xp_logs | Sanguinicity - Profiling the Woman

Marie-Ange collects a little intelligence on their mystery woman from Farouk.

It was amazing just how comprehensive celebrity coverage was in Europe, especially if you could read multiple languages. Each country had a dozen different magazines dedicated to the lives of actors, politicians, royalty, athletes, and socialites of all stripes. The translation software allowed them to pull a truly frightening aggregate volume of coverage, making the planning of a background search a simple process. But that was only the start.

From New York, the call for information went out across the network, like a current travelling down a vast web of wiring. Each node it touched pinged back, and now new information flowed back into the centre.

There were inevitable duplications and redundancies, of course. If anything, the organization anchored in the modest New York brownstone was even more compartmentalized and self-segregated than the Alamut had been. Inevitably this lack of direct cooperation between the cells and sources - while increasing security and proving the network against infiltration, to a certain degree - also resulted in frequent information overload, making the task of analysis, of sifting for grains of gold among the sand, an essential part of the process.

Farouk fit that niche naturally, his experience at collating vast amounts of data was substantial, after all - both as an academic and as an intelligence operative. But even more than that he seemed to have that amorphous instinct, the natural's knack for fitting together the seemingly disparate elements to form a cohesive whole. On paper these assets (along with the new sources and operatives he brought into the fold with him) should have made his transition and cooptation into X-Force a fairly painless process.

That did not prove to be the case.

Instead Farouk's behavior increasingly isolated him from the tightly-knit organism built by Wisdom and LeBeau. his focus on avoiding routine put even their well-known paranoia to shame, patterns were eschewed, his appearances at the office rare and random, his interaction with colleagues abrupt and as brief as he could make it. Increasingly his contributions were delivered through carefully encrypted electronic communication or even third parties. Even Remy, who seemed unaccountably intent on giving Farouk his room, appeared to be growing tired of the Arab's dedication to ensuring his safety.

The rest of the team felt even less obligation to play along with what seemed to be a clear case of operational hypochondria. And so when Amahl set the meeting at the seedy truck stop to provide Marie-Ange with the informational package on the mission he steeled himself for the likely confrontation.

Driving an hour outside the city was at best irritating and at worst just plain stupid. But Marie-Ange was not going to argue because Farouk was implacable. Also because a six-month absence from the team did make it difficult for one to start making demands of anyone not Jubilee. But nonetheless, she sat down at the dingy and slightly sticky table with an air of distaste.

She looked out of place, more so than Farouk himself, but with an air of "If you even attempt to flirt with me, I will cut off your fingers and mail them to you in a neatly wrapped and ribboned box with a tasteful card, so back off." and Marie-Ange questioned even the idea that this was discreet. "You could not have perhaps picked somewhere I would blend in? I do not see too many red-haired European truckers in the parking lot." She said, clearly irritated.

The man she came to meet sat slouching in the corner of the booth, his back to the wall. The eyes, sharp and black with exhaustion (or possibly stimulants) flickered only barely to acknowledge Marie-Ange's arrival, or her pique. "Nobody blends in here. That's the point." Professor's voice was husky and scratchy with lack of use. Farouk pulled back the coat thrown with seeming carelessness over the table into which the grime of decades had been indelibly etched. Underneath the plain brown envelop lay bulging. "It's the standard work-up. I also stuck an extrapolation map of social connections in there, along with a few unsupported but probably correct guesses. You can tell LeBeau I strongly recommend he gets a professional psych eval done, if there's time."

Amahl suddenly bent down caught by a coughing fit, rather wet and realistic process, which nevertheless also allowed his an unobtrusive look around the diner before he straightened again. The stress of being at the same spot for any length of time as showing clearly on the gaunt and febrile face. "D'you want a quick summary here and now?" Farouk asked, clearly expecting the other mutant to simply grab the materials and make a speedy exit.

Marie-Ange skipped the lecture on standing out and why she was convinced Farouk was not only completely mad, but also falling apart at the seams. It would do no good. "Not especially but I am supposed to spend five minutes making sure you are not about to go on a yohimbine fueled rampage and turn everyone in Hoboken into the next Charlie Sheen." She was convinced it was right around the corner, Farouk's mental breakdown taking everyone with him. After all he had done it once already.

