Thursday, roughly 2:45pm
Darien sits in his car a little ways down the street, watching MacKenna and de Fehrn enter her new apartment through his binoculars.
"What are they doing at Alianora's old place?" he wonders. For a few minutes, he sits and vainly attempts to observe their movements from inside his car. But then he decides to get out and sneak to a closer (and hopefully better) vantage point by one of the windows.
Luckily, she seems to prefer fresh air as opposed to recycled, and is opening every single window and door in the apartment.
"... hope you don't mind, but I can't stand to be in air-conditioning right now," she's speaking over her shoulder as she fumbles open the window next to the one Darien's crouching by.
He instinctively flattens himself against the building, holding his breath.
He hears de Fehrn speaking, as if he were in another room. The exact words are indistinguishable.
"I really appreciate your help, Doctor."
"Please, call me Arnaud," comes the gracious (and insincere) reply. "We might as well be on a first name basis since we're to be working together," he finishes as she enters the living room.
Darien settles by another window near the outside door in the living room. The lace curtains are still drawn, but he's able to make out the two inside fairly well.
"Then call me Amy," she replies. "I'm going to check the fridge. Would you like anything?"
A cigarette floats up from a pack, and is lit with a lighter. The tip brightens momentarily, and then the cigarette drops down as a small cloud of smoke puffs out from his invisible mouth. "Thank you, no," he replies dryly. The couch acquires a human-shaped indentation as he sits down.
"Be right back." She walks towards the kitchen and Darien hears her mutter, "Damn could I use a stiff drink."
de Fehrn slowly draws in another lungful. "Actually, my dear, I'd love to get this farce over with," he grumbles as he impatiently breathes out smoke.
"You say something?" MacKenna asks, re-entering the room with a beer bottle in her left hand.
Before he can answer she comments, "It's so weird... the fridge and cabinets are all full. Is this how Mr. Stark treats all his people?"
She flops down on a chair next to the couch and rests her feet on the coffee table. She grips the bottle between her knees and pops the lid off of the bottle with her left palm. She takes a long pull from it, swallows, and then gazes thoughtfully at the liquid contents.
"I haven't had a drink in eight years," she comments absently. "It's so hard to accept all of this. Hunh, I haven't thanked you for getting me out..." she trails off, glancing up at the spot where de Fehrn's sitting.
The cigarette is dashed in an ashtray on the coffee table. "No need to thank me, my dear. I just hope you'll be able to assist me with my particular... dilemma."
She sets her beer down on the coffee table and perches on the edge of her chair. "Yeah, well, I'll do my best." She inclines her head to the side. She ponders for a few moments, then, "Mr. Stark said something about you needing to get more of the records from the original experiment."
"Yes. Unfortunately, it's in a secure area of the building, and..." he stops when Darien's cell phone begins to ring.
"Aw, crap!" Darien fervently mutters sotto voce. He instinctively Quicksilvers as he quickly looks down and frantically reaches inside his coat to turn off the offending device.
At a sound from inside the apartment, his head jerks upwards just in time to see de Fehrn's Quicksilver-outlined foot crash through the screen window into his face. The resulting thud is heard as the mercenary tritely comments, "Hello, Fawkes."
..O..
Darien blearily opens his eyes to find himself lying on his back with his wrists, knees and ankles heavily duct-taped together. His right cheekbone feels like it's on fire, and the rest of his head throbs in commiseration. He carefully raises his head to get a look at his surroundings.
"Well, it's about time you woke up from your little nap," a disembodied voice comments from the armchair adjacent to the couch.
"Nice to see you too, Arnaud," Darien replies caustically as he gingerly drops his head down on the couch. "So, what now? Torture? Gunshot to the head?"
de Fehrn chuckles. "I wish. But that would scare away my little friend here, and I couldn't have that now, could I?"
MacKenna limps into the living room from the kitchen. She stops when she notices that Darien's awake, and glances uncertainly at de Fehrn's chair. "I called him," she states quietly. "He's sending someone over for him in a few minutes." She nods towards Darien. "What should we do 'til they get here?"
de Fehrn sighs heavily. "Nothing much, since you're so squeamish about killing him."
