Do Not Want


delilah_icon.gif montag_icon.gif

Scene Title Do Not Want
Synopsis Delilah really wishes Montag would leave her alone and does not want to go for a ride in his trunk. Montag really wishes Delilah would stop struggling and not spit in his face. Too bad for both of them!
Date January 7, 2008

Thomas Jefferson Trailer Farm

Before the bomb, this was Thomas Jefferson Park. Some of it still is, stretches of grass and trees that far fewer people visit than once did.

Some of it is not.

Faced with the sheer number of people displaced from their homes after the bomb, but too stubborn - or without the means - to move from Manhattan, this is one of the many places the city and various federal agencies have given over to shelter the refugees. As such, what was once meticulously maintained greensward has been turned into dirt road and trailer lots. The grass has been worn thin by the repetitive passing of hundreds of feet. Trailers sit all but side-by-side, with room only for a car and perhaps a few chairs to be parked in between. Younger children run around underfoot, seemingly undeterred from their games; older ones might slink behind the trailers with hungry eyes, resentful of those who have more, while the adults seem more heart-weary and worn-down than not. These are the people who have nowhere else to go; some have jobs, but many do not, surviving on as little as possible. Alcohol and drugs are common; so is suicide, for those who have passed from desperation into surrender.

Afternoons in the trailer park are always uneventful, as most things start going on in the evening and night; Delilah is coming off of an earlier shift at the Nite Owl, puttering through the dirt roads of the park on her rustbucket of a scooter. Her winter coat is lined with faux fur, and the big hood the same- underneath she wears a cap, and the tassles of that hat are mixed in with the red of her hair in the cowl as she zooms leisurely past trailers. Under the coat she is wearing her uniform, unevenly matched with black winter boots. Vroom!

Snow. It is pure, white, and delightfully cold in its largely unmussed state on either side of the road's muddier track. The wind, not quite howling, is still chill enough to cut into those who wear too few layers or none at all, made all the more uncomfortable by the sun's fading warmth overhead. Unless you're Montag.

He's comfortable in a suit, crisp black against winter white, with a tie to match knotted neatly at his throat. He could be standing in an office building watching through a window for all that he seems disconcerted by the weather. Even the step he takes from out into the road from behind the shiny black of his non-descript SUV is leisurely.

Delilah is perfectly content with her route, up until a vaguely familiar figure steps out into the road. It's not as if she brakes and is liable to go flying- but she still has a brake, and it only sounds as if the effort might send her somewhere not on the seat of the scooter. SKREEEEEEeeeeekeeeekeek. The rubber tires on the road make a valiant effort not to slip, as the contraption comes to a bumpy halt a few feet in front of Montag. Dee's bag on her back rattles its keychains, and her hood falls down over her head as the girl tries to keep her own balance.

She doesn't remember him or doesn't recognize him right away. "Shit- Fuckin' bloody fuckin' wanker what th'fuckin'ell you doin' in the fuckin' road, goddamned twit-" This goes on for a little bit longer, but does stop.

Long legs, long arms, long shadow, elbows a jut and hands tucked into his pockets, Montag's is the sort of lanky conformation that sticks in the mind, but he does look rather more formal and out of place here than he did in the crowded diner. One man in black, one muddy road, one forbidding SUV and one trailer park. Some of these things are not like the others.

Having the good manners to hold his address until Delilah has finished nearly dying via terrible scooter accident, he endures her shits and wankers and fuckings with all the typical good nature of a psychopathic murderer having just inconvenienced prey that has no idea how much trouble they are actually in. "That sort of language is hardly appropriate for a young woman your age, Delilah."

Delilah peers angrily out from under the furry rim of her hood, getting the feeling that she knows him. When he does speak, she does recall that meeting in the diner- they don't get many British herons down that way, after all.

"Oh. You." Who you? Her eyes go with only mild interest to the SUV- one of those is not like the other, indeed. Lots of things do not bother Dee, and so she pays that fact no mind. But- did she tell him her name? Was she wearing her nametag that afternoon? "It's fine when some bugger walks out in front'a me when I'm tryin'to drive here. What're you doin'ere?" The redhead seems tired, and less chipper than she was that day.

"Well," drawls Montag, who pauses a beat to lifts his brows, nearly apologetic for the as of yet unexplained circumstances of his being here. "I'm not here for another sandwich." A step away from the car is a step in her direction, unhurried but somewhat ominous all the same. Something about the downward tip of his jaw perhaps, or the absence of fog to quicken about his breath. Were it not for the displacement of mud under his feet of the drag of wind at his lank hair, he might not be here at all.

"I don't suppose you would be interested in going for a drive?"

Delilah watches Montag with a teenage girl's level of apprehension. Weird-o apprehension. Her brown eyes blink back at him with a squint. "I'm waaay too young for you. You know that, right?" As a precaution, her scooter rolls back a step as he moves forward. "You'd have better luck across the park."

Montag chuckles. It's low and malicious, grating faintly at her expense, and possibly at his own. One more step. Another and he might be within arm's reach, if he stretches. "Nothing like that, I'm afraid." Far behind him, a lamp cuts on outside of a trailer, likely set to automatic to stave off the fall of dusk. It does little to cast light on the road this far down, unfortunately, and at the roadside, the SUV's headlights are very much off. "You see, when I told you I was a secret agent, that wasn't…quite a lie. Or. I suppose it wasn't a lie at all, really." Hmm hm hm. One bare hand retracts from its pocket so that it can reach around into a different pocket, from which his billfold is extracted and flicked open. He glances at it before showing it out to her, shiny badge and all.

Delilah backs up a couple more paces on her scooter as he laughs, taking another step and continuing onto his monologue. The teenager watches him with a growing crease on her forehead, freckles showing up under pink cheeks beneath the lamplight that flickers on.

