Post by Death Incarnate on Oct 12, 2015 8:10:10 GMT -6
The Gathering of the Three
“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”
- Arthur Miller -
“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”
- Arthur Miller -
Saturday, September 26th, 2015
Malibu, California
Malibu, California
At first it is merely a hallway, the walls little other than bare concrete and the floor likewise hard and unremarkable. As we watch, the heavy steel door, painted a cobalt blue, opens with a loud kerchunk sound and a familiar face walks through. And she, unlike her current environment, commands attention. Emily Morgan, seen recently during Detective Mulholland’s visit to this place, allows the door to shut behind her. She looks positively worn all to hell but still manages to look pretty damn attractive otherwise. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a messy ponytail with a few bangs hanging down, framing her youthful face and those inquisitive green eyes.
Clad in a form-fitting grey tank, even more form-fitting black yoga pants and black cross-trainers, Emily moves in near-silence down the hallway. She moves with purpose despite her fatigue, walking to the end of the hallway before stopping at the door to her right. In her hand is a cardboard drink carrier with a couple large cups held within, both steaming fragrantly. Emily raps upon the surface of the door and, when there’s no response from within, lets herself in. And within that room is a tech-head’s wet dream. A large desk lined with three monitors of grand size, towers hooked up to each one and various other equipment neatly fill the room ranging from scanners to security devices to several game consoles.
And in the midst of it all sits a young lady in a high-backed leather office chair with hair so damn pink it seems to give off it’s own light. Add in the Gothic-style makeup, the rhinestone collar and punky attire and she looks like a good candidate to play Harley Quinn’s Suicide Squad stunt double. Except, and she’d tell you herself, she was sporting this look long before they had a brain fart that led to that movie idea. Still, she’s weapons-grade cute and her eyes are locked upon the screens before her, the middle one to be precise. If one had to guess, they’d say she was in the middle of some unauthorized snooping. Emily walks a couple steps in before a sniffing sound is heard followed by a tiny squeal of delight.
”Do I smell pumpkin spice?!”
The girl spins around in her chair, sitting cross-legged in it as Emily walks up with a small smile. She takes one of the cups from the carrier and places it in the excited, pink-haired girl’s hands. Opening the lid, she takes a grateful sip and sighs in satisfaction.
”Oh, by everything evil and adorable that hits the spot!”
”I know how hard you’ve been working so I figured it was only right to bring you something tasty,” Emily replies, walking up behind the chair as the girl whirls around to face the screen again. ”So...any luck?”
”THAT depends on what you mean by luck, m’dear,” the girl replies as her fingertips are once more doing the lambada on the keyboard. ”Mistress didn’t tell ya whose phone record this was, did she?”
”She didn’t say and I didn’t ask,” Emily replied.
”Just handed it over cause our missing Doll’s number’s on it, right?”
”That’s what I think.”
”Well, just you have a look-see right here!”
Doing as her associate bids, Emily leans in close while sipping from the other cup taken from the carrier, squinting a little.
”...her?”
”Yup-yup! But wait, there’s more!”
The pink-haired girl manipulates the display skillfully and centers on one line in particular in this cell phone call log. The date is from several weeks ago, the call made late in the evening. One doesn’t have to imagine to see the gears turning in Emily’s head before she straightens up, the coffee cup almost falling from her slackened grip.
”That’s the night that...that…”
”That ain’t even the worst of it, El. Take a look at these here numbers,” the girl highlights several numbers on the list, ranging from a few weeks before to a few weeks after the previously-noted call, ”and tell me where those numbers came from.”
”Not from the states. Hmmm...England, maybe?”
”Right in one! Now, let’s open up Mistress’s logs…”
’Whoa, wait, what?!”
Emily reaches out and grabs the pink-haired girl’s hand quickly, almost in fear. Cracking the gum she’d been gnawing on between sips of pumpkin spice coffee, the girl stops but looks askance at her suddenly-afeared friend.
”Pan, seriously! You’ve got Mistress’s phone hacked?! Do you know what she’d do if she found out?!”
”I’ve got everyone’s phone hacked, El. Mistress’s orders...though I suppose she might not have meant HER phone too but, eh, details.”
Drawing back more out of shock than willingness to let the girl do her work, Emily watches numbly as Pan brings up their Mistress's call log and, once more, highlights the international number on her own call logs.
”Same number, but only one time. That date look familiar to you?”
”That’s the same day she had that freak-out, isn’t it? We had to put her in containment again, like that time with that creepy video.”
For the first time, the pink-haired girl looks somber. She leans back in her chair, once again folding her legs beneath her, hiding the pink-and-black-striped legwear she was affecting. Pan was showing more of her Abby from NCIS side now as opposed to the adorable crazy of Harley Quinn.
