Participants:
| Scene Title | Wrong Girl |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Jet is flagged by Bella for capture and induction on suspicion of spying. Jet is captured, and awakes to the company and tending of Dema. |
| Date | November 18, 2009 |
Outside the Suresh Center, later at a temporary subject storage facility.
So the meeting was… well, it was a meeting for addicts. Why Jet went? Well, on the surface she was an addict, right? Right. Or not. Either way, while the others stayed to argue about bringing alcohol to the meeting and praying to Gods, Jet left. Walking outside she stops just infront of the doors, zipping up her hoodie as her hands stuff inside of them. The teenager just stands there for a very long moment, seeming to be waiting for something yet nothing. It seems to be the later, nothing, for she begins to walk down the street, just moseying on the sidewalk.
Calls have been made, though, alarms raised, information channeled. It's strange that, in this world, activity around and about you can be going at manic pace, all while you're moseying down this or that sidewalk. Bella, of course, does not wish to be directly involved. This is a job for the 'hands on' members of the Company, a couple of whom were standing by specifically for the purpose of handling any problems that might occur. They didn't expect any real trouble. The suspicious gum package came as a surprise, and might have been dismissed if Bella's trust in Wendy weren't so adamant.
Jet has, Elvis-like, left the building. Out of the parking garage rolls a low, dark Cadillac, windows down even in the cold near-winter air, and the sound of music plays, some indistinct hip-hop. Cover noise, as the agent riding shotgun, a sallow faced man wearing a cheap suit, loads tranquilizer gun with a drugged dart. The target is a body jumper, they were told. They'll only get one shot at this. They coast slowly behind Jet, their speed enough that they are gaining. They stay in the inner lane. Don't want to make her feel suspicious.
And she does indeed, mosey. Mosey mosey mosey. Jet stops briefly in front of a bum, digging her hands into her pockets as she pulls out a wad of crumpled bills which she gives to the homeless man, exchanging a few words with him. She seems to be getting directions to the nearest Starbucks. The homeless man points in a direction across the street, the young woman thanking him with a flash of a smile.
Then Jet is running across the street, damn near infront of the caddy as she dodges traffic towards her coffee high.
Dammit! Sudden motions are so hard to read. Is she wise, is she just making a sudden change of plans? Kidnapping isn't work for morons. The sallow faced man says as much in a mutter than is hardly audible even to the driver over the sound of the hip-hop. There is a brief interchange. What if she jumped into the homeless man? But you'd think the abandoned body would have some other reaction, wouldn't thank the newly possessed body. Educated decision… go after the blonde. The caddy speeds up just a bit, turning at the intersection to try and keep ahead of the target.
Jet really isn't that complicated of a female considering. she just wants what ever female wants. Though now all she wants is a coffee. Indeed, there looms a Starbucks at the end of the street she's walking down, and once she crossed the traffic her run slowed to a jog, and then a walk as she continues on the way. There is a glance to the cady, but it's just a 'looking at the cady' glance, it had no other bearing in it for Jet's head turns back towards the Starbucks as she continues on.
Once she's at the Starbucks, this'll get much harder. It'll turn into a stakeout, and who knows if she uses places like that to switch bodies. It's soon-erring-towards-now or never. She's on the wrong side of the road for an easy point and shoot, but since the sallow faced man will be firing through the driver's side window, it should be, at least, more unexpected. The car slows as it drifts past her, open window aligning. The agent aims, waits for it… waits for it… fires. The dart, with its cocktail of power-suppressant and high powered sedative, a Company special, flickers towards her with a 'thock' that's neatly covered by the beat of the music.
A hard stagger and Jet smacks into the wall of a building she's walking by. Like most people who get suddenly impaled by a needle, her hand smacks to her neck in a grabbing and jerking out motion. The next sequence of events happen all at once quite suddenly. There is a confused look to the dart, before it turns into a look of anger, if not betrayal. A few steps are taken, and then she goes down in a pile of possessor flesh, the dart still griped hard within Jet's curled fingers. We'll add that a halo of blond curls fans out from her as well, a perfect picture of blonde innocence.
The caddy makes a smooth U-turn, coming around to Jet's crumpled form. The driver, a bigger man than his accomplice, opens his door and gets out, stooping over Jet. He brushes some fair from her face, exposing her borrowed features. There's almost a certain regret in his eyes, but this is his job… He lifts her into his arms as the sallow faced man leans over the driver's seat and presses the button to pop the trunk. In moments, Jet is deposited in the back, the trunk closing over her, hiding her from view. A quick area check is made. The homeless man is staring, wide eyed, at the scene. There is an exchange of looks between the two agents. What to do about the witness? The large man shakes his head. He's a bum, who'll know? They'll ditch these plates, even this car, later. And the borrowed body might well already be long missing. The driver slides back into the seat and, after closing his door, rolls up the windows and drives off. The first subject has been acquired.
