Subject C-1


jet_icon.gif bella_icon.gif

Scene Title Subject C-1
Synopsis Bella arrives to personally oversee the next stage in the Refrain testing, with Jet as the subject, and Dema begs forgiveness in Jet's drug induced memory.
Date December 8, 2009

Refrain Testing Facility

A converted warehouse, secretly located, where Bella performs her experiments.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and Jet is still a captive. Has anyone missed her? Probably not, as she doesn't really have anyone -to- miss her, which could be a very depressing thought to many, and probably even more depressing to people like Jet for whom it's actually true for. Having gotten a deck of cards to play with (or not if you say NO!), the possessor is laying on her bed currently, on her stomach, playing a game of solitare by herself. She's lost weight in captivity, like most caged animals do, and as she was slender before, she's border line almost frail. It's not that she's not eating, she is, just not… much. Only Dema brings her companionship, and once again, that could be considered depressing to most.

And things have not been warm lately, between Dema and Jet. Not cold, either, but the past two weeks have not seen nearly the kind of confessional confidence that seemed to be blooming. Whether or not it was just that one day before Thanksgiving, or if something else, some other factor, has intervened, Dema is now a total professional. Or he tries to be. He's obviously pained by the distance he must affect; when he enters her Refrain visions, which are now induced often, he is always a fly on the wall, an observer, no longer interacting with her directly. Time, in this way, has become strange. Jet rewalks the paths of her life, and Dema keeps watch, presumably reporting back to the 'Madame'. Today promises to be another day lost in the mists of memory - without the sun, without clocks, it's impossible to tell just how long she's been here, or it would be were it not for the strict schedule that's kept. A knock comes on the door. He always knocks first. The politeness is all just part of that new distance.

And she senses his distance. And today when he knocks on the door there is an obvious trembling of her lips before the cuff of her shirt is lifted to rub outwards against her nose. There are no words of entrance from her today, just flipping three cards over in her hand as she continues on with her game.

Dema opens the door. The knock is just a warning. He doesn't fear her, it seems. Or maybe he just can't bring himself to treat her like an enemy since he's already treating her like a subject. He slips in sideways, expression carefully /in/expressive. "It is time," he says. She knows what that means. Time for some permutation of scanning and shooting up. Time for more memory lane. Unless her captors have something else in mind.

"No." Three more cards are drawn as Jet looks over the solitare layout, moving a few cards around before she takes three more. "I'm not going anywhere. You want me to go, you'll have to carry me there. I'm not budging from here on my own. I'm tired. I don't even have a friend in my more. I have nothing. Just pump me full and give me eternal peace. It's like I'm dead but alive here anyway."

Dema has to take a moment to keep himself collected. His heart should be harder, he knows, but he always was tough with degenerate gamblers and criminals before. What has this girl done? Whatever her past, whatever he may have seen, he cannot judge save from what he has experienced in person - and that has been only bravery in the face of this captivity. He steps forward. "Then I carry you," he says, "It is time. Neither of us can change this fact." He extends his hand to her; the moment he does, he wishes he hadn't, that means something to him, something he doesn't want to face.

The female had a hard-stubborn set to her jaw as if she really wasn't going to move and he would have to carry her. But then he extends his hand to her, and her jaw works back and forth for a long time before she lays her cards done on the bed. Her hand slips into his own as she stands from the bed, making her fingers lace with his own as she holds onto it. Silence from her as she just waits for him to begin walking, Jet opting not to lead this time.

They both know the way. It's a short walk, seems shorter each time since she knows what's at the other end. The MRI. The surgical tray with its glowing blue syringes. A table with restraints. It's all there, just as she knows it will be. Except for one thing, one difference. There isn't a camera, like their usually is. Instead there is a portable stereo system in its place. Dema doesn't mention this difference. He leads her to the table and gestures for her to take her usual spot, reclining.

Eyes drift to the speakers for a moment, then away. She doesn't care, no, she doesn't, for once she's sitting on the table her lips have curved down into a faint frown at something or another. Reclining on the table she stares upwards for a long time, then, "Dema, I would like…" a clenching of her jaw to supress the rising moisture of her eyes, "I would like to spend Christmas with you, perhaps out of my room. Somewhere."

