fic: tom cruise must die (chapter seven)
Title: Tom Cruise Must Die (7/10)
Cast: Kristen Bell. Jason Dohring. Joshua Jackson. With sundry guest stars of the CW and Scientology variety!
Authors: buffyx & missdeviant
Rating: NC-17 (this section PG-13)
Notes/Warnings: Rule number one of VM RPS: Do not talk about VM RPS. Not to the actors, anyway. It's just not cool, and DEFINITELY NOT AT ALL FUNNY, OKAY? OKAY. Just so we're clear!
Previous Parts:
++ prologue.
++ chapter one.
++ chapter two.
++ chapter three.
++ chapter four.
++ chapter five.
++ chapter six.
Outside it is cold, but the wind isn’t too sharp and the sky is clear and bright, so much so that Kristen has to squint a little against the morning sun. She plays with the zipper of her jacket as she steps up to the curb outside the airport.
Next to her, Craww blows out a long-suffering sigh.
“Your crony is late for pick up,” he grumbles. “The Resistance drops the ball again. How unsurprising.”
Josh’s brows knit in fury, but before he can say anything, Jason places a hand on his shoulder and steers him a few feet away. Pissed, Kristen reaches over and pinches Craww’s arm, hard.
He yelps indignantly. “Dear god, woman! What are you? Five?”
“Better five than a jackass!” Okay, that’s kind of lame, but she’s allowed a less than stellar comeback or two under the sleep-and-coffee-deprived conditions she’s currently weathering. “Listen, if you don’t stop being such an all around horrible human being, they are going to kick your ass. And if they don’t? I am so totally willing to do it myself.”
“You Resistance pansies are all the same,” he sneers. “A merry band of do-gooders driven by nothing but emotion and hormones. Can never see the big picture. No wonder the death rate in your group is so high. If you had any idea of the plan Hubbard-“
“Praise be upon him.”
The crisp voice that interrupts takes Kristen by surprise, and she glances over her shoulder to see a tall, willowy female, who can’t be much over twenty-two, approaching them from across the parking lot in long, purposeful strides.
“Oh, I’m sorry to butt in,” she continues in her clipped British accent, each syllable dripping with sarcasm, “I just hate to see your beloved Prophet’s name taken in vain.”
The girl, who comes right up to them, has gray eyes, dark muddy-colored hair scraped back in a stubby ponytail, a flat smile. Her narrowed gaze stays focused on Craww, who appears flustered by her presence.
“Dr. Theophilus Craww.” Her upper lip curls. “No need for an introduction-- your reputation precedes you. And don’t take that as a compliment.” Her head turns slightly to catch Kristen’s confused stare. “I presume you must be Bell. I heard about your work as an inside operative for the Liberation. Quite impressive, for a newbie.”
Inside Operative. Nifty. Maybe she can add that job title to her résumé. If she, you know, doesn’t get herself killed before the show’s axed.
“Uh. Thanks?” she responds warily. “And you are…?”
“Regan Walsh.” The girl holds out a cool, formal hand for her to shake. “I’ll be single-handedly responsible for your survival throughout the course of this mission, so let me start off by saying it is in your best interest to not piss me off.”
Kristen freezes, shocked speechless. Regan’s small smirk widens.
“You can laugh. That was a joke,” she assures Kristen. “Mostly.”
“Haha.” She forces a stilted chuckle. “Good one.”
Regan eyes shift over her shoulder, up to Jason and Josh. “Dohring, Jackson. Long time, no see.”
She brushes past Kristen without a second glance, heads over to the boys and meets them each with firm handshakes.
“Walsh,” Jason nods curtly in greeting.
“Regan! You look… the same,” Josh says. “And by that, I mean, lovely as always. You’re quite a sight for sore eyes.”
“Not to skip the pleasantries, gentlemen, but I do think it’s best to get straight to business,” she tells them.
Josh shoots her a pleading look. “Please, please tell me you have some good news.”
“Why don’t we get ourselves on the road and I’ll tell you on the way.”
**
They load up into a conversion van, of all things, painted black. The engine rattles as Regan turns the key.
Craww is tossed unceremoniously into the far back, Josh claims shotgun and Kristen and Jason settle into the middle seats.
"Here." Jason removes a green patterned bandana from his back pocket and passes it to her. "Wear this over your face."
She eyes him skeptically. "Seriously?"
"The less information you know, the safer you'll be," he explains. "If something happens-it's better you don't know the safehouse's location."
Kristen turns the bandana over in her hands.
"Do you have something in blue? This really doesn't work with my outfit."
When she glances back up, she's met with his serious gaze.
"Kidding, kidding!" she exclaims, hands raised in a defensive gesture. "Fine, whatever, put it on. Do what you have to do. As long as pastries aren't involved in any way, shape or form."