”Whoever made that call to Mistress is someone that this little betraying bastard,” Pan points to the right-hand monitor where the first call log has been shifted, ”has been burning up the lines with. I’d bet my X-Box Live account that she had a hand in Doll disappearing.”
Nodding, Emily takes another sip of her coffee before setting the cup down.
”Do you know who that number belongs to?”
”Give me some time and I’ll find out. You gonna tell Mistress about this?”
Looking utterly conflicted, Emily is silent before simply shaking her head once. A pink brow elevates as Pan makes a loud pop with her gum, staring at her friend.
”I don’t like that, El. If she finds out that we know something and aren’t telling her, and worse if you know who finds out…”
Fear shows on Pan’s face which still manages to be cute somehow. But Emily is adamant, shaking her head again with arms folded.
”If there’s blowback, I’ll tell her it was my idea. When you find out something more, call that detective at the police station. Until then...just do what you do, Pan. If this is what I think it is, Mistress is going to need us more than she’ll ever admit.”
The gesture of embracing Pan seems to be a surprising one if the pink-haired girl’s face is any indicator, but she hugs back while petting Emily’s arms.
”We can’t fail her.”
”I get it, I do. But you need sleep. Leave that coffee of yours here and hit the sack. Trust me, it won’t go to waste.”
Emily can’t resist a grin at Pan’s candor, nodding and leaving the room. Pan, before Emily is even gone, flips a switch on the nearby iPod dock, causing the sounds of Slipknot to blare out through her custom sound-system. Once the door closes, the music is barely audible and Emily returns down the hall through her original entrance in near-silence.
Friday, October 2nd, 2015
Santa Maria, California
Santa Maria, California
The restaurant is upscale to a grand level, to the point that there’s not a soul within that isn’t dressed to the nines. One of those places where appetizers cost as much as a minimum wage job’s weekly paycheck, where reservations are made six months in advance. Our attention is swiftly directed toward the front doors just as they’re held open for a new entrant, one who has the attention of every male within sight the moment she steps in. The crimson satin gown draped around her athletic figure nearly sweeps the floor with every graceful step she takes, only missing the floor by a couple inches in part due to the spiked black heels glimpsed beneath. Those heels raise her to an even six feet tall, letting her stare down or into the eyes of most of the people around her...something that’s a little unnerving thanks to the icy color of her gaze, to say nothing of the cold demeanor behind it.
She saunters past the podium, past the line of people waiting at it, ignoring the host’s entreaties that she must wait her turn. The man goes so far as to reach for her arm which stops her but also brings her frozen glare upon him. He’d have let go if the fire-haired woman didn’t have him locked in place.
”I’m expected,” she says quietly as her eyes flick to his hand then to his face. ”You’re excused.”
Of course, the tone of her last two words made “you’re excused” sound more like “let go before I rip your arm off”, but hey...details. The host does as commanded and she resumes moving with the same grace shown previously, making a direct path for one of the restaurant’s central tables where two men sit, chatting quietly with one another. One, on the right, is leaned back in his chair comfortably with a glass of chardonnay cupped in his palm, slowly swirled as he gazes into the contents. His hair is perfect, his suit is well-tailored and his demeanor is pleasant yet firm.
In contrast, the man to his right is dressed about as casually as one could get away with in an establishment of this level: a long, black coat worn over a simple white button-down, hair that could do with a brush and an expression betraying boredom and irritation. He’s tapping the edge of a half-filled glass of bourbon impatiently, pausing only to check his watch and glance to his companion who, from time to time, meets his gaze. However, when the red-garbed woman walks up to the table, both sets of eyes turn her way. The more well-mannered of the two rises as she approaches, the epitome of good manners. He nods and she nods in return. The other? He glances up at her briefly, scoffs and downs the rest of his drink before setting the glass down with a thump.
”You’re late,” he grunts quietly, lifting a hand to signal the server for another drink. ”Again.”
”You’re lucky I showed up at all,” the woman retorted sharply. ”Are you of the mind that you speak and I jump? Or did you simply forget on which side your bread is buttered?”
The standing gentleman, moving to draw out a chair for the woman, looks between the two with a resigned expression. His body language says it all: this is a normal occurrence between these two.
”If you’d rather be rotting in that rubber room still, I could make a call or two,” the seated man snaps back quietly, affecting a predatory smile.
”And then how would you get close to your little sparrow? Or did you forget what happened last time?”
The seated man’s face sets sharply and he’s now glaring up at the woman who, in response, smiles sweetly. Their tones are kept down so as not to draw attention but people are starting to wonder what’s going on regardless.
”How many pieces DID she take off that little bastard of yours?”
”You arrogant wench!”
”That will DO, Balthazar! Honestly, must it be the same every time with you two?!”
