2010-05-14: Boyscout Gone Wild



Date: May 14, 2010


"Some of the bravest and the best men of all the world, certainly in law enforcement, have made their contributions while they were undercover." — Thomas Foran

"Boyscout Gone Wild"

Warehouse— Undisclosed Location, New York

It's been days and Sydney still has been relatively tight lipped as she's struggled to understand what to do about the situation the two therapists have found themselves in. They're in relatively comfortable quarters all things considered, particularly as they're kidnapped; things could be a lot worse. Fortunately Roberto liked Syd even if she had recommended his permanent institutionalization.

Standing from her bed— which really, is more of a cot, she shuffles over to the television and turns it off following a breaking news report about a shootout in the Meat Packing District. Her shoes have been long since abandoned in lieu of barefeet— high heels and concrete floor are a painful combination. "I just don't know what to do…" it's an impossible situation. She talks more to herself than Amy.

Finally shuffling to the door, she bangs on it loudly. She's going to request something to make it look like she's trying here, right?

The other captured therapist has gone from tight-lipped to rambling to tight-lipped again; wash, rinse, repeat ad infinitum. Now is one of Amy's quieter, more contemplative moments, her face painted with anxiety as she stands in a corner of the room, facing outward, her arms crossed over her colorful, short-sleeved blouse. Like Sydney, she's barefoot on the concrete. For a captive, she's well put-together, but there are signs of the captivity wearing her down — the messy hair, the rare cosmetic free face. Mostly, the constant state of distress. The TV gains her attention only to lose it; she looks away from the screen. "I'm telling you— just— " Amy sounds annoyed. She gestures, and gold bangles rustle on her wrist. " — go along with him up to a certain point. He wants us to talk to him, we'll just talk our way out of it. What're you doing?"

Without a quick response, Sydney bangs on the door harder now. "You don't understand, Amy," exasperatedly she leans against the wall next to the door and slides down until she's sitting on the floor. "he's not normal dangerous… he's not just some two-bit psychopath. Did you see what he did?! What he can do?! I can try to keep him calm, but I can't do a good job of it when I can't practice my yoga— this skirt isn't conducive, and Trent's at home all alone, and that plane went down in the freakin' Amazon and Jamie was probably on it— " And now Sydney is officially rambling.

"And I just got so it was safe to go home again and now this! Of course this! You know, a person tries to grab on to what little happiness is available, trying to find some sense of normalcy. I swear, I'm irreversibly screwed up— " Or having another psychotic break with reality as she comes off her meds?

"Yeah," Amy sputters with a laugh that bears no humour, just incredulity and cynicism. "He's a hundred-bit psychopath and so are all the people who work for him!" She unfolds her arms and strides over to her cot, sitting on the end while she looks down at Sydney, barely missing a beat as she keeps talking, quickly, almost manically. "It's not your fault this happened— he's not … right— " In the head, that is. "It's not your fault he latched onto you as, I don't know, his savior, or whatever's going on— " The woman pauses to slooow down and say, more calmly, "Look… Syd… we'll sit down and talk, I know you've been off your meds for awhile… we can improvise without yoga."

Banging on the door created a response outside of voices, disrupted from what they were doing, and now edging closer to the room of captivity. " — see what they want already." The bitter Irish voice concludes, raising to include, "A'right, settle down in there!" The dismissal is, however, followed by the rattle and clank of the thick locks between the two rooms before the door opens to reveal the pug-faced thug at the door and, over his t-shirted shoulder, an assortment of others narrowly eyeing the women, some from a set of old ratted furniture — there might be a pool table for whatever reason in a building like this — but most from farther off as they unload and settle a collection of similarly sized boxes. "Now what," their door-opener inquires none too kindly, "Is all the ruckus about, lasses?"

