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xp_logs2006-08-23 04:44 pm
x-pressive.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2006-08-23 04:44 pm
Body Snatchers: Memento
Betsy psi-scans Mark in order to see if he knows who's involved in the disappearances. When she and Remy start brainstorming plans, Mark demands to be let it.
"Just to reiterate, this is consensual and we're using protection." Mark untied the bandana that was holding back his long, dark brown hair, as if the thin layer of cotton provided a psychic barrier. "So, um, how long is this actually going to take? Because I have to be at work in a couple of hours . . ."
A shift of movement and Betsy was kneeling in front of Mark. A brief smile on her face and a curious look over her shoulder at her companion before she nodded. "Yes, completely consenual," Betsy said with relaxed ease. "I'd say it won't take longer than a few minutes." She placed her hand on his right knee and squeezed before rising and placing herself directly behind Mark. "If that. Now I want you to remember the first night someone went missing. On what you were doing before. Fixate on it." She felt the memories coalescing. "Good. That's it."
"Mind the shoppe, will you, Rem?" Betsy said as she bent her head, dark purple strands cascading down her face as she unconsciously caressed a small band of hair away from Mark's face. Betsy gingerly placed her fingers at his temple. #This won't hurt a bit.#
****
Betsy looked up to find herself inside a club. Bodies gyrating everywhere. Blinding lights flashing over her face before dispersing to the crowd. The bass in the music thrumming in her bones. It was a comfortable feeling. She turned to her left to see Mark standing next to her. His expression brought a smile to her lips. "This look familiar?"
"Jesus freaking Christ on a cracker," Mark swore, looking around in awe. He knew telepaths and teleporters, but he'd never experienced this sort of jump from one place to another before. He remembered the night rather well. It was two weekends ago, and Mark had thrown a little early birthday party for himself and She Who Reigns Supreme, Madonna. (The fact that they shared a birthday was a Sign. Mark was sure of it.) Confessions on a Dancefloor played. Looking around, Mark saw himself up in his booth dancing with a shapeshifter who was assuming various Madonna guises throughout the night.
"There he is!" he shouted, pointing up at them. "Madonna disappeared. I mean, that shapeshifter there. He does a damn good job, doesn't he? I almost prostrated myself before Her," he admitted.
A twitch of the lips and Betsy nodded at him. She took a step down and the bodies seemingly froze in place. She milled through them without a second glance and stopped in front of the man Mark identified. She waited for him to join her before asking. "This is the man? Have you seen him here before?"
Mark followed Betsy, poking a few of the still dancers along the way. "He came maybe once or twice before, he told me," Mark said, waving a hand in front of the shapeshifter's face. "We only talked this time, though. Said he'd be back the next night because he really really liked Silver, but he never showed."
Betsy looked the man over and then turned to Mark. "Is there anyone else that sticks out in your memory? Anyone else that might have seemed out of place?" Her eyes scanned the crowd as she spoke. The lift of her eyebrow was enough to relate her skepticism on finding anyone else, considering the ecclecticness of the establishment. "I'd rather we cover all avenues here and now and keep the traversing through your mind to a minimum."
Frowning, Mark thought hard about that night. He'd been less concerned with the crowd than usual because he was paying a whole lot of attention to offering tribute to The Queen. But as he pondered, the scene around him shifted. The club was much less crowded now, though at the bar still sat a number of regulars. It must be last call. He wondered why this scene jumped out, until he saw the shapeshifter (now wearing Madonna's Vogue face) walking out arm-in-arm with a guy who wouldn't have looked out of place here ten years ago. "You know, I thought that was ooky at the time," Mark said, pointing at the two, "But I didn't really think much more of it. Figured a shapeshifter could take care of himself."
