2010-01-17: The Word of Samedi



Date: January 17th, 2010


An unfortunate few experience a severe case of wrong place, wrong time when a displaced warlord prepares to resume his reign of criminal power and false divinity back in his ravaged homeland, planning to take some of America's precious cargo with him.

"The Word of Samedi"

New York City

There are no days of rest in a hospital, where Lena has been sitting vigil for one "Ethan Campbell" since the night before. The day has bled by with no changes in his condition and although she's received special consideration past visiting hours, due to Peter being a medical professional, the staff has finally shoed her out. "Go get something to eat, take a shower, come back tomorrow."

Unwilling but with no other option, the young woman ventures out of Mount Sinai hospital into the rapidly cooling evening.

There's a sub shop down the way and that's where she aims herself, absently tugging long gloves securely onto her hands, and flipping the fuzzy hood of her jacket up over her hair. It's growing too dark for sunglasses but it should be fine, once her hands are free to wind her scarf around the lower portion of her face. But progress is slowly, mainly because she's bummed and feels as if she's moving underwater. It wouldn't take high perception to see the depression in the set of her shoulders, or that bowed head.

Without warning, a heavy, strong hand clad in a thick, dirty olive green wool glove clamps over Lena's mouth from behind, a chloroform cloth pressed to her nose. She's hauled into the narrow, cramped alley beside the sub shop, lifted straight up off the ground by someone much larger than herself, as if she's a child. Her sunglasses are ripped off. "Ah-hah. Where's your boy, little girl?" A wide mouth surrounded by dark scruff rumbles closely into Lena's ear.

* * *


Everyone has their reasons for being out late at night in an area of the city that is not exactly known to be safe and sound. Some are well-meaning, some are lawful.

Some are not.

Others are just ignorant.

Water laps up against the docks. The waves almost look black, bits of ice, oil and garbage carried upon the small swells. A few lights shine down, few and far between, on slick pavement and dirty snow between the docks and a row of old warehouses that stretch for a block or more. A large, metal shipping container — one of many — is presently being loaded with crates by a crowd of hard-working, predominantly black men.

Sophie probably qualifies under 'ignorant'. Or at least 'ignoring'. She was walking down the sidewalk, head down. She has a lot to think over, its been a pretty traumatic few week.. really a traumatic few years. She's wearing her usual concealing garb, hands in gloves, shoved into her pocket as, unnoticed as she is deep in thought, the safer, if not prosperous, college student part of town becomes industrial, then dockside.

A dash of well-meaning, a sprig of lawful, and a sprinkle of ignorant is what brings Sierra LeBlanc down to the docks on this fine evening. She's wearing bulky clothing. By all rights, much to big for her. She's sneaking about the docks to find…well, a story. A story on the trafficking of drugs through the docks. She's heard rumours, and by the Great Spaghetti Monster, she'll find something!" So, treading as quietly about as she can, she sees a bunch of men in the distance working, loading one of those rectangular containers. "C'mon capacite, il est votre time to shine!" She mutters to herself before closing her eyes. Slowly she turns into a big, buff black guy. Once done the transformation, she (or he) strides over to where the other men are. "Hey, sorry I'm late. Got caught it traffic. What're we loading up tonight?" The voice is that of a man as well. Of course, if you're going to do a transformation, you might as well go all the way, otherwise people won't believe you!

Lurking among the shadows, a figure dressed entirely in black (a black trenchcoat, black pants, and black high heels) watches the dock, gun in hand. The sound of her very breath is near-silent as she crouches behind several crates. Her investigation has led her here. It seems like a hot bed of activity tonight. Quietly, she lingers in the dark. Watching. Waiting.

The activity at the loading dock looks normal enough. In goes the hefty crates and pallets that take a few men to lift in, then it's time for another load… the fact that it's getting late and not all of the shipments seem to be numbered might be a little off, but… who's paying attention out here, right?

Sierra's heritage may come in handy as a few of the men shoot rapidfire French between themselves. «Do you know him? Who is that?»

A deep voice rumbles from just behind the disguised Sierra. "Who are you?" The bold question originates from a tall black man, long of face and broad of shoulder. He's dressed in layers — most of the workers are — an old camouflage coat on top. Shabby, olive green gloves clasp a heavy sack over his shoulder. "You are not one of my men." He has dark eyes, cold as steel. They flit past 'Sierra' to //his/ men. He orders in French: «Believers! Sweep these docks for cargo.» Keeping an eye on the newcomer, the man, this leader, walks to the shipping container and tosses the human-sized bag inside like a sack of potatoes.