She trudges to the armchair at Darien's head, and lightly perches on the edge furthest away from him. It's as if she's anxious that he'll try to jump her. She adjusts the bandage on her arm with a small wince.
She also seems a little irritated at de Fehrn's jibe. "I obviously don't mind killing... certain, people. But we've done enough of that over the past few days. I thought you understood that," she returns intensely.
"Sorry, I was just joking with you," he attempts to soothe her.
It doesn't work.
"I'm not laughing," she retorts. She sighs and raises her hands to her forehead and lightly massages her temples. "As soon as he's gone," she nods towards Darien, "I'm gonna hit the sack. God, I'm so freakin' tired," she finishes under her breath.
"Uh, don't mean to intrude, but, what exactly is gonna happen to me here?" Darien asks, apprehensive at not knowing what they were going to do to him.
She regards him thoughtfully for a moment as she continues to rub her head before questioning de Fehrn, "Is it okay to tell him?"
After a glass of wine is picked up, drunk, and lowered to the coffee table, his voice responds from the depths of his chair. "I don't see why not; he'll find out soon enough anyway."
She dips her head in acknowledgement before swiveling to regard Darien. "Mr. Stark is sending someone over to pick you up."
"And take me to Chrysalis?"
She nods.
"And then what?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever they do with people like you. At the moment, I couldn't care less. I just gotta get some sleep."
"What'd they promise you to work for 'em?"
"They didn't hire me, they rescued me," she replies, her brows furrowing in confusion.
"From what?"
Her expression hardens as painful memories surge. Her hands slowly ball up into tight fists before she consciously relaxes them. "Hell," is the crisp response.
Something clicks in his mind. "You're not the one Arnaud took from that lab in Virginia, are you?" he asks, the realization in his voice.
"My, aren't we astute today," de Fehrn muses cynically. "Give the boy a star."
Darien ignores him, craning his head to look MacKenna in the eyes.
She's jerked back into the chair, and now quickly rises and retreats from the couch. The color drains from her face as she begins to panic. "How did...? Oh shit, they did send you! I can't stay here... I-I've gotta go..." her head swings from side to side, like a hunted rabbit searching for a bolthole. She lurches towards the door.
The impression of de Fehrn on the other armchair lifts, and he lopes towards the woman.
Darien Quicksilvers his eyes in time to see de Fehrn grab her left arm and get right into her face.
Again he notices a sizable spark, larger than the first, flash between the two when de Fehrn seizes her arm. They seem too preoccupied to notice.
"Calm down, girl! They have no idea where you are now; and we won't let them take you again... so would you, please... just... calm ...down!" de Fehrn now has hold of both of her upper arms, and shakes her with each pause. Her breath catches in her throat at the pain he's inflicting on the gunshot wound. She wrenches her arms out of his grasp with a small cry of pain, and seizes his face between both hands. A sizable spark flashes between both of her hands and his temples.
"Don't you... ever... touch me... again!" she growls savagely.
His body becomes rigid as she speaks, and he doesn't move until her knees suddenly give out as she drops to the floor. Slowly, she sits up and takes three very slow and deep breaths while tilting her head down to her knees with her eyes closed. She trembles violently for a few moments as if she's having a seizure.
Almost unseen/unnoticed are droplets of blood coursing from her nose into a tiny puddle between her knees.
As she sinks to the floor, de Fehrn emerges from the hypnotic state he was plunged into. He gazes down at her for a moment. Abruptly, he turns, stalks to the couch, and punches Darien in the stomach. Hard.
Once he stops coughing and is able to draw a breath, Darien cracks open his now un-Quicksilvered eyes. "What the hell was that for?"
de Fehrn eases back into his chair. "Well, it certainly wouldn't've been very sporting to do that to an ally, would it?" He waves a hand at MacKenna, who hasn't moved. She appears to have missed what had just happened.
A moment passes where everything is quiet, so Darien takes the time to see if he can still breathe.
Luckily, he can, but his ribs are on fire, and they stab him with pain every time he tries to take anything other than a shallow breath.
de Fehrn ignites another cigarette and deeply inhales.
