ArchivedLogs:Cooperative

Cooperative
Dramatis Personae Regan, Scramble
In Absentia	2017-01-08 "I think we're done here." (CW: Graphic violence.)
Location <BOM> Vacant Cabin - Ascension Island
Of the number of presently unoccupied cabins on the Brotherhood compound, this is one of the more surreal ones. It's not /exactly/ storage space, but houses some extra furniture that, if removed, would leave it in habitable shape in relatively short order. As it stands, though, the living room has two couches, one upturned and nested into the other, and three coffee tables stacked like a bizarre cat tree, as well as more prosaic tower of chairs in one corner. Most of this clutter has been temporarily shoved to one side of the room, leaving three armchairs all facing each other. It's cold outside, but there's a healthy blaze in the fireplace. A lanky brown-skinned woman sits in one of the chairs, her long black hair pulled back in a fraying ponytail and square-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose. She wears a lavender button-down shirt and no-nonsense black slacks, all of good quality and tailored to fit her slender form, but dirty and somewhat disheveled at the moment. Her dark brown eyes stare blankly ahead, not actually focusing on anything in her line of sight. Scramble is curled up in another chair, one with a good view of both the door and the other woman. She looks freshly showered but weary in a hunter green Attack on Titan hoodie (the blue and white-winged shield of the Scout Regiment emblazoned on the back, the shoulders, and one breast pocket), thick, heavy blue jeans, and well-worn black Doc Martens. She has a smooth, high-polish lighter in rainbow spectrum colors cupped in one hand, long fingers turning it over and over, occasionally flicking its cover open and then shut again. The door to the cabin opens, a brief blast of cold from outside stirring the flames in the fireplace before the door shuts to keep the warmth inside once more. Regan has on dark jeans, a thick red cowl-neck sweater, a deep-knit crease between her brows as she surveys the room. Her eyes flick from the vacantly staring woman in the armchair to the more tired-looking one flicking the lighter in the other. One brow raises in silent questioning. Scramble gives a quick, salute-like 'Hello' in ASL and slips her lighter into a pocket. "Ion caught you up?" She unfolds herself from the chair and stands. "Isra was in no shape to carry through like we planned, and considering those prototypes we ran into...thought maybe you'd wanna talk to them anyway." She looks down ruefully at the catatonic woman in her chair "Well. /Her./ The other one didn't make it. Weak heart I guess." "Ion's story consisted mostly of expletives, but I got the gist." The low heels of Regan's boots click crisply against the floor as she moves in closer to the fire, takes the last empty seat. "An unfortunate evening all around. How are you doing? Ion and Isra have, at least, had some rest and care." The corner of Scramble's mouth quirks very briefly into a smile. "If you'd asked me to tell you a couple hours ago, my version probably woulda been mostly expletives, too." Her bony shoulders shrug and then stretch. "I caught a nap shortly after we got back, but mostly I been babysitting this one. We ain't exactly got standard operating procedures for prisoners, so I thought it best to make sure she doesn't take in too much." And, a beat later, she admits, "I'm...kinda rattled. Want me to wake her up?" "Building a dungeon just never seemed high priority. Clearly a terrible oversight." Regan's eyes skip from their visiting catatonic scientist to Scramble. "From what I've been hearing, it may be worth talking to her. Are you too rattled to stay?" Scramble huffs a quick breath, an aborted laugh. "I was all ready to watch Isra eat her face, so..." She shakes her head. "I'll be alright. And I know you're badass and all, but there's good reason we don't do nothin' alone." Her powers reach into the scientist's mind, tweaks and pulls and twists just so, releasing her from catatonia. It takes the researcher almost a minute to recover. The stillness trickles from her slowly, and her first movements are uncertain and experimental. Finally she gazes around her, blinking at Scramble and then Regan in turn, her eyes still adjusting from the brightness of the flames that she had been gazing into for so long. "You--" she starts, but interrupts herself with a coughing fit, her mouth and throat too dry to form proper speech. The second attempt goes a bit better: "Who are you? What do you want with me? If it's money--I'm sure my company will pay." "Oh, I've no doubt they would." Regan pushes herself up from the chair, wending her way back through the tumult of furniture somewhere off into the kitchenette in back. It takes a bit of rummaging before the tap runs; she returns with water in a large plastic mug cheerfully decorated with Stitch's grinning blue face, the little alien-creatures large