Day 58: Mission #1 [Scarecrow and Depth Charge]
[From here.]It was not the hallway they found on the other side of the door. The crossing of the threshold was accompanied by that spinning sensation in the Scarecrow's middle- similar to feeling he'd had the night the doors were enchanted- and it was no mystery of why: they had been spirited away to somewhere else entirely. Decorated tables,
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The question was: now what did they do? They had her attention, but that wasn't enough.
"You can't take me?" he asked, turning his head back to Depth Charge a moment, still standing next to his seat. "You're the one who can't be taken anywhere." He paused for only a second, rethinking his words. "Though I guess if we're both acting like this, I suppose neither of us ought to be in public."
He turned where he stood, facing Rosemarie and giving her a rueful look. "I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll have to forgive us if we ruined your meal or anything- Richard and I just get caught up sometimes in our own problems."
It was another accidental truth, one that rang in his ears for several moments after he'd said it.
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"No harm done," replied Rosemarie. "You both sound incredibly stressed, though. Why not take a breather and enjoy your drinks?"
With forced pleasantries out of the way, she launched into the real matter. Obviously, these were the ones he had told her to look out for. Since they had so graciously dropped the code into her lap, the woman might as well follow-through. "Too much stress," she continued without pause, "will turn even an athlete into a guaranteed walking heart attack, you know. My ex-husband can vouch for that."
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You try watching a kid fight a guy to the death all night, being blackmailed into doing some ridiculous army supervillain's dirty work and keep up with some ridiculous code, all while pretending to be a completely different species and therefore trying not to out both you and your roommate.
He'd tried to ignore the Scarecrow's final comment, as if that could protect his mood.
Still, they'd reeled her in. Now what? Yeah, they were supposed to get the name of some client of hers, but how? They didn't even know what said client was hiring her for- bomb expertise, private eye work, fixing their slagging moped? That particular part they had to navigate all without letting her know that they were angling for info. They could play it safe and nudge her towards the right way slowly, but who knew what would set her off? Or how much time they had?
Depth Charge opted for a cool laugh, as if he wasn't silently churning with possibilities and the strain of caution. "You're telling me. Work's crazy enough there days without this guy following me around." He rolled his eyes in the Scarecrow's direction- affectionately, this time. "It's nice to find time to relax."
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Also putting their spat out of mind, the Scarecrow clung to Rosemarie's words, trying to grasp at any lead as to how they should go about asking for the information they needed. It was a touchy thing, the tricky conversation, especially when so much was foreign to him. What was an ex-husband? Or a heart attack, for that matter? Were those two related to their task, somehow? And was it something he ought to be concerned about, being that he was human and therefore had a heart?
Maybe that last bit could wait until he could ask someone who might know better- with his experiences at Landel's, he had a feeling questioning it at that second would ruin any chance they had at passing for regular flesh-and-blood folk. It would most certainly earn him a strange look.
He decided to take a safer route, tagging onto what Depth Charge was saying. "When we can, of course. Not much time for relaxing these days, especially with some of the people we work with."
The gears in the Scarecrow's mind turned, working his way toward their goal. The only idea that crossed his mind was being direct, and that didn't seem like a good one in the least; however, he supposed if they got nowhere fast (just how much time did they have to accomplish this, anyway? Surely they wouldn't leave patients out overnight) that risks would have to be taken.
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Then they could have what was sought.
"I know what you mean," she said, nodding in their general direction. Her book was thoroughly ignored. "I'm working with a man right now. High-profile, apparently. He has some strange obsession with Monet paintings." The woman smirked in a mix of pain and affection, a bittersweet expression. "Real crazy, this man. He wouldn't let me sleep for two days until I found Camille Monet on her deathbed. Disturbing little picture."
With a strange look on her face still in place, Rosemarie paused. "Military officers are strange people. Avoid them at all cost."
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It came sooner than expected, at Rosemarie's own pace.
The woman's expression struck Depth Charge before the contents of her answer, a cocktail of emotions he could half-empathise with- and then the pause. Military officers...?
Click.
Slag it. He'd spent all this time assuming she wasn't going to want to talk, that they were going to have to lead her into it- but was she here specifically to tell them what they needed to know? And did that mean that she'd been talking in code this whole time while they'd rambled about some false rivalry and work?
