2009-11-02: Let Me Give You A Hand



Guest Starring: Alpha Protocol

Date: November 2nd, 2009


A meeting between Tracy, Micah, and Cam ends with repercussions for all parties involved.

"Let Me Give You A Hand"

Airport Parking Garage - D.C.

Micah and Cam had taken that long flight from Frankfurt to DC. It'd been relatively uneventful. No one had questioned their identities as Nicholas Hawk and Charlie Frost; in fact, the pair got through security with ease - particularly as they had no luggage to speak of. As they exit customs, Micah can't help but smirk, "That was too easy." Time-consuming, but easy. "So Tracy texted me and she knows where they're holding Peter. Said she'd drive us right there." He pads towards the parking garage before turning back to his friend, "Do you think Charlotte's missed us yet?"

Cam follows along after Micah, looking around at the airport as they go. "This place is huge." Then he shakes his head, "Nothing is ever too easy. That's what my dad told me. Something can always go wrong at any moment, so don't complain when things don't." To the last question again he shakes his head, stepping aside slightly as someone with a large amount of luggage goes past, "Nope. If she had, she'd have come for us by now."

A long, wide and largely nondescript and dim hallway leads from the international arrivals to the parking garage. It's here that Tracy waits, near the open door that leads into the cool, concrete cave filled with vehicles. Hers is among them. She's meant to just drive away casually after this is all over. Every now and then, men and women have wandered by, but none of them have stopped. None of them were Rebel and his associate. The waiting game is a tense one: she doesn't fully know what to expect, but she's prepared for all options. So she thinks.

Pacing quietly in front of the garage's entryway, she turns with her back to the hall, glancing at a slender leather wristwatch before crossing her arms. Well-fitted white pants, grey suit jacket, blouse with a tinge of blue; this is not a familiar wardrobe, but the woman's frame and long, straight hair… those might be telling.

"Yeah, you're right," Micah agrees about Charlotte. "We'd be in so much trouble if she kn-" he cuts himself off and stops in his tracks as he sees her in front of the entryway. His mom… except… not. That same blond hair, thin frame, and warms eyes. But the clothes are not mom. Mom is dead. Micah sniffs and turns to Cam, "It's her." Leading the way, he pads up to her, but loses his nerve as he gets close. This is his aunt and he's never met her. He pushes himself several steps closer. His eyes gleam hopefully as he furrows his eyebrows in concern, "Tracy?"

Cam blinks as he sees Tracy ahead of them too. "Wow," he says softly. But nothing beyond that, nothing yet. He just follows after Micah, still staring just a little at the woman who looks so much like Niki. As they get close enough, though, after Micah's question, he adds, "Hi."

Tracy turns about, hands at either elbow, revealing that yes, she bears more than a striking resemblance to the woman Micah and Cam knew. Her eyes catch on the young teenagers; she'd be ready to pass them by as inconsequential in a heartbeat, and looks like she may still be, but … they're looking at her, aren't they. One of them definitely said her name. Her own brows furrow close as she studies the boys skeptically, reserved. She finds herself studying Micah especially, confused by some sort of familiarity… like she's seen his picture somewhere before. "…Yes?"

A team of men and women in civilian clothing have been tailing Ms. Strauss since the moment she left Building 26. A man carrying trash to the curb. A woman talking loudly into her cell phone about her obnoxious child. The ubiquitous man-with-newspaper. The seller at a hot dog stand. And more. Many more.

Now that she and the new arrivals are away from the massed public, hand offs have been far more discreet and coordinated by none other than Max Swan. Many of the seemingly wandering individuals have been under his command. The moment Tracy entered the parkade, teams were quietly moved into place using unmarked vehicles, bracketing every entrance and exit. Others have been interspersed throughout the garage.

It's in one of these vehicles that Max is waiting. As always, he's clad in nothing but the best. Dark grey suit with light, closely-spaced pin stripes, stylish sunglasses with blood-hued lenses, and leather dress boots that cost more than most compact cars. One accessory is out of the ordinary for him. An earpiece that wirelessly transmits audio from the parabolic receiver in his hand. Every word of the conversation is being captured, interpreted, and recorded for later analysis.

"I… um…" Micah swallows nervously as he sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I'm Micah Sanders. This is my best friend Cam…" There's a pause. "I'm your nephew." He glances up towards the doorway of the parking garage to see a camera. Strangely the security feed is killed. Following this, he swallows again as he stares up at at Tracy only to apologize seconds later, "Sorry, you just look so much like her." He forces a weak smile before shaking his head. "We need to get onto business, right? I mean we came from Germany to get Peter." Pause. "You said you could drive us?" Yes, Micah is Rebel. Rebel is Tracy's thirteen year old orphaned nephew.

Cam nods to what Micah says, and adds, "And we're kinda on a short clock, too. We need to do this right away." He doesn't explain why, though. He's glances around the area a little, but he isn't expecting any trouble, and he wouldn't know to recognize the signs of government agents anyway.