Jason covers her eyes with the folded material. She can feel the fabric tug at loose hairs as he ties a snug knot at the base of her skull. Smoothes the wrinkles out gently. Underneath the fuzzy, green-hued veil, she can feel his fingertips brushing over her fluttering eyelids.
“Don’t freak out, okay?” he murmurs, voice low and lips grazing her ear, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Me? Freak out? Why on earth would I do that?” She tries to keep her tone even, nonchalant, but it comes out high and strained. “I’m only being driven to an undisclosed location. In a nondescript van. Blindfolded. No reason for freaking. At all.”
One of his hands drifts up her leg and she jerks upward like a tightly-strung bow. As he traces a small circle across her inner thigh with his thumbpad, she shivers, automatically leaning into his touch and finding herself forgetting everything that had her stomach tied in knots only moments ago. God, they’d just had sex, and here she is, remembering the press of his body against hers, warm and hard. And wanting him, again, already.
Focusing on the wanting is easier. Easier than allowing herself to think about what’s ahead.
“It’ll be fine.” His voice is smooth, assured, and she feels her body relaxing, because for some reason-probably an unfounded, irrational one-she really does believe him.
The ride is long and more than a little bumpy. From the front seat, their new companion launches into an explanation of the mission plans, and at first Kristen attempts to keep up, but soon enough she’s tuning out Regan’s dry, clipped accent and instead leaning her forehead against the window and counting each pothole they speed over.
It’s easy to lose track of time when you can’t see anything, so she isn’t sure how long it’s been before the van is rolling to a final stop. She starts to sit up, wriggling the bandana off of her eyes just in time to see Jason sliding the car door open with one arm.
He pauses to twist around and glance over at her with his face set in an unreadable expression.
“We’re here.”
When she scurries out behind him, she looks ahead and sees that they’re parked at the foot of a modest one-story cabin. Everything appears darker than it should, the dimmed sunlight filtering through the thick woods surrounding the small clearing.
The inside is nearly as bleak; Regan flips on a light switch, illuminating the single-bulb lamp hanging over the dining room table, which is covered in various papers and open books, all spread out haphazardly. The dark puce walls make the room seem drab and cramped.
“Sorry about that,” apologizes Regan with a frown, half-heartedly organizing a pile of printouts into a stack. “Haven’t had much time to get things in order. We’ve been quite… preoccupied.”
She gives up and lets the papers drop back down on the tabletop in a scattered mess.
“Right then,” she nods. “Well, let me show you to your rooms.”
“So… where is everyone else?” Kristen asks as she follows Regan down the hall. “Do you live here alone?”
“The rest of the crew resides in another, larger cabin. This one I have all to myself; such are the perks.”
“Of what?”
“Of not having a penis,” quips Josh from behind them.
“Actually, I was going to say, the perks of being captain of this Resistance sect,” replies Regan, one arched eyebrow lifting. “But I suppose that also factors into it, as I am the only one in this division sans male genitalia.”
Regan stops and pushes a bedroom door open, looks to Kristen.
“I do realize it’s far from the pampered conditions to which you’re accustomed, but I’m afraid we’re a little cramped, so we’ll be having to share the same quarters. If that isn’t a problem.”
“What, no walk-in closet or mints on the pillows?” Kristen jokes. “How will I ever survive?!”
When she’s met with a blank stare, she clears her throat and shifts her weight to the other foot. Um, apparently this Regan is minus one sarcasm detector. That, or Kristen’s delivery has gone way downhill.
“I’m kidding, really,” she clarifies. “Give me a pillow and a surface to sleep on, and I’m golden.”
Regan doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she leaves her to her own devices, bustles off to settle the rest of the boys into their own rooms.
Kristen crosses the small bedroom, sidestepping the futon and moving to the window. She draws the old lace curtains aside and peers out. There’s only the sight of the dense woods, stretching out infinitely on all sides, dirty snow littered on the ground and the bleak, cloudy sky. It’s not like Michigan, where the white and silence were soothing-here, it’s just dreary and gray.
At dinner they eat re-heated soup and potatoes, mostly in silence; she tries to engage Regan, but she’s always been pathetic at small talk, and whatever conversation they have is interrupted by the occasional sniping swapped between Josh and Craww.
Which is okay, because there isn’t a lot to talk about, really. Regan’s too busy running an underground operation against evil Scientologist plots of world domination to watch television, and Kristen’s too busy starring in a TV show to devote too much time to foiling said schemes.
Really, the only thing they have in common is… well, Jason.
Jason’s been pretty quiet since they first arrived, and now he just sits, stirring his spoon around the bowl listlessly and staring off into space. Part of Kristen wants to reach across the table and shake him by the shirt collar until he tells her what he’s thinking; instead, she settles for stabbing a piece of potato with more vigor than necessary.
It’s okay that Jason has these… things she doesn’t totally understand. She can be the same way- god knows sometimes she can’t even demystify her own fashion sense, for example-and she gets that he has things he can’t talk about, maybe will never be able to talk about. She’s not like him. She doesn’t have any old scores to settle. The extent of her deep emotional involvement generally begins with “S” and ends with “ara.”