ears serving as two big handles. Quietly, she sets the mug down on the arm of the researcher's armchair. Her mind has stretched out -- her uncertain telepathy not probing /deep/, but listening quietly to the other woman's thoughts as they might emerge. "We don't want your money. You are working on the Sentinel project, aren't you?" Scramble crosses her arms and stares down at the scientist impassively. Her jaw is set tight, her expression on the neutral side of hostile, and her entire posture guarded, closed. She remains silent. The researcher's eyes follow Regan nervously when she leaves the room, snapping back to Scramble every now and then. She flinches when Regan sets the cup down, as though she expected violence. Foremost in her mind is the desire for water and a faint suspicion of what it might be laced with, but she pushes that aside. She had just begun to reach for the water, but at the question she hesitates. Then completes the motion and drinks greedily. She's quite consciously using the excuse of drinking (though her need is certainly very real) to stall for time. << They surely /know/ at least somewhat about my work, and lying so blatantly will only make them doubt me, or worse, make them angry. >> "I am," she admits simply once she has stopped for breath from drinking. She does not put the cup down. "But I'm not any kind of project leader." << Don't say too much. Just wait. Their questions will give me an idea what answers they want. >> The water is only water. Cool, clean enough as city water goes. Regan steps back as the scientist drinks, settling back down in the armchair opposite their captive. "What is your role on the project?" Scramble's eyes narrow at the scientist. Flick briefly to Regan. Then back at the scientist, the unpleasant edge in her gaze almost palpable. She looks very much like she wants to say something, but holds her tongue for the moment. The scientist lifts the cup for another drink, but doesn't delay quite as long this time. "I'm in R&D," she says. "Though mostly what I do in this project is testing." << It's true, really. >> This thought has a sheen of lingering resentment, and even pride. << Though Curtis would have been hard pressed to do anything with those grid schematics without me. Where /is/ he, anyway? >> A cold spike of fear runs through her. "Where is the man you took? Curtis Gable. He was at the lab with me." Regan's eyes meet Scramble's briefly, brows ticking slightly upwards before she looks back to the scientist. Her hands fold lightly in her lap. "Here. Elsewhere in our compound." Her lips press slightly together. "Quicker to wake than you, and so far more forthcoming about your progress with the Sentinel experiments." Scramble neither looks nor feels surprised about the revelation that Curtis -- the other, /deceased/ researcher -- is 'elsewhere in our compound.' She does, however, quirk a small, non-too pleasant smile when Regan mentions Curtis's willingness to cooperate. The researcher's expression only twitches, but the warm light brown of her skin goes suddenly ashen. << Of course he would be. He certainly /thinks/ he knows more about it, but maybe he'll try to push it off on me to save his own hide. Ironic, if that ends up being the only time he admits I'm more competent. >> She draws a deep breath, lets it out. << I have to give them /something/ and see just how cheaply Curtis sold me out. >> "That is our current project, yes. What do you want to know about it?" Regan taps the side of her cheek with a finger, her expression neutral. "Let us start with the basics, shall we?" She leans forward ever so slightly, regarding their captive with a steady gaze. "What is your name? What is the goal of your project? And how close are you to achieving it -- or, at least, to a deliverable product?" The researcher blinks. "My name is Victoria Chaudhary." << They probably knew it already. They probably know all this, if they've talked to Curtis. >> "Project Ficus aims to integrate a system that suppresses the expression of mutant powers with existing Sentinel technology. We have working prototypes, but do not have adequate test data to advance to the next stage of production." "Very good." Regan has produced a small notebook and is jotting down notes in a tight, neat hand without taking her eyes off of Victoria for longer than an occasional quick glance down. "How does your team propose to obtain test data, then?" Victoria's lips press together. << They're /not/ going to like this. I had better soften it a bit. >> "We're subcontracting the testing. No yet, but when we have the mechanical problems sorted out we'll send some working prototypes and they'll send us back their report. My team won't be directly involved." << Thank God! >> "Oh?" Regan quirks the very tip of one blond eyebrow. "Who are you subcontracting this testing to, then?" Scramble rolls her shoulders slowly, watching Victoria with a certain predatory eagerness. Victoria hesitates, licking her chapped lips. << Well, then, time