2010-07-06: Hostile Witness



Guest Starring:


Date: July 6, 2010


"The more open my mind gets, the more evil I see."

Sookie Stackhouse

"Hostile Witness"


The interrogation room is typical of any police station. The floor is white, the walls are grey, and it’s lit with several flickering fluorescent lights. On one side of the room a two-way mirror hides occupants wanting to spy one the goings-on in this room and a camera peeks into a corner of the room. Sydney sits at the table, staring at a spot on the floor. Her jaw heavy-set, her eyes droop, and her lips curl downward into a frown. The mirror has been altogether ignored, disregarded entirely; it’s offerings a sacrifice to another life, one that the blonde doesn’t connect to. Not now, anyways. Perhaps never again.

She’s been painfully silent. And despite reassurances otherwise, she’s not convinced she’s actually safe here, although one thing makes her feel safer. Wrapping herself tighter in Laurie’s jacket she leans down to rest her cheek on the table and gently closes her eyes. The coldness of the table’s plastic is almost soothing on her still swollen cheek. Closed eyes tighten as she feels the tears forming once again. With a vague sniffle she shivers involuntarily.

And then the door opens with a loud creak. Heavy steps regard the tiled floor before the chair is pulled out and the room’s new occupant sits down across from the therapist. Ragged breaths seem to expectantly pressure Sydney sit up, but she doesn’t comply. She remains there, pressed against the table, eyes closed, considering her life; her own breaths silent, and her heart rate slows, that numbness spreads over her again, leaving her feel virtually nothing.

“Doctor Falkland?” the male’s voice cuts in. “I’ve been told you’re not bein’ very cooperative with our agents.” He clears his throat once again expecting her to stir, but he presses forward she has time to respond. “I’m Agent Wright. We want to know what happened to you. Look half-pint, we can protect ya, keep ya safe.” He issues her a charming smile.

The sound of her name causes her to tighten the jacket around her even more. Her fingers drum impatiently on the table, and Sydney’s cheek remains there against the cold. The warmth of her breath creating condensation against it with every exhalation. From here she manages to shift slightly, only enough to let Sam know she’s indeed alive. Her eyes narrow a little before she twitches, just enough. “A-are you the man in charge, then?” she whispers.

Leaning forward, Sam nods. “Of this operation, I am.” His smile broadens as he rests his own elbows on the table. “Now, how ‘bout ya tell me bout your ordeal, sugar?”

Sydney wrinkles her nose and chews on her bottom lip. She doesn’t want to be here; she wants to be in her house with her bed. She doesn’t want to go into witness protection or talk about any of this. Not yet. Maybe later, but certainly not now. But the notion of meeting the man in charge is enough for her to sit up. Her eyes narrow skeptically as she sizes him up, he’s not what she’d expected. Wrinkling her nose again, she slides her chair away from the table and lazily rises to her feet. She’s more stable than before, but still a little wobbly on her feet, still trying to find her land legs. Taking a few steps, she gropes for the wall and uses it to steady herself while shuffling to the mirror.

Finally, she reaches the mirror and places a palm against it. And there it is: her reflection, someone she doesn’t recognize. The bruising across her face is an array of colour. And then, unexpectedly, she asks the reflection, quietly, unhappily, “Were you the one that reinstated Laurence Miles?” Absently she chews on the inside of her cheek.

Sam’s eyebrows furrow as the blonde moves, but eventually he follows suit, leaning against the two way mirror and watching her intently. “Someone had to. Doctor Falkland, you were the one that signed off on his psych eval, and he chose to go back into duty. But yeah, I invited him back to his old persona.”

Refusing to actually look at Sam, she rests her forehead against the mirror and closes her eyes. She considers everything before shaking her head. “I barely cleared him for duty. Barely,” her voice cracks as she chokes on some resurrecting feeling. “H-h-how was that good enough? D-d-d-didn’t…” her voice breaks, “you read the comments?” Her cheeks redden as she sniffles loudly, holding in the feelings so desperately aching to get out. “He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have been asked back. He… he can’t say no to that… he’s a boyscout… it was irresponsible of you… and a good agent would’ve given a new eval… found someone else to go…” she’s still whispering. Exhausted. Unhappy. Worried. Scared.

“I read that you don’t like him, if that’s what you mean,” Sam quips back insensitively as he turns his back to the mirror. “And I made a judgment call. He could’ve said no!” His tone turns defensive now as he virtually spits back at her. “It was his decision as much as it was mine, Doc, and I don’t appreciate insinuations otherwise! I look out for our asset— and if I felt he shouldn’t be cleared for duty, I’d change things— ” he raises a hand in the air, but it’s unclear as to why.

He pauses as he considers her. A sly smile spreads across his lips before he asks, “Is that how you got those shiners, honey? Prodding people when they ought not be? Probably deserved what you got and that’s why you’re not talking, right?” the smile turns downright wicked now before he adds, “I bet you asked for it— ”

With one hand still on the mirror, Sydney turns to look at him. Her numbness gone, she presses her lips together angrily and her dark eyes flash that same anger. There is no warning as her left hand— her free hand— swings in a firm slap towards Sam’s cheek with all of the force she can muster. And then she yells angrily, quoting someone who had something to say on the matter, “But there's not a person out there with the right to give it!" Irony of all ironies, she just gave it. Her eyes well with tears again as her hand aches with the pain of the connection. Resting her forehead on the mirror the tears stream down her cheeks.

“Freakin’ bitch— !” he begins, startled at the slap, and obvious angered by it. The contact causes Sam to grope at his now-hand-imprinted cheek and stagger back a step or two. And he raises a hand of his own to her— whether to protect himself from further assault or otherwise is entirely unclear, and Agent Fox isn’t about to wait and find out. The door opens again and the woman’s voice is full of warning, “Agent Wright.” It beckons Sam’s leave. With that, he mutters indiscernible words to himself as he tramples through the exit.

Fox looks down at the woman and sighs. “Doctor? Hang tight a few minutes, I’m going to have one of our agents take you to a safehouse. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” But not with Sam, obviously. Because that turned out real well. “Just wait, okay?” her tone is gentle, kind, perhaps. She turns back to the door, leaving Sydney alone again.

And once alone, Syd slowly crumples to the ground in a mess of tears and hiccups.

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