"I'm not— Amy, I lied. I'm not on— " And then she's interrupted by the door opening. Sydney looks up at the man standing there and issues him a smile, "I need pen and paper. And a book— uh— Freud's dream book… whatever it's called," she says waving a hand flippantly. Forcing herself back to a standing position she waggles a finger at the man, "Your boss wants my help, I suggest you help me out by getting me these things and acting more pleasant! I'm effective when I'm happy— and… fed. Yes. Food. We need food too. Um…" Her gaze turns back towards the now-off television as she tries to remember endorphin-inducing foods, "Strawberries. And almonds." They might help her regulate her mood so she can maybe(?) regulate Roberto's. A happy thug is a non-murderous one, right?

"Sydney…" Amy starts to say, a sort of sad glint in her eye. Poor girl, in other words; off her meds and under all this stress, too, she's bound for a psychotic break before she ever gets to "help" Roberto. That's the easiest version for the older therapist to digest. Her head soon snaps up and she glares indignantly at the man at the door. Her fingers curl around the cot, manicured nails digging into the mattress while Sydney makes her requests.

The first response for Sydney is an incredulous stare as a man who mules drugs for a living attempts to wrap his mind around Freud and strawberries. "What," he snaps disbelievingly, "Ye gonna make a whole fuckin' grocery list now, ar' ye?" Since a couple of the others still moving boxes snigger behind his back, the man bristles especially strong, a visible debate going on across his face as to what he'd rather be doing. He side-steps with his grip on the door, opening it wider and turning his head to call out across the warehouse floor. "Somebody's got a paper or somethin', broad is makin' a fuckin' list." — "Aye, we've got a skin mag on the fridge!" is the overly amused return shout — Door thug actually moves farther from the doorway to glance around for something close and convenient enough to make Sydney make do with.

"Roberto said to get us what we wanted. I'd go get it myself, but frankly, I think your boss would have a more of a problem with that— " Sydney quips back at the complaints. As he moves farther away from the doorway, the therapist steps into the frame. She's not making a break for it, not without her friend, but she can't let them think she's afraid of them or they'll all take advantage of that. She leans against the doorway before pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail using an elastic she keeps around her wrist for emergencies. Like getting kidnapped.

"Seriously? You don't have a piece of paper and a pen?" Clucking her tongue she shakes her head. "That's unfortunate…"
Amy has disconnected.

The man's rolling his eyes high to the ceiling for, dear God, some patience not to smack a shrink — a shrink the boss likes — and he opens his mouth to respond. It isn't his voice that comes out.

" — like talking to a bunch of useless fucking mannequins — and WHAT is talking you slow-ass mother SLACKING fuckers SO LONG?!" That thunderclap of an approach, heralded only otherwise by the bang of a door somewhere beyond this alcove of space, is Roscoe. To the tune of which, Door Thug immediately forfeits pen and paper, even skin mag, to make himself a little less noticeable against the door. He's practically in the cell with Sydney by the end of the declaration to which Roscoe appears, marching a storm-cloud of a tantrum into the room and already in the act of tearing his amber jacket off his shoulder and arm. He's showing a bit of wear: hints of damage to his jeans, one clean slice along his cheekbone, hair falling this way and that.

The heavy scent of smoke follows like a trail behind him as he stomps non-stop to the first chair, and the man staring at him from on it, gets a good grip on the back and flings forward. The furniture rockets up, effectively ejecting its occupant; which, as it turns out, is a favor to the member previously on it because the next thing that happens is Roscoe pulls a shoulder back and flings the seat across the room.

It smacks into the door-frame right next to Sydney, not from any purpose, though. He wasn't even looking in her direction.

The voice is familiar, distinct, even. Well before Roscoe rounds the corner, Sydney knows who it belongs to. Even as the other thug is ushered into the room with her, she's frozen, unsure what to do, how to respond, or even how to reanimate herself at this point.

Her face pales as her eyebrows furrow. Nothing like making a bad situation worse. Thoughtfully, she presses her lips together before opening her mouth again, this time managing to ask the thug she'd been addressing earlier, "W-w-who is that?"