to fib. >> "They haven't decided yet, and I'm not sure who's under consideration, sorry." Regan's other brow quirks up, too, whether at the lie or the English apology. "Mm." She hums and taps the point of her pen lightly on the page. "Scramble, will you kindly bring Dr. Gable in?" "Sure thing," Scramble's reply is completely deadpan. She tips her head forward and slips into the adjoining bedroom. Putters around the room for a moment, moves a chair, and comes right back out. Walking in front of Scramble as she emerges is a squat white man, his thinning brown hair lightly dusted with gray. He's wearing a lab coat, khakis, and a truly hideous plaid button-down -- all very rumpled, though he looks physically unharmed. His eyes skate nervously between Regan and Victoria. "We appreciate your joining us, Sir," Regan says, sweeping a hand toward the empty chair. "Have a seat, por favor." Curtis gives a small, jerky nod and subsides into the proffered chair, holding Victoria's gaze for a long moment as he does so. "My pleasure," he says at last. "And uh, glad to see you're alright, Tori." Victoria stares, wide-eyed, at Curtis. "Me, too. Glad to see you're alright." "Now." Regan leans in her chair and steeples the tips of her fingers delicately. "Doctor Gable, would you be so good as to tell us who will be testing your prototype's capacity to suppress mutant powers?" Curtis nods again, licking his lips and glancing at Victoria. "Well, the customer is the Department of Homeland Security, but the prototypes won't be ready for actual testing for a few months yet. Word around the project is they're going to test on mutant prisoners, once our prototypes are stable enough for transport. Not like Prometheus, though, I mean actual /criminals./" Victoria's eyes grow wider and wider as she listens. << Oh no no no, what are you doing, Curtis? Are you trying to get us killed? >> Her gaze dances aside to the other two women present. << No, you're trying to get /me/ killed, to save your own skin. >> "We don't have any hand in making those decisions," she adds hastily. "That would be the the head of our project, Victor Stiles. He also does the liasing with DHS, Special Weapons Division." << Is that enough? What have I got to lose. >> "And, if you give me pen and paper, I can show you the basic principle of how the suppression grid works." Regan's eyes tick over to Scramble, who goes into the kitchen and returns shortly with a legal pad and a pencil, handing both to Victoria. Curtis looks on in obvious concern, but once the pad is in her hands Victoria herself calms. She takes up the pencil and starts scratching out notes in a neat, block-printed hand, accompanied by clean line sketches. Six pages later, she hands the pad over to Regan. "We honestly don't understand the principles behind the design. That was given to us by DHS, they just asked us to fit it onto a portable platform. I have no idea how well it actually works, that's for the testers to find out. But this is what we got. I hope it's useful to you." Regan scans the densely packed notes, head nodding mildly in approval. "Well done, Ms. Chaudhary. We appreciate your cooperation." She hands the pad to Curtis. "Does this look correct to you, Doctor?" Curtis takes somewhat longer to peruse the notes, but ultimately nods, his face pale and worried. "Yeah, that's...pretty succinct, yeah." He sounds humbled, maybe even a little sheepish. "Victoria has a pretty clear idea about this." "Good." Regan takes the pad back and studies it. Then looks up and studies its author. "Once again, we appreciate your openness. I think we're done here." She turns to Scramble, and regards her steadily. "You may leave now, if you wish." Scramble sucks in a deep breath, sets her jaw grimly. "No, I'll stay," she says at last, quietly. Regan inclines her head. "As you like. Now, Dr. Gable, would you be so kind as to dispose of your colleague for us?" Curtis pales, but nods firmly and, before Victoria can react, descends on her, wrapping his hands tight around her neck and forcing her back down into her chair. Victoria struggles and claws at her assailant, nails leaving red trails on his face and hands, but he does not let up. He shifts his grip, digging his thumbs into her throat. She gags as even the tiny trickle of air she'd fought for is cut off, her eyes huge and bloodshot, her face flushing. Her limbs continue to flail, their movements growing more feeble. Even after she mercifully loses consciousness, it's an obscenely slow death. Scramble watches -- forces herself to watch, really. She bites her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, then laps at it reflexively. Her hand tightens around the lighter, only easing when Curtis at last lets go of Victoria's motionless body. He vanishes; she does not start breathing again. Regan checks Victoria's neck for a pulse and seems satisfied with whatever she finds. "Go get some rest," she tells Scramble, straightening up. "Someone else can clean this up."