2009-12-22: Uncooperative



Date: December 22nd, 2009


Lena receives her second visit from the resident doctor on duty. Is this the heralding of things getting worse for the Terrible Twosome?


Alpha Protocol Temp Holding Unit, NY

Lena had been left alone for an entire day, with nothing to do, no one to talk to, other than the company of a security camera, and nothing to contemplate but her fate, or perhaps what other people were doing at the moment. Other than the scheduled meal times, she saw no human contact for more than twenty-four hours, except when she was escorted by three female guards to the showers in order to prevent unsanitary conditions that could result in her illness.

And this is how it went, as the hours trickled by, without so much as a bible to read. Until eventually, shortly after her second meal of the day, the distant sounds of doors unlocking would be heard, followed by heavy-booted footsteps coming down the hall, and a quartet of men in riot gear from head to toe appearing outside of her plexi-glass cell. "Stand up prisoner, and move to the slot. Put your hands through."

Unlike the first time they had come, the guards looked decidedly less enthused, as if they didn't expect the prisoner would provide them with any sport in the form of excuses to cause her pain. The handcuffs are slapped on, as are the shackles, and the chain joining her feet to her hands, though this time the faceplate is notably missing. She's marched along much the same route as she was the other day, though if she paid particular attention, she'd notice a few new turns in the route. Finally, they arrive at a door, which is opened, and one of the guards removes both her shackles, and her handcuffs, and points her through into the room.

It was quite different from the room she was in before, much smaller, but with her unrestricted mobility, it would feel more free. It was separated into two sections by a long booth with a partition separating it into two halves, and the room bisected by a double-paned glass barrier, much like prison visitation rooms were. On the other side of the glass, Tammy was already present, going over notes in the same file she had previously, a styrofoam take-out box next to her with a half-eaten club sandwich and french fries. She looks up, looking quizzical for a moment, as if Lena wasn't quite what she expected to see, before she shuts the lid on her box and stands up, tugging the bottom of her blazer straightened.

"Miss Grey, I thought these accomodations would be a bit more comfortable than the ones before. Please, sit."

Much of Lena's day was spent curled on her makeshift bunk, looking rather lost. With no one there to bluster at, it's difficult to keep the fear at arm's length. It's even put the girl off her food; she's barely touched the meals, except to shove the food around on the plastic tray before retreating again to that corner where she can sit with her knees drawn up and her her forehead resting upon them. When the guards finally come for her, their suspicions prove true. There's no misbehaviour for them to enjoy smacking down, as she complies silently to receive the restraints.

The constant sense of anxiety she's lived with for the past forty-eight hours is only enhanced when they deviate from what she had expected as routine. New turns, new halls and a new room offer confusion, and when she steps inside, that emotion is written plainly in the way Lena's brow is furrowed, the way she glances around before fixing on Tammy. Ah. Plexiglass barrier. That explains the lack of face shield.

There's silence for a long moment while the brunette idly curls her fingers around the opposite wrist and rubs away the feeling of being shackled. The process is repeated with the other wrist, and then she approaches the barrier to sink into the offered chair. "Yeah? How come you made that face when I came in then, huh?"

The psychologist sits only a few seconds after Lena does, as if that was the silent signal to take their seats and get down to business. At the question, she glances with a small frown at the box next to her. "Well, I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of my late lunch. It's been a long day, and I was supposed to have a few minutes to finish my food before you arrived. It doesn't matter." She returns her cool, professional gaze through the looking-glass at the other girl, then to the box, and finally back. "Would you like some? I can't imagine what they give you is the very definition of taste."

Picking up the box, the dark-haired woman leans to the side, sliding out the little two-way drawer meant for passing objects back and forth, placing the container of food within, and sliding it across to the other side. "And before you complain about my good cop routine," She continues, not even bothering to look up as she turns to what she considered the relevant page in her notes. "I would like to point out that you haven't been eating well, and frankly, if you pass out from hunger, it does me, nor you, any good."

After frowning down at the papers before her for a few moments, she glances back up, threading her fingers together. "Yesterday when we left off, we were talking about your abilities. I'm pleased to say that Mister DaSilva confirmed your story on them. I'd like to talk to you today about your mutual friends. He was able to tell us a little, but claimed that you knew more about them than he did."

To say that Lena appears skeptical of Tammy's explanation would be putting it mildly. Were this a comic book, she would be radiating inky black lines of mistrust. That is why her hands remain folded neatly in her lap, although she does glance briefly at the box. Mmm, fries. But no! Drawing an abbreviated breath, she turns her eyes back to Tammy and tucks her chin down as a frown is adopted.

"Yeah, I'm sure you guys are all concerned about me and my health. Guess it makes you feel better about yourselves when you get compared to Nazis, right?"

It is a momentary grumble, however. The mention of Tiago is successful in diverting from the brunette from further abuse. It's just as well, she's a little off her game today.

"That…what? That's bullshit. Chi didn't tell you any thing," Lena responds, but only after a brief pause and a widening of those blue eyes. She can get the blackened eye open today, which makes such tattletale shifts all the more expressive. "There isn't anything to tell. It's him and me, right? You heard him when he said we were getting out…just him and me."

"Oh, I have no doubt that you were trying to get out, but I'm afraid that your partner isn't quite as strong-willed in his desire to go down protecting those he seems to hold no real allegience, to." She pauses, raising her eyebrows as if this were an entirely unexpected vein of conversation. "Are you so surprised? I find his self-preservation instincts to be entirely in keeping with the profile I've managed to work up on him thus far. I can't imagine the two of you learned any lesson quite as thoroughly on the streets as 'survival'. I'm sure both of you have had conversations on that very subject, likely more than once."