"Fuckin' Roscoe," Sydney's new thug best friend replies instantly before shooting her a look that wonders what he's doing telling her in the first place. The glance isn't long; he can't seem to stop himself watching across the room with one part admiration and two parts sheer fear. A waver of superstition motivates his hands. "Not a man, tho', shrink. Jus' violence come down to sort it." A tug of a smirk pulls at his mouth as he sways his head to the side to regard Sydney. "He ain't lovable like the rest of us, luv." His own words spark a change, a subtle light-bulb of mischief as he straightens his shoulders away from the wall still watching her. A flickering glance to Roscoe. Slipping a hand behind Sydney's back, the thug lays it against her a moment, suggesting, "How's about you go'n ask him for your little grocery list," before giving her a mighty shove into the room proper.

"Roscoe?" Sydney tweaks an eyebrow. Laurie. Roscoe. They're the same person. She frowns at the notion of the violence and swallows hard as she is pushed into the room by the thug. Awesome. Now she gets to face another former patient. Do all of them turn out crazy after she's done with them. Straightening her skirt, she gets up the little nerve that she has left— it is waxing and waning— and takes an actual step into the room. She stares at the man she kind of knows. The man who dubbed her acceptable and she lets this push her just a little further, far enough to venture saying something. Anything. "… Roscoe…?" she eyes him cautiously and fights the urge to say anything untoward.

Having cracked his neck mightily with a toss of it to the side, Roscoe since retired to the pool table, leaning against its outer edge with the semi-satisfaction of the chair having put him out of the worst of his anger. Someone or another has already delivered a flask of liquor into his hand, and he sets it aside to run a soothing hand through his hair, pushing it behind him in a style far different than the clean-cut others might have seen him with in another life. Smacking his palms together afterwards, he's settled enough to notice that everyone in the room is yet staring — holding their breath like waiting on something. "Well?" Snaps them out of it.

The shuffle of Irishmen trying to beat each other to be faster to get back to work somewhat masks the sound of Sydney's barefoot steps. Twisting to the side for his booze, Roscoe hesitates, pauses— really examines to his side to find and pluck out a shard of glass that he then carelessly flicks across the room. It ends with Sydney in his periphery. He glances over on the tail-end of her saying his name. A hard stare. All through… not even a single instant's illusion of recognition for the acceptable therapist.
"Who the fuck is this?"

"Falkland. Doctor Falkland," Sydney says simply before observing everyone else's body language towards the consultant-turned-gang-banger. Her eyes narrow as goosebumps form on her arms. While she may not be in control of her ability, it's certainly in control of her. She feels fear. Their fear. With a small shiver she maintains her position, pushing courage forward, even if she can sense nothing but fear around her.

"I'm your boss' shrink." Beat. "Or I was." Her face pales again at the thought of Roberto and what he's going to do if she succeeds in helping him increase his ability, not that it's possible, anyways. With a small frown she eyes him, "You have glass in your arm." Beat. "I have steady hands." She glances around. "Steadier than anyone else here I imagine. I'm also good with tweezers…"

Roscoe's unblinking stare persists a few seconds longer after she's introduced herself before he gives a dismissive sniff, arms pulling to his sides to brace against the pool table. "Yeah, right. The shrink. Fantastic." Leaning forward lightly in order to look around Sydney, the man peruses the room for someone to blame — the first unfortunate person to catch his eye. Nobody volunteers. "What is she doing out of her box?" is sent to the avoiding room in general.

Even the door thug has managed to make himself busy with something — maybe he's watching TV with that other shrink in this two for one deal — so there's little else to do but eventually return attention to Sydney. Before responding, he takes up the flask, swallowing a large gulp of harsh alcohol. Another sniff. He looks away, looks backs. Challenging. "You wanna pull glass outta my arm?" Hesitating briefly, momentarily taken off-guard, he looks: oh. Yeah. So there is glass there. Huh. Ahem: "What, you a nurse along with a shrink, Faaaalkland?"