Amahl's smile made his skull bones stand out starkly under the sallow skin, the expression leeched of humor or care, as he measured Marie-Ange with a glance and clearly found her wanting. Without bothering to acknowledge her bait he squinted toward the door, the practiced mind easily recalling the pertinent information. "Valentina Allega de Fontaine. Now prefers to go by 'La Contessa' and by and large very few people are inclined to question her wishes, these days. Her pretensions to the title are a bit facile, she's nobility by marriage only. Butt she does come from old, old money. One of her ancestors fought with Garibaldi and did very well out of the entire unification business. In fact her family seems to have the knack for coming up on the winning - and usually profitable side - of most situations. Her grandfather backed Il Duce early on, and jumped ship in the nick of time as well, hitting it bigger still in the reconstruction years. At about that time the clan was granted membership in the Hellfire Club."

Farouk talked quickly, an odd sibilant hiss underlining certain words as he seemingly forgot about the glass of water before him. The data spilled easily, in a low, machine-like monotone, off his tongue. "By 1980s our girl was the heiress to one of the great Italian fortunes. And then it all went sideways and ugly on the family. They butted heads with Strucker and came out second best for once. Shortly after the collapse of the Allegra empire, he parents met with an unfortunate and conspicuously accidental incident."

Farouk's eyes narrowed for a second and he paused, his glare warily following a particularly obese trucker's progress through the diner's door. After another moment he resumed his briefing as if a restarted recording. "Valentina inherited the somewhat pitiful remains and grew up quickly. There's some interesting analytical fodder in those early years - but I was pressed for time. Suffice it to say she cut her losses, and anything that even smelled like deadwood, rather ruthlessly. Old family friends and former boyfriends - she bankrupted any number of people in her attempt to shore up what remained of her inheritance. That quest culminated with her marriage to a fellow HFC member, the illustrious count de Fontaine. He brought in the title, the age, the paunch, the bold spot and a modest fortune of his own. She brought in the looks and the brains. Never quite managed to return her standing to its former financial glory but did remarkably well with what she had. And mostly on her own - the husband being largely useless even before dying about seven years after the nuptials."

Farouk paused again, oddly hesitant for a brief second before shrugging. "As I mentioned earlier, there are some interesting hints vis-a-vis her psychological make-up in the records. Nothing substantial, although it's possible that the trail had been scrubbed. There's one very slim footprint, dating to her childhood. A report from the boarding school about unauthorized anatomical experiments being performed on the local wildlife. She was nine at the time. Means little in the absence of more data but... Might be worth following up before the op."

This was why they kept him on the books. And why she was tolerating Farouk's attitude and imminent insanity and the lingering question of how long ago he had done laundry, showered or slept. Or eaten anything more substantial than dirty water hot dogs. Marie-Ange's thoughts glanced off the phrase "unauthorized anatomical experiments" and then rebounded, sticking there. Torturing animals was one of the hot button signs of psychosis, anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of psychology knew that - it was mentioned in psychology classes, even at the 100 level, and every airport crime novel dragged that fact out to add a dash of legitimacy to what was otherwise pulp fiction. Marie-Ange had spent too many hours in airports with bad novels.

"A report? Disciplinary, or did they have the forethought to send her to a doctor?"

Amahl grimaced slightly, the universal tic of a frustrated professional. "Dead end, I am afraid - no way to chase it down on my end. The only mention to the episode that I found was a truncated reference in family records. An aunt commiserated with the mother. School's paperwork was less than helpful, and The Contessa's medical records are safeguarded to the extent that going after them would require a separate run altogether."

"If the school has no record of it, it is unlikely to appear in her medical records at all." Marie-Ange said. "Old money means, even if the money is no longer there, the connections to clean up after your own messes. All it takes is simply asking a doctor to look the other way and not jot down that your precious daughter has had an emotional collapse." She shrugged, dismissively. "Something to check into, regardless, no?"

"Operational call." Farouk said, his mind clearly already wandering off. "Could prove important, could be too marginal to matter. I think we are done here, yes?"

"Unless you are going to suddenly return to your senses and I need to help you move into the Brownstone, or you want to tell me how your contacts at the Vatican are sending midget transvestite nuns after you, then yes, we are done." Admittedly, the midget transvestite nun existed, even if it was somewhat of a running joke, or at least her attempt to prove she had a sense of humor. Marie-Ange collected the pile of papers and stood up. "I left the usual cash in your car. You should get the locks replaced." At least with cash they would not lose a perfectly competent - usually - operative because he starved himself.