And, of course, the whole “trying not to die” aspect.
“Dohring, would you care to go over the directives for phase one?”
Regan’s words seem to snap him out of his thoughts. He glances up quickly, sets down his spoon.
“Yeah, sure,” he agrees, clearing his throat. “It’s all set for tomorrow, right?”
“Actually-“ Glancing down, Regan falters. “It’s going to be a bit longer before the preparations are complete.”
Josh’s eyes snap up from his position at the end of the table.
“How much longer?” he demands.
“We have to wait to hear back from a source regarding the compound’s layout, whether or not it’s safe. Just to be sure.”
“We’re talking about a preliminary stakeout, here-isn’t that what it’s for? How much prep work for a stakeout is needed?”
“I refuse to send my division in their without all precautionary measures taken. It’s too dangerous. If we just wait-“
“If we wait, she dies.” Josh’s voice is like ice. “That’s my daughter, and I am not--”
“She’s not your daughter,” Regan reminds him; her tone is firm but also gentle at the same time. She appears nearly apologetic. “She’s his, remember?”
At that, Josh shoves back from the table, kicks his chair back violently. The sound of it colliding against the wall behind him causes Kristen to flinch.
“She’s mine,” he insists fiercely. “I don’t care whose blood she has. It doesn’t matter. She’s mine, do you hear me?”
Without waiting for an answer, he storms out of the room, and seconds later there’s the dulled bang of a door being slammed shut.
“That went well,” remarks Craww with an amused smirk.
“Shut up,” Kristen and Jason reply simultaneously.
Blowing out a deep sigh, Regan looks to Jason. “I told you, Dohring. This case is too emotional; these kinds of outbursts will only hinder our plans. We never should’ve agreed to allow him to be involved.”
“That doesn’t stop him from being right,” he points out. “The clock is ticking, you know.”
“What do you expect me to do? Send my men into a rush operation with high risks, get them all killed?” Her voice rises with anger. “I won’t do it. Not until it’s cleared with my sources.”
“We’re running out of time! If we could just get in there and, I don’t know, at least see what we’re up against-“
“You may have pulled off the Liberation with that same impulsiveness, Dohring, but this assignment is under my command, and I am telling you now: Stand down. And that is an order, not a request. Understood?”
Jason’s jaw muscles twitch as he stares back in silence. Kristen holds her breath, waiting for a response, something that’ll shift the palpable tension crackling in the air.
“Understood,” he replies between gritted teeth, standing up. “Excuse me. I guess I’ve lost my appetite.”
He stalks out of the room and leaves them there in uncomfortable silence. Finally Craww sets down his fork with a clatter, clears his throat.
“I’m going for a smoke,” he announces to no one in particular, bustling out hastily.
Kristen stares at Regan. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?” she asks.
“You say he has to keep emotion out of it, or whatever, but it’s not-“ She stops to gather her thoughts. “Someone’s life is in the balance. Many someones, even. How can you not make it personal?”
Regan regards her quietly in return. Then, smoothing her hands across her lap primly, she speaks.
“Kristen. Do you know what Scientology did to him?”
The question catches her off-guard.
She frowns, confused. “What?”
“To Jason,” clarifies Regan. “He was born into it, like a lot of them. Grew up devoted, excelled at Delphi-“
“I know the backstory,” Kristen interrupts, bristling. “So what’s your point?”
“Most of us in the Resistance have some personal connection. Family members, friends who are-or were-members or somehow affiliated.” She pauses, glances down at her hands. “My fiancé, Dan, he was a defense attorney in San Francisco. He represented an ex-member who’d published an Internet expose on the Church; they were slapping him with all kinds of libel and slander suits. A few weeks before the case even went to trial, Dan disappeared. The police found him days later floating below the Golden Gate Bridge. Ruled it suicide, but I knew better, of course.”
“Oh.” Kristen feels like the breath’s been knocked out of her lungs. “I. I’m sorry.”
Regan waves her off. “Don’t. It was a long time ago, and it’s not-that isn’t what I’m getting at. I’m just saying: we all have our reasons. Jason has his. For whatever reason, he began questioning what he’d be brought up believing; he chose to take the red pill, jump down the rabbithole, whatever you want to call it. There’s no turning back for him now that he knows it’s a lie. In all of my time being part of the Resistance, I’ve never met anyone as single-mindedly focused on destroying Scientology as him.”
Kristen knows the intensity Regan’s referring to; she’s witnessed it firsthand. There’s something about Jason that changes when she sees him in Resistance mode- it’s the same way when he’s on set, before a scene, where it’s like he’s sealed himself off in his own world. Except then, she’d had access, was allowed in, but when it comes to this it’s like she’s shut out.