Sydney frowns at the reaction. "No, I'm not a nurse." She presses her lips into a thin straight line, her resolve not changing and her gaze maintaining its focus on the man she knows as Laurie the always-eating always-pithy police consultant. She pushes that image forward in her mind to help her maintain her gaze. "I just don't think any of these…" her eyebrows furrow. What is a person supposed to call their captives? Insults probably. But then, she wants to stay in most of their good graces. Mostly. "…gentlemen seem willing to help you. I work at a distress centre, I have basic first aid."

Awaiting her choice of words, Roscoe is clearly interested, and amused, to see what she'll come up with to describe the likes of the Irishmen. In a moment, his look is familiar. At her polite tameness, there's a chuckle, the first break of a smile that he wrestles away by running his tongue instead his cheek. "These gentlemen," he says, pushing hands away from the table to raise up, making lazy quote fingers in the air around the chosen descriptor. "Have better things to do." But as he settles back against his post, arms crossing lazily against his chest, two fingers and the nod of his head indicate a cupboard a few yards ahead of them.

And with that familiar look, Roscoe earns himself a very small, almost-not-there smile. Sydney rises from the table and opens the cupboard which she digs through and pulls out a first aid kit. Sure enough within that she finds tweezers, but it lacks anything to sterilize the wound. With a small frown she peeks into the cupboard again and extracts a bottle of vodka. "Perfect waste of alcohol," she quips before quietly padding back to Laurie, her barefoot steps nearly silent as she returns to him. She pours the liquor over the tweezers before peeking at Roscoe's wound, "Can you step into the light for me? Unless you want me poking and prodding your skin…"

An expressive wince follows her choice of how to use that vodka, Roscoe making sneaky hands towards the bottle when she's done pouring to see if there's any left. That arm is called for, though, and he adjusts himself with a touch of growing exasperation. "Isn't that what'yer gonna do anyway, lady?" A searching glance to the ceiling spies the unnatural yellow-tinted lights of the warehouse, other hanging lamps hovering in the vicinity, though almost half of them are broken or buzzing with the intent to burn out. Easing away from the pool table with a grunt of displeasure, he just sort of impatiently thrusts the arm at her, fingers closed in a fist, to have her move it where she will.

Luckily for Roscoe the bottle contains several swallows of booze still, even after the tweezers have been sterilized. "Well theoretically I'm going to poke and prod the glass in your arm," Sydney pulls his arm closer into the light so she can get a good look at it. It's almost reassuring knowing that he's here, even if he's not her favourite person in the world. Pressing her lips together, she carefully begins going about her work, gently really, putting the little glass shards into a small container she found in the first aid kit. After taking out a couple of smaller shards she observes, "You can certainly clear a room, can you?" Not everyone is gone, but they've certainly left some distance between Roscoe and Sydney and themselves.

"Yeah, well, theo— etiqu — bullshit on the boss' time, not mine." So Roscoe's not a master of the larger words in the dictionary; he doesn't need them, as she so aptly expresses by the room's emptiness, the thugs' sudden productivity. Chin raised, he stares down his nose at her handiwork in unwavering scruntiny: willing her to make some kind of slip-up. There's a touch of pride in the way he pulls his lip up even over that constant critique. "So I run a strict house. It gets the work done. You know, real business-like." Unthinking, he moves his hands to tug on his shirt importantly, forgetting that she's pulling sharp pieces of glass out of one of those arms. The movement is badly timed, strange with how closely he was watching her; the bump of his arm and her hand not only further embeds one of the larger pieces but jabs him with the tweezers, too.
Instantly there's a growl, Roscoe twisting his hand to snatch at hers roughly, yanking her forward as he grits out, "Watch it." Deftly, ring and pinkie finger slide something from his hand to press into her palm, shielded from the room by the rest of his grip.