The man’s voice is recognizable immediately...the accent, the impeccable enunciations. He was seen last time dealing with another unruly pair, though not visibly. Balthazar scoffs and fairly snatches the offered glass from the server, sipping of it before plunking it down before him on the table. The other man, meanwhile, garners the attention of the woman in an effort to halt the verbal hostilities.
”You must forgive my friend, Miss Jamison. He’s a bit stressed by this situation. We both are. Please…”
He gestures to the chair and Miss Jamison takes a seat. The man retakes his own seat, relieved that for the moment the situation has calmed. Peripheral attention is elsewhere once again as the woman, shooting a stare at Balthazar, turns to the other man.
”You made this sound like an emergency, Gaspar.”
”Exactly that. The net, as they say, is closing around our targets. However,” he pauses for a sip of his wine before continuing, ”the aforementioned sparrow of ours is ever a wild card. Have you spoken to her of late?”
The server queries as to Miss Jamison’s preference of beverage, to which she responds by ordering a cosmopolitan before her attention is back on Gaspar.
”She comes apart at the seams more every day. Your latest gambit yanked quite hard on one of her loosest threads,” she responds, crossing one leg over the other. ”Worse, for her, she remains in the dark concerning our actions.”
The martini is quickly set down before the woman though she barely pays any heed to it as her attention shifts to Balthazar.
”And what of your end? Surely her tarted-up secretary has cracked by now…”
A questioning tone lingers in her voice, obviously intended to rattle the other man. She draws the olives from her glass and eats one of them while her stare remains on Balthazar. Gaspar expects another outburst but is relieved when nothing of the sort happens.
”Oh, she spilled. A little while ago, in fact,” he sips from his glass with a triumphant smirk. ”In eight hours, we’ll have what we need from the scavenger who first betrayed our cause. And once we have what he has…”
”...her fate and that of those around her will be sealed.”
”If everything is in hand then why call me here?”
”Because, surprising as it is to me, we still have use of you,” Balthazar retorts. ”You will deliver one last message, have one last meeting, with the lost sparrow that will nail her coffin shut for good.”
”Will I?”
Gaspar lifts a hand to his face as Balthazar sits forward slowly, his head canted to the side a little.
”Excuse me?”
The woman languidly sits back in her chair and sips her beverage, affecting a bored expression of her own.
”I didn’t hear a ‘please’ in there, Balthazar.”
”All it would take is one phone call to have you carted off again, witch! Or did you forget who made your freedom possible?!”
”So I’m supposed to get on my knees for you for doing something I could have accomplished on my own in due time? You went to the effort of getting me released because you needed me, because I was the only one with the experience and insight to get close to your little runaway,” Miss Jamison retorts calmly, pausing for another drink before continuing. ”Because we’ve all seen what happens when your heavy-handed ass tries for subtlety and intrigue.”
It looks for sure as if Balthazar is going to rise and lunge at the woman and were it not for Gaspar taking hold of his arm that might very well have happened.
”Enough, Balthazar!”
”To hell with her and her disrespect, Gaspar!”
”I said enough!”
The woman is hardly bothered by the interlude taking place in front of her but nonetheless gives Gaspar her attention when he addresses her.
”It is a stressful time, Miss Jamison...a dangerous time. The closer we get to our goal the greater the margin for error. In his own brusque way, however, my partner here is correct. Each side owes the other here. We ask that you take one more interview with her, offering her these,” Gaspar lets go of Balthazar’s arm and retrieves an envelope which he slides across the table to the woman, ”with the instruction that she is to keep her distance and not interfere any longer. Can you do that for us and thus have our debts settled?”
Miss Jamison draws the envelope close, picks it up and sifts through the contents a little. Shuffling through a small stack of pictures, she acquires an amused expression again before returning them to the envelope.
”I can do that. However, if she becomes violent…”
”Do what you will. What we cannot.”
”Since you asked so kindly, I will be happy to.”
She shoots a glare at Balthazar who is more focused on his drink now in an effort to keep from another attention-grabbing outburst. Miss Jamison rises, as does Gaspar, and the two shake hands before she turns and leaves, her beverage unfinished at the table. Retaking his seat, Gaspar turns to Balthazar.
”You wear yourself down to the bone lately, my friend. Everything is in hand at this point, every variable considered. Allow yourself respite before you’re too far gone to enjoy the fruits of our labors.”
”...bah. Fine.”
Relaxing a bit at his partner’s gruff acquiescence, Gaspar sits back and sips from his wine, the view backing away from the pair’s table as it fades out.
Saturday, October 3rd, 2015
North of San Jose, California
North of San Jose, California
Within spitting distance of Silicon Valley but not quite within the San Jose city limits there are secluded residences and small neighborhoods, most belonging to employees both mid and high-level in the technology and electronics industries. At this early hour, the sun has barely begun to rise over the horizon, most of the sky still a dark indigo save for the slowly-brightening cyan of the further reaches. Down one of the winding valley roads pulls a military-style Hummer, its lights off and its pace gradual.