“We have to set aside our histories and be as objective as possible,” continues Regan. “I can’t allow Dohring to hijack this to fulfill some personal vendetta. I won’t let him or Jackson jeopardize my team’s safety for that purpose.”
The truth is, Kristen knows that Regan is right. At some point emotions are going to overpower judgment, and Jason or Josh are ultimately going to do something rash.
It’s only a matter of when.
**
The futon is lumpy and hard, and these days she’s a light sleeper already, so she’s already awake when she discovers that Josh, Craww, and Jason are sneaking out alone.
She’d like to be able to say that it’s some intangible, intuitive connection to Jason that leads her to discovering him in the hall, but really, her first thought when she hears the click of the door is that Craww is making a run for it. She rolls out of bed, careful not to wake Regan as she slips into the hall. It’s there that she sees Jason, closing the door to his bedroom, a packed duffel bag at his feet.
“Hey,” she hisses, and he freezes in his tracks, turns to look at her.
Jason shushes her, a finger raised to his lips, looking surprised as she hurries over to them.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
Both of his hands reach out, spanning her waist, but his touch is cold and impersonal, holding her back. Away from him. She blinks and sees him suddenly as something else. Something darker, more detached.
“You should go back to bed,” he responds, impenetrable eyes fixed on the wall over her shoulder.
He’s already left her; she can feel it.
“No.” The conviction in her voice surprises even herself. “I know what you’re doing.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I know,” she says, and then: “I’m going with you.”
**
"You know what's going to be awesome?" Kristen muses aloud. "The E! True Hollywood Story that'll come out in, like, ten years from now." Her thoughts derail temporarily as she pauses to hop over a small snow drift. "Of course, if they pass us for an expose on One Tree Hill, I could always write my memoirs. 'Sex, Stardom and Blowing Shit Up: True Confessions of an Eponymous Television Star Turned Revolutionary.' Or do you think that's too lengthy of a title?"
Jason slows his pace a hair and glances over his shoulder. Josh keeps walking, clinging to Craww's side as though the scientist will make a run for it if Josh is outside of a five foot radius of the man.
"I think that I, uh, need to concentrate on where I'm stepping," he replies pointedly.
Kristen adjusts the headlamp that rests over her knit hat, plunges her mittened hands into her coat pockets and plows forward.
The truth is that she’s babbling because the silence of the dense, darkened woods surrounding the small group is more than a little unnerving. She wonders how any of them can have any remote idea of what direction they’re heading in, since she can hardly see a thing in the pitch black aside from the muted glow of their headlamps, but Craww's stride denotes a sense of certainty, and so she decides to trust that he knows where to go.
The uneven trail is obscured by rolling drifts of snow, and she almost trips over a concealed rut. Ugh. Good thing she didn’t bring her Steve Maddens, she thinks, grabbing onto a low tree branch for support. A sudden wind blows through the trees and her teeth chatter from the cold.
She closes her eyes and thinks about her mother’s house, where she’s probably fussing over the big fake plastic tree they set up every year due to her sister Sara’s pine allergy. There’s probably some babyproofing to do, since her sister Jody will be toting her toddler and husband along this year, and on Christmas morning, her mother will cook the best kiełbasa available in Huntington Woods, and she and her sisters will kick each other under the table, even though they’re all too old to act like such children.
If she can just get through this.
"I don't see why we couldn't have waited for Regan and the Resistance. Or, you know, morning," Kristen says tentatively.
"No time," Josh replies tersely. "By the time the Resistance got their asses together and did their by-the-book mission, Sara could already be a thousand miles away. Or worse."
"Worse?" Kristen asks.
"God, girl, haven't you been paying attention, or have your googly eyes clouded your vision?" Craww spits. "The Scientologists are going to attempt the same ritual that they were going to do before you so kindly strolled up and 'liberated' Suri, leaving me - ah, 'unemployed' - with a three inch piece of shrapnel in my side."
As Kristen covers her open mouth with her mitten, Jason pushes aside a large evergreen branch blocking their path and ushers them through.
"If we had waited for the Resistance front to get on with their plan, Suri might have still been alive, but she'd already be gone. The stars are reaching the proper alignment today. We couldn't wait for Regan to decide it was the right time to take us to the location. It was now or never."
It doesn't slip Kristen's notice that Jason follows Craww's example and calls Sara by her former name, and it certainly doesn't escape Josh's.
"We have all the guide we need right here," Josh jogs up to Craww, who has been walking five paces in front of the group. "Brains over firepower, right Doctor?" He throws a choking arm around the scientist's thin throat in a gesture that definitely doesn't read companionship, and Craww stumbles over nothing and almost drops the compass he holds in his right hand.
"But why would they wait if it would be too late to save Sur-Sara?" In her confusion, Kristen almost slips, but manages to correct herself in time.