Tracy isn't a big fan of surprises. Today's is no exception. She's floored. More than that, she's horrified. "Micah?!" As the realization hits home — closer than home than she ever anticipated — she stares at the two of them wide-eyed and gaping. This is beyond bad. Rebel and Iceman. She hurriedly steps up to the boys with a scrape and click of high-heeled boots on the dark floor.

"You're Rebel," she states the obvious with a tone of question and incredulity. Condemnation. "You're just kids." She may look like Niki, but the differences rapidly present themselves: the way she speaks, her poise, the way she looks at Cam and Micah. "What've you both gotten yourselves into? Micah. Cam. No. I— I can't." A tense, chary look is shot down the hall and over her shoulder. "…You don't understand."

"Terminal Six, this is Gateway," Max murmurs into his lapel mic. "We've lost video, but I still have audio and direct visual contact. Fall back and make room for Deadly." With his free hand, the statuesque agent switches the channel on his radio receiver. "Deadly One, your team is cleared. Put eyes on the target and wait for my signal."

In ones and twos, the plainclothes wanderers begin to fade away. At the same time, a team of four men and two women in close-fitting black jumpsuits are inconspicuously put into play. They remain out of sight for the moment, perched in shadowed corners, hidden in elevators, and peering through the heavily tinted windows of a white SUV.

"Yes, I'm Rebel," Micah furrows his brows further. "Wh-what's wrong Tracy? We're helping people with abilities! We're on the list! You're on the list! We can't just hide and do nothing. So… let's save Peter." His gaze turns down the hall where Tracy has just looked, but he sees nothing too out of the ordinary. "We're doing what we can do to help. So are you, that's what matters."

Cam frowns too at Tracy's reaction, though in his case it's more of a defensive reaction to her words, and says, "We're not just kids. We can get Peter out when most adults would never have a chance. We know what we're doing." He, truly, doesn't understand, thinking she's just trying to be as protective as Charlotte.

"No," Tracy says upfront, adamant. In the next moment, she repeats it — quieter, even regretful. "That's what you're doing. What you think that you're doing … oh God," she breathes, the words barely coming to life. Shaking her head, she's looking down at them like something terrible has already happened to them. "I mean, going up against the United States government? It's conspiracy!" she says, brows raised, scoffing — but it's also obvious that she wishes it were different. Considering… "…This place is crawling with agents…"

Sweet, delicious irony. It's so thick in the air that Max could cut it with a fork and gobble it up. If his hands weren't busy, that is. He grins wolfishly and speaks into his mic again. "Deadly, this is Gateway. Neutralize them."

Silently, the windows on one side of the SUV are rolled down. The tips of two sniper rifles with odd, fat barrels poke through the openings.

PHUT! PHUT! Two darts filled with the Solution are fired from the rifles, one each for Rebel and his teenage cohort. Simultaneously, the other members of Deadly One ready an impressive array of weaponry and spring from their hiding places to surround the trio.

"It's conspiracy to arrest innocent people! Children! Toddlers!" Micah argues until he starts putting this together. "Y-you, you didn't?" he gapes at her. "I thought …" His mouth is still hanging open but only for several seconds before he reaches for Cam's sleeve to pull him along, down the hall they'd come, "We need to get out of here!" He begins running and as he runs the electricity in the building goes out. He withdraws his phone from his pocket and hits a single button: one last text. Him and Cam are screwed and he knows it.

He yells back towards Tracy, "You're NOTHING like my mom!! You don't deserve to have her face!!" And then the dart hits him. Things feel… weird. The security feed on the video surveillance returns as does the power. There really is no escape. No obvious escape, anyways.

Cam blinks, eyes widening slightly as he puts things together only a second or so after Micah, looking up to Tracy and to Micah. He doesn't say anything, though he sends a pebble of ice at Tracy's face from his hand before he turns to run after Micah. The ice is small, and not thrown with any strength, it's just an attempt at distraction in case she gives chase. When the dart hits him, though, he stumbles, "Ow…"

Tracy's normally sharp, analytical mind is overrun with unnerving conflict, and the sudden appearance of the agents does nothing to part the clouds. She brings a hand to her cheek, wincing at whatever it was Cam threw — she can't be sure, but it stung. Not as much as the words, though. She whirls around to the armed men at the door, blonde hair whipping. There go the darts. She can do nothing but watch as they hit the teenagers. "…I didn't know that it was you," she says, quiet. It's a little too late to be penitent.

Even so, she hastily lunges after Micah and Cam, chasing them through the small, agent-enclosed space. She tries, for what it's worth, to stand in front of them, arms spread out protectively as she slowly shuffles around them. "They're just kids," she implores to the agents. Faces she doesn't know. Tracy holds a hand out to the nearest man, reaching out slowly, slowly. "For God's sake, put your weapons down."

