6972/Just Who Is This Guy

Just Who Is This Guy
Date of Scene:	17 July 2021
Location:	New York office/apartment of Michael Erickson
Synopsis:	Jessica leaves the apartment with no real clue to who Michael Erickson really is.
Cast of Characters:	Jessica Drew, Michael Erickson

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Jessica Drew has posed:
Back to normal doesn't feel quite normal yet. As if Jessica's new life was a sunny day after being in a dark room for far too long: she is still adjusting to the brightness. No need to look over her shoulder when she flags down a taxi or walks down the street. She has even moved back into her apartment which feels like she is renting a stranger's place. But, agents are adaptable, she has lived through enormous changes before and wills herself to do it again. There is even a to-do list for reestablishing herself.

Among her first priorities is to find out who is this slightly odd man that she has run into on three violent occasions. It's like it follows him around though he seemed to have implied that it was her fault.

In the back of the cab, she consults the slightly creased card he gave her, then leans forward to tell the cabby the address. Settled back in her seat, she watches the streets, idly turning out the pocket of her designer jacket which she had left behind and finding an old ticket stump in it for an Avenger's movie. The dark haired woman has a far away look, lost in her thoughts. When they arrive, she takes out the card to look at it again. A short trip in the elevator places her in front of a door. After a triple knock on the door, she stands back to wait for him to answer. It occurs to her that she could have called.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael's apartment is a unit smack in the middle of Murray Hill, an older tower on 36th street with a decent view of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings from the rooftop. It speaks of a very comforable living - not ridiculously so, but slots in that building tend to average more than a large house would cost elsewhere in the country. The doorman is friendly and discreet, acknowledging Jessica's presence, offering her aid should she want it, all without looking directly /at/ her. The halls are spotless, well-carpeted, and speak of recent remodeling. Very nice.

    He lives on the tenth floor, the door heavy steel hanging on floating hinges but made to look as though it were not -- an agent's eyes can tell, of course. On the other side of the door there is stillness, short of the occasional tapping of fingers on keys. Soft clearing of throat. Music down the hallway, someone playing Chopin. Actual piano, not a recording. Huh.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica has learned to read the cues; the soft carpets and doorman would translate internationally whether in Tokyo, London or Paris.The building is not ostentatious but clearly places him in a comfortable situation. She listens to the faint music and revises her estimation. This could well be the pied a terre for someone who has a large home elsewhere but needs a place in the City to work from. Informative. She has more questions for him now than before - because the money has to come from someplace. Now, the agent wants to know how illicit his work is.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The door hangs there, a forbidding slab for the non-powered mortal. Keycard lock over a plain pewter doorknob, like a hotel. Pebbled texture on the surface. Heavy. Waiting. '10B' picked out in chrome lettering, serif font. Her knock echoes through its substance and into the space beyond, suggesting an open plan. Roomy.

    There's a long moment before a voice sounds from the plate into which the lock has been installed - some kind of speaker, perhaps, emitting from the card slot. "Good afternoon," comes Michael's voice, made slightly tinny from the speaker. "How may I help you?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Mr. Erikson? This is Jessica." She holds up the card in front of the peephole then takes a step back, unsmiling. She has no tingle of danger; her spider sense is quiet, but it is the practical thing to do, giving a little space between herself and the unknown.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    There's a moment's pause; soft hiss-scrape of metal being drawn from leather. "Ah. Hello." Several clicks indicate a number of locks, one of them magnetic, and the door swings inward on its hinges just enough to reveal the man's bearded face, most of a t-shirted arm. Wary eyes search her face for a moment before turning past her into the hall. "You all right?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Am I alright?" The question surprises her enough for her to take a quick look up and down the hall to make sure she has not been followed. The paranoia of the last months linger around her like an unwanted perfume.

"Ah, yes." She takes a moment to get her equilibrium back. "Of course, I'm alright. You gave me your card, mentioned that you are a security consultant, so I was curious about your work."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Uh-huh." He looks outside one last time before stepping away from the door to admit her. A combat knife, an old Marine Kay-bar, is slid back into a sheath he has tucked into the belt of his jeans, and he gestures for her to come in.

    The space beyond is indicative of a comfortable living - but it's also somewhat sterile. White walls and ceilings, light gray carpets over parquet floors, overstuffed furniture. It's a very modern space. Expensive, yes. But if there are internal cameras or other accoutrements, they're well hidden. "So," he says, squinting at her. "Did you finally give up your tail, or do you need a place to crash?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Uuuh, things have settled at work." Jessica takes a tentative step inside, her eyes darting around the room, cataloguing it. There is nothing that marks it out as being lived in, nothing personal which strikes her as a bad omen.

"No one is following me, besides," her mouth twists unhappily, "I thought they were following you!"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He makes a face at her, closing the door as she enters. No art on the walls - pictures, but mostly of forests. Lots of trees. Different places on the planet. "I'm a security consultant, not a criminal," Michael says as he closes the door, gesturing for her to move beyond the entryway into the living room; the long, narrow room is bracketed on either side by oversized sofas, and a large flatscreen television is set into one wall for theatrical viewing. A dining area lies around the corner, with the kitchenette. Large windows provide a view of the towers all round, though plants stand in corners and in planters by the window, herbs and flowers. Pretty. He takes good care of them, assuming they're his.