MacKenna opens her eyes, the panic in them replaced by exhaustion, and sneezes. Her face scrunches up in a moue of distaste when she notices the lit cigarette. "Do you have to smoke those filthy things in here?" she asks, blowing a plume of smoke away from the front of her face. "They smell like pig crap."
She barely stifles another sneeze as she slowly rises and leans heavily on the coffee table. She falls into the armchair, too tired to be paranoid about Darien anymore.
de Fehrn agitatedly dashes out his cigarette and stands. The pack of cigarettes and a lighter lift into the air, and hover towards the door. "Fine, I'll go outside. I could use some fresh air anyway," he snaps. He mutters under his breath as he leaves the room, "Little brat was likely raised by pigs."
The screen door is jerked open and slammed shut, startling her. She sighs deeply as she rests her head against the back of the chair, her eyes once again closed.
Darien studies her, now noticing how ragged she seems. There is gauze wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and deep, dark circles under her eyes. The bruise on her left cheekbone extends all the way from her temple to the side of her nose. There are two butterfly closures holding closed a small ragged gash in the center. It looks like she was kicked in the face, instead of being punched or slapped. She's no longer wearing the hat and sunglasses, and Darien sees that the bruise extends over her swelling eye to end a smidgen above her left eyebrow. Small curly wisps of hair that have escaped the ponytail float softly against her face. At the moment, she looks much older than she is.
Taking advantage of de Fehrn's absence, he tries to get some information from her. "How did you get those?" he asks with soft empathy in his voice, indicating her visible bruises with a jerk of his chin.
She opens her eyes and regards him thoughtfully. "They weren't too thrilled with me 'checking out', so they made sure I had some lovely parting gifts to remember 'em by," she snorts softly. "...As if you cared," she finishes with weary sarcasm. She nods her head towards the door, where de Fehrn is standing outside. "Look, I know all about you and your 'Agency'. He told me they sent you to bring me back."
"To the... what is it? The, 'Shop'?"
She blinks. He notices how just even the mention of the place makes her nervous. "Hmm," she nods. "You might as well know: I'll never go back there, dead or alive," she finishes with quiet determination.
"What's the deal with this place, anyway? I never heard of it before."
She tilts her head to the side. "You trying to tell me you weren't sent to 'retrieve' me?"
"Not you, exactly," he frowns, thinking. "We're supposed to find the information he," he nods towards the door, indicating de Fehrn, "stole from a... lab..." he trails off thoughtfully, and then looks sharply at her. He's made another connection. "Hold on a sec. So, if you're the research assistant, then how come you're so chummy with Arnaud and Stark?"
Her eyes widen in amazement. Slowly, a smile creeps across her face, and she snorts softly. "Is that what they made you think?" she sniggers. There's a note of mania in her voice. "I was the research assistant? Oh, that's rich!" She barely manages to stifle her laughter before continuing. "I used to be an assistant years ago! Ever since, I've been the research, and Arnaud and Mr. Stark broke me out!"
He watches her expression change from almost manic amusement to tormented recall. She absently rubs the back of her neck in a manner disturbingly similar to his.
Her situation appears similar to what he's always feared would happen to him: locked away in a secret lab and being poked and prodded as a specimen instead of being treated like a human being.
"Okay, so..." he interjects, thinking rapidly. "Arnaud busted you out, but did he say why? And what does Chrysalis have to do with this?"
The brief outburst of humor gone, she again regards Darien quizzically. "You weren't even told the whole story, were you?" She zones out, plunging deep into thought. "Well, duh, of course they wouldn't tell him... I'm supposed to be dead anyway, remember?" she murmurs. Her face contorts in an effort not to cry.
Darien feels a twinge at the back of his head; he can tell that he'll need to get his shot... soon. And man is he feeling really, really, hot.
Wait a minute... I shouldn't need a shot yet. It's way too soon...
"Look, I'm not here to take you back," he speaks softly, understanding that she probably wasn't kidding when she said she came from Hell. "I'm supposed to find Arnaud, and then wait for my partner to get back."