The men finish their job, sliding a crate inside beside the bag, and slink off into the shadows of the dock area. One wiry young man happens to sneak up behind Sophie, leering despite her baggy clothing.

The contents of that bag should be one unconscious young woman, but the chloroform wore off some time ago. Score one for Lena's ability. Less positive is the fact that she is trapped inside a sack and being carried, which makes escape difficult. She had played dead during the trip here but maintaining that facade is impossible when sack connects with hard metal floor. There is a very distinct and unfeminine, "Ungh!" from the bag before it begins to kick and squirm about. Colliding with the box provokes another grunt.

Then Lena starts to yell. "Let me the hell out of here!"

Sophie frowns, drawn out of her thoughts not by the person behind her, which she hasn't noticed yet, but by a muffled yell. Pulling her hand out of her pocket, glove getting tugged off in the process, she is reaching for her cellphone, trying to get an idea where the sound is coming from.
Sierra turns around to look at the man who belongs to the voice coming from behind her. "I am Jean Dupont." Jean being the French version of John. The big, black male that Sierra has currently transformed into looks at the man. Responding in French, he-she says, "«I was told to come here and help. I was not told what I was helping with but that I was to come here and help all of you load up the ships. Or to do whatever else you needed me for.»" She-He crosses his-her arms. "«So, what's it gonna be, boss?»"

The investigations into Alpha Protocol's goings-on and some limited personnel information had been easy to learn from the inside…well, easy in that they don't often question their own employees! A puppet body, the proper ID, and the whole world is opened up to you, in fact! Of course, with information layered, tiered, access-restricted, there's not much of it to be had. A few names here and there, low-level hunters and a few potential targets, that's about it!

From that, Emily has put herself here on the dock, expecting a particular AP agent to be around, with rumors of whatever operation is going on. Like Sierra, she's clad in all black from head to toe, less functional and more fashionable, however, with tall boots (flats though, thankfully!), and a long coat. For the sake of the operation, she's not dyed her hair black, but considered it. Lurking in the shadows of an alley with an obstructed view of the docks, she peeks out at the men loading things into that crate, including a squirming, kicking bag.

More men emerge from behind the container, keeping a watchful eye on the docks. Unlike the others, they're very, very obviously armed with assault rifles that are probably highly illegal. But then, it's more than likely that they're highly illegal themselves.

Their leader only has to nod at them, and nod at Sierra. His influence is strong among these men; one of them immediately heads over and points the threatening end of the gun at the stranger. The man in charge says, "Take him around back and shoot him." His command is authoritative but unconcerned. He climbs into the container and kneels by the squirming bag. He finds the head of the young woman, grabs her hair through the material, and gives it a solid knock into the metal floor of the large shipping container. Then he unties it. "You are not like the others. Tell me, little girl — what makes you uncommon?"

Meanwhile, the man whose assault weapon is trained on Sierra moves around to shove it against his/her back.

The man following Sophie steps out in front her, directly in her line of view. He has nothing to say to her, just a sneer of bright white teeth before her grabs for her arm, meaning to knock the phone out of her hand and swing her to the ground.

Yet another follower lurks along the docks, closer and closer to one of the ladies in black: Jo. "Laaay-deeee…"

Coming to the docks after finally making it back to New York was Jamie's first thought, because she thought it was safe with so much water around. So, she's looking confident if a little dirty and tattered as she comes wandering down towards the dock where everything's happening, just exploring. That confidence leaves as soon as she comes around an unloaded container and sees the guns. She stops in her tracks, but can't seem to bring herself to run right away. She's just frozen as she stares at the men with the big guns.

Lena is in the process of both kicking and stripping her gloves off when she feels her hair seized. She has no leverage to resist the blow, meaning she ends up with ears ringing and eyes unfocused when fresh air strikes her face. "Guh." Which is probably not the answer the large fellow was looking for.

Showing a distinct lack of coordination, the girl tries to find her jacket pocket with one hand while the other lifts to take a wide sweep at the leader's face. "…you? I…we helped you, what are you…" Slurred speech, eyes sliding away, Lena gives every appearance of someone dazed and concussed. But her fingers have found that pocket and slide inside to curl around bright red plastic. She gives another swipe at his face, her aim improving. Not that the pat's likely to do damage, or she expects drugs will have much effect on someone who went toe to toe with a killbot. But she's buying time. Hopefully. "T-touch me and find out."

Reaching for Sophie's arm. Either someone didn't do their homework, or didn't know about her at all. Bad move, especially since she actually WAS, this time, on her guard. No rush of unwanted memories.. for her, at least. He gets to grab at her /bare/ hand and arm, and suddenly the thug is /living/ a flurry of intense, painful experiences. Not memories, but as if he were there. Everything from rape to beatings, to emotional abuse.