"The Resistance possesses endless optimism. They believe the ritual is reversible," Craww interjects hoarsely, squirming out from under Josh's hold. He pauses to inspect his compass and regain his bearings. "But that's impossible. I made her. I know. Once she's turned, there's no return to babbling and cooing. Her life will be secondary to tubes and electrodes running under her skin, speeding up the metabolic process and leeching the alien proteins off of her vital organs. Not to mention the tiny black claws."
He's lying about the claws. He has to be lying.
Right?
Under Craww's dubious leadership, the four soon leave the cleanly marked trail behind. The snow in the next section of the woods is hardpacked and hip deep, making walking a chore. Even though she follows the men's tamped down tracks, carefully placing her feet in the holes left by their strides, Kristen begins to fall behind. First ten feet, then fifteen as the three tromp ahead.
She has to pause near a large tree, resting her palm against the trunk. "Way to go, Scientology!" she mumbles to herself "Couldn't you have picked someplace warmer to hide out? Like TEXAS???"
Jason must have excellent hearing, because he finally turns and looks back at her. By the time he's slogged his way back to her side, she's yawning.
"Up and at 'em, Bell,” he urges softly as he puts an arm around her waist. “The world doesn't save itself while you nap."
Kristen sighs and begins to move. Her legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each.
"You know, Tom Cruise can't alter my circadian rhythms."
“Not yet,” says Jason with a grim look. "One day, Tom Cruise will be able to make planes fall out of the sky just by thinking it."
She pauses in her tracks. "Really?"
"No."
They push on, breathing hard, winding through the woods. She wonders how many miles they’ve hiked so far, how many more they have to go. Each inhalation of frigid air feels like shards of ice branching out in her lungs, and her daily yoga exercises really have not prepared her for a long trek through rough, uneven terrain.
“It’s up here,” announces Craww, some time later.
Thank god. Kristen's feet lost all sensation at least twenty minutes ago and she thinks her nose may have frostbite. Not that she knows what that feels like.
There’s a short incline, and then the trees open up a little to a small clearing. Craww slows to a stop and the rest do as well. She steps up beside Jason, shoulder-to-shoulder. Her eyes have long since adjusted to the limited light given off by their headlamps, and she can make out the crumbling one-story building before them, darkened and desolate. Most of the windows have been covered by plywood, and the concrete walls appear stained and crumbling.
"This is it?" Kristen squints. "Really? Huh."
Jason turns his head to eye her. "What?"
"Well, I have to say I'm not impressed. I guess I was expecting something, like, I don't know-- something with more barbed wire fences and watchtowers and scary patrolling German shepards."
"It's a Scientology compound, not Auschwitz. Besides, this facility is mainly for research now. It has all these underground labs,” he explains, looking back to the building with a kind of shaky, heaving sigh. “Used to be it was a training camp for the Org."
"Oh,” she says. “Impressive recon."
"Personal experience." His gaze shifts away from her, his jaw set tight, like he's trying to hide his shame behind gritted teeth. "Junior year, Delphi Academy. Weekend retreat."
Surprised, Craww gawks at him. "You've been here?"
"Just the once, and not this sector specifically, if I remember correctly. That was before most of the training camps were moved to Clearwater." He frowns, puzzled. "You know, I still don't know why they would come here. We've got about seven facilities in the U.S. that have Resistance sects stationed nearby to monitor activity on. When we rank 'em by threat level, this one comes in at number seven."
"Huh. Maybe we don't need you after all, Professor Frink," Josh bites at Craww, who crosses his arms over his face as if he expects a blow.
"Stop," Jason says sharply, and Josh stands down. "I don't know where the entrance is. He does."
She follows behind the group as they approach the nondescript building, skirting around the perimeter. There’s not a single light on inside, and the exterior is all in ruins, the roof caving in at one spot.
Jason peers through an unboarded window. His breath collects in frosty whorls on the dirt speckled surface, and Kristen wants to warn him to take a step back.
"Seriously abandoned," he informs her as he pulls away from the window. "For a long time, by the looks of it."
"Great," says Josh, hoisting his pack higher on his right shoulder. His gaze is colder than the early morning air as he looks at Dr. Craww. "Is this a trap or just a way to lead us off course?"
"No, no, no," the scientist bumbles, picking at the fingertips of his gloves. "There's a way in. There's got to be. I've seen the schematics."
"I thought you'd BEEN inside the compound." Jason says. He levels his gaze at the pale, rattish man. "Isn't that what you'd said?"
"The Scientologists - they're very -" he pauses, coughs into his hand. "Secretive."
Kristen can't see Josh standing behind her, but she knows he's rolling his eyes.
"Okay, Craww and I -" Josh eyes the scientist with menace "- are going to walk to the other side of the property. Hopefully something jogs his memory. You two, keep checking things in this location, alright? Complete radio silence, unless we find anything of note. That's how we got made last time."
Kristen hopes that it is too dark for Josh to see her cheeks redden.
Nodding, Jason pulls a walkie talkie out of his pocket and flips a switch on the side. A red light glows on the radio's face before he slides it back into his coat. Kristen resists the urge to salute as the two men disappear behind the building's corner.