Her eyes refocus on his face. Instead of tears, they expose a haunted and aged look. "All I know is that Arnaud and Mr. Stark are working together, and that Stark's funding Arnaud's research..."
"'Research'? For what?"
"A cure to his," she pauses, wondering how exactly to phrase it, "visibility problem?"
"He's gotta want something in return, though," he ponders.
She tilts her head a little to the side. "Well, yeah. You."
His face falls in disgusted realization. "Crap," he mutters as his head plunges back onto the cushion.
Thursday, roughly 5:45pm
Claire is on the phone, waiting for someone to answer. The Official and Eberts are also in the room, waiting. She hangs up when Darien's voice mail message starts. She looks very anxious.
The Official observes her hang up the phone, and asks, "So?"
She looks up at the two men, frowning. She shakes her head. "He was supposed to have checked in over six hours ago. His phone is on, but he's just not picking up."
Unsettled at seeing her so worried, Eberts carefully studies the patterns on the ceiling so he doesn't have to see her fretting. "If we need to find him quickly, I could try to triangulate his location... but only if his phone stays active..." he suggests helpfully.
"Can it, Eberts," The Official rumbles. He paces over towards Claire's computer, and taps the screen lightly. "What's the latest on those tests?"
She turns, sits down in her chair, and types a few commands. A chart comes up on the computer monitor, showing a graph with a line rising in increments.
"Unfortunately, it looks like I was right. His hormonal levels are steadily increasing, and I'm worried about how it's affecting his system."
She types a little more, and a picture replaces the graph. "I took some live cells from the gland, and treated them with the counteragent. It seems that the increased levels of estrogen he's producing is absorbing, and therefore blocking the effects of, the counteragent."
The Official's face grows grim. "So, if he uses the gland..."
"It will only make things worse," she replies firmly.
Eberts gazes over the doctor's left shoulder at the computer monitor. "When was his last shot?"
She glances up at him. "Three days ago."
"So, depending on how much he uses the gland, he could... go, at any time," The Official murmurs thoughtfully.
She nods. "I'm afraid so."
Eberts' expression shifts from concern to reflection. "Aren't there ways of blocking the production of specific hormones?"
Claire taps a couple of keys, and the computer screen clears. She swings her chair around to face the two men. "Yes, but in this case it's mainly used for women, and I don't know how the gland, or Darien, would be affected."
The Official straightens and turns to leave. "Work on it. Eberts," He waves for His assistant to follow Him. "Let's see if you can find Fawkes."
"I'll try to get a hold of Bobby and Alex," she informs His retreating back.
A beaming Eberts follows Him out the lab door. For once, He's actually taking one of my ideas seriously!
Claire picks up the phone and starts dialing.
Thursday, 4:30pm
Darien is still tied up on the couch, while MacKenna is relaxing in her armchair with her eyes closed.
The screen door opens and quickly slams shut. She jerks, startled out of a light doze. Darien's head swings around to see who's entering, but the room is empty.
"Sorry," de Fehrn apologizes insincerely. "Just thought you'd like to know they're here for Fawkes." His voice steadily approaches the couch and chairs as he speaks.
She nods, rubbing at her eyes with the palm of her left hand.
Suddenly, Darien's cheeks look like they're being squeezed between de Fehrn's middle finger and thumb.
"Are we weady for a wittle dwive, Dawien?" he mocks.
He yanks his head from the mercenaries' grasp and replies scathingly, "Why don't you go to hell."
"Too late, hombre'... already there," is the saccharin reply. He looks down at his hand, and recalls that he can't see it. "Eeeeuch!" he exclaims in disgust. "Are you coming down with something? You're sopping wet!"
"If I am, I hope it's contagious," Darien shoots back, realistically faking the beginning of a sneeze. "Aaahhh... aaaaaaaahhhhh..."
A scuffle is heard as de Fehrn tries to retreat out of the blast zone.
"Chooooo!" Darien blows as much air and spit as he can in the other man's direction, and then smiles innocently.