Tilting his head a fraction, he made to catch the Scarecrow's eye. She hadn't run yet- if the redhead had laced something into the conversation, she seemed to think they'd fielded it well enough without even realising, though maybe the Scarecrow had picked up on it without saying anything. Presumably he'd have kicked him if he'd really screwed up. But this was far more direct.
Depth Charge didn't know who Monet was and he'd never seen the painting, but he knew about the military. Boy did he ever know.
"Strange and dangerous," he agreed. His tone had dropped out of casual jostling and into something almost bitter, though he'd tried to curb that. He hated this, the way that every enunciation seemed weighted- would be weighed, even. "Who knows what goes on under those caps?"
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But was she working for the General, or a patient on a mission of her own? Now there was a thought the Scarecrow didn't like at all, that she was in a situation no better than they were and was being forced into the conversation as well. Perhaps she was looking for information that they were unintentionally keeping from her, or her mission was something else entirely. Either way, she hadn't left yet- they had to be doing something right, he reasoned. He certainly didn't want for their fellow patients to face punishment; even more so did he want to keep Depth Charge from having to use the gun they'd been given. He knew enough about humans to know it'd be trouble for anyone on the receiving end, and if that anyone was supposed to be Rosemarie...
Depth Charge caught his eyes, but the Scarecrow wasn't sure how to interpret his roommate's glance, whether it was that he knew something and couldn't share it, or if he was looking for answers himself. Though he was piecing together bits in his mind- like how she mentioned a painting and having to find it, so perhaps that was what she did for the rest of her clients- there wasn't much to be shared with Depth Charge even if he could.
So instead, he went for something that fell between truth and fiction. "Are they really all that bad?" the Scarecrow asked with a curious look. It was true that, given his limited experience, he couldn't be a fair judge on the soldiers; however, he hoped Rosemarie might know more than they did. It was worth a shot.
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One she hadn't a clue was now falling into the wrong hand.
Rosemarie tilted her head forward, contemplating their answers. "Who knows, right?" She laughed nervously. "I don't think even the public understands their movements. Though--" The skinner man was acknowledged, and the woman nodded at his statement. "--not all are that bad. There are a few good men, if you'll excuse the cheesy reference.
"Like my Monet fanatic. He's in it for the right reasons."
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But he wasn't the only one whose nerves were playing up, and realised he shouldn't have been so surprised when he finally picked up on the anxiety underpinning Rosemarie's answers. Of course she was nervous. She was supposed to deliver information from the databanks of Aguilar's army. It was only with her last comment, though, that he truly understood what they were doing here. Her Monet fanatic... he was in the military. And if they wanted his name, that meant he was probably some kind of plant himself or something- which meant that there was a chance that they were simply fishing for a name to put on the death warrant.
The worst part dawned on him a nanoklik later. Looked like Rosemarie knew him personally- and thinking about it like that, with the perspective flipped, made Depth Charge sick to his stomach. But what could they do now? It was so sneaky- so underhanded- so-
Typical. It was slagging typical.
At least he didn't have to dredge up an appropriately sober expression. "I don't doubt." Does Monet boy have a name? was how he would have finished it. Instead, he said, "We all do things for some 'greater good' that we'd sooner forget."
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And so, the former strawman sat silently for another moment as the conversation went on, pondering the entire concept of the 'greater good' and wondering if they really were doing the right thing. They were to get a name, to accomplish a goal and thusly avoid punishment for themselves and their fellow patients, but what if they didn't get it? Or what if giving the name the General the name was the wrong choice? After all, it was apparent that, like with the Wizard of Oz, they were being used. The consequences had been beneficial then: the Winkies were freed, the Wicked Witch no longer terrorized the people of Oz, Dorothy ultimately did return to Kansas... The same could not be said of what Aguilar would do if they accomplished their goal for him.
Creased formed in his face, his brow knitting as the alternative still weighed on the brain he was so sure he didn't have. They'd been given a gun, presumably to use it if they had to. But on who? The area and other patrons looked pleasant enough. His mind told him Rosemarie was the logical answer; he'd told himself that again only moments ago. The matter was that he just couldn't believe it- no, he couldn't accept it. If they failed, what were they expected to do? She wasn't a witch, wasn't someone who had to be defeated in order to bring about peace or to get a lost little girl home; she didn't look like she'd hurt them even if she could, and certainly didn't sound dangerous as she spoke of her friend. Was his name the one they were looking for?
