Participants:
| Scene Title | The Whole Truth |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Brian awakens within Level-5 |
| Date | January 30, 2009 |
Primatech Research, Level-5
Darkness.
It had been nothing but darkness and delerious dreams for God knows how long. Eventually the sensation of unconsciousness was replaced with numbed and aching pain, and the all-too-bright lights of the waking world. At first, Brian Fulk presumed he was in a hospital like any other; the white bed he lays strapped into, the rythmic beep of the machines he was hooked up to all smacked of familiar memories, sights and sounds of a hospital.
It was the dead-gray concrete walls, the reinforced glass window to an otherwise cell-like holding chamber, and the lack of any visible medical staff that makes it seem so uninviting, so otherworldly. But the reality for Brian Fulk comes back slowly, in blurry pieces and aching muscles that sing a song of a troubled life.
Regretably, Brian Fulk can't remember much about that troubled life.
He can remember his family, bits and pieces of his childhood, but the closer his memories get to present-day the blurried they become, more fractured and spotty, unable to truly recall current events. What year is it? What did he do yesterday? Where is he? It's all nothing but a haze of partially recalled names and faces, little things that seem familiar, but on the whole aren't clear.
The only thing that is clear, is the ticking of the analogue clock on the wall, reading 12:13. It's hard to tell if it means AM or PM, with the lack of windows in this concrete room, but at the very least, it's a small problem. And one that, right now, isn't the biggest worry on Brian Fulk's broken mind.
Brian's eyes move around the room slowly, taking it in. Wondering how his life so suddenly became a movie. Starting to sit up, he soon realizes that he can't. Oh God. The fear starts to settle in, strapped into an empty room with gray walls.. This is like the places you see on TV where they drill out your eyeballs or try to turn you into the next superhuman soldier. His muscles flex against his binding.
How did he get here? It's a question that inspires more fear than just the room. He has no idea. What happened yesterday? What happened the day before? What's the last thing you remember?
A memory of a blonde girl wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him. But he has no idea who the blonde girl is. He flexes against the bindings again, trying to break out. Come on, break!
Maybe he was there before, maybe he wasn't, but the feeling of being watched draws Brian's eyes away from his restraints to the dark silhouette of a tall man standing at the window to his room. Thin and stoic, he is nearly monochromatic in hue; with rich chocolate-brown skin that is almost the same shade as his dark suit. Black eyes ringed with white focus on Brian thorugh the glass silently, even as the heavy steel door to his room clicks and slides open on automatic hydraulic hinges.
In the doorway, a nurse dressed in white stands quietly. She's young, Brian's age, carrying a clip-board under one arm. There's a ghost of a smile as she watches the young man tug at his restraints, at least until his expression becomes more of a wince as a sharp pain shoots thorugh his side. "I wouldn't do that, Mister Fulk," She eases the clip-board forward, glancing down at it as she walks in, "Your ribs are still healing. You've been through a lot, but I'm glad you're finally coming to." Blue eyes scan up and down his prone form, "We'll get your ight out of those restraints, I'm sorry you had to wake up like that. You were a bit fitful while you were out, so…" Her expression turns apologetic as she stops by the bedside, settling her clipboard down on a metal table, her free hand working a lock of coppery red hair behind one ear. "How're you feeling?"
"What happened to me?" Brian shoots out, almost immediately as soon as the girl asks him how he's feeling. A wary gaze is awarded her for all her politeness. "This isn't a hospital." He notes, "What is this place? Who are you?" He rattles off, giving her a harsh gaze. Then finally.. "I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking."
Glancing over her shoulder to the man at the window, the nurse gives a quiet nod of her head, then turns back to Brian. "This is a medical facility, and… I'll leave explaining what happened to you to Mister Goodman." The nurse gives a mild smile, reaching up to lightly brush her hand against Brian's forehead, moving a matted lock of hair off from his brow. "You were pretty badly hurt, you're lucky you're a quick healer." She adds with a faint smile, circling around to the far side of the bed from the entrance, beginning to undo the padded wrist restraints.
While she was talking, the dark silhouette moved from the window to the doorway, now gradually walking in with an even and slow gait. "Very lucky indeed, Mister Fulk." His voice is rich and smooth, a natural-born speaker, "You suffered some very severe internal injuries when you were picked up, but you seem to be coming along well. I wouldn't stress youor midsection too much though, but — " He cracks a white smile, "I'm no doctor." Giving a deferential nod of his head to the nurse as she is in the process of unfastening Brian's leg restraints, Goodman continues. "Are you really feeling, fine?" Brows raise, wrinkling his forehead while his eyes settle back on Brian.
