Voorhees finds Grant playing chess in Central Park.

======================


Grant is lounging around the chess tables. He's got a beer and is
playing a leisurely-looking game with a fellow who looks like he's
seen the inside of the prison cell for quite a number of days of his
young life - tattoos, a bad haircut, scuzzy looking clothes, a rather
pungent odor. But they're absorbed in the game, or at least Grant's
opponent is, because it's hard to see Grant's eyes behind those
sunglasses. He might be looking anywhere at all.

Voorhees climbs out of an SUV parked alongside a connecting road, and
strides down towards Grant's location. Hands in his pockets, he isn't
particularly angry today, and people don't shy out of his path anymore
than usual. Hey, look, Voorhees is wearing shades, too, and they're
official OMA issue. You can tell by the faint glimmer of an LED
display - at least, if it were dark out, you might.

Grant doesn't look up at Voorhees as he gets near, but he does comment
loudly to his friend, "Man, they'll just let /anyone/ into Central
Park, won't they?" His friend nods solemnly, "Uhh, yeah dude, there
otta be a law. Check." Grant's pieces gracefully sidestep the trap
with minimal casualties, then press an attack of their own. Threat
averted, Grant finally looks up at Voorhees and lights a cigarette,
"with intent", as they say.

Voorhees stands off to Grant's side, gaze directed in the general
direction of the game board. "Chess - the game for academics with the
luxary of time. Play it like we do, 15 seconds per move. How's the new
boy working out for you, Sutton?" Voorhees takes a seat at a nearby
bench, hands finally withdrawing from his pockets.

Grant snickers. "This /is/ a ten minute game." he says to Voorhees.
No. Way. These guys are lingering over the moves. But sure enough, a
glance to the clock reveals that they each only have about two minutes
remaining. What in the world are they doing? He exhales smoke. "It
doesn't matter how the new guy's working out. I gotta take what I get
sent. It's not like he's part of the unit."

"You're the commanding officer," Voorhees says. "If the guy doesn't
prove an effective asset from your perspective, he gets replaced. Not
my department, anyway," he continues. "What'd you do to Kincaid?"

Grant shrugs amiably, face unreadable. "Nothing." he says. "He's a big
boy. He was like that when I got him." He doesn't even look at the
board, just slowly moves a piece across it by reaching his arm
slightly behind him. "Check." he says. His opponent gently dances away
from the threat. The clock continues to tick down and neither one
seems all that worried about it.

Voorhees nods. "Any qualms with Kincaid working in your area of
operations?"

Grant says drily, "You mean other than spy type stuff getting so far
up my nose I keep feeling Dubya's boots on my chin? Hang on a second."
He turns back to the table and suddenly both he and his opponents are
involved in a flurry of moves, both positions collapsing like the jaws
of swiftly-closing mousetraps crashing in around each other, pieces
zipping back and forth, exchange after exchange crunching the board
clearer and clearer as the last few seconds tick down...suddenly his
opponent's hand wavers on its way towards grabbing a piece, he lets
out a little animal cry. "Oh, man!" he adds. "The rook!" Grant grins
at him. His opponent stops his clock, tips over his king and extends
his hand. "That was great. I didn't see the rook could snag the f-pawn
as well as the knight. Or that it would make a difference." he says.
Grant nods, "It was finicky. Good game." He then looks back to
Voorhees. "So what kind of operations are you talking about?"

"Terrorist interdiction," Voorhees says after witnessing that Grant
can, indeed, think swiftly and accurately under pressure. But is it
really Grant own intelligence and cunning, or the twisted inhuman
tissue grafted to Grant's skull? Does it make a different? "Which
reminds me. This gets announced publically on Friday." He rummages
through various coat pockets before pulling out a paper football. The
'football' is deftly tossed to Grant.

Grant catches it without looking. He's looking back at the board now,
but he spreads out the paper and looks it over carefully and mm-hmms
and ahhs and mmms over it. Then he rather ostentatiously turns it
right-side up and does the same thing again.

Hey, cool. On the printed side of the paper is something about a guy
named Dr. Wladyslav Shinski, basic details concerning the murders of
over twenty Army medical researchers and military police, along with a
nice picture of Adam. "This punk's about to become #1 on OMA's wanted
list."

Grant nods. "Interesting." he says easily. "The dude came in and
yakked with me a little bit back when PID opened, and is known to have
some contact with the Westchester crowd...but all that was probably in
Kincaid's report." He blows out some cigarette smoke. "Nothing from
him recently. A /very/ confused guy, you shouldn't have any problems
arresting him quietly. Do you have anything on his background?"

"We'll kick his personnel record over to Denton," Voorhees says.
"Former genetics researcher, some Army project. Dolphins, I think.
Brilliant, but he was always skating on the edge. One day, he went
over. Experimented on himself, went into a coma, and then started
tearing people apart with his bare hands. The final tally was around
twenty-six fatalities. He's extremely dangerous and unstable. We hope
he's back on lithium again."

Grant nods. "Possibly, or something." he says. "Didn't seem violent at
all. In fact, he was on the scene and agreed to help with the Central
Park mutant scare, if you remember that? You say 'former', he's a
civvie now? So you'll be doing him in federal court here?"

Voorhees leans back on the bench. "He was a civilian employee working
for the Army. Federal court, yes."

Grant nods. "Okay. I might run out and pick him up if I get a tip on
his whereabouts." he says easily.

Voorhees nods. "Keep us informed. There's a federal warrant out for
his arrest."

Grant grins. "I /can/ do that." he says. He doesn't say anything else,
though, just smokes.

Voorhees stands from the bench. "Good work with the MLF, Sutton. It's
our fault the Brotherhood is still active - we had York under
surveillance. A damn blizzed obscured the view just enough for their
fake doctor to slip through the cracks."

Grant just looks at Voorhees. His mood is difficult to judge, but then
in his best Brooklyn accent he says, putting a little pause between
each word: "When, exactly, were you going to /tell/ us this? Did you
find anything /useful/ while surveilling her? And what..../exactly/
what, now...is the Brotherhood?"


"They weren't going to tell you," Voorhees replies in cool tones. "We
were hoping the other murderer would show up to rescue York. If it got
violent, we were in position to put out the fire. If not, we'd keep
tabs and see who they ran to. The Brotherhood? Just a name. Might as
well be The Shoemakers for all the more we know."

Grant shakes his head, disgust in his voice. "You have no idea what I
mean when I say 'useful', do you? Why don't you just give us what you
guys got and we'll take it from there." He turns back to the board.
"Hey, Steeeeevie! You gonna play or just yap?" A tough-looking black
kid, maybe sixteen years old, with a knife scar on his neck struts
over to the board. "Gonna whup /yo/ ass, Sutton." Grant waggles his
head back and forth: "Bring it on, shorty." They set up the pieces and
Grant fiddles with the clock. He looks back at Voorhees. Although he
doesn't say it, there's a definite tinge of 'are you still here?' in
his manner.

Voorhees reclines back in the bench, and does indeed remain Quite
There to watch Grant's next game before leaving.