Participants:
| Scene Title | A Master and his Craft |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Rupert Carmichael's is deception. |
| Date | October 5, 2010 |
"I'm sorry, I… don't recall seeing you in Mister Carmichael's list of appointments today."
Confusion should ring in the voice of the young woman who has been Rupert's servant for some seven years now. But Christa McKillean has nothing but the monotone resignation of a woman who is but a shell. Her lidded eyes stare warily at the blonde woman standing just inside the front doors, her coal black suit and white undershirt making her look almost stereotypically like a federal agent, of which she isn't.
"Kershner. Sarisa Kershner." She offers like James Bond, cracking a smile with one brow quirked and a self-pleased smile spread across her lips. Christa's brows furrow as she moves to step in front of Sarisa when the blonde tries to insinuate herself into the foyer more. Christa's eyes narrow, but her tone always remains flat.
"I am sorry, but you are not on the list, you are not allowed— "
"Christa," comes from the top of the stairs to the second floor, where Rupert Carmichael stands on the landing, his footsteps softly thumping on the carpet as he comes down each step, eyes narrowed as he considers Sarisa in the same way one might a mugger; wariness and apprehension, but ultimately they are the boss until they're out of sight. "What…" he draws the word out, ducking his head down and lifting his brows, "uh, brings you here, Agent Kershner?"
There's a smile that spreads across Sarisa's lips again, and as Christa steps aside, the blonde offers a look to the attendant with a smug expression of satisfaction. "You are downright adorable when you're puzzled, did you know that?" Blue eyes lid partway and Sarisa's lips purse subtly, waiting for Rupert to make the connection. "Come on, it's only been a day, don't tell me you— "
"James?" Both of Rupert's eyes grow wide, his brows shoot up to his hairline and he hustles down a few more steps, motioning for Christa to close the doors. "I mean it— Agent Martin, you're— I had no idea you could." There's horror on Rupert's face, in both what he is presented with and that he made a miscalculation of something.
Sarisa quirks a brow, one finger pressed to her lips. "Shh," she whispers in confidence, "no naming names. Everything's going as planned, I just got the message you left for me at the repair shop, so I figured I'd see what was up. I thought you told me never to come up here?"
Having closed the door, Christa dismisses herself while Sarisa and Rupert speak, and the latter of the pair is still awkwardly looking at Sarisa, his eyes scanning her throat in the way a wary John might an overly mannish prostitute, looking for the tell-tale Adam's apple. Not finding it, the disconcertion in Rupert's face grows even further, and he begins to tread back to the carpeted stairs, leading Sarisa up with a nod of his head.
The blonde tucks her hands into her pockets, striding confidently behind Rupert, ever with a half-smirk plastered across her face. As she walks up the steps behind Rupert, Sarisa's blue eyes scan the wallpaper, the sculptures and busts down in the foyer, assessing and qualifying everything. But something isn't settling right with her on her way up the stairs, something intuitive that is explained in that her smirk has turned into a frown by the time she reaches the landing.
"What is this?" It's flatly delivered to Rupert's back. Carmichael stops when he hears the question, turning with both brows furrowed and an awkward smile as he steeples his fingers. Nodding towards one of the doors on the second floor balcony, Rupert just silently turns and begins heading for the open doorway, lamp-light shining out into the hall.
Rupert eases into the room, pushing the door open with one long-fingered hand, looking back over his shoulder to Sarisa before moving out from the doorway. It looks like a madman's workshop, with newspaper clippings plastered to the walls haphazardly. There's little rhyme or reason to their arrangement, at least until Sarisa begins to notice the unifying thread in them all.
"Messiah operations?" One of her manicured brows lifts slowly as she makes the connection. One article about the destruction of the CDC center in Chicago catches her eyes, then tracks down to the demolition of the Biodynamics building. Dark brows pinch together as she steps around the room, looking to a bookshelf filled with political journals, a dog-eared copy of the anarchist's cookbook, then down to the desk where clippings of photographs of Georgia Mayes and Raymond Praeger are glued to the desk's surface, surrounded by unusual scrawling in a language that is foreign to Sarisa.
"What… is this supposed to be?" There's nothing judgmental in her tone, only frustration. "This is why you didn't bring me here, isn't it? This is why you showed me that hotel room…" there's a look around the room again as a small smile dawns on Sarisa's lips, a breathy laugh exhaled sharply through her nose.
Looking down to the writing desk, Rupert reaches past Sarisa and pulls out a drawer, picking up the front page of a typewritten manifesto.
THE EVOLVED MESSIAH
A Trieste On The New World Order
Sarisa's expression is a worried one, looking down to the pages and pages of other writing inside of the desk, then back up to Rupert with one brow raised. "I misunderstood you," she explains in no small gravity of the phrase, "you're…" Rupert lifts one finger, pressing it to his lips as he puts the page back inside the desk and closes the drawer.
"Now, we don't need to go naming names," Rupert admits with an awkwardly placed smile to match Sarisa's cockier one. "Now, why don't you and I discuss that plan I have? But ah," Rupert lifts up one hand and tugs at his collar, dark eyes angling down to the floor as Sarisa lifts up one brow and considers the awkward man in front of her with more scrutiny, as if viewing him for the first time.
"What?" She impatiently queries, only to not quite hear the next words coming out of Rupert's mouth.
"My voice puts you at ease, when we are done, you will not recall anything of this conversation…"
So begins the final act.