Participants:
| Scene Title | Not Without a Fight |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | When it comes to freedom, Monica Dawson isn't about to give up anyone else's without a fight — even if it means prison for herself. |
| Date | April 7, 2011 |
In Dreams
Dizzy and heavy.
Those words best describe how Monica Dawson's head feels, as she seems to drift awake. How she can feel light headed, like the room is spinning, and also like she barely has the energy to lift her chin from where its drooped against her chest is a mystery that she can't quite fathom the brainpower to solve. That she can feel, without reaching up to touch, a gash on her temple might have something to do with it.
One hand does attempt to reach up, to see if what feels like dried and coagulated blood is just that, but that hand is jerked back down, tethered to the hard chair in which she sits by a handcuff.
As is the other.
When her eyes slit open to let the stark light in, Monica finds herself in a bare gray room. The chair she sits in is bolted to the ground, as is the small table and the chair across from her.
It's empty. Its would-be inhabitant stands with his arms crossed near the door, waiting. It's no one she knows — but everything about him screams cop — or worse, fed — from his nondescript dark suit to the cup of coffee he holds in one hand.
Those arms tug against the cuffs a few times, testingly. Or maybe she's hoping to suddenly manifest her cousin's ever useful ability. But alas. She's left to peer up at the guy, eyes squinted.
"I take it this means I don't get… my one phone call," she says, her voice a little rough at the moment and groggy from all that dizziness. There's a moment taken to glance around the room, taking in what little there is to see there. But her gaze falls on the man, as he is the most interesting thing in here. At the moment, anyway.
There's a mirror that's certainly not a mirror for whomever is on the other side of it, and a door — and that's it. The man strides forward, putting his hand on the chair and lifting bushy eyebrows. May I? seems to be the tacit question, and a rhetorical one at that, for a moment later he's sitting anyway, without waiting for her to reply.
"I'm certain your Miranda rights were read to you when you were arrested. We're not trying to take away any of your rights, Miss Dawson. This is just a friendly chat, and an opportunity for you to help us out a little," the man says, setting his coffee down on the table. There's no offer to get her any, despite the man's overly polite tone.
He rests back in the metal chair, once more folding his arms across his chest as stony gray eyes sweep her bruised and bloody face. "You put up a good fight, they say. Evading arrest and injuring officers of the law aren't going to go in your favor in court, you know. The police have it on tape; all our vehicles come equipped with cameras these days." He smiles and shakes his head. "Technology, huh? The world we live in…"
"Obviously not too good, otherwise, I'd still be evading." Monica never has been good at lying. But sass, sass she can do. There's a glance toward that window-that-isn't, just looking it over before she glances back to the man.
"Yes, technology is a wonder," she says, leaning back in her chair as well. Trying to get comfortable in the metal seat with her arms hooked to the chair. It isn't easy. "I think out definitions of friendly differ slightly, though. In the south, we're too hospitable to let a friend sit around bloody and in handcuffs."
The middle-aged fed chuckles a bit, lifting his cup to his lips to take a sip and lowering it once more. "Call me cautious. And Agent David Kinnear." He reaches into a pocket to pull out his leather badge case and tosses it on the table so it falls open. DHS. Possibly. She knows that could be about a cover, but what's for certain is he is government.
"And we might be able to be on more friendly terms, if you want to be, Ms. Dawson. If you'd like us to drop some of … perhaps all of … the charges, in exchange for some information?" His voice drips with pleasantness that never reaches the cold grim gray of his eyes. "I figure… the less people here, the easier it would be to have a simple, friendly conversation. Lawyers, they tend to bring the mood down a bit, right?"
"Well, Cautious Agent David Kinnear," Monica says, giving the badge only a momentary glance, "I don't know what information you think I have, for that kind of deal. The most sensitive information I've got is my Nana's secret recipes and I can't possibly give you those."
At the mention of keeping lawyers out of it, the mimic frowns deeply. "I think my mood's pretty much down as it is." It isn't a yes, but it isn't a no, either.
The agent's face breaks into a wider grin, his eyes twinkling a little at the quip. "Well, damn, I was really hoping for a good recipe for some pecan pie," he says, a bit of a Southern drawl forced upon the last two words.
The smile then disappears as he leans forward. "I want to know where your friends are staying. You give me that information, and if it turns out to be good, we'll let you go. Hell, we'll even do you better than that, get you out of the state. You can go down south and forget New York City even exists. How's that sound to you?"
"I think it would be very good for you if people like me forgot that New York City exists." Monica shifts a little, uncomfortable. She looks toward the mirror again, grimacing some. "Plus, I don't have friends. I work alone? I'm like Batman. Early Batman. Pre-Robin. I don't have a Robin. I don't even have any robins."
Looking back to the Agent, she lifts an eyebrow, "Who is it y'all're after anyway? I don't have a ring of vigilantes. We don't hang out. There isn't a meeting."
"Comic book references. How very charming," Kinnear replies wryly. "But if you want names…"
He begins to tick off names on his fingers, as if counting them. "The Bennets. The Ryans. Beauchamp. Childs. Nakamura. Gitelman. Spurling. Sumter. Gray. To name a few."
He stands, reaching into a pocket to pull out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long drag as he watches her face for signs of recognition. It's hard to tell if he's capable of seeing anything more than a physical tell.
She knows them. Of course she does. And she's a bad liar, but she does her best to keep from reacting to any of them. But all the same, there's a long pause before she lifts her head a little more (with a wince, ow). "do you have to smoke in here? Doesn't the DHS have a break room or a patio or something?
"Look, I don't know what you want from me. I'm just a girl trying to do what's right out there in a time when the lines are pretty blurred. And if you don't agree, then you're too attached to your pay check. But those people, I don't know them from Adam." Here's where she would normally fold her arms. There's even a little tug before she's reminded of the cuffs there.
"Terrorism? Is that your definition of what's 'right out there?'" Kinnear says with a snort. "It's not like we picked you up for jaywalking, Ms. Dawson. But fine. Have it your way. Protect your friends."
He moves toward the table, grinding out his cigarette near the edge she's closest to so that the smoke smolders up and she can't evade it. "I'm sure they'll be very grateful while you languish in prison, which is where you're headed. No lawyer's going to be able to keep you out."
Striding to the door, Kinnear opens it and nods to the guards outside. "Throw her in isolation when you get her there, see if she's willing to talk after three days in a hole," he says loudly enough for her to overhear.
"You call it terrorism. I call it fighting for basic freedoms." Monica turns her head away from the smell, even if it doesn't help, but as she hears the conversation outside, her expression hardens.
She doesn't plan on letting them get her to isolation. Not without a fight.