Frowning, Mark thought hard about that night. He'd been less concerned with the crowd than usual because he was paying a whole lot of attention to offering tribute to The Queen. But as he pondered, the scene around him shifted. The club was much less crowded now, though at the bar still sat a number of regulars. It must be last call. He wondered why this scene jumped out, until he saw the shapeshifter (now wearing Madonna's Vogue face) walking out arm-in-arm with a guy who wouldn't have looked out of place here ten years ago. "You know, I thought that was okay at the time," Mark said, pointing at the two, "But I didn't really think much more of it. Figured a shapeshifter could take care of himself."
"Most often, they can." Betsy said, as she moved toward the couple. "Definitely past his prime." She pointed to the older man, looking at Mark as she spoke. "Have you seen this chap here before? A regular, perhaps?"
"No," Mark replied, shaking his head. "I think I'd've recognized someone his age coming more than once. Twenty-eight is usually our upper limit. I wonder how he got past the bouncer . . . No, wait. He was here last weekend, too. Larry - he's our bartender - told me that he bought a round of shots for the table he was sitting at. Left with, like, three girls." He looked up at Betsy worriedly. "It's gotta be him."
"Brilliant," Betsy said, as she regarded the man with a curious tilt of her head, as she set his features to memory. She offered her hand to him, as she took a step back and faced Mark. "He shouldn't be too hard to find." She regarded him carefully. "You did well. Ready to go back?"
"That's it? Hmm, that easy." Mark blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, saw that he was back in Snow Valley, with Remy and Betsy gazing at him. "So, we've got our man. Now what?"
Considering it had been all of four seconds between Betsy's comment and Mark's sudden return, Remy scowled. "You sure you got everything, Betts? No need to break fingers? I brought de finger breaking kit for a reason, you know."
A reaffirming squeeze on Mark's shoulder, Betsy gave her compatriot a disapproving smirk. "You know, not everything deserves the mistreatment of appendages. Sometimes a certain finesse would smooth things over rather nicely."
"Oui, but it's not as much fun." Remy shook out a cigarette and lit it. "So talk to me Betts. What are we dealing wit' here?"
"So far as I can tell. One man, definitely older, approxiametely 35-40 age range. He tends to lean on the victims hard before escorting them out, or following them. It varies. We're going on the assumption that either he's strong enough to incapacitate some fairly competent mutants with some trick or he has help. I can't be sure of which. Mark's memories only go so far as what happens inside."
Remy lit the tip of the cigarette with his finger. "You'd remember dis person, Mark?" He got a nod in response. "Alright, den we set a trap for him. Someone he can't help but try and scoop, and he leads us back to where ever his group is working out of."
Mark nodded. "Cool. So what's my role?" A beat. "What? You've gotta let me help. Did you see what I did to Amanda? Which I'm totally sorry about, by the way. And I led you to this guy. You can't just drop me now."
"Actually, we can." Remy said, blowing out a plume of smoke. "You a DJ, homme, not a trained fighter. Besides, we going to go up against men wit' guns who might not like use mucking around wit' dere multi-million dollar a year criminal ring. Dey not going to have any qualms 'bout shooting you in de head given de chance."
"We simply can't take the chance of you getting hurt," Betsy added. "If you come along and things get harried. Well, we won't be giving this our full attention if we're worried about you. Honest, this is the best for all parties involved."
"But this is my family!" Mark insisted, jumping out of his chair. ". . . Of sorts. My people. I have to be there to help them. They know me. I couldn't protect them at Silver, which is the one place most of those people expect to be completely safe regardless of who or what they are." Pleas of passion weren't going to get him anywhere, he knew. "Oh. Wait. I-I know what I can do. You'd need a mic and a tracking device for your decoy, right? I can build them! I've got all the parts at my place. Best quality you'll ever see. And cheap."
Betsy and Remy exchanged a look. Finally, Remy sighed. "Dese are de rules. Shift from de rules even a little bit and I'll toss you in de East River. If you coming along, you do exactly what we say, when we say it. No questions, no arguments, no whining. De fact is dat you looking at a very dangerous situation dat you don't have de first idea how to handle. We do. Can you do dat?"
