Interrogation Session

June 06, 2015:

Sabretooth is dragged into interrogation. Twisty stuff! (Mild Language)

Warehouse 55

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

WAREHOUSE 55:

Play on words that one, but the warehouse itself looked as it has been used by the damned. Those who were vagrants squatted here, drug deals gone bad have happened here, there were still remnants of a chalk-line of a body which seemed abused within it's final throes of life. Glass littered the ground as well as broken wood, chairs flipped over, a table smashed in two off to the side. Pillars bent and broken as if a fight had taken place in the past, which left the building itself upon it's last legs.

A few windows were boarded up to block out the light of the day; while others were broken out and stained with what could have been blood or some other bodily fluids that smattered it's wall. The brick masoned building itself had cracks lining the walls, giving birth to those cracks of light that some windows blotted out.

The tiny squeak of rats could be heard within the distance, skittering across the floor, some sort of wild life knocking over crates and digging into barrels that create a ghostly effect of someone being home and not all at the same time. It wasn't too far from where they were, the walk itself within two minutes time, Jean exerting her power over the minds that WOULD allow people to look their way, but seeing past the three as they drag the bound and gagged Creed with.

The door was kicked open with a sideways punch of her foot, the metal nearly tearing off it's hinges, another mind within the background that seeks to follow and her tracking allowed. Why not? She did use the name, did she not? But either way, Jean led the two into the warehouse, taking the lead as she surveys the area, her light jacket unbuttoned and set aside, no. Tossed aside with a show of arm that ends with fingers spread and splayed. This was highly uncharacteristic of her.

But that's just what Creed gets.

Betsy approves of this new Jean. It feeds the wild, dark side of her- that part of Elizabeth that was quick to anger. The soul of Kwannon, who so enjoyed making foes suffer. She willingly follows the woman, her friend, hauling Creed along by the scruff of his neck. She stops in the middle of a pool of light, rocking him on his knees so he can slump upright- a marionette with the cables cut.

"We're going to make you suffer, Sabretooth," she says in those cultured British overtones, at odds with her composed, serene features. She brushes a hand across his brow, and a cascade of psychic fire sears the ends of every nerve ending in his amygdala, as if his one-unbroken body had been dipped in molten lead. "Because you deserve to suffer. I know your reputation," she murmurs, squatted down neatly in her wedges- a fashion model and a cold killer in high-heels. "I've heard what you've done." She touches him again, searing his brain, and rises, walking towards Jean. There's something sinuous about her path, her step, alive with fired glee for a chance to /finally/ feed that darker side of her. She stops near Jean, eyeing her friend, and then touches Jean's face with a surprisingly gentle gesture.

"I can do this, darling," she murmurs. "You don't have to. You can walk away and I'll handle it," she offers.

Victor Creed isn't much more than a sack of meat, dragged in their wake. He's shut down, to a certain degree. It's not the first time for him at this kind of rodeo. Hell, it might not be the hundredth. He knows the routine all too well, although he doubts these particular sluts have the capacity to do the kind of damage they think they can. They're psyching themselves up, sure, and getting all full of bravado because they're pissed off and their blood is up. But it'll cool, with time and, as his blood flows and his bone breaks, they'll start seeing him as a human being again.
Heoft.

Soft

Coincidences are few and far between, but a target is a target, and Rose does not do idle well. So even when with the X-Men and knowing who they were, that duffel bag of disposable pay-as-you-go cell phones is tempting. As well as the merceenary hot-line. It's like Match.com but for contract killers! Kidding.

Maybe.

From the mall to the warehouse Ravager is waiting, stalking, following. She needed big money, fast money, and risk. Sabretooth was at the top of that list but it seems not just for the black market dealings, Jean and Betsy as regarded with a moment of scrutiny from that safe distance. When they take him into a warehouse though….