Sierra, as the black man, frowns. "I am here to help!" He sighs. Turning to face the man with the gun. "Why do you treat me so bad, mon cherie? Just because cet homme est le patron?" He-she grunts a little as the gun is pushed into his-her back, pushing him forward. "Ce qui peut je faire change your mind?" Changing might scare him, and the last time she did that in front of people, she got pistol whipped. Not too far in front of them, Sierra sees a girl. A somewhat familiar kid. She-He looks back at the man with the gun and says, in French, "«You wouldn't shoot a man in front of a kid, would ya?»"

Cursing silently in her own thoughts, Jo acts decisively as per her training. She tucks her hands into her trench coat as she backs a little further away from the docks. Her lips curl into a very flirtatious come hither grin while she backs up a little further. Knowing full well she has two choices here and the quieter is likely the smarter of the two, her flirtation spreads across all of her features (chest drawn out, shoulders back, slow sultry movement) before she responds to the dark skinned men who has spotted her, "Hey Sugar. Lookin' for a date?" No, she's not really dressed like a prostitute (aside from the low cut black tank se's wearing), but she's certainly acting like it. And besides, many streetwalkers don't even look the role anymore.

Well, this is an interesting development, to say the least. The one with the gun dragging Sierra back behind the container. Emily had seen Sierra do her little trick, so she knows it's her, and she's also seen the way those other men aren't really focused on their job anymore. Not with the prospect of their bossman dragging someone back behind the container, ostensibly out of view, and shooting some sort of imposter. Of course, that being said, she's not armed, and has no particular martial arts training. Good luck using her ability for anything other than sneaking around…so that's just what she does. She stays snuck, right behind that dumpster, peeking an oh-so-blonde head out to look for any sort of opening to get closer.

The man bearing down on Lena does not react when she strikes him, save for a dark flash of something very dangerous appearing in his eyes. Eyes that have seen many a truly appalling thing in their lifetime: most of them by his hand. When Lena's hand touches his face, he purposefully rolls his eyes back up into his head and shudders, sucking a deep breath in through his nose. "Mmmmmnnh, youuu hhhhave poooower…" Decisively, he stands up.

Behind him, spray painted on the inside of the container, is a colourful depiction of the man himself between two painted rifles. Beneath is scrawled: SAMEDI L'EGALITE DAVINITY

Baron Samedi kicks at Lena's ribs with a heavy boot and tries to heft the young woman up by the scruff of her neck like an alley cat — her hair, her collar. He tears the lid off a large crate and attempts to toss Lena inside no matter how much she may squirm. In the crate is a young woman. Lena's age, if not younger. Darker-skinned, duct-taped at the wrists, her eyes dark and puffy from crying, street clothes ripped and far from healthy for January. "I am your god now. I tell you what to do. Show me what you can do. You use her."

Outside, the follower who is trying to herd Sierra around the back has a simple answer. "Oui," he says. Reverting to French, he goes on. «Samedi's word is god.» He glances at Jamie and points the assault rifle at the child. «Here. She does to have to watch.» The rifle goes off straight at the girl. Uncaring, the other armed men simply walk around the perimeter of the container; two guard the entrance.

Things have certainly turned around for the man who meant to attack Sophie. Instead, he's the one suddenly screaming in pain, his features twisting into horror. As he tries to rip away, reality slipping away into vivid memories that don't belong to him, he starts to scream something rather unusual in his French-lilted: "Guillaime! GUILLAIME!!"

The man who advances on Jo, however — he's less distracted. Lust in his eyes, he's distracted by the woman. Prostitutes, drug addicts, homeless women down on their luck… they're prey, for these men. The cargo Samedi sent them for. "You come wit' me," he says. "I'll treat you good." That's a lie, given he whips out a pistol and levels it at Jo's head. "//You come wit' me, lady." A tiny window of distraction opens as he looks in the directions of the shouts.

Jamie's eyes widen as the gun is pointed towards her. If she knew what the guy was saying, she'd probably turn into water right away, but instead she tries to say, "I won't tell nob…" That's all she gets out before the gun fires and… well, it's hard to follow from there. There's a definite spray of blood, but also of water. The water that splashes down among her now empty clothes doesn't move in any unnatural way, though. There's no movement to escape, no flowing to try to get to the nearby water, it just settles and spreads as if someone dumped a bucket of water.

Alley cat is an apt description of the way Lena fights the man, hissing and spitting in spite of her fear, the pain in her ribs and the pounding in her head. It's so hard to focus; she didn't mean to give him the good stuff. She struggles against the attempt to force her into the crate but he is larger and stronger, both. Finally the young woman goes backwards and ends in a heap on the bottom. One look at the girl bound beside her is enough to tell her just what's happening here. Lena recognizes that look in her eyes.

