Starring:
Date: January 12th, 2010
Summary:
Through Jack and Trina, Tracy delves into Nathan's dark past; for some, the present day is what bites them instead.
"You Can Never Be Too Careful"
Den of Iniquity
Brooklyn, New York
The clunking, scraping sound of a bottle rolling back and forth across the bar has persisted for the last ten minutes. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
Jack sighs, grabs the bottle of scotch by the neck, and twirls it upright. He's been toying with it off and on all day. Taunting himself. Daring himself to take a drink. And with the pub closed to the general public, he doesn't even have customers to distract himself. Abruptly, he straightens up and smiles lopsidedly at Trina. "Thanks for being here, baby," he says, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. "Seeing her is so strange. Hopefully, having another person in the room will take attention from the giant elephant that is her sister."
"Yer welcome," Trina replies after a quiet sigh, wiping down the bar for the fourth time since they got here. She's been trying to give the place an extra bit of shine despite its reputation. There's someone new coming. Something feminine. Something pretty and feminine and new. It's setting Trina on edge. It's not like she really has anything else to do while she waits anyway. Even the ash trays are sparkling. "Though I still don't see why we gotta talk to her. I mean, how do you know she's not settin' us up? She's the one still talkin' to him." Then she suddenly straightens as realization dawns. "You… You didn't tell her, right? About the—" Fingers wiggle up by the brunette's face, blue eyes wide in their smoky cosmetic frames. Sign language. Because certain words outloud are forbidden things outside the house. But in the wideness of those pale eyes, there is a lingering threat of chiding. Powers. Abilities. The things that neither of them possess to the knowledge of the world at large. "Because, if you didn't and she knows, then you know he's the one who spilled."
Not that Trina's paranoid. Oh, no. Not her.
A place that willingly calls itself "the Den of Iniquity" is a place Tracy would, on an average day of her life, avoid. All things average have been rapidly receding from her life at breakneck speeds, however. Even so, a dive bar in Brooklyn…? Doesn't really help to bolster her opinion of its owner, but she'll put up with it.
Here she is. As she enters, she gives the unfamiliar surroundings a passing, neutral glance and heads straight for the man of the hour. Gloves and black wool coat, to the hip, is what she wears to keep out the winter — under that, a black turtleneck and a pair of dark, blue jeans. All very neat; all very tailored. Blonde hair turned a much darker shade of red, long over her shoulders. She gazes questioningly at the new face — Trina — and critically at Jack, in turn. So far, Tracy offers zilch in the way of hellos. She just slides onto a bar stool.
Jack is shaking his head at Trina when his expected guest walks through the door. He puffs out a bit of air between his teeth and lifts an eyebrow at her quiet, casual attitude. "Aren't you a cool customer?" he quips, crossing his arms over his chest. "Trina, this is Linda. Linda, meet my lady love."
"Afternoon," Trina replies, her tone non-commital and accent shoving itself back into a neutral North American non-specific. Her lips quirk up into a tentative smile, and then she jerks her head back to indicate the shelves behind her. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Trina. Hi," Tracy acknowledges Jack's lady love with the briefest of polite, friendly smiles on neatly glossed lips. "Nice to meet you." A habit, since the smile disappears so fast afterward. This isn't a social call by any stretch of the imagination — she's here for information. On Trina's offer, she looks pointedly at the Irishman instead. "Not yet." Jack did say he would, at least, want a drink after this conversation. She might too. Tracy will make up her own mind. "Thanks though."
"Right. Well, now that we're all acquainted, why don't we get down to it?" As he speaks, Jack's eyes stray over to the bottle unwillingly and linger for several seconds. Then, blinking, he snatches his gaze away and glances back to Tracy. "So. You're here because you have questions and I think you deserve answers. Go ahead and ask."
Trina doesn't really say much. She does, however, ever-so-casually stride over to where her hubby-to-be is standing and then reach out to grab the bottle upon which Jack's got his eye. She then moves to put it back on the shelf, taking her time once she's got it in her hand. Because Jack wouldn't fight her, now would he? No. No, he wouldn't. Because he's smarter than that.
"I just want to know what he's hiding," Tracy — 'Linda' — answers with intent. "I don't like being kept in the dark. I know he has a past. If what you said is true, he's managed to cover most of it up." She tips her head aside while giving a faint, short-lived shrug and sits up straighter on the bar stool. Though she glances at Trina, she doesn't seem bothered by the woman's strangers. Tracy is a stranger to both of them, even if her face is more a familiar one. "If I knew what to ask, I'd do it. Every politician has secrets. It's my job to know Nathan's."