Jason begins poking around in the shriveled-up shrubs surrounding the warehouse, testing the rotted wooden panels slanted across the windows with his gloved hands.
"Josh wouldn't do anything that breaks the Geneva Convention, would he?" Kristen blurts out suddenly.
He turns and shoots her a look before returning to his... whatever he's doing.
"Well, I don't think he's a Republican, but…"
"God, Jason. Come on!"
"Kristen, do you honestly believe standard rules of warfare apply to people in our situation?"
"I guess when we find Sara and bring her back with us, he'll probably drop the creepy Abu Ghraib vibe." She pauses. "That is the plan, right? Find an entrance, snag the baby, and get out? No explosives. No -" she swallows "-unnecessary deaths?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
She doesn't want to ask him to clarify what that means.
Raising from his crouched position in the bushes, Jason dusts the snow that has collected on his hands on his black jeans. Hefts the duffel bag strap back up over his shoulder again. Kristen reaches out and grabs him by the elbow.
"Jason."
When he looks at her, it's like his eyes are just coming into focus and actually seeing her for the first time tonight.
"And then what?” she asks. “What's the plan?"
"We run. Try and get to the safehouse, get her to--"
"No." Her voice almost wavers. "I mean. After that. After-- all of this."
He falls silent, mouth gaping, unable to come up with an answer. Her hand drops to her side, and she can feel her cheeks flushing with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.
"Oh." She nods, lips pursed. "I see."
"Kristen--" he starts, making a move like he's going to reach for her, but he doesn't.
"No, I figured it out. This thing-- this vendetta you have, it just, it takes up everything in you, right? And there's no room for anything else. Not even me," she tells him.
Jason's face changes, his eyes pained, and she backs away, shaking her head.
"You told Tom Cruise-- I remember, you told him, you didn't think he'd be able to exist without everything Scientology provided. Remember that? But you know what, I don't think you would know how to live without this fight. And I don't think you want to."
"You don't understand." The angry words burst out of him, ragged and sharp, almost painful. "You can't get it. You'll never get it."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because I thought you COULD. Maybe I couldn't trust Craww, or Regan, or even Josh-- but you,” he spits, voice cracking, “I could trust you. I thought you got it. But I was wrong."
"That’s not fair. My life is not the Jason Fucking Dohring Show! I can't sit around waiting, hoping that one day you’ll decide, ‘Hey, I guess I can do this thing now,’” she retorts, furious. “I need something real from you, or else I need to just know that it’s never going to happen so I can move on already. Tom Cruise could die and you could blow up every evil building out there and Scientology could cease to exist, but is this all ever going to be over for you? Really?"
"You want something real?" He steps up to her, right in her face, and it takes everything in her not to shrink back. "Every time I look at you-- all I can think about is how I don't want to go home."
She stares at him, not understanding. "Wh-what do you--?"
"When this is... done. When we're finished--" He takes a deep breath, stares her straight in the eyes. "I don't want to go back to L.A.; I want to go home with you."
The words stun her, and the power of them actually sends her stumbling backwards a step, mind reeling.
In their mutual silence, there’s the sudden snap of a twig cracking under someone’s boot.
The sound cuts her to the bone.
Jason’s eyes widen, his mouth forming a small oval of shock, and he spins automatically; she half-turns and all at once, it’s like a swarm coming at her, hunched figures in combat gear emerging from the surrounding woods, so fast it’s like a blur.
She thinks Jason yells something, but she doesn’t even have time to open her mouth to cry out. One of the men rushes her, grabs her arm and twists it roughly behind her back, and a second later there’s a stabbing shot of pain in her hip. A gasp escapes her, an odd, sudden warmth spreading out underneath her skin, and she can feel her knees beginning to buckle.
The side of her head connects with the concrete wall with a shocking amount of force. Spots flare in her vision and she can hear herself moan as she slumps to the ground, surrendering to the blackness.
-
to be continued.
Cast: Kristen Bell. Jason Dohring. Joshua Jackson. With sundry guest stars of the CW and Scientology variety!
Authors: buffyx & missdeviant
Rating: NC-17 (this section PG-13)
Notes/Warnings: Rule number one of VM RPS: Do not talk about VM RPS. Not to the actors, anyway. It's just not cool, and DEFINITELY NOT AT ALL FUNNY, OKAY? OKAY. Just so we're clear!
Previous Parts:
++ prologue.
++ chapter one.
++ chapter two.
++ chapter three.
++ chapter four.
++ chapter five.
++ chapter six.
Outside it is cold, but the wind isn’t too sharp and the sky is clear and bright, so much so that Kristen has to squint a little against the morning sun. She plays with the zipper of her jacket as she steps up to the curb outside the airport.
Next to her, Craww blows out a long-suffering sigh.
“Your crony is late for pick up,” he grumbles. “The Resistance drops the ball again. How unsurprising.”