Despite being locked away in a concrete room, having no idea how he got there, and really not remembering much, he can't help but give a little smile as the girl brushes the hair on his head. "What's your name—" He's cut off by a very less pretty voice and a doubly more ominous personage.
"How did I get so hurt?" He asks, giving a little frown. "I really don't remember anything. Maybe I have amnesia." He suggests, hoping to be helpful. Then he blinks at Goodman. "No, I guess not. But, I'm okay. Okay for someone who doesn't remember anything."
"I'm going to be frank with you, Mister Fulk." Goodman's smile fades some, "What I'm going to explain to you, it might be a bit disquieting. But you deserve nothing more than the truth." Stepping to the side of Brian's bed as the nurse moves around to get the second leg restraint, Goodman glances up at her as she subtly motions to her nametag which reads Bettie. There's a hint of a smile there, and Goodman's dark eyes soon come to settle on Brian again.
"You were in close proximity to a large explosion, in New Jersey. You suffered severe internal injuries and several broken bones. Had you not been remanded into our care following the incident, you likely would have died of your injuries." Goodman looks away, down to the floor and begins wandering away from the bed, hands folded behind his back. "You may have a mild form of amnesia, are you having trouble recalling those events?" As Mister Goodman speaks about the explosion, there's bits of it lingering in Brian's mind. Gunfire, screaming, helicopters, fire. It's like a bad war movie.
Bettie. A little smile is given to her, even though he hates the name Bettie. He won't relay that to her that would be rude, and she's currently setting him free. Moving his arm around then his leg as he's let go.
"New Jersey?" He repeats, his tone disbelieving. "I don't even remember going to Jersey." Brian says, shaking his head. Though, why would he ever be involved in helicopters, fire, gunshots. No that must have been a dream. So he'll say nothing on it. "No, nothing."
Goodman's face is a mask of silence for a time, staring out towards the hall through the open door as the last arm restraint is undone, and Bettie goes to work removing the two chest straps. When he does finally speak up, it's only after turning his body partly to face the bed Brian lays in, head tilting down in a subtle nod of acknowledgement. "You were involved in an exchange of gunfire, fighting a terrorist organization that was attempting to unleash a biological weapon on the city of New York." It's more than a bit to swallow, "You were injured in an explosion when the terrorist's warehouse exploded, but thankfully for you, law enforcement was arriving on-scene and you were rescued from the scene along with one other."
Roger shifts his weight and begins walking back towards the bed, even as memories of someone with short red hair holding a pistol between shaky hands comes to mind. There's a brief memory of bright white light, smoke and flames. Of men in urban camouflage, and men in black, blurry images of helicopters overhead. "Your memory will likely come back in time, as you recover…"
Staring at Goodman for a long moment, the young man is emotionless for a bit until he finally lets out a laugh. A loud laugh, his chuckling goes on for a good bit until he realizes that Goodman is not laughing. Or smiling. His lips slowly close, forcing down his chuckles. "Oh. Really? I was fighting.. a terrorist organization?" He can't help but break a little smile. "Okay. Sir."
"Thank you Bettie." He murmurs softly as the woman releases his chest straps. Once they're off he tries to sit up a little, and instantly sinks back, letting out a groan of pain. "Well.. When can I be let out? Can I call my family?"
"As soon as you wish." Goodman motions to the door, though his brows raise a bit at the groan of pain, forehead wrinkling at the gesture. "Though I'd at least recommend waiting for your injuries to heal." Brian's reaction isn't quite what Roger expected, head tilting to one side as he makes his way back to the bedside, offering a plaintive smile to Bettie, "If you could give us a moment, Miss Williams?"
There's a ghost of a smile from Mister Goodman, and the nurse nods her head, picking up her clip board as she glances back at Brian. "I'll be back with your meds, you stay put." She insists, wagging one finger as she moves back towards the door, stopping outside to brush her fingers against something on the wall out of sight. A beep later, the hydraulics of the door hiss and draw closed. It was letting in a bit of a draft.
Looking to the door when it closes, then to Brian, Goodman's smile fades some. "You were involved in a firefight, Mister Fulk. And you, along with one of your compatriots, were abandoned." The moment those words leave Roger's lips, there's a roken memory of a brunette woman running away down a snow-covered street, a memory of intense pain in Brian's chest and extremities, helplessness and fear. And she's just running. "We aren't entirely sure why, but you were left for dead. Agents from the Department of Homeland Security picked you and your comrade up, and you were going to be processed and detained before I was able to… pull some strings, and get you to this medical facility."