Dema closes his eyes. Maybe he's visualzing it. Or trying to. If he sees something, it's just a glimpse. His eyes open and he starts to attach the restraints. All of them, which is a bit unusual. His expression is no longer impassive, it's straight up grave, even grim. He doesn't answer her question for a long time, not until she's completely tied down. Then he says just three words: "Not my decision." He crosses over to the stereo set and depresses the play button. The room is suddenly full of cacophonous music, thumping from the speakers at an incredible volume. The style reminds one of a club, the song thrums with synthesized sounds, and a woman's voice blares out across it all, singing in a half-spoken voice.
'Tonight on the streets/I'm gonna follow you/Tell you all about a scene/That you would kill for/You're gonna love what's/Burning right in front of you/But you won't see it/By the light of the sun.'
Dema steps to the side, hands folded, as if waiting.

"I'll take that as a no," come her soft whispers, barely coming from her as tears well then streak down her cheeks. No other words from Jet either now, just letting Dema turn on the music as she lays there. There is a jolt of her body when the loud music starts, but her composure is regained. She's starring straight ahead, just listening and waiting.

For the first time in more than three weeks, another living person enters the room. Staring up at the ceiling, Jet doesn't know until the newcomer is looming right over her, entering her field of vision like a shadow. The sound of the door and footfalls were totally covered by the music. One instant, white fabricated ceiling. The next, the shape of a head, veiled entirely in black linen, like a mourner. The veil is secured around the newcomer's throat, tucked into the high collar of a black jacket, and it is encompasses the entirety of the figure's head, hiding hair and features all at once. Jet, her head secured, can't see past the figure's shoulders, but the shape of the face and the slightness of those shoulders make it clear that Jet is now not the only woman in the room.
'Come out Tigerlily/You're caressing me/I'll take you up/I'll take you on/I'll take your apathy/I wouldn't lie to you Blossom/Won't you let it go/I'm gonna give you all you want/And don't you know.'
The song continue to blare as the veiled woman lifts a glowing blue syringe, lifting it and checking its level, just as she's seen Dema do time and time again. Jet's body calls out instinctively for her dose - however foul her memories, the simple chemical dependence is taking its toll.
Jet gives a noticeable jerking with a black clad face is suddenly looming infront and above her. But the startle effect has gone, and Jet's frightened eyes fall back into a muted stare, a daze almost. Even as the female (perhaps, could be a very feminine man!) picks up the syringe of Refrain, Juliet simply closes her eyes so she does not have to watch. Even though her veins want the drug, she herself still dislikes needles it seems. Her fingers curl into fists, constricting the easy bloodflow in her arms. Though at the same time it helps her veins puff up. A win lose situation is seems like.

'That you/I know you better than this/I could be here when you call/I'll make you top of the list/And in the crush of the dark/I'll be your light in the mist/I can see you burning with desire/For a kiss/Psy-'
The figure lifts a black gloved hand, a signal to Dema, and the music cuts out, leaving a ringing quiet in its wake. The syringe still hovers, but it does not sink in yet. The woman (or girlish man) in black lifts a hand to her/his throat and presses, as if taking its own pulse. There is a crackle, like a microphone turning on. The figure speaks, and it's voice is badly distorted, disguised digitally. Someone does not want to be known in the slightest.
"Christine Malkin," the figure says, "I'm going to ask you some questions. Please answer honestly. Do you understand?" Entirely calm, despite the warped distortion.

Silence for a long time from Jet after the voice asked the question, her eyes remaining closed. "Sure, whatever, I don't care." Still those whispers from her, and since the needle hasn't poked her skin her fingers uncurl and relax a little bit, her form loosening. "Thank you for turning off the music, I do not care for it being loud."

The veiled figure inclines its head in a small nod, hand still depressing whatever is hidden under the jacket collar. "Does your host body have any known allergies to any medications? Has it ever been diagnosed with depression? Have you ever been diagnosed with depression, or related serotonin imbalance? And have you ever used any amphetamines, either medically or recreationally?" The list sounds memorized, totally unemotional, the pitch of the distorted voice remaining level.