"Excuse me," he apologizes in a small voice. "sniff"
MacKenna chuckles softly, knowing he faked the sneeze. "Boys, boys, can't you be civil for a few more minutes?"
de Fehrn makes some more small nauseated noises as a Kleenex is lifted from a box on the end table at the far end of the couch. It sweeps and jerks through the air as he wipes off his shirt and pants.
Darien, remembering that he only has moments left until Stark and his goons enter, scrutinizes the woman with pleading eyes. "You do realize they're going to kill me."
Finished rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she straightens and looks down at him. "Not my problem," she replies evenly.
There's a shadow at the door, then the screen door opens to reveal the big, brutish white guy (Alex Wexo's character), a black dude, and Stark standing behind them. They all have slightly smug looks on their faces, like sharks would right before they feast on a buffet of surfers.
Darien notices the men entering the apartment, and begins to look alarmed. He smoothes his expression as best as he can, but his eyes give his true feelings away: he's terrified.
"Hey, guys! Welcome to the party!" he greets them with false cheer. "Sorry I didn't let you in myself, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."
Brute smiles at the attempt at levity. It isn't a nice smile... nor is it pretty.
The muscle-men step aside to let Stark through. He takes a few steps into the apartment, gives it a once-over with his eyes, and turns to look at MacKenna.
"Ah, Miss MacKenna," he smiles winningly at her.
She moves as if to stand, and he raises a hand while shaking his head. "No, please, stay seated. You should be resting right now," he chastises mildly, "And anyway, we won't be very long here." He waves a hand nonchalantly at Darien, who is trying to loosen the duct tape binding his hands without the others noticing. It doesn't work... In either case.
The exhausted woman relaxes gratefully back into her chair as she carefully tucks her legs under her.
Stark ambles towards the couch to stand on the other side of the coffee table. He visually assesses Darien's bonds, and satisfied that they'll hold, he swivels and nods for Brute and Dude to come get the incapacitated agent.
They approach the couch.
He then compliments de Fehrn and MacKenna on their choice of restraints. "Duct tape. Interesting, and effective. Nice. Good work."
de Fehrn's voice wafts over from behind the other chair that he was sitting in earlier. "It was actually Amy's idea... it's proven to be very effective over a wide range of... temperatures."
Stark turns his head and nods kudos to her, and she shrugs faintly. She winces in pain, since she temporarily forgot the need to keep her right arm as still as possible. She raises her left hand to check the bandage and then gingerly rearrange her shirt.
Brute and Dude roughly pick up Darien from the couch - Brute at his head and Dude carrying his legs.
He again attempts to appeal to her for help. "Did Arnaud tell you that he's a mercenary, and a murderer?"
Her brows furrow slightly as she cocks her head to the left while attempting to stifle a cavernous yawn. It's clear that she's thinking: 'What's this guys' angle, anyway?'
"And that he killed my brother?" he continues darkly.
"This is a waste of time," de Fehrn returns with contempt.
Stark nods his agreement, and Brute and Dude haul Darien towards the door. "Hey, c'mon guys, careful with the hair," he complains at the rough manhandling.
As they go outside, he hears MacKenna ask Stark a question. "So, what are you going to do with him?"
"Never mind that," he replies firmly, dismissing what he considers unimportant for her to think of and/or know about. "Why don't you get some sleep now? Give me a call tomorrow when you're ready. I'll have one of my men pick you up, and we can go over a few more things then."
"A-Alright," she replies quietly.
"Would you care to join me Doctor?" He courteously waves for de Fehrn to precede him out the door.
"I wouldn't miss this for anything," the invisible mercenary replies with a cheerfully malicious tone in his voice.
The men walk out the door to the waiting limousine, where Brute and Dude have secured Darien in the seat directly behind the driver's window. Stark waits politely for de Fehrn to enter the back of the limo while Dude shuts his front passenger door. Brute spies Darien's phone still lying on the ground as Stark seats himself next to his associate. He finishes closing his bosses' door, walks over to the phone, scoops it up and drops it into his coat pocket. He then gets in the driver's door and starts the limo.
He hasn't noticed that the phone is still turned on.
MacKenna stands at the doorway, looking thoughtfully after the limo pulling out on to the street. She turns, shuts and locks the door behind her as she goes in to bed for the night.