What? What is this? Dee's eyes only dart for a moment to that shiny badge, because she is still backing up on the road. All of a sudden, that little scooter gives a rather mighty roar, gives a turn on its front, and there goes the gas. And Delilah, off to the right of the road and aiming for one of the many by-ways. No thank you goodbye.

Oh…damn. Detecting with his detective skills that things might not be going as well as he'd hoped, Montag tips his head at Delilah and her bike's gradual backwards movement. But it's the forward sort of movement that is altogether more worrisome.

His wallet is dropped, and he is moving. Math was never one of his stronger suits, but he's able to make enough of a quick calculation to fling himself forward at an angle that intersects with her escape attempt. The result is a tackle that carries with it the full force of his weight, off the side of the road and likely into the snow. Whee!

Rocks fall! Everyone dies! But not really. The duo does get tossed bodily into the side of the road, and the scooter sees fit to keep going until it trips itself and wobbles over into a heap of rusty red.

Even before Montag connects, Dee has thrown her elbows up in some attempt to push him off as he comes. As a result, when they land, he likely has her by the waist instead of just having landed with her. "Lemme go!" She does scream, yes. It is a loud, shrieking yell, too; not to mention the fact she is squirming and bolting around like a weasel in a trap.

"Fuckin' — hold still you —" something unintelligible. The snow is wet and the air is impossibly cold, raking at both of their lungs while the older evolved struggles to pin her under his own weight, right hand like ice in its clawed attempt to push her head down in past the surface crust of the damp stuff they're rolling around in. The screaming prompts a wince, but no panic on his part. Not like he hasn't had to try to squash people before.

Delilah has made sure her wiggling does turn her somewhat around, and the frantic nature of the physical quarrel finds his hand on the side of her hood and her gloved hands scrabbling to find his face and push back. "Gerroff!" She growls a natural redhead growl, knees pulling up so that she might be able to use them to push Montag off further. Ice crunckes and muddy road squashes around under them. Dee hasn't had much time to panic- but already the thing Monty is hunting her for is starting to take effect in her system. The girl cannot see his face, but she can see his arm and hand trying to push her face down.

One hand is still bravely doing its head-smothering Company duty, unaware of the risk posed by contact with the head in question, but where is the other? It's busy dragging a sinister looking syringe out of his coat pocket. Squeezing the plunger just enough to relieve the errant air bubble or two is no easy task when a seventeen year old girl is trying to knee you in unfortunate places. He manages.

But where to stick it? Something hard clocks him in the side of his head — an elbow or the back of a hand or something else, no telling, and he simply jabs it through her pants and sideways into her ass. The approximate region of it, anyway. "This suit was dry clean only, you know."

It is the back of her hand, and it is far tougher than it seems. Fwhack! She is turned over, and her first reaction when she is half-up and facing him is to spit at his face. Though it had turned her over, at the same relative time- he jabs the needle into the pants she wears under her skirt, and the girl lets out a squeal of pain.

Spit. Directly in his face. …That's just rude. Montag takes half a second to flinch irritably from the mess of it, but a bagging is a bagging. The tranquilizer is injected with little care for its sting. It's fast acting stuff — selected with the sort of people who spit fire and hydrochloric acid in mind — and no small amount. Delilah is not as dainty as her name may suggest, as the ache in the side of Montag's skull would like to attest.

Its job done, the syringe is tossed haphazardly back in the direction of his wallet, to be collected once he's collected her. In the meanwhile, he has to try and heave her back over onto her front underneath him while he gropes back around on his belt after handcuffs. For all that there is an awkwardness to everything he does, there is also a ruthless, practiced brand of efficiency. Especially now that he's had his face spat in. "I'm on your side. I'm on all of our sides, really, and here you are spitting in my face. Too much time in the trailer park and not enough in school."

If anyone is watching this from a warm kitchen window- it's just another delinquent being cuffed. Delilah has little resistance when it comes to the tranquilizer, and so she can only manage to burble out unintelligible noises first as she is suddenly jostled around in the dirt some more. Get off! What is this? I didn't do anything!

"I'm a good girl…" Is about the only thing that makes sense coming out of her at that point. She's good! She isn't in school because she has to work! She doesn't make trouble! She takes care of her little cousins! If Monty were to study her file post-capture, he will learn all of that before long. Delilah is an angel, compared to so many of these kids.

"Of course." They all are, aren't they? The clicking and clacking of the cuffs about her wrists is almost cynical. When she begins to burble, he finally levers himself off of her, trouser legs gone all clinging and agleam with slick mud and grime against the distant trailer park light. His hands are muddy as well, forcing him to resort to a sleeve once he's caught his breath enough to see about wiping the spit off his face.

A glance to the occupied trailers further along reveals nothing of immediate concern, save that the orange light blurs interestingly across the field of his vision. It isn't until he's dragged and hoisted and hefted Delilah up into the SUV's trunk (handily complete with an absence of interior handles and a cage-like grate to separate it from the rest of the vehicle) that everything else goes a bit funny. The instant he claps the trunk shut, the world tilts. Tilts and skews, actually. Both hands go to the closed door, bracing there while normalcy attempts to restore itself.

It does so in a half-assed way. Enough that he can navigate his hazy way back to wallet and syringe. Enough that he can drop into the passenger's side of the SUV. Enough that he can glower at his temporary help (who is txting someone who is doubtlessly very important for him to have missed fucking everything) in the driver's seat. Seats. Two seats, three seats, four assistants, then one again. Halfway through wiping mud off of his hands and onto his front, Montag stares. "…Fuck."

January 7th: Caught Flat-Footed
January 7th: We Shall Surely Hang
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