Past house after house it goes until it pulls in front of a small, single-floor bungalow that is, to put it nicely, dilapidated. No car in the drive, windows either barred or boarded and a yard several weeks beyond the realm of unkempt. Slowed to a stop, the vehicle is shut off and several men exit it moments later. To a man, all seven are heavily geared with military-issue equipment and the move with near silence up to the front door of the house. Their positioning is impeccable as the lead man tries the door but, predictably, finds it locked. He gestures to a man to the right of the door who, utilizing a wired device, rigs the lock. At the press of a button, a small pop and a click sounds, allowing for the door to be opened.
Within the house there’s little to see: multiple stacks of twine-bound newspapers and magazines, ramshackle furniture haphazardly placed and a great deal of miscellaneous tech such as disassembled computer towers, monitors and security systems. The soldiers fan out, checking the rooms and every hallway, leaving the lead man in the group in the main room. Taking the radio from his belt, he speaks into it quietly.
”Epsilon Leader reporting…”
Static emits from the other end of the radio, followed by a gruff yet familiar response.
”Report.”
”We’ve gained entry. No sign of the target so far."
”Little bastard may have run off. No matter. The files are what we’re after. He’ll have his main systems set up downstairs. Initiate radio silence until the mission is complete.”
”Yes, sir!”
The other soldiers converge on the commander’s position and he gestures for them to shut off their radios, then points out a heretofore unopened door, presumably leading to the basement. He gestures at three of the men and then at the door, keeping his voice down as he issues orders.
”You two cover Yates while he acquires the data. We’ll cover this floor. Move fast.”
The men salute, following Yates down the steps toward the basement. Flashlights lit, they sweep about the area at the bottom before finding a heavy steel door. Opening it, they walk into a room with a massive computer system installed, including no less than eight wall-mounted flatscreen monitors. The large console beeps silently on the other side of a large, leather office chair. The men enter quietly and whip the chair around but find nothing…
...nothing, that is, except a stuffed penguin. Exchanging confused looks, Yates prods the toy with the muzzle of his rifle but it proves to be nothing other than an ordinary plushie. One of the other soldiers picks up the toy, noticing too late that there’s a wire attached to the bottom. A loud explosion rocks the room, the offending soldier falling back against the wall, reeling and screaming and cradling what’s left of his hand. Coughing and trying to wave off the smoke, the other soldiers yell out as two silenced gunshots ring out through the smoke, sending them to the floor with large darts protruding from their necks.
”Yates! Report! Son of a…”
The commander gestures for the others to follow him downstairs, the quartet moving cautiously. Caution almost goes out the window when they see one of their team maimed and the other two unconsciously. They remain near the doorway, keeping a clear route of escape, trying to sweep the room for their attacker. The sound of a gun clicking elsewhere in the room has two of the men spraying the shadows with bullets before the commander shoves them back, ordering them to stop.
”Idiots! You’ll hit the console!”
”I wouldn’t worry too much about that. There’s nothing worth taking on there anymore.”
The quiet, smooth voice speaks from another part of the room, the source keeping to the shadows wisely.
”Show yourself, Melchior!”
”Unlikely, Keller. Let me guess: Gaspar and Balthazar sent you here thinking that you’d just waltz in, take what you wanted and leave me in a pool of blood. No loose ends, right? After all, what’s a cowardly little nerd like me going to do to stop you?”
Disdain is thick in Melchior’s voice as he speaks, the words coming out through gritted teeth.
”You go back and tell your taskmasters that the data they’re looking for is long gone and that however they made the woman tell them about this place...it was all for naught.”
A beeping sound is heard and the consoles lights start glowing red. The number ‘45’ appears on the eight monitors and immediately starts ticking down.
”Even if the data were here, you’d never have enough time to acquire it. This place is going up like a Roman candle in, oh, about 38 seconds. If I were you, I’d start running. And when you get back to Gaspar and Balthazar, tell them I’ll see them rot for this.”
Keller, the group’s commander, shouts at his men to get their wounded allies and hump their asses out of the house! Barrelling up the stairs as fast as they can, they burst out the front door and have barely enough time to get behind the Hummer before the entire house explodes violently. The vehicle rocks from the shockwave of it but, luckily for them, they’re not injured by the debris. That blast damn sure woke up the neighbors, though, even the distant ones, and Keller orders everyone into the Hummer as he radios Balthazar again.
”Report.”
”The little bastard had the place rigged, sir! The whole house just went up in smoke!”
”Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t get the files…!”
Keller doesn’t immediately respond, leading to a string of curses from Balthazar and the line being cut. Having no time to ruminate on the situation, Keller shuts the Hummer door and drives his team out of the area as nonchalantly as possible while smoke and ash hang in the air where Melchior’s home had once stood.