A quiet, wordless groan creeps out of Jack's throat as the scotch is taken from his field of view. He slumps visibly, but he doesn't protest. Instead, he focuses his full attention on Tracy. "What? Uh. Oh. Right."
Another sigh, this time while he rubs at his face tiredly. "I don't have the energy to mince words. Here's the brief version. Logan is a second personality. One with dark, unwholesome motives and desires. Nathan… Logan… Whoever he is, he's a very sick man."
At Jack's summary, Trina offers a collaborative snort. She looks over her shoulder as she puts the fine liquor back up — waaaaay up — on the high shelf where it belongs. After rolling back onto her heels, she also offers a few words. "That's the understatement of the year."
Tracy's features remain cool, showing no signs of surprise, but blue eyes narrow on Jack. So Nathan is crazy. "…Great." Stellar. Truly. Her gaze shifts between the pair. "You've been out of contact," she says, having gleaned that much from her first encounter with Jack. Inquiringly, she lifts her eyebrows ever-so-slightly. "So this was before he lost his memory." Pause. "What kind've motives?"
"Lost his memory, eh?" Jack doesn't seem particularly surprised. Or particularly interested. He reaches under the bar, grabs a half-burned cigarette, and plugs it between his lips. "Power," he finally replies, mumbling around the butt. "With him, it was always power. He was willing to say anything, steal anything, do anything. Hurt anyone. He wanted to change the world in a bad, bad way. We wanted to change it."
He pauses and turns to the side as he lights his cigarette. He inhales the first draw deeply and holds it for a blatantly unhealthy length of time before exhaling. When he turns back to face Tracy again, the muscles around his bad eye are twitching visibly. "Sorry," he mumbles. "This isn't the easiest thing to talk about."
Trina doesn't like staying still. She's doing her best to keep moving, to keep her hands busy. She walks past Jack on her way to pick up the broom, a hand trailing across his mid-back and lips pressing a kiss to one of those shoulders as she goes. She doesn't linger. There's a murmur of encouragement and then broom-wards she goes to start sweeping a mostly-clean floor.
Power. Not exactly a foreign concept to Tracy. If it weren't for the other adjectives he happens to throw in…
The once-blonde considers Jack, regarding him for a moment to allow some silence to pass, and watching Trina, too. They seem sincere. She's not completely cold to Jack's struggle, the rough past he seems to have with the man they're speaking on. Her silence is as close as she'll get to saying 'it's okay, take your time'; her need-to-know bypasses sympathy at the moment. "Change the world hooow, exactly?"
Jack immediately grows even more tense. He lays his hands on the bar and takes a couple of deep, gulping breaths to steady himself. "There is… was… this drug," he says, his voice very tight and quiet. "For me, that's what started it all. He's the one who fed it to me. Used it to control me. We were going to distribute it." Suddenly, he slashes one hand through the air. "That was just part of it. In the end, he wanted to be some sort of king. Or a god. I don't know, really. I don't have the clearest memories of that time."
"Don't need to," Trina mutters from where she sweeps, not looking up. "It's over and done with. The only thing that matters is that he's not welcome here. God only knows how that wretch got himself back into government. He sure as Hell ain't talking for us. He destroyed damn near everythin' he set his hand to, near as I can tell. Surprised he didn't find a way to blow up New York. It woulda been quicker."
" ..A pharmaceutical trial." Tracy makes a leap of logic. Familiar words on her tongue — something she happens to know about. To some degree. "All of that was buried." She helped bury it after the fact without realizing the scope of it. Trina helps to put things in perspective. She considers herself to be a good judge of character, to be able to tell truth from fiction (you know, when she's not being enthralled); even if she doesn't think this couple is lying, she has to cover her bases. "If there's anything else you can tell me… if I were to look for proof of what he's done…"
This is clearly difficult for Jack. He lifts his cigarette to his lips with a trembling hand, take one last drag, and stubs it out. The two women's words elicit a shudder than runs from his shoulders all the way down to his toes. "Proof… ?"
(Please insert long, uncomfortable silence.)
"There aren't any official records," he hedges. "But I still have one or two tricks up my sleeve. Why?"
Tricks up his sleeve? Jack's choice of words draws a sharp turn of Trina's gaze as she considers her fiance for a moment. Then, quick as it came, her regard drops back to the floor and she goes back to sweeping.
Tracy looks Jack up and down — as if she could see up his sleeves for tricks. "Contingency." She lets that sit for a moment. "The Senator's in a powerful position. I wanna think he's changed, that he has a better vision now, but he's been…" She trails away with a tightening expression that turns into a tense smile. "…mm. Well, I'd rather you not be the only one with a trick or two up your sleeve."
