Starring:
Summary: Sierra's journalistic pursuit of the Boost drug has made her a target for reprisals.
Future Date: April 2012
Situation Normal All Fouled Up
Motel 12
Arms folded across his chest, George leans against the wall of an unfamiliar motel room, glancing nervously out through the curtains from time to time. Sierra should have been back by now, shouldn't she? He hasn't been by his apartment for a couple days now - too dangerous for either of them to show their faces there right now - nor is there a gold watch or any other such family heirloom worth risking his neck over.
There's a knock at the door of the hotel room. Could it be her? Is it worth it to make sure. If George were to look, however, he would not see Sierra as he knows her. She needed to be certain that it was secret, that it was safe, that where she was going she wouldn't feel that she was followed. Now, in her current form, Sierra LaBlanc is blond haired, blue eyed, and light skinned. No one would think her to look like this…hopefully. And that's the point. It's too dangerous to be seen otherwise.
"Hang on," George calls out, undoing the chain and slowly opening the door. Less worried about the probably-Sierra-in-disguise on the doorstep, and more worried that someone might have followed her anyway, he glances quickly over her shoulder before opening the door the rest of the way. "Can I help you?" he asks, his tone of voice neutral. It might just be another guest who misremembered their room number.
"Honey pumpkin!" Comes a voice out of Sierra that is very much suburban American. "Of course you can help me. I need a message from those strong hands of yours. It's been a long day of meetings at the conference." There's a knowing glance and a little wink up at George. "Now are you going to let me in or aren't you? I forgot my room key here when I left for the conference earlier."
George closes the door, winks back and gathers Sierra into his arms for an urgent kiss. Resting his hands on her shoulders comes as an afterthought, rubbing experimentally in search of the centers of tension. "I wish you weren't spending those long days on your own," he says. "Even with the change of face, if you're still poking your nose into the same dark alleys… well, they're gonna pick up your trail again, sooner or later. We were lucky enough that you ducked under their radar the first time." And while his luck is better than most, especially in these grayer times, it's still far from perfect.
Sierra stays in the same form as they kiss, hugging George close, leaning her head softly on his chest. "I know you were about me, love. I know. And I hate to do it. I just…I hate it. But it has had to be done. Somebody had to do it, didn't they? Somebody had to dig and search. The public needed to know. But I hate staying like this…I wish I could just go back to my normal self." She fears too much, however, that they could be listening in. And if they are, and she changes, she could be caught. Her shoulders move in time with George's, and the tension can be found quite quickly just underneath the bone on her backside.
"I've been thinking about that," replies George. Not that Sierra doesn't make a pretty blonde, but the novelty of her various faces never quite measures up to knowing that he's looking at the real her. "What if you left town, picked up the project somewhere else? They wouldn't be looking for you there— and we could see about getting you a bodyguard, before anyone else on the same side had time to pick up where the others left off."
Sierra snuggles in tight, all this talk making her uncomfortable, though she knows it is needed. "But where could I go where they wouldn't find me? Where could I go that I wouldn't be safe? Even with a bodyguard…they've got people with abilities, don't they? They've got people who can do magnificent things. They might have telepaths. And if they do, they'd be able to pick me out on the spot!"
George makes a sour face. "You're right, they might have…" How do you plan strategy around things like that? There aren't years of history and experience to draw from. He walks over to start a fresh pot of coffee brewing, then looks up. "Well, what if we fake your death first? They wouldn't bother looking for you then. Either that, or I could see if we can spare a telepath on our end. Won't be easy, though, they're not exactly common as sliced bread…"
Sierra furrows her brow. "Fake my own death? I…I don't know." She's not a fan of death in any form. "I mean…I think I can make my body look dead good and well enough. It's just not too much of a pleasant thought, is it?" She makes a face at the thought. "I'm just tired of hiding, George. I don't want to run anymore. I just want to live a normal life now."
"I wish I knew what to tell you." George is back to staring out the window again, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Until someone comes up with a way to cut the catalyst out of the equation… and even then, there are people deeply suspicious of those with abilities, just like they were with the Communists fifty years ago. I don't think 'normal' is in the cards for us any time soon…"
Sierra shakes her head. "No, no normal for us. You're right. But I mean…I wish there was more. Some of the stories I loved the best as a child were those that involved falling in love with someone and living happily ever after. That's not happening so much now. I didn't anticipate all this." She waves her hand around at nothing in particular.
George pulls out a chair and plops into it. "No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy," he mutters under his breath. "Figures that the same thing messing up your personal life is also giving you tons more career material. Well, hey, at least we've got the first half of your stories, right?"