"Then where's my compatriot?" Brian asks, easing himself up slower and more gently this time. Leaning on his elbows he watches Goodman intently. "My friend who was abandoned? I would like to talk to him.. her. I would like to talk to my compatriot." Brian says confidently, very sure this is waht he wants to do. "Abandoned?" Brian asks, frowning a little bit at this. That's not very nice.
"He is still in the custody of the Department of Homeland Security. It took all that I could do just to get you here, Mister Fulk." Roger takes a step away from the bed, hands still folded behind his back. "Are you not the least bit curious as to why you were in New Jersey?" His eyes narrow slightly, "Why you're here instead of in a hospital, why you were involved in a gun-fight with a terrorist organization?" There's a stiffening of Goodman's back, eyes scanning Brian up and down slowly.
"Okay, okay. Slow down." Brian murmurs, looking up at him. "I'm only just coming to. Amnesia is hard to handle, okay?" Brian says a little chidingly, he deserves a little slack. "I am very curious why I'm not in a hospital. And I guess I still don't believe you that I was actually in a gun fight in New Jersey." Brian admits, cause come on, really?
Goodman offers a plaintive smile as he shakes his head, "You asked." Offering something of a chuckle, he moves to the food of the bed and rests his hands on the footboard, long and spidery fingers curling around the faux wood. "You're not in a hospital, because the United States Government has put you on a watch list." Trying to be slow with the dissemination of information, Roger drums his fingers on the footboard, "What you may not remember, is that you are a vigilante, Mister Fulk." Vigilante, like Batman? "You and your friend, a Jesse Alexander Knight," The name rings hollow, nothing, not even a glimmer. Maybe he's the redhead with the gun, but it doesn't click. "You both operated outside of the law in an attempt to take matters into your own hands, regarding — " The hiss of the door opening again draws Goodman's attention away towards Bettie on her approach back into the room.
Not only is she carrying a paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, but she also has a folder under one arm. Sauntering over to the table by the bed, the young nurse sets the bottled water down, along with the paper cup filled with six pills of different sizes and colors. Then she takes the folder and hands it out to Goodman, "Here you are, sir."
"Always prompt." Goodman notes with an appreciative smile, paging through the folder as Bettie offers Brian a quiet smile, not saying a word to him as she heads back towards the door to the room. "These may help jog some of your memory." With that, Roger lays down a series of black and white surveillance photographs on the side of the bed, each one depicting a smoldering ruin of a warehouse, along with men in black riot gear. One of them is hauling Brian Fulk away by the arms in handcuffs. It doesn't jog much, save for vague memories of snow, pain, and a strong feeling of outrage at being left behind.
Blinking, Brian looks at the man in disbelief. Looking at the pictures with even more disbelief. He can't flirt with Bettie now, he's too busy being shocked out of his mind. "Jesse Knight?" Brian says, playing with the unfamiliar name on his tongue. Right now, this 'Jesse' is the only friend he has. He eyes the pills warily, then looks at the pictures shaking his head in disbelief.
"I think I would like to go home." Brian says, "I would like some regular clothes and I would like to go home." He states, going to sit up fully. Looking to Goodman as if asking permission. The pills will be ignored for now.
"You're free to do that." Goodman states quietly, "But I will let you know that the moment you step out from this facility, every government agency within a hundred mile radius will descend on you like a hawk." His head tilts to the side, eyebrows raised. "But if that's what you want, I won't hold you here against your will. That's not what we do here."
Taking the pictures back, Goodman tucks them back into the folder and begins headed for the door to the cell. "Provided you're given a clear bill of health — and I don't forsee bruised ribs doing that — you'll be released." He stops at the door, pressing a button below a square box with a speaker. "Betty, could you fetch Mister Fulk some clothing and call Doctor Salonga, let her know that he'd like to be released." Turning to look over his shoulder, Goodman takes his finger off of the button. "I did have something I wanted to discuss with you, but," one hand motions slowly in a dismissive gesture.
«Alright, Sir.» There's a hint of disappointment in the voice that crackles over the intercom. «I'll give her a call and be down with the clothing.»
"What?" He asks, not as hip to leave when it seems like they will actually let him go. As long as he's not being forced to stay, it's probably okay, right? Besides, where is home? He doesn't really have any idea. And he still has to figure out why he's a vigilante fighter. "So.. I'm a vigilante. And so is Jesse. Are there any others? I could talk to? Maybe they could help me remember." Brian suggests.
