glances at the building in question. House, apartment. Whatever. As he speaks up again, he offers the back of a closed hand to the nearer of the Dobermans, letting it get used to the scent up front; Abby gets a glance, but nothing more.

"We're looking for someone with an unusual facility with animals," he continues, lowering his tone of voice now. "There's a problem you might be able to help with."

The Doberman doesn't appear very friendly. When that hand is extended, the fur along the dog's back starts to bristle and he lets out a low warning growl. Lachlan is quick to intervene: "Wouldna touch 'em if I were ye. They bite." It's for the dog's benefit as well as George's — Lachlan doesn't want to start a firefight with his daughter in the middle, and he really wouldn't want to lose his dog. At the mention of a need for his abilities, the Scotsman's lips purse tightly and he glances at the van and men accompanying. "Wha' pro'lem is tha'?"

George nods, drawing his hand back and motioning to one of the men, who steps forward carrying a jar with some gnats buzzing around inside. "There was a—" He reaches for the jar, but closes his fingers a little too late; it falls to the ground and cracks into seven parts, sending the contents scattering. Surely this will not improve the dog's mood any.

As soon as the jar shatters, both dogs surge forward, snarling and barking ferociously. The loud noise and sudden movements have set them off. Fortunately, Lachlan has a good hold on them telepathically. He lets out a sharp whistle and the dogs immediately back off, circling around behind the Scotsman and snorting the cloud of insects they more or less inhaled during the leap. No bites are attempted. The noise rouses Abby, however, who starts to splutter out a cry. Forget the moods of the dogs — Lachlan is not exactly thrilled and steps back in an attempt to get away from the annoying little flying monsters. He's no fool, however, and he actually pays attention to the news these days. "Wha', d'ye think I'm the one tha' sent the bugs ta the White House?" he growls. "Mebbe ye'd better do yer bloody research better."

George makes a sour face as well, as do the suits; they wave the gnats away as best they can, one of them stepping forward to collect the remains of the jar. There's paperwork to go along with crap like that.

"Not necessarily," replies George, this time keeping an eye on Abby. And still not directly on the target. "But if you're not, then there's a decent chance you know some others who could have. Maybe one of them did. If you hear anything—" He fishes out a business card, offering it. He's no fool, either, and knows that the White House's approval ratings are… rather low these days. "The sooner we can focus in on the right person, the better. I don't want a ham-fisted approach any more than you do."

Lachlan pulls the wrap tighter around Abby to protect her from the bugs, when he's not swatting them away from his face with his free hand. Trying to comfort a crying baby and take in everything else is a major hassle, and one that doesn't do any good things for the Scotsman's mood. He takes the card with a scowl. "Sure. Wha'ever." It's not likely they'll be hearing from him. He's not exactly Nathan Petrelli's biggest fan. "Can I go now?"

George waves a hand; the goons head back toward the van, taking the hint. Either this guy deserves an Oscar, he thinks to himself, or he really can't directly make the bugs go away. "Sorry to have bothered you. I'll let you get back to—" The kid, whatshername. After a final peremptory nod, he turns and follows after the others. On to the next target on the list…

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