"Yes. Contingency," Jack replies absently. It's clear that's not exactly what he was thinking, but it's close enough. He reaches up to tap a fingernail against his teeth. "But it's mine, and it's important to me, and that's about as specific as I'm willing to be right now. First we try, then we trust."
"Then thanks for your time," the advisor says curtly, planting her hands on the edge of the bar before she slides off the bar stool. She pauses, however, not making so hasty an exit. Whatever she intended to say falls short before it ever leaves her mouth. Instead: "… I hope the past… stays in the past. You know how to reach me," Tracy says before turning to saunter back the way she came. As she approaches the exit of the bar, she fishes in her coat pocket for a pair of dark sunglasses.
Jack's body has continued to shrink in on itself during the course of the conversation and his mouth has taken on a puckered, unpleasant expression. Tracy's final words bring a small smile to his face, though. "Me too," he replies, lifting a hand and waving. "And same to you. Good luck."
As Tracy turns to go, Trina finishes dumping her dustpan in a bag that is mostly filled with evidence of her handiwork. She sets the dustpan down and then cinches the bag closed. Dragging the thing as far as the door to the back, the skinny creature then moves the rest of the way to come up behind Jack to curl her arms around his waist and then reaches up on tip toes so she might set her chin upon his shoulder. "Bye," she calls out, tone friendly enough but thick with relief. Then she stretches up just a little more so she can kiss her beau's cheek. "S'alright now, babe. I'm just gonna drag the bag out to the dumpster, alright? Then we can go do somethin' fun if you want, since we took the day off. Work on Julia or somethin'."
Sliding the dark glasses onto her face, Tracy steps into the Brooklyn street and leaves the couple alone in their Den. She doesn't pause despite the thoughts assembled in her mind; she doesn't miss a step as she veers left the way she came. She looks over her shoulder, a frequent habit as of late, to eye a black van as it pulls up in a few buildings down from the bar. Her gaze lingers for a moment and she keeps on walking at a brisk pace.
Jack leans back comfortably against Trina and lets out a low rumble of pleasure. "That sounds great. I need to do something productive. Try and keep my mind busy." Smiling genuinely now, he turns around, takes his intended in his arms, and kisses her soundly. Then, with a playful slap on the rump, he sends her on her way.
Trina lets out a girlish squeak as she slips free, hefting up the plastic bag and then pushing her way into the backroom. The grin on her face seems to dispel previous gloom and dourness, and there's nearly a skip to her heeled-boot step. Across that backroom she goes, and then she throws the deadbolt on the backdoor. She pushes through that next, and into the alley. With a brisk trot through a cloud of frosty breath, since she didn't put on her coat, she makes her way towards the dumpster.
That black van inches closer before it comes to a halt, just as Trina happens to step outside. Today, the people inside don't even care that it's broad daylight in plain view of the public when they come piling out of the ambiguous vehicle onto the sidewalk and street, wearing black tactical gear and toting weapons. Altogether, there are about five men (and/or women) in the group of agents who have, somehow, some way, tracked certain individuals to this location.
They don't rush in: they file along the side of the Den facing the street, slinking under the window. A few hand gestures later, the figure in the lead tosses a small, metal canister into the alleyway. It tings against the side of the dumpster metallically. Mere seconds later, a quiet hiss precedes the release of a misty gas that quickly spreads into a cloud.
Far down the street by now, Tracy takes another sharp left turn, well on her way to putting the Den of Inquity out of sight (but not out of mind). Her steps hitch, though, as she happens to glance back the way she came in time to see those black-clad figures. Naturally, her first reaction is to get the hell out of dodge. She ducks around the corner she was about to turn around anyway and … keeps walking, brisker and brisker until she's almost running.
Humming quietly under his breath, Jack turns to consider the line of bottles on shelves behind the bar. He drags his fingertips along one entire row wistfully, but that's as far as his dalliance goes. He chuckles beneath his breath and bends down to grab his coat from under the bar. When he straightens up, he pauses and tips his head to the side as if listening for some distant sound. After a moment, he shrugs and shakes his head. "Must be getting old," he mutters to himself.
She lifts the lid of the dumpster and, with a mighty swing, arcs the bag inside. Work done, Trina turns to head back into the warmth of the bar, hands briskly rubbing along her white sweater-clad arms in order to banish the chill that's already zapping the warmth from them. She'd had her face buried in the warmth of her turtleneck collar for a moment, but the collar slips from her slack fingers when she hears the metallic clink. It… It must be something that fell out of the garbage bag, she surmises. A bottle or something. Whipped cream can perhaps, empty after a last Irish coffee? She moves to the side of the steel box, crouches beside the weird canister, only to get a face full of mist that has her engulfed in moments. Long legs in their dark boot-leg jeans are still just long enough for lungs to suck in a gasp. And then Trina takes off, stumbling towards the steel door that would grant her access back into the Den. It feels like she's choking and it slows her down, lungs filled with a mysterious vapor and bitter Manhattan cold. She hacks up a cry — a mangled, strangled, desperate "Jack!"