"That much I don't know, Mister Fulk." Roger doesn't hit the intercom button again, he just returns towards the bed with one hand sliding into the pocket of his slacks. "I know very little about you and your… well, friends might be too strong of a word." There's no pleasure he seem to derive from saying that. "I don't know if there are any of the people you worked with who you could contact, as far as I know they left you for dead after you…" He cuts himself off, stopping by the bedside again, using a quiet and subdued tone of voice. "Do you want to have this conversation? It…" Dark eyes scan across the room, "I don't want to disturb you, and there's some unpleasant details I've been omitting to your situation." When he looks back, there's an offered smile, if not somewhat distant. "It could wait."
"Why would I work with them if I didn't like them? If they abandoned me, they probably thought I was dead. Or, had no way to get to me." Brian defends, peering up at the man. "If you have information, I want to hear it." Brian says, doing his best to keep calm, keep cool. He goes to lay himself back fully again, forcing his features into a relaxed state. "I'm ready for it."
Sighing through his nose, Goodman nods and moves to the foot of the bed, "This is privlidged information, but you were — before your injuries — aware of much of this I'd have to imagine." Casting dark eyes down to Brian, Roger grows silent for a moment before saying quietly, "I have a feeling you were working with them out of necessity rather than any form of mutual affection." Those words suddenly click, and that brunette woman is clear in Brian's mind for a moment, and there's this intense sensation of irritation that seems to bubble up from inside, something frustrated and annoyed. "But, what you did, it's nothing short of heroics in my eyes."
He lets those words sink in for a moment, heroics. "If you had not done what you did, Mister Fulk, you and I would not be alive right now to have this conversation." Circling around the bed to the night stand, Goodman looks down at the mixture of pills in the paper cup, "The terrorists you were engaged with had a biological weapon they were going to unleash on the population of New York City. The result of which would have been nothing short of apocalyptic." That's another heavy word, and one which Roger Goodman allows to settle in to Brian's head as he steps away from the night stand.
"However heroic you may have been, there are elements of the government that take offense to vigilantisim and not being allowed to play in the sandbox, as it were." When he regards Brian again, it's in a conspiratorial tone, voice lowered. "They don't like it when you don't play by their rules, but some times I've come to find, the rules are just…" The fingers of one of Roger's hands splay as if to gesture to an obscure fact, "Guidelines." This smile he gives is just a bit more honest than the last few. "Which is why I did what I could to get you out of their custody, and remanded to mine. I have something of an offer that I'd like to make to you, Mister Fulk, but it's one I want you to be a bit more rested up for before I spring it on you."
Heroics, apocalyptic, that line from Pirates of the Caribbean. They all have an impact, that he seems to mix around in his mind, his features looking lost in thought. A hero? Really? It's all a little overwhelming. He's no hero, to his knowledge at least. But those little flickers of memories, those flashes that seem like dreams. They seem real. What Goodman is saying seems real.
A brunette traitor and a redheaded comrade lost to the conflict. Anger rises up at the former, sympathy for the latter. "Why me?" He asks, dumbly, looking up to Goodman with wide-eyes. "Why not Jesse? And if you want to ask me something, I'd prefer you ask me now."
"There's a reason," Goodman says in a quiet tone of voice, "But — " Saved from having to deliver that answer, the door to Brian's room hisses open as Bettie comes walking in with a black suit and white undershirt, and a skinny black neecktie hanging in a dry-cleaning bag over one shoulder. Goodman's eyes scan up and down the suit, brows raising as he gives Bonnie an almost incredulous look.
Pausing in mid-stride, she eyes the clothing and just flashes a bit of a smile, "I figured he'd look good in it. We had a spare in his size anyway, from Woods' — "
"You can leave that," Goodman nods to the suit, "Mister Fulk has decided to stay for a little while longer. If you could inform Doctor Salonga not to cancel her appointments yet?" One dark brow raises, and Bettie grimaces at the prospect, slowly nodding her head as she huffs out a quiet sigh.
Turning back to Brian as Bettie heads for the door, the tall and thin man folds his hands in front of himself and stares at the man in the hospital bed for a few moments, thoughtful and considerate. "We can talk more tomorrow. You need a good day's rest, and to let the cobwebs clear from your head some. Then, Mister Fulk, we can talk more." One hand gestures to the paper cup full of pills, "Take your medication, and stay here in your room for the night at least. Tomorrow I'll send someone down to show you to my office, and we can talk a bit more…" There's a hint of a smile, "Openly."
 January 30th: The Definition of Duty |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 January 30th: Butterfly Bandages |