Perhaps not the questions Jet was answering for her eyes slit open just the slightest bit before they close once more. "I don't think so," come her soft words, "I have no run into any allergies as of yet just living. I don't know about the depression for her. No I hev never been diagnosed. That would involved going to a therapist. I don't use drugs. I drank when I was a teenager, but not anymore." A small jutting out of her bottom lip at this before she ceases, "Anyone kept here, would become depressed," are her final thoughts on that.

Another slight incline of the head, what passes as an affirmation and acknowledgement apparently. The figure looks up, presumably at Dema. "Prepare a intravenous solution of amphetamine and prepare for simultaneous application. Arm injection, both elbows. The amphetamine should hit first. We want to see if we can keep her conscious." The figure looks back down at Jet. "I want you to describe what you are remembering as you remember it, Christine. Do no remain silent for the sake of it. That will make me increase your amphetamine dose, and I don't know what side effects that may cause."
Dema has, meanwhile, been preparing the syringe in question, the amphetamine solution procured from the small locker under the surgical tray. He moves into view on Jet's other side, testing the level, double checking. He swabs the inside of Jet's arms, which are getting well used at this point. The two needles dip in time, pressing against her skin. The black suited figure's hand is holding Jet's arm steady, so it does not speak. Instead it nods: one, two, three. The needles plunge, depress - the drugs flood Jet's system.

The female doesn't watch Dema moving around her to plunge the needles into her flesh, so it's hard to tell if he is the reason why her eyes water with tears before they streak down her cheeks once more. Then the drugs flood her system, and her pupils grow very large until her eyes almost seem black. "I don't understand why you care," come her whispered words, starring off into space a little bit longer before her eyes slip closed once more. Silence for a while as the drugs take effect of her, and sooner than later images begin to take shape, and it's one of those things where you don't really see it coming, it's just -there-. That's what happens to Juliet, for she's no longer restrained in the chair, but surrounded by cherry blossoms and other Asian garden plant types. She's in a Chinese body, female, and painting a picture. The scenery seems authetic, she's painting. "I'm in China," come her soft words, "Visting from Japan. I did not stay long, I'm painting. I'm a horrible painter."

Echoing from outside of the memory comes the horrible distorted voice of the veiled figure. "Confirm that. I will start recording." Jet feels a hand on her brow, but it's not the brow she's remembering it's… something else. Something she can't describe. It's there but not yet there. It's there now but it will be. The contact brings her up out of what she's seeing. She's lying on the table, head buzzing as the amphetamines race through her brain, causing dopamine to dump wholesale. Dema looms over her, his hand on her brow, it's his hand, she can tell now… but part of her is still in China, or is it just that she's remember China? It's hard to tell which is the vision and which is the reality, because both feel real and both feel totally unreal both at once. Dema's eyes are closed, his brow knitted. "Can't get in," he says. His eyes open, catch Jet's. "She is awake." There is the sound of a click from the direction of the stereo. The veiled figure looms back into view, presses a hand to that distorting button. "Keep talking, Christine. What are you painting?"

"Dema," and in the single word is the weight of deep emotion, and perhaps deep pain. A working of her jaw and then back to her whispers, "A cherry tree. It's just a brown trunk with pink spots that are the petals…" her voice gets a little thick now, but she's still talking, "It was peaceful, but boring. I was alone of course. I'm always alone."

"Subject C-1 is conscious, non-hallucinating, relating the memory. Assistant Gataullin is unable to enter the memory. Administering more Refrain, standard compound, quarter dose, in order to induce hallucination," the figure recites, and Jet soon feels another prick on her arm. More Refrain seeps into her, her vision clouding with memory again. The distorted voice rumbles overhead like obscene thunder. "Try again, Gataullin."

A sound like a gurgle comes from Jet when they pump more drugs into her body, and with it the deeper into the hallucination she fades, loosing her grip on reality. "The petals are dropping," come her slower words, her whispered words as she watches in her mind as the petals begin to drop from the tree, which causes her lips to purse. This does not seem like part of her memory, but her subconcious letting her know that the grip on reality is being lost while the dream world takes a firmer hold.

