montag_icon.gif sabra_icon.gif

Scene Title Jump
Synopsis When the people in charge say 'jump'…
Date November 9, 2008

Primatech Research: Sabra's Office

Sabra's office is as it usually is of a morning — the warm tones of the floor rug and wooden desk conspiring with the floral-print curtains to give it a much less severe atmosphere than many offices. The fact that it's actually sunny outside and real light floods in through the window also contributes.

Sabra is presently seated behind her desk, peering intently at the computer — the sort of expression given a gadget that one isn't quite certain is functioning correctly. Or maybe doing something just past the user's level of understanding. Ashton stands just behind the elderly woman, looking over her shoulder; odds are it's something he'll have to straighten out — after the rapidly approaching appointment has concluded, anyway.

Montag is on time when he knocks lightly at the frame of the door. Possibly even a minute or two early. So, there is that in his favor. Clean cut if you ignore the lank blonde of his swept-back hair, he's in a dove grey suit over a vertically striped pink shirt that falls somewhat unwisely between salmon and cherry blossom. Why pink? There is no telling, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. He's more interested in Sabra and the interior of her office, floral curtains even moreso than Ashton.

The choice of shirt color is met without comment by Sabra — and definitely so by Ashton, who moves off to one side of the room. Rising from her chair, the elderly woman waves him on into the room and to one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs in front of her desk. "Gavin," she greets warmly. "Welcome. I apologize for not meeting with you yesterday, but I have just been terribly busy. I hope you've settled in all right?"

"Ms. Dalton," comes the return greeting, followed by a casual nod to her (thus far) reticent shadow when her wave prompts him into the office proper. "Thank you, and — it's no problem, honestly. I spent most of the day shouting at airport employees. But I did get the rest of my luggage in last night, so. Yes." He manages to settle down into one of the indicated chairs without just flopping down into it, but not by a wide margin.

The elderly lady's face crinkles in a smile at Montag's description of the day prior. "That's wonderful. It seems so rare that lost luggage is ever actually recovered." Sabra waves a hand in Ashton's direction, and the aide returns to stand beside the desk, tea service in hand. "Would you care for some tea?" she offers to Montag. "And, please, call me Sabra. There's no need to stand on such formality." Not today, at any rate.

"They seemed to know where it went, just. They failed to put it on the proper connecting flight or something. I'm still not entirely sure." A dismissive hand is lifted after the retard antics of JFK and other airports. "Sabra, then. And no thank you. I'm just back from lunch, actually."

With the offer of tea declined, Ashton merely fixes a cup for Sabra before retreating to his prior position near the wall. Patiently attentive, in case anything else is required. For her part, Sabra smiles sympathetically at Montag. "Still on European time?" she asks. "I had the worst time adjusting after moving back over here, myself. But when the upper echelons say 'jump'…" The woman lifts her cup slightly in the equivalent of a shrug. What can you do? Never mind that that relationship is echoed between her and Gavin in turn. "I admit I specifically requested your transfer — New York has been extremely eventful of late, and it seemed wise to call in a few other agents to replace those of mine on medical leave." Agents from parts of the world that aren't threatening to blow themselves up. Again.

"Mmm. Last couple of nights have been an interesting foray into the world of over-the-counter sleep aids and QVC. They sell these bags for cats that make crinkling sounds when they crawl around inside…" Montag trails off there, his earlier dismissive gesture now changed over into a lazy mime of a crinkle bag. "I've never been one to sleep for hours and hours anyway." Adding to the list of observations not being made aloud today, he does not remark upon the superior to inferior nature of their own relationship. He just smiles instead, maybe not entirely sincerely. "I look forward to helping however I can, Sabra. The change in scenery should serve as a welcome reminder that I am not, in fact, prepared for everything."

Sabra raises a brow at Montag's description of the crinkle bag, taking a sip from her cup. She echoes his smile as he continues. "I'm quite glad to hear that. Though I hope I can do a better job of preparing you, in this case." Setting the teacup down, the elderly lady picks up a file folder from amongst the piles on her desk, holding it out across said piece of furniture for Montag to take. "I expect you're not very familiar with Adam Monroe."