And she doesn't like it, not one little bit. "Kiss my ass," she growls up at Samedi as gunfire begins outside of the shipping crate. The hand caught in her pocket is finally torn free, revealing a tiny red plastic watergun which she aims at his face. It's a toy (a cheap one, no less!) but there's a grim set to the girl's jaw when she squeezes the trigger. This is no joke.

Sierra winces as the man shoots Jamie. A shaky breath is taken by the Sierra-man. His-her face contorts in anger. "How dare you shoot her! How dare you!" This was more than she bargained for. WAY more. "You didn't have to shoot at her. It was me that you wanted! Me and not her! She was a child!" That has now turned into water. He-she falls to his-her knees. "Mon dieu…mon dieu. Dans quoi est-ce que je me suis entre et cette pauvre fille?" He-she looks up at the guy who has the gun, wondering what's going to happen now. Should she change back into herself? If he shoots him-her, that's bound to happen anyway. Slowly she changes back into herself. Now a woman, Sierra, is kneeling before the evil people. "N'attendait pas cela, were you?"

Even with a pistol levelled at her head, Jo remains cool, calm. Her lips twitch into a broader grin until he turns around and looks in the direction of the shouts. Decisively she kicks at the gun and draws a pistol of her own from her black trenchcoat which she promptly uses to pistol whip the man's head. She angles her own gun on him. "Utter a syllable and you're fish food… Sugar."

How fortuitous! Jo does the majority of the dirty work for Emily, by kicking his gun away and pulling her own on him in one fluid motion. He's sort of immobilized at gunpoint for the moment, and standing out towards the end of the alley with Jo. AP or not, Emily makes herself known, by sliding out from behind the dumpster. She presses a finger to her lips as she approaches from behind the man, but toward Jo. Coming up behind, she presses a hand to the man's neck, and takes control of him. Her own body slumps, and she just has to hope Jo doesn't blow the man away as she quickly twists to catch her own body from flopping down hard on the concrete!

The toy gun is given a sneer. Samedi seems to recognize the set of Lena's jaw: the look of insolence and defiance. It's enough to warn him — a hand lifts palm-out to shield his face. A squirt of the ambiguous liquid manages to escape between his fingers, however, and the tough warlord stumbles back a few solid, weaving paces back, his boots heavy upon the floor of the container. "Ahh. Snake!" Yet it's he who hisses.

The commotion draws the attention of his Haitian borne devotees. Two armed men hop into the container.

A shout from outside: "BARON SAMEDI! SAMEDI!! MAGIQUE!" It's the man who now finds himself standing in front of a suddenly appearing woman, Sierra. //Magic she may be, but she's still an intruder and a woman, which means his elbow is rapidly coming down on top her head.

"«Do not touch the pretty girl,» orders Samedi in French. The latter comment earns confused looks from his men. Not an order they're used to. The man himself backs out of the container, shielding his face with his arm. He plucks an assault rifle from the top of a crate, shoulders it and steps outside, shaking his head, blinking, shaking off the effects of Lena's drugs. He hauls the door of the container solidly down, leaving Lena and his men in darkness.

Inside, one devotee of the warlord winds through the cargo and shines a flashlight in her face, squinting, while the other tries to approach and hit her with the butt of his rifle.

He's still standing. He took a squirt of coma and walked away from it? Lena's jaw sags. If she gets out of here, she'll have some interesting information to give to Gene. When Samedi staggers away, her shaggy head pops up over the edge of the crate, just in time to see the two gun-toting men approaching before the door behind them slams shut.

Darkness. Like a switch that's been flipped, she goes from angry to terrified.

Lena's scream of protest would be muffled, outside, lost behind a wall of metal. But inside the container it echoes loudly as she lifts the watergun and begins to empty it in a wide sweep towards the flashlight. Hoping, even through her panic, that it strikes the men but missing the riflebutt that descends to connect with her temple. Plastic clatters against the floor as she slumps back into the crate, landing boneless against the other girl.
Sophie kneels by the screaming man now. She growls, heard through his fears, "I will put that on a loop and you will live them over and over. You RUN." Yeah, Sophie has a little bit of a dark side.

Sierra lets out a little laugh. "Non. Non magique." She lets out a little laugh. "«Just a little trick. Not that I'd expect someone as stupid as you to understand!»" She spits at his feet. As the man hits her on the top of the head, she falls unconscious. Well, so much for uncovering a drug ring.