"Aye aye, captain!" Mark offered a salute. But behind the flippancy was honesty. He didn't care whose rules he had to play by, so long as he could be there when these fuckers get taken down. "Just tell me how high to jump."
"Just to reiterate, this is consensual and we're using protection." Mark untied the bandana that was holding back his long, dark brown hair, as if the thin layer of cotton provided a psychic barrier. "So, um, how long is this actually going to take? Because I have to be at work in a couple of hours . . ."
A shift of movement and Betsy was kneeling in front of Mark. A brief smile on her face and a curious look over her shoulder at her companion before she nodded. "Yes, completely consenual," Betsy said with relaxed ease. "I'd say it won't take longer than a few minutes." She placed her hand on his right knee and squeezed before rising and placing herself directly behind Mark. "If that. Now I want you to remember the first night someone went missing. On what you were doing before. Fixate on it." She felt the memories coalescing. "Good. That's it."
"Mind the shoppe, will you, Rem?" Betsy said as she bent her head, dark purple strands cascading down her face as she unconsciously caressed a small band of hair away from Mark's face. Betsy gingerly placed her fingers at his temple. #This won't hurt a bit.#
****
Betsy looked up to find herself inside a club. Bodies gyrating everywhere. Blinding lights flashing over her face before dispersing to the crowd. The bass in the music thrumming in her bones. It was a comfortable feeling. She turned to her left to see Mark standing next to her. His expression brought a smile to her lips. "This look familiar?"
"Jesus freaking Christ on a cracker," Mark swore, looking around in awe. He knew telepaths and teleporters, but he'd never experienced this sort of jump from one place to another before. He remembered the night rather well. It was two weekends ago, and Mark had thrown a little early birthday party for himself and She Who Reigns Supreme, Madonna. (The fact that they shared a birthday was a Sign. Mark was sure of it.) Confessions on a Dancefloor played. Looking around, Mark saw himself up in his booth dancing with a shapeshifter who was assuming various Madonna guises throughout the night.
"There he is!" he shouted, pointing up at them. "Madonna disappeared. I mean, that shapeshifter there. He does a damn good job, doesn't he? I almost prostrated myself before Her," he admitted.
A twitch of the lips and Betsy nodded at him. She took a step down and the bodies seemingly froze in place. She milled through them without a second glance and stopped in front of the man Mark identified. She waited for him to join her before asking. "This is the man? Have you seen him here before?"
Mark followed Betsy, poking a few of the still dancers along the way. "He came maybe once or twice before, he told me," Mark said, waving a hand in front of the shapeshifter's face. "We only talked this time, though. Said he'd be back the next night because he really really liked Silver, but he never showed."
Betsy looked the man over and then turned to Mark. "Is there anyone else that sticks out in your memory? Anyone else that might have seemed out of place?" Her eyes scanned the crowd as she spoke. The lift of her eyebrow was enough to relate her skepticism on finding anyone else, considering the ecclecticness of the establishment. "I'd rather we cover all avenues here and now and keep the traversing through your mind to a minimum."
Frowning, Mark thought hard about that night. He'd been less concerned with the crowd than usual because he was paying a whole lot of attention to offering tribute to The Queen. But as he pondered, the scene around him shifted. The club was much less crowded now, though at the bar still sat a number of regulars. It must be last call. He wondered why this scene jumped out, until he saw the shapeshifter (now wearing Madonna's Vogue face) walking out arm-in-arm with a guy who wouldn't have looked out of place here ten years ago. "You know, I thought that was ooky at the time," Mark said, pointing at the two, "But I didn't really think much more of it. Figured a shapeshifter could take care of himself."
Frowning, Mark thought hard about that night. He'd been less concerned with the crowd than usual because he was paying a whole lot of attention to offering tribute to The Queen. But as he pondered, the scene around him shifted. The club was much less crowded now, though at the bar still sat a number of regulars. It must be last call. He wondered why this scene jumped out, until he saw the shapeshifter (now wearing Madonna's Vogue face) walking out arm-in-arm with a guy who wouldn't have looked out of place here ten years ago. "You know, I thought that was okay at the time," Mark said, pointing at the two, "But I didn't really think much more of it. Figured a shapeshifter could take care of himself."