An unhappy squeal is emitted as she's pulled forward. Laurie or not, she wasn't expecting that. She scowls at the movement and then the comment. "I'm doing the best I can," she hisses back as she pockets the contents of her palm. Her face may be scowling but something softens in her eyes, just a little and just for a moment. With another deep breath she lifts the arm a smidge higher and squints as she looks for more of the glassy pieces. "The boss doesn't care much for discussing his thoughts either," she murmurs as she plucks one of the shards again. "Or his feelings for that matter." Her nose wrinkles as she busies herself further with her work, "How did this happen?"

She softens, but the lines in Roscoe's face only darken warningly. What measure of amusement was allowing this encounter has been swallowed by that impatience, and he seems to openly debate the worth of shoving her back into the cell room. At the mention of Roberto's lack of over-sharing, he snorts rudely. "Shocker. We talk about our emotions and cry all the fuckin' time. Like, seriously, what are you even doing here." No, like, seriously. Now when she gets to work again, he plays at reacting to each prod, starting movement or grunting in annoyance — gotta keep her on her toes. As for how it happened: "I felt like swimming in a window. What do you care?"

Pressing her lips together again she shakes her head, and then answers, "I wasn't talking about therapy here. No, I was his therapist elsewhere. I'm a little surprised he took me all things considered…" With another shrug she goes about her work further, responding to the grunts and groans in turn. "Come on now, just hold still." She frowns after the question, "I'm a therapist. I'm trained to care. It's my job." She sighs, "And believe it or not, I take my job very seriously…"

Whatever; Roscoe rolls his eyes away from her with barely any attention to the answer he even asked for. "Boring, boring, annnnnd we're done here." Announcement followed by him unceremoniously pulling his arm right out from her careful work. Brushing along there to dispel any other clinging pieces, "I got places to be and you've — got a box." To which he points with an insistent jab meant to be obeyed. Twisting to the opposite site, he pulls up the jacket he'd shed earlier, shoving a hand into one of its expansive pockets and… there's some deeper groping but the hand ultimately comes up empty. Roscoe's head raises as his eyes lose focus, not seeing the room but recounting every step before that. Sucking in a breath meant to be calming, he instead releases it all with a low, unhappy growl.

"Whatever," Sydney responds while her bare feet pad back towards her cell. But she stops short as Roscoe rifles through its pockets. "Missing something?" she asks quietly while tugging on her blouse. One of these days she's going to need to make a request for different clothes. Hospital scrubs at least. Now that would be much more comfortable. If she's going to be here awhile, she's going to do her best to stay comfortable.

Roscoe's eyes snap open at this first thing to get his attention after the frustration set in. His head jerks to the side. Then a sudden push forward and he's strode right up to her, hand raising to the collar of that blouse with a grip that he uses to haul her part way off her own feet and straight into the doorway of the cell, shaking her away like lint sticking to his hand and not a flesh and blood person. "Yeah," he bites off, looming in the way, hand braced against the heavy door, "My patience for stupid questions." *SLAM*

Sydney stiffens in the grasp and all out scowls as she's thrust back into the cell. The slamming door causes her to cringe. She stares at the door thug as she stomps over to her cot, she has to seem upset, even with her shiny new toy… "That was a waste of time. Useless," she murmurs as she glances from Amy to the thug and back again.

Amy, who had been restlessly pacing from the corner to the cot and back again without taking her eyes off the door and the thug who is in here (she's going to get a kink in her neck), gives a sudden start and runs barefooted to Sydney. "God— Syd! Are you okay?!" she says, forcing her voice into a whisper. She lowers down onto Sydney's cot beside her. "I'm getting tired of not knowing what on earth is going on around here!"

"H-Hey!" The door slamming shut comes as much to a surprise to the remaining Irishman as anyone else. Attempting to remain composed in front of the freakin' hostages, he still somewhat hurries to the door, attempting the handle and then raising a fist to bang out his protest. "Now hold on jus' a minute!" A glance over his shoulder to glare at the womens then he turns completely to them, smoothing his shirt and attempting to look like he's supposed to be there — keeping an eye on them, you know. "So," he postures, "You get all yer womanly demands?"

