An Unauthorized Genetic Experiment: episode two.
Author: Chippewa Livingston
Archive: Please ask
Disclaimer: I claim no affiliation or ownership of characters or material related to Dark Angel.
19. Rewind
There was almost no traffic on our short trip back to the office building. Asha was silent in the back seat, Nathan in the front.
I listened to Roxanne/Elle sketch out a plan of attack. Logan's faint voice came through the phone to agree and confirm each step.
The doors that Logan locked for her gave us one way in. We would go in the back, take a few turns, and head down in the one stairwell left open. We didn't have a map of the lowest level of the basement, where the storage was located. That was going to be unlocked for us, and stay that way.
In theory, we just had to walk past the confused crowd, go get the stuff, and walk back out. Easy. Right?
When 'Roxanne' parked the car, no one noticed. She picked a dark corner, and the chaotic swarm of blue uniforms were all moving, double-time. Some of them were moving towards the office building. Others were moving away, towards the squad cars. The power was back on, and we could see dark shapes moving in some of the windows.
She got out of the front seat, and I followed her to the trunk. The lid hinged open with a squeal. A battered gray metal box filled most of the available space. It was heavy, but not too much so for a couple of Manticore's finest. Two heat-sealed plastic bags with the suits were easy to find. The filter masks were smaller, and under other things. There was the Geiger counter, with dead batteries, and another little unit that was supposed to detect chemical weapons.
She pushed the buttons on it, and managed to make it hum, with disturbing pitch and timbre. "I can work with this!" She smiled a perfect and dangerous smile.
"Scare the crap out of them?" I shook the wrinkles out of the white fiber-reinforced plastic suit, and stepped into it. It rustled like a stack of mailing envelopes. I taped the bottom of the legs to my boots, and Nathan handed me a pair of plastic gloves, in an ugly purple color.
Asha helped 'Roxanne' step into the other suit.
"Here's the deal," Elle said. "You two take Nathan's car home. We're going to get the stuff, loose any pursuit, and meet you."
"This is my job," said Asha, quietly. Her hands were clenched around the second pair of plastic glove.
"Not anymore," I told her. My breath hissed through the filter mask.
"I told Logan that I'd do it. I'll fit in that suit, and I can handle myself in a fight." Asha turned towards me.
"There isn't going to be any fight," said Elle, as she adjusted the straps on her mask and tucked her blue-streaked curls into the hood.
The vague feeling of uneasiness suddenly came into focus. "You know, you don't have to do this," I told her. "Asha and I can stroll in, get the stuff, and be back before they know what hit them. I'd feel better if you weren't involved."
Her face froze, and she looked at me though half-closed eyes. "Do you have a problem working with me?"
"No, it's just. . ."
"You think waiting tables is making me loose my edge?" she hissed.
"No, but . . ."
"Then what's your problem?" She grabbed the gloves out of Asha's hands, and glared at me.
****
I turned the knob, and swung the door open. A woman in a dark suit raised her hand as her expression shifted from boredom to surprise. "Look out!"
I turned to look. Male, dark suit. He pivoted to swing a shotgun to point in my direction.
The world was a very small place, with only three things in it. Me, a .45 pistol, and Mr. Shotgun.
I made one good shot, chest level, before the tasers hit me.
Sometimes, you need to scream.
Sometimes, the floor reaches up towards you.
I slowly realized that the current was off, and looked at a dozen shoes from too close. The pistol wasn't in my hand any more. I tried to collect my wits, and tried to find a direction called "up."
If I got "up" I could fight. Where was "up"?
I felt what might have been a needle stick. The random gray-on-gray pattern of the carpet started to blur.
"We gave him too much," said a voice, male.
"He'll be fine," a woman said. Her navy jacket moved towards me. "Get him ready for transport."
I wasn't looking at the carpet anymore. The fluorescent lights marked off a grid pattern that would tell me which way "up" was.
If I could focus anymore. If they weren't smearing like oil on a wet parking lot. Look at all the pretty colors.