Realizing how many evolveds are here and the fact that she's supposed to be on a surveillance mission, not a take down, Jo keeps her gun cocked at Emily, but backpedals from the goings on. She needs back up. There's no way she can take down this many evolveds on her own. It was foolish to even have assumed she could take down Samedi considering his vast following. She slides back down the alley from whence she came. She'll be back. Maybe.

Strangely enough, the AP chick leaves the scene. That's not to stop Emily though! Using the large man's body as her own, she carefully hides her comatose form out of sight, and retrieves the man's pistol. With a rudimentary idea of how to use these things (point and click, right?), she stuffs it in the waistband of the man's pants, and decides to put this throwaway body to good use, even if it does mean…ugh, helping someone else out.

As Lena slumps, the flashlight clatters to the floor. Its metallic crash is followed by a loud thud. The flashlight spins, casting its glare into the face of the man who just collapsed, felled by Lena's unlikely weapon. His comatose eyes and agape, drooling mouth the only illuminated spot in the container until his pal picks up the light.

The girl beside Lena curls up into a ball and sobs, terrified.

The man who cracked Sierra on the head is in the process of dragging her along the pave by one arm when he meets up with Samedi. They exchange a brief conversation in French, the powerful man eyeing Sierra. In the end, the message is clear: bring her in. The follower lifts the shape shifter and heads to the container, lifting the door up—

…Just as another man comes running down dockside, screaming as he flees Sophie, grabbing his head, eyes shut. "Non nooooooo!!" He's hysterical. Samedi steps to meet him, clamps hands down upon his shoulders, tries to look him in the eye to no avail. Just what is going on here? "CLOSE UP," he yells to the rest. A flurry of activity erupts, last minute things being shoved into the container.

By the water, a crane near a transport vessel groans to life.

Sophie rises after the man, as expected, runs away. She turns, frowning. Ok, she is ticked off, and this doesn't happen often. Someone threatening her, kidnapping women, if the screams are any indication? She turns, sleeves being pulled UP for a change, and she moves toward where the shipping containers are..

Wearing a fancy new body, probably the biggest and baddest she's ever had the pleasure (luck?) of being in control of, henchman Emily strolls confidently from the alley. She's good at reading people, and so puts on a show of hiking up her pants and grinning when some might look her way, wondering why that particular man was down in the alley. The way he grins lets them know he's just had a bit of fun. But…there's work to be done. Without speaking to anyone since she can't speak French, she just walks toward the guard dragging Sierra's body.

For whatever reason, Emily feels some responsibility to look out for her, even if she doesn't know her especially well…something about that whole Gene plan and all. So, in icey-cold blood, she moves to the guy, pulls that gun from her belt, and puts the barrel to the back of his head. Before he can even look, she pulls the trigger, not flinching a bit.

Fury rages from the man known as Baron Samedi. He recognizes when something is not right. Insubordination among the devoted? Manipulation? Infiltration? Whatever the reason, he will have none of it. He has to get back to his homeland. He has more followers there. There, they think he's a god.

Without blinking, as cold as the possessor, Samedi fires his assault rifle repeatedly into the body of the man who shot the other. Already, someone picks up the slack and hauls Sierra, like cargo, into shipment. For now, she's laid down beside a crate that's been left open; inside are tightly wrapped blocks of cocaine. And she thought she didn't uncover a drug ring. Drugs just happen to be one of their commodities.

Samedi looks down the docks. Spying the figure of Sophie, he doesn't care who she is. He opens fire on her, too. "YOU WILL LEARN FEAR!"

Sophie doesn't have any powers that work against bullets. Only takes one in the right spot to knock her down and put her out. She may or may not have learned fear, but she did end up seriously injured and unconscious.

Thankfully, that body is just borrowed…and her own is not too far away. The bullets rip through the puppet body and down it goes. Struggling to squeeze every bit of life out of it though, Emily tries, weakly, to take sight and fire the gun once or twice more, but she doesn't have the strength. As the body expires, she releases control of it, and back in the alley, her own body starts to come back to life. Groggily, she starts to rub her head and stand. "Well…shit, that didn't work so well…" she mutters to herself, back in the alley.

Samedi marches straight toward the unmoving form of the woman he shot. Once at her side, he doesn't even check to see if she's alive. Grunting, growling, he shoves her along with a boot and rolls her straight into the cold waters of the New York Harbor.

Behind him, the crane lifts the shipping container, oh so precious cargo inside, off the ground. It twirls in the air, seeming bright red against the dark sky and the distant city lights, gradually moving toward its destination: the ship the displaced warlord has borrowed for the night. Her name: QUEEN DOMINICA.


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