Two men hang back and cover the front door of the bar.
… But as the Solution does its job and Trina cries out, three of the agents appear in the mouth of the alley. All have weapons pointed at the woman: at first glance they may look like rifles, but they're definitely tasers. Serious ones. The figure in the center wastes no time in firing.
It's not until Tracy has passed two restaurants and a convenience store that she thinks to warn them. She might have escaped being seen, but then, what if they weren't after her? Her steps slow, but only for a second or two as she takes her phone out and finds Jack's number. To warn them. If he doesn't hear his loved one's cry for help, well, he'll get a phone call from someone less invested in their safety and more concerned with not being captured herself. Of course, by now it may already be too late, but Tracy least she can say she tried!
Trina's cry might as well have been a starter's pistol. Jack drops his coat to the floor, vaults over the bar, and hits the ground at a flat sprint, slowing just enough to scoop up a cue ball from one of the pool tables. He doesn't even slow down when he exits through the back door and into the alley. He launches the cue ball at one assailant with his best fastball pitch and then throws his body through the air at a second man.
Men. Men with guns. If she wasn't coughing up a proverbial lung, Trina's breath would most assuredly have the frenzied pace of a startled rabbit. Instead, there's only a half-formed sob as she tries to stop and duck to the side. Tries to call out Jack's name again, in case he didn't hear her.
They had been so careful. So cautious. There is nothing that Trina can fathom that should have betrayed them or given them cause to come here.
It doesn't matter.
She only manages to stop in time, not to turn. Arms come up to cover her face, expecting one of the power surges that she often finds in these situations, emerging to protect her. But there is no spark of strangeness. No wave through her. Her freakishness fails her. There is no time to even process what might have been a profound moment of revelation.
A tazer barb strikes true, landing squarely in her chest and sending her convulsing to the ground with a scream.
Around the block, Tracy keeps walking with her cell phone pressed to her ear, features caught in a scowl. No answer! That's her cue to leave Jack and Trina to fend for themselves. Picking up her pace toward the curb, she hails for a cab. "Taxi!!" She hesitates after she pulls the door to the checkered cab, looking back down the street, but… nope. Get her outta Brooklyn.
The man whose taser fired at Trina is struck squarely in the head with the cue ball and, moments after felling his own prey, falls himself. Those things are solid. He goes down, and so does the agent Jack sails at, but the man left standing? He unloads his own taser gun in the direction of the man's back. Electricity might hit his comrade too, but it's a small price to pay for not having an angry Irishman flying at them.
In front of the Den, one of the men eases the door open and slinks inside toward the back room. Blocking off all exits they see inside and out.
Jack is far past the point of rational thought. He has entered the realm of instinct and impulse. He lets out a primal, animalistic roar as he lands on top of his tackled target. Moving fluidly, he grabs the man's bulky taser rifle, shoves it to the side, and slams the point of his elbow into his quarry's throat. It makes a sickening, satisfying thud.
Nostrils flaring, Jack readies his liberated rifle as he comes to his feet. He's almost standing again when the second taser shot hits him in the small of the back. His hand clenches on the action of his weapon, discharging it harmlessly against the wall as he spasms his way back to the pavement. He's not unconscious, though. Not yet.
Trina's frail form is trembling upon the icky alley even after the dart stops sending its current, dark hair covering her face and making her limited view of Jack even more compromised. Unfortunately, there's nothing she can do. Her eyes close and her body stills soon after as the last of the charge dissipates.
The solution to Jack not being unconscious yet is another tasering, in the mind of the one agent who remains standing before him — and a sweeping kick to the legs. First one, then the other are delivered in attempt to bring the man down for good. Literally, if the Protocol has their way: for people like Jack and the beautiful creator of forcefields crumpled on the ground to be hidden away forever.
The heavy door from the back room is forced open, the lone agent peeking out to survey the alley, finding good news and bad news. He speaks into an earpiece. "Bring the van around. HURRY!"
The agent's words are distended and distorted when they reach Jack's ears. The one-two impacts of a second taser dark and a hefty kick are punishing, to say the least. Each time he blinks, his eyes stay shut just a little bit longer. Grunting with the effort, he drags himself a few inches closer to Trina, and then a few more. Finally, his strength gives out. He sighs out a heavy breath and loses consciousness.
(FADE TO BLACK)