Author: Chippewa Livingston
Archive: Please ask
Disclaimer: I claim no affiliation or ownership of characters or material related to Dark Angel.
19. Rewind
There was almost no traffic on our short trip back to the office building. Asha was silent in the back seat, Nathan in the front.
I listened to Roxanne/Elle sketch out a plan of attack. Logan's faint voice came through the phone to agree and confirm each step.
The doors that Logan locked for her gave us one way in. We would go in the back, take a few turns, and head down in the one stairwell left open. We didn't have a map of the lowest level of the basement, where the storage was located. That was going to be unlocked for us, and stay that way.
In theory, we just had to walk past the confused crowd, go get the stuff, and walk back out. Easy. Right?
When 'Roxanne' parked the car, no one noticed. She picked a dark corner, and the chaotic swarm of blue uniforms were all moving, double-time. Some of them were moving towards the office building. Others were moving away, towards the squad cars. The power was back on, and we could see dark shapes moving in some of the windows.
She got out of the front seat, and I followed her to the trunk. The lid hinged open with a squeal. A battered gray metal box filled most of the available space. It was heavy, but not too much so for a couple of Manticore's finest. Two heat-sealed plastic bags with the suits were easy to find. The filter masks were smaller, and under other things. There was the Geiger counter, with dead batteries, and another little unit that was supposed to detect chemical weapons.
She pushed the buttons on it, and managed to make it hum, with disturbing pitch and timbre. "I can work with this!" She smiled a perfect and dangerous smile.
"Scare the crap out of them?" I shook the wrinkles out of the white fiber-reinforced plastic suit, and stepped into it. It rustled like a stack of mailing envelopes. I taped the bottom of the legs to my boots, and Nathan handed me a pair of plastic gloves, in an ugly purple color.
Asha helped 'Roxanne' step into the other suit.
"Here's the deal," Elle said. "You two take Nathan's car home. We're going to get the stuff, loose any pursuit, and meet you."
"This is my job," said Asha, quietly. Her hands were clenched around the second pair of plastic glove.
"Not anymore," I told her. My breath hissed through the filter mask.
"I told Logan that I'd do it. I'll fit in that suit, and I can handle myself in a fight." Asha turned towards me.
"There isn't going to be any fight," said Elle, as she adjusted the straps on her mask and tucked her blue-streaked curls into the hood.
The vague feeling of uneasiness suddenly came into focus. "You know, you don't have to do this," I told her. "Asha and I can stroll in, get the stuff, and be back before they know what hit them. I'd feel better if you weren't involved."
Her face froze, and she looked at me though half-closed eyes. "Do you have a problem working with me?"
"No, it's just. . ."
"You think waiting tables is making me loose my edge?" she hissed.
"No, but . . ."
"Then what's your problem?" She grabbed the gloves out of Asha's hands, and glared at me.
****
I turned the knob, and swung the door open. A woman in a dark suit raised her hand as her expression shifted from boredom to surprise. "Look out!"
I turned to look. Male, dark suit. He pivoted to swing a shotgun to point in my direction.
The world was a very small place, with only three things in it. Me, a .45 pistol, and Mr. Shotgun.
I made one good shot, chest level, before the tasers hit me.
Sometimes, you need to scream.
Sometimes, the floor reaches up towards you.
I slowly realized that the current was off, and looked at a dozen shoes from too close. The pistol wasn't in my hand any more. I tried to collect my wits, and tried to find a direction called "up."
If I got "up" I could fight. Where was "up"?
I felt what might have been a needle stick. The random gray-on-gray pattern of the carpet started to blur.
"We gave him too much," said a voice, male.
"He'll be fine," a woman said. Her navy jacket moved towards me. "Get him ready for transport."
I wasn't looking at the carpet anymore. The fluorescent lights marked off a grid pattern that would tell me which way "up" was.
If I could focus anymore. If they weren't smearing like oil on a wet parking lot. Look at all the pretty colors.