And that is how Juliet Isabella has come to be knocked out and stuck in the back of the trunk of a car. But what does she know? Not much, for she's having a nice deep sleep. Probably one of the best sleeps she's has since her first tranq'ing. But, that was an accident. This one, does not seem to be.
* * * * *
Who knows where it is that Jet's been taken to? Okay, let's be fair. Some people do know. But not many. It's a halfway point, a storage space set up to prep subjects. It's only just up and running, right on time, though Jet's induction was not as carefully planned as it might otherwise have been. She is, after all, being held on suspicion of ulterior motives. Which won't do! Plots and plans are something Bella and her fellows are trying to achieve a monopoly on. The halfway point itself is just a storage container, somewhere near the docks from the smell of it. It's soundproofed, and its lit by fluorescents that are powered by a generator that chugs off to one side. Rather a rudimentary set up.
Bella herself is not present. She's making other arrangements. Jet is strapped to a cot, being fed an IV of a cocktail not unlike the one that took her down some hours ago, though its sedative properties are much less potent, designed more to make her fuzzy and compliant. The power suppressant factor, though, is industrial strength. The last thing they need is a body jumper hopping through the Company ranks. The man who is at Jet's bedside, a huge man with pale blue eyes that are deep set and thoughtful, is wearing a button up shirt and khakis, institutional without being a distinct uniform. He is preparing a syringe of something luminous and blue that anyone in the know would immediately recognize as the highly illegal street drug dubbed 'Refrain'.
"What are you doing?" Words from the female, though they are thickly laden with the drug, damn near slurred but not quite yet. She doesn't struggle, at least body wise, her brown eyes instead opened now and watching the man fill the needle with the blue substance. "Dude, you got the wrong girl, again." A tired sigh from her at this, before her eyelids close for a few moments, perhaps almost drifting off again before they reopen.
"Maybe this is true," the huge man says, and his voice has an unmistakable Russian accent, "Maybe we can make clear some things?" Whatever the hell that means. He handles the syringe with the precision that suggests a great deal of training. He sets it aside, on a rolling surgical tool table, though it doesn't seem to be sporting any actual tools. "Your name, maybe, so we know who the wrong girl is?"
Jet tracks the syringe with her eyes, and only when it's set on the table does she looks back to him. "My name?" An almost confused tone from her at this, and then there is a slight jerking of her chest as she seems to be stifflinh a laugh. "Which one baby?" A light smacking of her lips at this, then, "Christine Malkin." A beat, "Can you please stop feeding my body junk?" Another tired sigh, as if speaking is taxing to her.
"My name is Dema," Dema says. He doesn't look at her as he speaks. He's examining the level of her IV. "Nice to meet you, Christine. I will tell you, if you behave then you will not have an unpleasant time. You may be on your feet again soon. This, though, depends on how truthful you are." He finally looks at her, blue eyes like distant fog lights from his great height, "I have said this often, but never just to make frightened, understand? You are dealing with dangerous people. Please be wise. So… please, what is the purpose of little camera in the gum pack?"
"You know the purpose," come her drugged words, "I was recording it for my library. Thought there was maybe something worthwhile keeping. But there wasn't. Just a bunch of crazy people and one girl who cussed like a sailor." A grunt from her at this, "Utterly boring. I'm not even an addict. Was just getting some social people time in."
"This is your first time, going to addict meetings, recording secretly while trying to fill in… eh… dance card?" Dema has less time finding words than finding idioms. He returns to his seat next to Jet, elbows on his knees, chin propped on folded hands, "Better you should be honest. If you are important to someone, we will respect this, maybe. If not, if no one will miss…" he gives a shrug, "Maybe there is no reason to respect you."
"Dance card?" A faint perk of her brow to him at this as if not fully understanding. To his question of if anyone will miss her or not, she frowns just a smidge as if weighing on how she should answer exactly. "Perhaps next time you'll find that out before you kidnap teenagers off of the street. Of course I'm important. Mother, father. Et cetera. My landlord. He wants his money. There's someone else."
"These people, not as important as you think," Dema says, "Or maybe just unimportant enough. I cannot say. I do not know. What I do know is: Madame thinks you are hiding something. If she is wrong, then she will find another use for you. But," he pats the syringe on the surgical table, "You may not like this use. Though, maybe, this use will give you more reasons to attend addict meetings, hm?"
"Don't you dare pump my body full of drugs," come her somewhat soft, yet cold words. "Or I will find you, and hurt you, I swear it." Perhaps she's talking nonsense, who knows. She probably doesn't even know, her head lifting from the table for a moment before it smacks itself back down. "I'm too old for games. Howaboutyou' just tell me what you want blue eyes."
"Dema," the blue eyed man corrects, "This is my real name. It is a gift, so please use it. Me? I want to do my duty. For now, that means doing as the Madame asks. And she is asking me to find out what use you are. So far, I see that this," he lifts the syringe into view, "Is what you are useful for. And why do you worry?" there is a moment of hardness in his eyes, "This is not your body I will be pumping with drugs, hm?"