Moving the top file aside, Tammy reveals another beneath, this one, should Lena lean forward enough to read it through the glass, would be tabbed 'DASILVA, TIAGO'. It's opened, leafed through leisurely until she comes to several pages of hand-written notes. "He seems adamant in his desire to both protect you from taking collateral damage in his murder charges and in reducing his own sentence. With your cooperation, we may be able to reduce his sentence from possible death to something much more acceptable. He can still be young when he gets out, if you're willing to help him."

She glances down, then back up. "Tell me about Joel."


Oh yes, Lena does lean forward to try to get a look at the folder. She stands up, in fact, and presses her hand against the plexiglass separating her from Tammy. "What do you mean, death? Chi didn't do shit!" That hand is balled up and thumped against the barrier to punctuate the denial. "It was self-defense, you bitch! They shot at him and he's not even like me!"

Having spent her fear and frustration on the window, the girl drops back into her chair and puts her head in her hands. There is one thing she was sworn and that is that Tammy et al would not see her cry. But it's a fight. "Oh, jesus. You goddamn people…no. You can't just…you can't execute people without trials. You can't do this," she says in a thickened voice. When she looks up again, Lena's eyes are bright with tears and anger. "I…god. Joel? I don't know. I don't hardly know him. He was some weirdo we met. Some weirdo in a pool parlor…he said he was gonna kill me if I didn't figure out how to stop doing what I do, I think. I dunno, Chi talked to him more than me."

"Yes, death. I told you before, Miss Grey, we are not the police. You have no rights here, no trials, no lawyers, no ammendments. Regardless of the circumstances, he has already confessed to the murders, so his punishment will be decided by my supervisors. His testimony, your testimony, and my findings are the only, I cannot stress that enough, influence any of us have over the outcome of his sentencing. And I'm afraid that time isn't on our side."

"You see," Setting the pen down, Tammy lifts her hands, fingers threaded together, to rest her chin on the small bridge formed by her interlocked digits. "Lengthy investigations are not something the higher-ups enjoy, and the longer this takes, the more impatient they become. The manner in which this is handled is of far less import than it being handled in a timely fashion. Agents are dead, and whether it's a ten-year-prison sentence with two written testimonies of cooperation and one written report asking for leniency, or a body disposal with no collateral information gathering, something has to be done about it, and in short order. Events are going to move forward whether you stall or not, and longer you take, the more dire the outlook."

She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her body language positively oozing extreme patience. "So I'll ask you again: will you tell us of your other accomplices?"

"Oh, you bitch." Lena breathes these words before having to stand and pace away from the window, her hands returning to her face to scrub at her eyes. There'll be no crying. She refuses. Plainly the way she's sniffing hard to clear her nose comes from an impending cold.

Once she's cleared her eyes, the girl begins to pace, arms curled around her body. The silence drags out to levels that might test patience, were the other person present not so damnably composed and prepared for this. When Lena finally comes to a standstill after the minutes have ticked by, she can hardly bring herself to look at Tammy through the glass. Her hands bunch into fists, a sure sign that bodily harm would be done if there was nothing between them.

"There aren't any fucking accomplices," she says in a low tone of voice, staring hard at the floor. "There aren't. We don't…we work alone, me and Chi. Us against the world, you know? There was…there was those two guys, in the convenience store. They killed folks but I stopped them. They ran off. But…there isn't anyone else."

Neither the insult, nor the silence gets a rise out of Tammy. As a practiced and licensed psychologist, she's undoubtedly gone through just this very scenario many times during her training and career, dealing with hostile silences, though as far as Lena knew she was simply an infuriatingly calm Agent.

"I see."

There's a silence of Tammy's own as she closes Tiago's file, then reaches slightly to the side to collect Lena's, and place it on top. Clicking up her pen, she begins adding a few lines of notes to the bottom of what she had written during their previous discussion, and doesn't look up until she's finished, finally putting the pen aside. With that, she closes that file, too, and stands up, straightening the lapels of her blazer. She begins collecting her belongings, which was her pen, which gets slipped into a breast pocket, and the files, which goes under her arm.

"Then I'm sorry to say that I believe we are done for the day. I'm afraid that without your cooperation and corroborating testimony, things will most likely not go well for him. And, of course, your own stay will be lengthened as well. I've already spoken to Jonas, and it looks like they're going to be passing you on from my care to the next interrogator very soon, as I seem to be failing to acheive satisfactory results." She pauses, standing awkwardly for a moment. "I was sincere when I said it does me no good to see you unnecessarily abused. Please, if I don't see you before you're passed on to the next, do not resist. At that point, defiance will be meaningless."

And with those words, she's turning to go, walking away from the glass case, only to stop at the door, with her hand on it, looking over her shoulder. "Mister DaSilva asked me to pass on a brief message for you. 'I'm sorry, but I have to.' I'll trust you know what he meant."

Fresh silence, but only for a moment.

Then Lena explodes, seizing the chair and throwing it at the glass that keeps her from launching herself at the agent. What follows is the chair slamming against the barrier and tumbling to the floor is a stream of invectives that has been a year in coming. It pours raw and injured from the girl's throat, so thick with bile that only one word in three might be interpreted. But they are words full of loathing, perhaps even hate, and some of it's directed at herself.

"…you're a fucking liar! He wouldn't! He wouldn't!" She's on the counter now, slamming her palms against the glass as if her hands could do what the chair did not. "You bitch! … you Nazi bitch!"

She'll still be there, screaming and assaulting the glass, when the guards dash into the room to haul her away. If she isn't tasered first, it's going to be an exit filled with a great deal of kicking, spitting and attempts to bite the unfortunates tasked with returning her to her cell.

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