Ascending the ramshackle building she follows their path by watching through scum covered and broken windows until there is nothing more to see. The window 20 feet above them shatters inward, heralding the ground with shards of broken glass that scatter and form a 'red carpet' entry for the white haired woman, heavy soled boots crushing down over the splinters, making them dust in the impact of weight. Body suit stretched like a second skin, but added reinforcement and kevlar stretches beneath where that scaille maille overlays along sides and thighs to coat and cover vitals, as medievally intended. At her back twin swords rest, upon hips FN 5-7's rest in their holdters and strapped around thighs throwing daggers, though what is visual is nothing in comparison to what remains hidden in tac belt.

Half her face is masked, framing that one milky white bionic eye, the other frigid blue rests upon the two women, hands fluxing in a ripple of digitalia before she reaches back beneath the mass of white hair and draws her swords.

"Even I have read his file. Don't debate." One swift motion and she is intent on swinging one of those swords in a high arch to bring down along the back of his neck.

All the while, Jean kept her back to the two, her head lowered as she stares towards the ground, attempting to summon the courage to do what so many before her have done. She was adamant on getting answers, someone sent Creed after her, and it was only a matter of time before she's able to figure out who. She just needed Creed down long enough to pick through his brain, and it was a chaotic mess. So beating the crap out of him to make him docile would just have to do.

But Betsy gives her a hail mary, rousing her from the stare she had, obvious fear within her features as green eyes look into violet, a quicker of her bottom lip given that has gone unseen. She slowly nods her head, intending to take herself out of the picture. No matter how much she wants to hurt him, no matter how much she would like to see Creed rot? She just couldn't. She couldn't go there again..

The shattering of the windows draws her away from Betsy, her eyes alight upon the descent of Rose, her timing couldn't have been better. She turns fully now, regarding the woman as she draws the swords, her hand immediately raising to place a TK block to prevent her from moving.

"NO! WE NEED ANSWERS!" First. She wanted to add in first. But the word itself just didn't come out.

Betsy nods and hugs Jean. She doesn't care about putting on a show for Creed, intimidating him, creating an 'image'. In some ways, torture is even more terrifying at the hands of someone who is capable of going from affection to absolutely cruelty. She kisses her friend's temple and wraps her long fingers around Jean's shoulders, gently turning her away. Then the window shatters.

Betsy's just a /bit/ faster than Jean, which for psychics is a substantial margin. When everything happens at the speed of thought, ninja reflexes make it almost too easy for a psionicist. Her hand lashes out as well, redoubling the wall Jean creates and locking Rose in an iron grip of immobility.

"You'll just break your sword," Betsy says, unflappable as ever. "His skeleton is metal and seems unbreakable. You might try cutting his throat, though- /after/ we've interrogated him." Well, she's practical, at least.

LOG NOTE: Remove 'His skeleton' sentence.

Victor Creed slowly comes around as the women are talking amongst themselves, fully coming to himself just as Betsy kisses at Jean's temple, his broken lips breaking over his bloody teeth in a feral grin, "Awwwwwwwwwww, how sweet. Y'know, if you wanna put on a show, that might get me to talk faster'n anything…" he chuckles.

And then Ravager arrives, all broken glass and swords, the blade laying just short of his neck. He doesn't flinch. If he dies, he dies - Creed made his peace with that particular devil a long time ago, but he doesn't expect it to happen. He just inhales deeply, taking in the scent of the new arrival.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmm, the Killer Quim squad, all decked out - ain't you three a set. Answers. I ain't ever lied t'ya an' I ain't ever denied nothin'. I don't know nothin' worth tellin'. I got paid to do a job and I'm doin' it. Ain't nothin' personal - hell, I'm startin' t'like you girls."

Stopped? Ravager's inability to move about makes her second by second start to lose it, the frigid eye sinking to a subarctic narrow while the white one flashes data in a scroll behind the lens.

