2007-08-27: I Didn't Order Room Service


Giselle_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: No Sasha yet. There is, however, breakfast!—and something else.

Date It Happened: August 27, 2007

I Didn't Order Room Service

Hartsdale, NY - Somewhere in Primatech

Morning in Primatech! Morning everywhere in New York, to be truthful, though this might or might not be a comfortable occurrence for Mariska after a night’s sleep in an unfamiliar place. The room where the woman’s being held isn’t a cell, by any means, though the amenities allowed for her use might be played down by the fact that she isn’t being allowed to leave. Giselle herself has been up bright and early, and she is awake and semi-cheerful as a result. Her ponytail, drawn back tightly, looks a little wet still, as though she had taken a shower not long ago (she had, in fact – courtesy Company locker rooms). Other than that, she’s dressed not-quite-professionally, not-quite-casually in dark slacks, an indigo blazer, and a striped t-shirt peeking out from beneath. None of that is visible yet, however. What /is/ obvious is a metallic rustling, easily audible from within, of a key being worked into a locked door.

By all accounts, the woman trapped in the sitting room has been a model prisoner. Sure, there was some screaming and banging on the door a few hours in to captivity but she quieted down after that and hasn't made a peep since. In fact, were it not for the cleverly obfuscated security cameras showing evidence to the contrary, one might begin to worry that she'd somehow managed to escape. But, no. She's been occupying one corner of the room almost exclusively, back to the wall, eyes on the door, waiting. The jingle of keys rouses her from her melancholy reverie and she climbs to her feet in order to incorrectly anticipate, "Doctor Suresh?"

Aaand in comes Giselle, propping up the door with her back while she balances a loaded tray in both hands. The sudden aroma of hot, breakfasty-type food accompanies her into the room: divided between two plastic plates are a mess of scrambled eggs, a puffy raspberry muffin, three bacon strips, and a mug of steaming coffee (machine brewed). The Agent is so preoccupied with not dropping any of this that it takes her a moment to look sidelong at Mariska. When she does, it’s to let the door fall closed behind her with a slight smile. “’fraid not. My name’s Giselle.” Breakfast?

Mariska has that 'but I didn't order room service' look on her face as she watch Giselle make her entrance with the tray. The door opens and closes without the dark-haired woman even bothering to twitch a muscle for the sake of escape. "Giselle… where is my daughter?" she asks in a calm voice hardened with Soviet sternness.

The Russian may not have ordered room service, but she must be at least somewhat hungry after so many hours. The Company doesn’t want to starve her, after all. “Your little girl? Don’t ask me.” This is accompanied by a laid-back shrug; Giselle might or might not be concealing the truth, but in any case, Sasha really isn’t her responsibility. After a second glance at Mariska to make sure she sees it, she moves to set the heavy tray gently down beside the spot where the woman had been sitting.

In truth? She's starved. Mohinder's call had come just prior to the lunch hour and Mariska's typical breakfast routine had been consisting primarily of yogurt and a piece of fruit. She follows the blonde by a step when she sets down the tray by doesn't immediately descend upon the feast like a ravenous bear. (Yet.) "Where is Doctor Suresh?"

"I can't give you an answer to that, either." It might be a result of the agreeable mood with which she had come in, but this time, Giselle looks slightly less comfortable. Two terse denials in a row sound far less believable than one. "I suspect if he told you he'd be back, he'll be back on his own time. He probably has other things to take care of, you know?"

Strike two. Having had a few hours to come up with a seemingly endless number of questions, Mariska goes for the hat trick. She presses with her little inquisition, inching closer to the other woman by the minute, "Why am I being kept here?" Haha! I bet you thought she was gonna ask about Felix Ivanov… right? (Wait for it. It's coming.)

Giselle probably would be more comfortable answering a question about Felix Ivanov. Nothing brutally truthful would be left out. She folds her arms with a smirk, leaning her head back against the wall directly behind her. “You’re being kept here because someone decided you should be. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you—it’s for your own good.” Soo not the most reassuring thing to say. At least Giselle had been told to be /pleasant/ while here.

For her own good. Wasn't it just yesterday that she heard someone else (with irresistible curls) said something similar? Who are these people? Clearly, they're not with the government or else someone downstairs would be on the outside instead of the inside… right? Shut down for the third time, Mariska stands there on the cusp of violating Giselle's personal space but she's fallen into an odd quiet. "I am not dangerous," she says, at last.

The blonde passively takes into consideration the threatened bubble-breach, but says nothing about it. She just eyes the other woman. /Eyes/. “You might not think you are,” she answers agreeably. “Most people don’t like to think they are. But there’s plenty of time for arguing later. Eat your food—it’ll get cold.”

There's an uncanny reflection of Mariska's mother to be overheard in Giselle's voice as she instructs the other woman to eat and it inadvertently forces compliance. The Russian takes a seat next to the tray and takes up the warm coffee in both hands before taking a sip. She's naive enough to eat what she's been given without any sign of awareness as to the ruse. Ignorant fool.

The more foolish Mariska is, the easier that makes it for her captors to run things. Giselle watches vaguely as Sasha’s mother takes her seat, but focuses and diverts her gaze once the sounds of coffee being sipped float into her ears. Her work here is done— for it had, of course, been the coffee that was drugged all along. The hint of an encouraging smile seems to linger behind in the air as the female agent slips out again. Behind her, the door clicks and locks shut.

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