"It is my body blue eyes," come her words through her teeth, and the refusal to use his real name. "It's the only one I got, I feel what it feels, so don't fuck it up, kay?" A little vulgarity from her, limbs giving a testing tug at the restraints that are holding her down. A few moments of silence as she breaths in and out, taking a break from speaking before giving more semi-slurred words. "Look, baby, unless you tell me who you work for, or what you work for, I can't tell you what use I am."
"Then we have no more to discuss at the moment," Dema says, succinctly, "I am sorry this had to happen. I am not a poor judge of character, and I think you are a clever person. But clever people… they often get into trouble. You should, Christine, try to become wise very quickly. Because wisdom, maybe, will help you here. Cleverness… not so much."
A clenching of her jaw as she simply turns her head to the side, looking away from the man at to the wall opposite of her. "I have lots of money," she simply speaks now, "A lot of money. Name your price for my freedom and let it be so. I'm just a kid."
Dema gives a long sigh. "You know this will not move me," he says, sounding weary, not with her, but with this operation. Maybe it's one of many times he's been offered bribes in situations like this. The thought certainly isn't comforting, if that's the case. "A kindness, I will not use this on you right now," he indicates the syringe, "But I will need to make you sleep. When you wake up, you will be where you will be until we know what to do with you… and even then, you may stay. Pray you will not."
"As if you really care," come her soft murmured words, her hands turning into fists before her fingers relax one by one. Tit for tat. In return to your kindness, Dema, my middle name is Isabella. It's what I was using at the meeting. I have never really gone by it before." A faint quirk of her lips at this, then, "If it doesn't mean much to you, I would like to lie here awake for another few moments."
"I do," Dema says, "Care. A little. I am not a good man, but I do not think I am an evil man," he shrugs, "Maybe. I do not know. He stoops down, reaching into something Jet cannot see that is under the surgical table. He's doing… something. He's opened something, is sorting through something, "A few moments, OK." He has that foreign way of saying 'okay' with the open 'oh' sound, "Isabella, then. A pretty name. Part of it means beautiful, yes?"
"I do not know," come her soft, and truthful words, "My parents never told me about it, nor have I really thought to look it up. I am sure it means many things, depending on the culture you live in…" A beat from her, getting into a drugged chatty mood it sounds like, "When I was abroad for college for two years, in Japan… they have such a beautiful language." Says the seventeen year old.
Dema seems to be filling another syringe, this one with a clear liquid that could be anything, but is likely the drug that will knock her out for the remainder of her transfer. He doesn't make any move to apply it yet. He frowns a little. "Can you speak?" Japanese, presumably.
"Yes," comes her honest tone, "I also speak some French and Spanish, but I am fluent in Japanese. Years of practice…" a faint smirk from her at this, perhaps an inside joke on her part. "I knew a Russian man once… older gent. Is Russia your home state? And if so…" a sigh, "Why would you come here?"
Giving out personal details is something that needs to be done with great care. Dema takes a moment to consider how and if he should answer these questions. Finally, he nods. "Leningrad," he says, "Petrograd now," a thin smile, "I come for the American Dream, of course." This sounds like a joke, and a wry one at that, but it's unclear if it's a lying joke, or a truth telling joke, or some ironic mix. "Who was your Russian man?"
"I hardly remember his name now… Ivan.. Petrovich, something. He was with the Russian Mob." She seems to be telling the truth, as much as a drugged truth can say. A beat, then, "You're not taking me back to Moab are you?"
"I do not know what this is," Dema admits. He notes that he should probably remember this question. It may be relevant information, "So no. I do not think so," a small smiles, "You were involved with Bratva? How is it this happened? You do not seem like mob girl."
A bit of a smug smile to herself at his question, the possessor rolling her shoulders. "I'm not a mob girl, I was born in Alabama." A blinking of her eyes as she looks around the room a bit more before refocusing her eyes on the man, "Will I see you again, after you take me to wherever?" Jet is acting cool, but then, maybe it is all an act.
"Yes," Dema says, without doubt or hesitation, "I think you will. Though you should hope not too often. If I see you often, you will be staying a long time, maybe."
A noncommital shrug from Jet to his words, not sharing anything about what was just spoken. "Are you the one who shot me?" A perk of her brow as her brown eyes latch on his blue ones. "Just so I know who to repay the favor to some day."
"No," Dema says, shaking his head. He gets to his feet, lifting the syringe towards the IV, "I cleaned the place you were shot. Your neck. It will not infect." He sets the tip of the syringe against the IV's tube. "Ready to sleep, Isabella?"
"Well. Thank you." To his words of her sleeping she lays her head back upon the cot, starring upwards for a few moments in silence, "I suppose. Don't think I'm going to be this complacent forever baby. I get bored easily." A smirk from her at this, a coolness to her brown orbs before she just closes them. "I hope I have a sex dream."
This actually makes Dema laugh. "If I can find the drug that does this, I will set it aside for you," he promises. He slides the needle's tip into the tube, and lets the sedative flow. "You will see me when you wake. Dream well."