The Scarecrow's frown deepened- it etched across him, no matter how much he tried to hide it behind the mug in his hands. He couldn't fathom it- how could that be right? It wasn't for the greater good, having to possibly harm someone they'd just met in order to avoid some sort of sanction. He knew so little about death, but Abe had impressed upon him that there was a permanence to it that couldn't be avoided. Though his time at the Institute only measured a few weeks, the Scarecrow had learned for himself just how fragile a flesh-and-blood body could be. Humans couldn't be put back together. It wasn't so simple.
His hands were shaking as he brought the mug to his lips again. He chose to occupy himself with his drink, no matter how awful it tasted. It was easier to swallow than the grim reality they were facing.
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Here, her eyes wandered to the book in her hands. As if struck by a thought, the woman reached in and pulled out her laminated bookmark. This should fulfill the objective quite nicely, as much as the men had passed her criteria. "Sorry to have chosen something depressing as a distracting topic, gentlemen. Hopefully my suffering has made you feel better at least," she said as Rosemarie held the object out to the pair. "Here. A gift."
It was an ordinary bookmark with a bright red tassel. On one side was the aforementioned Camille Monet on her deathbed. The other contained the words "Prescott Gallery" with the signature of its most prized patron:
Major Claude P. Harrington.
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Well. Any obvious danger to them.
He didn't need to look straight at Rosemarie to know they were through- it was clear enough from her voice, and then, as she reached for her book, from her 'gift'.
The Maximal took it with a nod, doing his best to conceal the fact that he'd never seen an object like it before though its function seemed clear enough. As he turned it over in his hands, though, its real purpose in their conversation became clear- and his blood turned cold with acceptance. Major. They were sniffing out a traitor.
He didn't want to look at it anymore. Instead, he got up abruptly and thrust the marker at the Scarecrow. "Good luck," was all he said to Rosemarie; he didn't trust himself to say anything more than two words when they could so easily turn into something worse. A warning- or maybe an apology. "C'mon."
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And waiting there was exactly what they'd been looking for, he presumed: the name. Harrington... He'd heard it before, hadn't he? But where?
Rising from his seat, the Scarecrow gave Rosemarie a polite bow, doing his best to seem grateful for her 'gift,' even if he wasn't sure he wanted it. "It's awful dangerous out there, ma'am. You take care of yourself." With that, he started for the door, ready to follow Depth Charge across the threshold and hopefully to somewhere familiar, somewhere they would recognize, where they would turn in their name and be done with Aguilar's business.
Two steps from the table, then three- the Scarecrow stopped, looking to the 'gift' he still held in his hand, trying to swallow that lump in his throat. It wasn't so simple, was it? Nothing as innocent as a young girl accidentally causing the demise of a wicked witch by throwing water on her in an attempt to put out a fire before it consumed her friend; they were willingly bringing back a name that the General clearly wanted. Why did he want it, and what would he do to the person to whom the name belonged? The Scarecrow couldn't be sure of either of those, even if he'd had a brain. What would he do if he didn't get it? The officer had threatened them- and their fellow patients- with a punishment; however, there were worse consequences than anything the soldiers might assign. That was the part that refused to settle in his chest.
It clawed more at him now that they'd spoken to Rosemarie. Before, she'd been a faceless entity, and any damage they could do to her or her friend didn't seem as real. She cared for him, though. To put a face and a voice with the name was much-
Oh, that Major Harrington! It suddenly clicked in the Scarecrow's mind: the General's replacement for Nurse Lydia on the intercom, who had apparently tried to help at night them under the name Jill. The sounds of her anguish rang through his ears as if he'd heard them right then.
More pieces fell into place, the realizations that landed on his shoulders making it harder to move. General Aguilar had used them to get the information from Rosemarie because he either couldn't get it himself, or he couldn't be bothered. Either way, it had been up to them to get the name, and they had. Major Harrington- assuming the one from the intercom and the one whose name was before him were the same person, though it seemed like an awfully strange coincidence otherwise- must have been up to something behind Aguilar's back- but what? Was he trying to help the patients as well? And if caught, would he suffer in the way Jill had?