Josh’s brows knit in fury, but before he can say anything, Jason places a hand on his shoulder and steers him a few feet away. Pissed, Kristen reaches over and pinches Craww’s arm, hard.
He yelps indignantly. “Dear god, woman! What are you? Five?”
“Better five than a jackass!” Okay, that’s kind of lame, but she’s allowed a less than stellar comeback or two under the sleep-and-coffee-deprived conditions she’s currently weathering. “Listen, if you don’t stop being such an all around horrible human being, they are going to kick your ass. And if they don’t? I am so totally willing to do it myself.”
“You Resistance pansies are all the same,” he sneers. “A merry band of do-gooders driven by nothing but emotion and hormones. Can never see the big picture. No wonder the death rate in your group is so high. If you had any idea of the plan Hubbard-“
“Praise be upon him.”
The crisp voice that interrupts takes Kristen by surprise, and she glances over her shoulder to see a tall, willowy female, who can’t be much over twenty-two, approaching them from across the parking lot in long, purposeful strides.
“Oh, I’m sorry to butt in,” she continues in her clipped British accent, each syllable dripping with sarcasm, “I just hate to see your beloved Prophet’s name taken in vain.”
The girl, who comes right up to them, has gray eyes, dark muddy-colored hair scraped back in a stubby ponytail, a flat smile. Her narrowed gaze stays focused on Craww, who appears flustered by her presence.
“Dr. Theophilus Craww.” Her upper lip curls. “No need for an introduction-- your reputation precedes you. And don’t take that as a compliment.” Her head turns slightly to catch Kristen’s confused stare. “I presume you must be Bell. I heard about your work as an inside operative for the Liberation. Quite impressive, for a newbie.”
Inside Operative. Nifty. Maybe she can add that job title to her résumé. If she, you know, doesn’t get herself killed before the show’s axed.
“Uh. Thanks?” she responds warily. “And you are…?”
“Regan Walsh.” The girl holds out a cool, formal hand for her to shake. “I’ll be single-handedly responsible for your survival throughout the course of this mission, so let me start off by saying it is in your best interest to not piss me off.”
Kristen freezes, shocked speechless. Regan’s small smirk widens.
“You can laugh. That was a joke,” she assures Kristen. “Mostly.”
“Haha.” She forces a stilted chuckle. “Good one.”
Regan eyes shift over her shoulder, up to Jason and Josh. “Dohring, Jackson. Long time, no see.”
She brushes past Kristen without a second glance, heads over to the boys and meets them each with firm handshakes.
“Walsh,” Jason nods curtly in greeting.
“Regan! You look… the same,” Josh says. “And by that, I mean, lovely as always. You’re quite a sight for sore eyes.”
“Not to skip the pleasantries, gentlemen, but I do think it’s best to get straight to business,” she tells them.
Josh shoots her a pleading look. “Please, please tell me you have some good news.”
“Why don’t we get ourselves on the road and I’ll tell you on the way.”
**
They load up into a conversion van, of all things, painted black. The engine rattles as Regan turns the key.
Craww is tossed unceremoniously into the far back, Josh claims shotgun and Kristen and Jason settle into the middle seats.
"Here." Jason removes a green patterned bandana from his back pocket and passes it to her. "Wear this over your face."
She eyes him skeptically. "Seriously?"
"The less information you know, the safer you'll be," he explains. "If something happens-it's better you don't know the safehouse's location."
Kristen turns the bandana over in her hands.
"Do you have something in blue? This really doesn't work with my outfit."
When she glances back up, she's met with his serious gaze.
"Kidding, kidding!" she exclaims, hands raised in a defensive gesture. "Fine, whatever, put it on. Do what you have to do. As long as pastries aren't involved in any way, shape or form."
Jason covers her eyes with the folded material. She can feel the fabric tug at loose hairs as he ties a snug knot at the base of her skull. Smoothes the wrinkles out gently. Underneath the fuzzy, green-hued veil, she can feel his fingertips brushing over her fluttering eyelids.
“Don’t freak out, okay?” he murmurs, voice low and lips grazing her ear, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Me? Freak out? Why on earth would I do that?” She tries to keep her tone even, nonchalant, but it comes out high and strained. “I’m only being driven to an undisclosed location. In a nondescript van. Blindfolded. No reason for freaking. At all.”
One of his hands drifts up her leg and she jerks upward like a tightly-strung bow. As he traces a small circle across her inner thigh with his thumbpad, she shivers, automatically leaning into his touch and finding herself forgetting everything that had her stomach tied in knots only moments ago. God, they’d just had sex, and here she is, remembering the press of his body against hers, warm and hard. And wanting him, again, already.
Focusing on the wanting is easier. Easier than allowing herself to think about what’s ahead.
“It’ll be fine.” His voice is smooth, assured, and she feels her body relaxing, because for some reason-probably an unfounded, irrational one-she really does believe him.