The file is a rather sanitized version of Monroe's actual record, of course, but it does mention his ability and the fact that he is several hundred years old. There's several pages of history, despite it being spotty in a manner suggestive of painstakingly researched and pieced-together data — a few hundred years is long no matter how you write it. Some estimates are made at skills he's picked up throughout that history. Also provided are an assortment of pictures and known aliases. It concludes with mentions that he was formerly a resident on Level 5, escaped with unexpected and unwitting help on the part of PARIAH, abducted Elle Bishop (who has since been recovered), and was recently seen (by Agent Bishop) at a Starbucks in Upper West Side.

"Not really, no." Montag leans forward out of his increasingly unprofessional slouch to retrieve the offered file folder, and is left sitting up a bit straighter when he resettles again. All the better to open the file over his raised right leg once he's slung it over the left and turned semi-sideways in his seat. He's quiet while he reads, or at least skims, as the stretch of silence might reach truly monstrous levels of awkwardness if he tried to read through all however many hundred years of patchy history. Once the basic outline has been covered, he flicks back to the page featuring various photographs of Mr. Munroe and chuckles. "He looks well-preserved for someone ten times older than I am. And with a taste for Starbucks."

Patient throughout the silence, the director merely sits back and drinks her tea, making no attempt to rush Montag through his perusal of the file. That would be pointless and counterproductive. "Doesn't he, though?" Sabra agrees, when the agent finally speaks up. "If you are able to bag him, that would be excellent. However…" The elderly woman grimaces just slightly. "I don't expect it. If nothing else, age has given Monroe a significant measure of cunning. I will be more than satisfied if you can locate him and learn something of his intentions."

Setting the teacup back down, Sabra straightens a bit and looks across the table at Montag. "Agent Bishop will be working towards the same end, though I doubt she will stop at mere information." Given that reference in the file to her kidnapping. "I cannot assign you as partners— " One of us, one of them. Not two of either. "— so it will be up to your discretion whether to pool resources or work alone."

Gavin's blue eyes meet Sabra's across the lifted edge of Adam's folder, holding there a second to get a read on her before he flicks the file shut. "I'll find out what she has to say on the subject before I make my move one way or the other." The kidnapping wasn't missed in the blur of everything else, but there's no comment made on that either. "Given that we've made attempts on him already, for the short term I have the advantage of being an unknown variable. With any luck, we can devise a way to make use of that. Or I can. Depending on how chummy she feels about it. I meant to mention this earlier, by the way, but Heather did very nicely driving me over here. Went the speed limit and everything."

Sabra inclines her head to Montag's words, and smiles as he compliments Heather. "Thank you. It's good to hear. I expect she'll be promoted soon," the woman remarks offhand. She falls quiet for a moment, picking the teacup back up and folding both hands around the curve of its sides. "Do you have any further questions?" Sabra inquires. Apparently the information she has ready to deliver is at an end.

"Good for her." Earnest enough on that mark, Montag tips open the folder again to peek inside as if anything he's forgotten will take the oppotunity to leap out at him. Nothing does, and he lifts his head again to shake it at Sabra's questioning after other questions. "I think that covers it, for the moment. I'll go find somewhere quiet to read over this in its entirety, then see if I can't find Agent Bishop."

Waiting patiently as Montag double-checks his folder of information, Sabra smiles at his answer. "Excellent," she says, rising from her seat. "Should any questions occur to you, don't hesitate to come ask." The smiles turns slightly wry. "I am very nearly always here." The elderly woman frees her right hand from the cup, holding it out in an offer to shake Montag's. "I wish you the best of luck."

Montag uncrosses his legs and leans up out of the chair to grasp her offered hand. His grip, predictably, is cold, and as per usual, firm without being oppressive. He is an experienced shaker of hands, clearly. "Thank you, Sabra. I appreciate you taking the time to line things out for me, and it was a pleasure to meet you."

The woman's smile broadens slightly, and she nods. "Likewise. And it was the very least I could do," Sabra adds, referring to the briefing. Any surprise at the temperature of Montag's hand is well-hidden. "Have a good day, Gavin."

November 8th: Schroedinger
November 9th: The Extra Mile
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