"I'll be fine," Sydney mutters sullenly. It's theatrics for the goon in the room more than anything. "No, I didn't. Roscoe is incomprehensibly difficult to talk to," Sydney quips theatrically. "Seriously, no amount of therapy could ever cure the violence from that man. EVER." She purses her lips together and then stares evenly at the thug, "I need you to write that list. You should get paper."

Amy looks from Sydney to the Irish thug to Sydney to the— you get the drift. Finally, drawing her high eyebrows in, she buckles down on her fear and takes a cue from the younger therapist, giving the man at the door a solid little nod with her chin. "You heard the lady!" She struggles valiantly to not add "please".

"… Yeeaahh…" Her demand for paper wipes the smugness off the thug's face as it reminds them all that he's currently as trapped in as they are. Sullenly, he raises his hand to his shoulder and knocks backwards on the door again. When there's no immediate response, he covers some more. "Told ye, din' I? Yer only lucky ye din'— "

Whooooosh, the door opens with no preamble and Roscoe's once again looming in its wake with a straight-lined mouth void of emotion. Straightening his shoulders, the thug gives Sydney a rude gesture then takes his first step towards the outer warehouse —

THKKKK is the sick sound the door makes when it connects on a swift jerk forward with the thug's face, instantly breaking his nose. There isn't even a flicker of reaction on Roscoe's as he opens the door right back up again, takes the man bodily by the back of the shirt much like his grip on Sydney, and hauls him completely out of the way. He stays only a second longer to eye the two therapists: "Ladies~" And then SLAM the door a second time, leaving them quite alone.

Once the thug is safely on the other side of the door, Sydney reaches into her pocket and extracts a shiny buck pocket knife which she tucks under one of the mattresses. In a hushed whisper she explains, "He's a cop. Roscoe is a cop. He wrote that letter I showed you the other day." Her eyebrows furrow as she motions for Amy to join her on one of the beds to talk in hushed whispers, "I did his psych eval, and I never would've cleared him for this, but I know him… he gave me the gift…" she motions towards the mattress and hopes they won't need it.

"Amy… you need to know something… I lied to you before; I'm not on meds. There are people who can do extraordinary things in this world. Roberto is one of them. My friend Kitty back at the coffee shop is another…. Roberto got that guy to do what he did because he is special…" Her eyes widen incredulously, Amy has to believe her. She has to for her own safety and survival here.

The sudden noise, the violence— it pushes Amy back as if she were the one that was hit by the door, not the man whose nose is broken. After a cry of surprise, she scurries back along Sydney's cot, long legs kicking as if she could swim her way backward. And she does, a bit. She's in this pose, swallowing dryly, when she watches Sydney tuck the — what, is that a knife? — away. Her stare turns incredulous. "What— him? That guy's a cop," she deadpans quietly. "That man is terrifying."

Blinking rapidly, Amy swings her legs over the side of the mattress and tries to look into Sydney's eyes in the hopes of understanding. "I… I want to believe you— " Changing tracks, she shakes her head of red hair and smiles tightly in a harried, cheerless, incredulous manner. "No, I, you know what, I don't want to believe you and I think that's why I'm having serious trouble here Sydney. This is just— it's too much, it's too crazy! And what are we gonna do with a knife!"

"He's a cop. I know he is. His issues are beginning to make a lot more sense to me— " Sydney's eyebrows furrow as she draws her knees to her chest and hugs them tightly. "He's a boyscout, Amy. He's putting on a show. And he's damn good at it." If she's honest with herself, she's terrified of him." Swallowing hard she turns to look Amy straight-on. "It is crazy. It's insane. It's nuts. I know. I know it's nuts. You don't have to tell me, I grappled with it when I was first told… but… Amy… I am special…" She blinks hard. This is a lot to process.

Off of looking Sydney straight in the eye, Amy leans over onto her knees, her hands covering her face and the very twisting expression that is forming there. "Ahhhggghhhhhh." That would be a noise of exasperation and frustration, more at herself — at this situation, at these walls — more than Sydney. "I'm getting deja vu here, Syd. But— but wait." She curls her fingers down from her eyes and peeks at her friend. "You? What do you think— " She tries to rearrange her way of thinking for Sydney's sake. "What makes you extraordinary?"