As those petals drop, the shadows they cast form the vague outline of a face… Dema's face. He's looking up at her from the swirl of shade, and though his face is barely a face at all, she can see his concern. The foul thunder can still be heard overhead. "Assistant seems to be in his trance," the figure says, for the benefit of the recording, before directing another question Jet's way. "Christine, is Dema with you right now? Can you see him?"

A working of her throat, more wetness gathering at the corner of her eyes. "Yes, he's here." In her mind in paint brush lowers from the painting as she simply shoves out with both her arms, propelling the picture forward and away. It has a slow death as it falls towards the ground, slower than normal. Juliet crosses her arms over her chest now as she swivel away from the face of Dema, pouting almost.

"Subject C-1 had confirmed the presence of the assistant. The assistant remains in a trance, non-responsive. However…" There is a pause in the talk that echoes through the memory. "Gataullin, if you can hear me, break the trance. I need your help with another amphetamine dose."
Dema's shadow lifts up, into the falling petals, forming there. Jet is alone, so Dema can only use the environment to manifest, can only suggest his presence. If he can hear the veiled figure's order, he chooses to ignore it. He speaks, but his voice is just a whisper on the breeze, "I am sorry," he says, so soft she can barely hear him, "Don't answer me, she will hear us." So he can hear her, and the figure is, in fact, a woman… and he doesn't want her to hear /him/. "This is the Madame. This is her project. She decides. Not me. I have no choice."
From on high, the Madame's voice filters down again, though it's more distant than before, like the storm that carries her voice is sliding away. "Christine, tell Dema to break the trance. I need him back here with me."

A glance over her shoulder to Dema when he speaks, a world full of hurt in her eyes as she looks in his general direction. "But it hurts," she simply speaks, looking aweay from Dema once more. "She wants you back, go back." Fingers press into the side of her arms now, holding herself almost, perhaps using it to compose herself. What hurts, she doesn't elaborate on, heeding to his words about her hearing.

With the message sent, Dema has no choice but to go back to reality. He delays only moments, but he does delay, his wind whisper flickering rapidly in Jet's ears. "/Prastitia/," he says, lapsing into what must be Russian, "/Prashyeniya prashoo/, Isabella. I beg for you. I promise!" And then he is gone, the petals drifting into randomness again.
"There you are," the Madame says, her voice almost as vague as Dema's was, though due to distance, not softness; her tones are still harsh and twisted by the distortion. "I was able to communicate with the assistant via the subject. Gataullin, prepare another dose of amphetamine. Let's bring her back to us, see how long we can keep this up." Dema doesn't answer, of if he does, Jet can't hear him. But she feels a distant pain, like a needle in someone else's arm that she is just aware of… but then the drug hits and she is yanked back up, out of the memory. Too hard. Too much.

A confused look to Dema, for his words could be taken many different ways. Her lips part, and she is about to question, but then the drugs hit. It's like she's on a rip cord. One moment she was in China, the next is a -woosh- as she is pulled back into reality. Too fast, too soon. Her eyes open wide but then they roll upwards as he body beings to convulse. Hopefully she doesn't bite her tongue off, for her whole body is jerking against the restraints, her young host body flipping out.

"Shit!" the Madame says, forgetting in the moment to use the distortion. Her voice is clear for just that one curse, a pretty, womanly voice, even in profanity. For an instant it's Bella Sheridan in the room, and the good doctor scrambles to depress the switch for her voice transformer so she can bark orders at her assistant. "Undo her restraints, she'll hurt herself! Fuck! We need Midozolam!"
The Madame's secret is likely safe, likely. Jet's central nervous system, overstrained, is not in any real shape to remember voices, let alone ones that speak single words. Still, the doctor is shaken, fumbling slightly as she extracts the anticonvulsant from the locker and fills a needle. Dema, in the meantime, is rapidly undoing Jet's restraints. His expression, invisible to his boss at this moment, is one of strange kind of fear soldiers are familiar with. A terror that must be turned into precise, thoughtless action. As he leans over to undo her head restraint, maybe, just maybe she can hear the whisper of his voice, so low only she could hear it, if she could hear at all right now. It's Russian, incomprehensible, but its cadence is distinct: he's praying.

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