The Scarecrow thought for half a second he would turn around, warn Rosemarie somehow- however, he was frozen on the spot, the hand that held the 'gift' still trembling. His eyes searched Depth Charge for an answer; he opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of what to say, or even curse his brain for its incapacity. The Scarecrow couldn't let down the other patients and his roommate- he couldn't stand to see one of his dearest friends chastised because he'd been unable to pull himself together at the last moment.
However, he also couldn't bring himself to hurt another- accidentally or unintentionally, even if that someone was a person he didn't know. To think someone else might end up in the same state as Jill, and that he'd be at fault was just too much.
The Scarecrow's eyes fell; it took all he had to bring them from the floor. "Depth- Richard." He corrected himself with a breath, his throat full of knots. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I know I probably shouldn't try to manage things, but... I don't know if this is the right thing to do."
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The Scarecrow fell by the wayside too, out of step for a moment before he started to speak- still using their code names, he really was on the ball. And Depth Charge's gut wrenched.
Why did Rosemarie have to do this? They'd have done fine if she'd just handed over the name without saying anything, if she'd just shut up and spilled. Then they could have left with their heads held high, not exactly happy of course but still relatively satisfied that they'd done the right thing. They'd saved the rest of the patients from some Primus-forsaken, unspoken punishment, right?
But no. She'd had to go and chat. Give them a face to go with the name, a history. Major P. Harrington: up until that moment he'd maybe still been telling himself this was just a test, no real names used, but they knew a Harrington- Pit, they'd heard him rambling his spark out just that morning. There was no pretending with that sort of evidence: if they handed the name over and the man suddenly vanished from the intercom, they'd feel it. The blood on their hands wouldn't just be hypothetical.
It would also be the first death he'd directly caused himself since Protoform X.
He swallowed, though his mouth felt unbearably dry. Another peril of human biology. "Me either. Feels all wrong." He dropped back a little so that he could keep his eyes on the Scarecrow, though not for safety's sake- a part of him, Depth Charge realised suddenly, needed the support. "What if he's with Marc? We can't just- just turn him over, can we?"
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But what was he willing to face to help his friends and fellow patients at Landel's? While the sound of being punished for failing the mission wasn't ideal, he had to admit that if it made things easier later, it was probably better to fail on purpose. Another tricky part presented itself: if they were being watched- and the Scarecrow did expect they were, so they couldn't escape- then could they make it look as though they'd never gotten the name at all? Or warn Rosemarie somehow without being caught? So much for that simplicity.
"No, I don't think we can," the Scarecrow answered, more determination present in his voice than he'd felt in some time. "We need all the help we can get with the institute, and if it turns out that we're turning in someone who is trying to help us... Well, that just isn't bright. We'll be avoiding one punishment, but making things worse for everybody down the road."
That still left the question of what to do about the situation. "Do ya think there's any way we can warn her? I wouldn't count on us being alone here, but there's got to be something we can do. We probably oughtta get rid of this-" he shook the strip in his hand- "if nothing else."
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But maybe things weren't that complicated. He'd never been much of a long-term thinker- hadn't lived for much more than the next nanoklik for years now, not since he dropped his title back home- but even he could see how crazy it would be to hand over the guy's name for the sake of preventing one round of pain. The punishment they'd dished out after the food-fight hadn't exactly been a piece of cake, but a repeat of that had to be better than sacrificing someone on the inside- someone who, just maybe, could actually make an impact.
Besides. He wasn't sure if he could ever look Marc in the eye again if they chose to hand it over.
At the Scarecrow's question, Depth Charge just about resisted the impulse to look back over his shoulder to where she sat; they probably were being monitored, and the last thing they needed was to draw attention to their hesitance. "It's probably too late for that," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "As far as they know we've got the name, so maybe they'll just let her leave." Maybe. So long as they don't come back later to cover their tracks. "We've seriously gotta get rid of that thing, though."
The determination in both of their voices was clearer now, even at a whisper. Depth Charge squared his shoulders. "Think we could rip the signature up and drop it somewhere? Bring the top back instead and play dumb?"
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