"I influence people's emotions," Sydney says quietly. "Roberto is a sociopath. I was the only one that got through to him because I think I made him empathize with me because what I feel everyone else feels. Or, if I try REALLY REALLY hard, I can have them feel something else… or if their emotions are strong, I pick up on their feelings." She lifts a hand in moderate defeat. "It's just something I do. I'm good with sociopaths and I always have been. This is why." She shrugs and frowns. "I know it's hard to believe, and it's not like I can make fire or anything with my hands, but it's real. You saw what Roberto made that man do— "

"I don't want to!" Amy exclaims before she realizes words are even coming out of her mouth. Instantly, she lets her hands fall and hangs her head, heaving a tense sigh. "I just…" The woman wets her lips and looks to Sydney only to blink, blink, stare. "I need proof. I need you to give me proof. Not a psychopath. Have you— " Her mouth quirks up on one side uneasily. "Have you used this thing on me? How would I know?"

"I've probably used it on you…" Sydney says honestly, "But it's never been on purpose… I don't think. Oh, maybe the once. You normally can tell if your emotions change very quickly without thought or reason. That's what happens to me when I pick up other people's emotions. I've been trying to use it on Roberto to keep him calm— and the others in all honesty, but it hasn't been easy because I'm so on edge. It's a struggle… hence the yoga.."

This explanation does little to assuage nor convince Amy, though by her own increasingly edgy emotions, she does seem to be buying into the reality that something beyond the norm exists. "Okay. Okay." After a few unsure gestures at the edge of the mattress, she moves over to Sydney and plants her hands on either side of the younger (and shorter) woman's shoulders. "I'm going to try to believe you and … see where that gets me," she announces with a quavery smile. "It's not like we have anything else to do in here, right?"

"Right," Sydney takes a few deep cleansing breaths. "I'm going to try to calm you down." Closing her eyes gently, Sydney touches Amy's hand and begins to breath slowly, trying to decrease her own heart rate and focusing as best she can. She breathes slower still and things hard, trying to push this calm to Amy.

Amy was definitely not calm to begin with. Unsurely eyeing Sydney throughout her … process, she places her hands neatly on her lap and eventually closes her eyes too, only to open them and watch Sydney instead, feeling a lot like she's the only one with her eyes open in a room of praying people. Nevertheless, a wave of calm descends on her, soothing the surprise she should feel over the change in her emotions. "I…" How can she be sure she's not just calmer from just sitting here thinking about being calm? "I do feel better…" Yet still sounds distinctly unsure.

"Good. I'm glad you feel better." Sydney shrugs a little. "I barely believe I can do this. Barely. In fact, if it hadn't been for a few freakouts I never would've put it together." She stares at her bare feet. Realizing she'd never commented on the knife she quips, "And as far as the knife is concerned… if someone comes in here will ill intentions, I intend to shank them, not just make them feel really really bad about themselves."

It's not Sydney's ability or a return to anxiety from Amy that draws out a sudden laughing snort from the redhead. It's "shank them". Serious as their situation may be, she just finds herself trying not to laugh through her new sense of calm. "Oh my God," she says tiredly, in lieu of that, "How did we wind up here. With a psychopath and Irishmen and a freakin' jail cell you're empathy girl and you're going to shank someone…"

Sydney is now the one laughing. "Oh man, you have no idea what I've been through! Seriously! I had a client who could move things with his mind and his ex-best friend is like trying to kill him! One of my former best friends ended up working for the government and is like a therapist-turned-hired-gun, a former roommate was a freakin' walking drug lab and got me high with this hoodie and I hooked up with one of my neighbours… my ability is small potatoes in comparison to some out there… unless I have a nightmare." She shudders. "For your sake I better have good sleeps in here…"


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License