"Most often, they can." Betsy said, as she moved toward the couple. "Definitely past his prime." She pointed to the older man, looking at Mark as she spoke. "Have you seen this chap here before? A regular, perhaps?"
"No," Mark replied, shaking his head. "I think I'd've recognized someone his age coming more than once. Twenty-eight is usually our upper limit. I wonder how he got past the bouncer . . . No, wait. He was here last weekend, too. Larry - he's our bartender - told me that he bought a round of shots for the table he was sitting at. Left with, like, three girls." He looked up at Betsy worriedly. "It's gotta be him."
"Brilliant," Betsy said, as she regarded the man with a curious tilt of her head, as she set his features to memory. She offered her hand to him, as she took a step back and faced Mark. "He shouldn't be too hard to find." She regarded him carefully. "You did well. Ready to go back?"
"That's it? Hmm, that easy." Mark blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, saw that he was back in Snow Valley, with Remy and Betsy gazing at him. "So, we've got our man. Now what?"
Considering it had been all of four seconds between Betsy's comment and Mark's sudden return, Remy scowled. "You sure you got everything, Betts? No need to break fingers? I brought de finger breaking kit for a reason, you know."
A reaffirming squeeze on Mark's shoulder, Betsy gave her compatriot a disapproving smirk. "You know, not everything deserves the mistreatment of appendages. Sometimes a certain finesse would smooth things over rather nicely."
"Oui, but it's not as much fun." Remy shook out a cigarette and lit it. "So talk to me Betts. What are we dealing wit' here?"
"So far as I can tell. One man, definitely older, approxiametely 35-40 age range. He tends to lean on the victims hard before escorting them out, or following them. It varies. We're going on the assumption that either he's strong enough to incapacitate some fairly competent mutants with some trick or he has help. I can't be sure of which. Mark's memories only go so far as what happens inside."
Remy lit the tip of the cigarette with his finger. "You'd remember dis person, Mark?" He got a nod in response. "Alright, den we set a trap for him. Someone he can't help but try and scoop, and he leads us back to where ever his group is working out of."
Mark nodded. "Cool. So what's my role?" A beat. "What? You've gotta let me help. Did you see what I did to Amanda? Which I'm totally sorry about, by the way. And I led you to this guy. You can't just drop me now."
"Actually, we can." Remy said, blowing out a plume of smoke. "You a DJ, homme, not a trained fighter. Besides, we going to go up against men wit' guns who might not like use mucking around wit' dere multi-million dollar a year criminal ring. Dey not going to have any qualms 'bout shooting you in de head given de chance."
"We simply can't take the chance of you getting hurt," Betsy added. "If you come along and things get harried. Well, we won't be giving this our full attention if we're worried about you. Honest, this is the best for all parties involved."
"But this is my family!" Mark insisted, jumping out of his chair. ". . . Of sorts. My people. I have to be there to help them. They know me. I couldn't protect them at Silver, which is the one place most of those people expect to be completely safe regardless of who or what they are." Pleas of passion weren't going to get him anywhere, he knew. "Oh. Wait. I-I know what I can do. You'd need a mic and a tracking device for your decoy, right? I can build them! I've got all the parts at my place. Best quality you'll ever see. And cheap."
Betsy and Remy exchanged a look. Finally, Remy sighed. "Dese are de rules. Shift from de rules even a little bit and I'll toss you in de East River. If you coming along, you do exactly what we say, when we say it. No questions, no arguments, no whining. De fact is dat you looking at a very dangerous situation dat you don't have de first idea how to handle. We do. Can you do dat?"
"Aye aye, captain!" Mark offered a salute. But behind the flippancy was honesty. He didn't care whose rules he had to play by, so long as he could be there when these fuckers get taken down. "Just tell me how high to jump."