"/We/ who? Relinquish my fucking bodily mobility for starters. I'm not here on the X-dime. I am here as he said. To do a job, but one more motherfucker crawls in my head without asking, or holds me here for yet another 5 seconds and you can forget my desire to partake in whatever it is you people intend to do from now and into the future. Because, like most people unless you intend to fucking kill me, don't disable me. Jesus tits. And you should know better." Those eyes snap to Jean.

"You get a pass." Betsy now has that scrutiny, one deep breath… Count to three.

"Let me go."

Betsy was fast, yes. But Jean's motions hold true. She even kept it there for good measure, her brows lowering into a frown until that hand drops without warning or word to allow Rose's motions to return free from her hold. As Creed begins to speak, Jean lets out an insufferable sigh, turning upon the gifted boots to stalk towards her jacket, bending to snatch it up with her fingers to dust it off as if she were at home.

"Snap reaction, Ravager." Is all Jean could say. In truth? She did have the stomach for this stuff, and that's the one thing that frightens her. When you can amass the power of a God? (WITH APPROVAL OF COURSE) Nothing in the 'verse could stop her. (CAUSE THERE WAS APPROVAL.)

She had to shake it off though, still keeping that 'stiff uppa lip' as Betsy would call it, letting the two do what they will to Creed, because this was as far as she was mentally willing to go. She'd come out scathed.

"You never lied, no. But I need a face. I need a name to go with that face. I need details on how you knew that we were in Africa and I need even more details as to why you were sent there. I want to know who else you're intending to put on your dime to come after us and when."

Betsy follows Jean's lead, but keeps a wary coil of energy ready to lash out- to intercede a striking blow, or send Rose flying if need be. Still, she respects the young woman's courage and competence. Less than a year ago, Betsy would have offered her a /job/. Thank God no one there could possibly know her dark alter-ego's identity.

"Sabertooth, your options are quite limited," Betsy says with that prim aristocratic posture. "You can start giving us information. Your compliance will strongly influence negotiations for your life. You can resist, for a time, but I can assure you that I have literally nothing to do but crawl inside your brain until I learn the secrets you wrote in your sweetheart diary as a child. You've been alive a long time. I can see to it that you live the rest of your days- the many thousands of them- as a cripple. Or a madman. What is the smart choice here? Resist pointlessly? Or give us what we want, and live to fight another day?"

Victor Creed shakes his head and chuckles, "You sure do talk a good game, darlin', I give you that. Might even make yourself belief you got the guts t'follow through with it. You don't. This one might," he says, flicking his head towards Ravager, "She smells like blood an' she came lookin' t'kill. But you wanna play in my brain? You come on in, baby girl. Got plenty o' nice sharp things fer ya to play with," he says.

To Jean, he tilts his head, "Names? Faces? Why? I don't pay attention to any of that shit. See, t'you, what's goin' on in Africa is all important. Prob'ly even to whatever fuck hired me, it's all they think about. But t'me? Just another job. I pay as much attention as the guy in the fast food lane memorizes the faces o' the fuckers who come by fer a Big Mac. All you meaty motherfuckers look the same t'me."

"So, you wanna hurt me? You wanna prove how bad you are by breakin' my bones and makin' me bleed? Then fuckin' do it. I need the nap."

Each and every bit of control Ravager gets back has her breaths meeting a ragged level, one that is showing her restraint and the very thin wire it is walking on. But where it is directed is hard to tell because for a moment she is not looking at anyone, her hands are clutching her swords handles so hard the leather groans over the grips.

"No." One word. No means no, right? But this meaning has many directives, and in one moment her gaze finds Jean and a slow smile curls at the corners of her lips, one almost slightly disturbed, like a portion of her brain was -violated- at the concept of losing more control. Then there's that laughter, silent, but it shakes her shoulders. "Your son does that better." Take /that/ how you will.

Moving to Betsy's side she tilts her head towards the woman and watches Creed, listening to their exchange and considering. "Job. No names, no faces, just a bank account, a transaction, and targets with directive. Looks like you need a partner, Sabretooth." He can deny them direct intel, but can he deny suddenly taking on a partner to 'finish the job'?

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