    He follows her if she enters, hands tucked behind his back. Away from the knife, of course. "Get you a drink? I've got water, juice, soda...stronger..."

Jessica Drew has posed:
The interior is more pleasant with the plants than she imagined but there is still a feeling of the impersonal to the place. More and more mysterious. A drink implies that she would be staying. Something about him puts her off-balance. Jessica trusts herself enough to listen to that feeling.

"Soda water, if you have it!" Said decisively.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Yup," he says, going round the corner into the kitchen area; he makes a show of it, opening the fridge wide, lots of tinkling. Demonstrating, perhaps, that there's nothing funny going on. He emerges from the kitchenette with a glass of the requested libation, tall, elegant cylinder of glass. Restaurant fare, almost. "Here," he says, brows arching just a tad. "So. You were giving me a line about people being after me and not you?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Thank you," she accepts the glass, still standing then looks around her to find a seat. The one closest to the door suits her; she settles, keeping the glass in her hand. After an initial sip, "A line? Me?" Radiating innocence, she shakes her head, "I thought they were after you."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He gives her a flat look, taking a seat opposite her. Giving her the way out if she wants it, apparently. "Right," Michael says as he crosses his legs, folding his hands upon his topmost knee, "So if we're not getting anywhere there, why don't you tell me who you work for? Or, you know, your full name. Simple things, to start with. And please, don't tell me you're just this girl? Those pistol rounds were absolutely nonstandard, and you ooze paramilitary or law enforcement." It's politely said, but his flat, stony mask of a face radiates a kind of tired challenge. As though it's an old routine.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica regards him without a word for thirty seconds, weighing how much to say. SHIELD had returned to a semblance of normalcy. "Good eye. I work for the government. And, yes, non-standard, something from work." She pauses, then adds, "I'm not here on business, just insatiable curiosity." There is nothing but sincerity in her voice and posture, "/Everytime/ I ran into you, something went sideways. Explain that, can you?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael considers her a moment. "And yet the Feds were really curious as to who you were the other day...well. Whatever." It's past, just like that. Really. Honest. He steeples his fingers atop his knee, regarding the woman in his sitting room with his own curiosity - she came here, after all. "I honestly can't," he says, frowning then. "I mean, I thought they were after you - you scream 'federal', so I thought you just had a couple of terrorists come after you and I was in the way. I still have no idea what the Hell happened at the diner."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"And yet." Still that unholy innocence emanating off of her. "I heard on the police band," she shrugs, with a twist to her lips, acknowledging that not everyone knows what the local police are broadcasting, "that it was a drug deal with someone in the kitchen gone south. You are just a magnet for trouble, I guess."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Yes, yes. So innocent. Michael doesn't buy it for a moment, experience and all, but he certainly isn't going to call her on it. Yet. "Well, look," he says instead, "I'm not here to cause you trouble. I'm glad I could help you when it happened, but I'm not going around getting people after me. I tell people how to stay /out/ of trouble, after all."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"So who are your clients?" Jessica doesn't feed him with possibilities but lets the question hang. Bait. She is fishing because of that rock bottom feeling that he is not your average ex-mercenary. Oh, yes. He moves like a merc.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Confidential." His brow furrows very slightly - surely she didn't think he'd answer that. Though he adds, "...but on the right side of the law. And morality."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Frowning slightly, Jessica nods. She would have accepted the answer if he had said on the right side of the law but those last two words don't ring right. Morality.

She asks brightly, "In other words, only clients who are not breaking the law so that you can keep a low profile, right?" After the question is out of her mouth, she wonders where it came from.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael's brow decides it's going to try and split his face in two, so deeply does it dip as she asks that. "In other words," he says, voice going very still, very flat. "People who deserve the help, and not just because they have money - Agent, this is going to be a very quick visit if you start trying to irritate me. I have other things I could be doing."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"My cue to be going then. Do keep a low profile, Mr. Erickson." She stands and in a fit of pique does not look for a coaster to place her sweating glass on.

"Please, don't let me interrupt your day." Jessica does not add that she is going to find out who his clients are, how long they have been his clients and what he does for them exactly with the resources of SHIELD at her fingertips.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Shame." He gets to his feet, then, but he is at least polite as he goes to the door - one hand resting on the grip of the knife, his expression growing watchful as he leans out and looks down both ends of the corridor. "Either way," he says then, holding the door open for her, "Be careful, and good luck. If that's the kind of week you have regularly, I imagine you'll need it."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Little does he know, though not many times in her life compare to the last few months. Well, not too many. There is nothing sharp in her expression when she observes, "Wearing a knife around guests is a little over the top, don't you think, Mr. Erickson? Thank you for your time."

Now, she has to know what his story is. The knife in back of his belt clenched it for her.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "When they usually come with the company you do, Agent, I'd say it's only sensible. Good evening." And then the door is closed, leaving her out in the corridor, where it's very quiet, very still, and the sound of his very faint muttering can be heard in her perfect ears as he marches off into his apartment.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica Drew, agent for SHIELD, stands in the hallway a moment, listening. Poor Mr. Erickson now has a limpet on his tail that will be hard to detach. She wonders what she will find as she waits for the elevator to arrive.