Showing every last one of his pearly whites, Max sets his parabolic pickup down on the dash, removes the earpiece, and steps out of his car. With little haste and less concern, he adjusts his lapels and strides toward the scuffle. "Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Strauss," he says, his voice pitched pleasantly low. "Now stand aside. Deadly, take them. Hoods and handcuffs. Unharmed, if possible. If Ms. Strauss protests, you may pacify her."

Two members of the assault team keep stubby tactical shotguns trained on the prisoners-to-be. The others let their weapons hang on slings as they produce cuffs and drawstring bags of rough cloth. They advance slowly and purposefully, an inexorable tide of well-muscled flesh and grimly narrowed eyes.

There's no where left to run and only shotguns to turn to. So Micah stops running. But before he puts his hands on his head (like they do in the movies), he snaps his phone in half and throws it on the ground with all of his strength. Chances are they won't be able to work it. Even if they could, they wouldn't find a single contact on it. Frowning, he drops to his knees. "Eff," he mutters to no one in particular. It's not a real curse word, but it's close enough.

Cam stops, too, as he sees the guns ahead of them. He turns back and then to the others. Now he knows how his father felt in that other airport. Cam, though, doesn't try to do anything as drastic. He stops too. Unlike Micah, though, he doesn't kneel, just waiting to make them force him down.

"What— no!" Tracy exclaims at Max. At all of it. Her attention strikes Mr. Swan and goes cold. "I was the first one to come on board in catching Rebel— " Not helping your reputation, Tracy. " --but that was before I knew who he was. Max." The woman doesn't stand down; she advances on Max slowly, hands raised harmlessly, petitioning. "They can't be more than fourteen, isn't there… there has to be some kind of due process-- "

"There is," Max replies solemnly. "They will be taken in, after which I will process them. Thoroughly. Deadly, put the boys in the van. I will subdue Ms. Strauss." He straightens his tie, tugs his lapels, and cracks his neck audibly. Then he reaches to his belt and pulls free a slim syringe loaded with clear liquid.

"I hope we can still be friends after you wake up," he murmurs, still smiling. With a quickness that belies his bulk, he lunges at Tracy with his needle leading the way. As this occurs, the agents hood and cuff the two teenagers and start hustling them toward a van that has been parked a short distance away.

Compared to Max, Tracy is nothing — she's weak given the fact that he's an undeniably strong man. But she's not slow, and right now, she's strung tautly. Anger painted on her face above fear, she backpedals as fast as she can — into the corridor's wall — and lashes out, making a grab for the syringe coming at her and the hand that wields it. It's going to be a struggle to keep it from penetrating her skin by fighting him off, it's impossible, but she has another trick up her sleeve.

The freezing spreads quickly, deeply and intensely from Tracy's hand to the syringe, threatening to solidify its clear liquid; and it's not restricted to the syringe. She's touching Max, too. She shoves at him with her other hand, a palm, surrounded with cold and tinged with blue, pressing against his chest. "I can keep going," she hisses, speaking slowly, determinedly at him. "Unless you order your men to let them go." She has to ride out this wave of judgment before it clouds again.

As ice forms in and on the syringe, Max's chest, and his hand, he winces and instinctively jerks away from Tracy. This is, in fact, a poorly conceived idea. With a 'SNAP' that sounds very much like wood being split, his hand and arm break apart several inches below the elbow. A long, heavy moment passes as stares at his jagged and frozen stump.

I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream.

He screams. A wordless howl of pain and loss escapes from between his tightly clenched teeth as he clutches his stump against his terribly, terribly cold chest. "AHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRR! Take her! Take her now! Kill her if she so much as breathes!"

Immediately, the two sniper rifles are firing another brace of darts and the shotguns are blasting off a volley of four electrified projectiles. No one wants to get close to Tracy, though. Not after what they've seen.

Bad idea, Max, Terrible, horrifying idea. Horror wells up in the eyes of the person responsible, particularly as she realizes that she's still holding his hand— his arm. A frozen piece of meat, hypothermically blue and solid. She throws it violently to the ground as she's advances on; some of it shatters, breaks off, already turning to slush.

It's not horror, but cold, unadulterated antagonism is what meets the agents who respond to Max's screamed orders. Frigid hands turn to normal almost immediately as a dart hits her neck, the one to her shoulder just overkill. The swarm of taser shots causes the woman's body to jerk before the electricity just completely overpowers her. She's almost out before she crumples to the floor on her side in front of Max.

Max's breath is coming in sharp, rapid gasps as he descends into shock and hypothermia. Luckily, the ice that has formed on the stump of his arm is preventing him from bleeding out. "T-Tie her. Wrists, knees, a-ankles. Everywhere. And g-get me to the s-s-sickbay before I start to th-thaw. Don't just s-stand there, you dolts! M-Move!"

Stunned and dismayed, Deadly One scurries to comply, loading Tracy in the van with the teenagers and then hustling their crippled leader into the cab. Seconds later, the only evidence of the incident is a puddle of rapidly melting hand.

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