The ride is long and more than a little bumpy. From the front seat, their new companion launches into an explanation of the mission plans, and at first Kristen attempts to keep up, but soon enough she’s tuning out Regan’s dry, clipped accent and instead leaning her forehead against the window and counting each pothole they speed over.
It’s easy to lose track of time when you can’t see anything, so she isn’t sure how long it’s been before the van is rolling to a final stop. She starts to sit up, wriggling the bandana off of her eyes just in time to see Jason sliding the car door open with one arm.
He pauses to twist around and glance over at her with his face set in an unreadable expression.
“We’re here.”
When she scurries out behind him, she looks ahead and sees that they’re parked at the foot of a modest one-story cabin. Everything appears darker than it should, the dimmed sunlight filtering through the thick woods surrounding the small clearing.
The inside is nearly as bleak; Regan flips on a light switch, illuminating the single-bulb lamp hanging over the dining room table, which is covered in various papers and open books, all spread out haphazardly. The dark puce walls make the room seem drab and cramped.
“Sorry about that,” apologizes Regan with a frown, half-heartedly organizing a pile of printouts into a stack. “Haven’t had much time to get things in order. We’ve been quite… preoccupied.”
She gives up and lets the papers drop back down on the tabletop in a scattered mess.
“Right then,” she nods. “Well, let me show you to your rooms.”
“So… where is everyone else?” Kristen asks as she follows Regan down the hall. “Do you live here alone?”
“The rest of the crew resides in another, larger cabin. This one I have all to myself; such are the perks.”
“Of what?”
“Of not having a penis,” quips Josh from behind them.
“Actually, I was going to say, the perks of being captain of this Resistance sect,” replies Regan, one arched eyebrow lifting. “But I suppose that also factors into it, as I am the only one in this division sans male genitalia.”
Regan stops and pushes a bedroom door open, looks to Kristen.
“I do realize it’s far from the pampered conditions to which you’re accustomed, but I’m afraid we’re a little cramped, so we’ll be having to share the same quarters. If that isn’t a problem.”
“What, no walk-in closet or mints on the pillows?” Kristen jokes. “How will I ever survive?!”
When she’s met with a blank stare, she clears her throat and shifts her weight to the other foot. Um, apparently this Regan is minus one sarcasm detector. That, or Kristen’s delivery has gone way downhill.
“I’m kidding, really,” she clarifies. “Give me a pillow and a surface to sleep on, and I’m golden.”
Regan doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she leaves her to her own devices, bustles off to settle the rest of the boys into their own rooms.
Kristen crosses the small bedroom, sidestepping the futon and moving to the window. She draws the old lace curtains aside and peers out. There’s only the sight of the dense woods, stretching out infinitely on all sides, dirty snow littered on the ground and the bleak, cloudy sky. It’s not like Michigan, where the white and silence were soothing-here, it’s just dreary and gray.
At dinner they eat re-heated soup and potatoes, mostly in silence; she tries to engage Regan, but she’s always been pathetic at small talk, and whatever conversation they have is interrupted by the occasional sniping swapped between Josh and Craww.
Which is okay, because there isn’t a lot to talk about, really. Regan’s too busy running an underground operation against evil Scientologist plots of world domination to watch television, and Kristen’s too busy starring in a TV show to devote too much time to foiling said schemes.
Really, the only thing they have in common is… well, Jason.
Jason’s been pretty quiet since they first arrived, and now he just sits, stirring his spoon around the bowl listlessly and staring off into space. Part of Kristen wants to reach across the table and shake him by the shirt collar until he tells her what he’s thinking; instead, she settles for stabbing a piece of potato with more vigor than necessary.
It’s okay that Jason has these… things she doesn’t totally understand. She can be the same way- god knows sometimes she can’t even demystify her own fashion sense, for example-and she gets that he has things he can’t talk about, maybe will never be able to talk about. She’s not like him. She doesn’t have any old scores to settle. The extent of her deep emotional involvement generally begins with “S” and ends with “ara.”
And, of course, the whole “trying not to die” aspect.
“Dohring, would you care to go over the directives for phase one?”
Regan’s words seem to snap him out of his thoughts. He glances up quickly, sets down his spoon.
“Yeah, sure,” he agrees, clearing his throat. “It’s all set for tomorrow, right?”
“Actually-“ Glancing down, Regan falters. “It’s going to be a bit longer before the preparations are complete.”
Josh’s eyes snap up from his position at the end of the table.
“How much longer?” he demands.
“We have to wait to hear back from a source regarding the compound’s layout, whether or not it’s safe. Just to be sure.”
“We’re talking about a preliminary stakeout, here-isn’t that what it’s for? How much prep work for a stakeout is needed?”
“I refuse to send my division in their without all precautionary measures taken. It’s too dangerous. If we just wait-“
“If we wait, she dies.” Josh’s voice is like ice. “That’s my daughter, and I am not--”
“She’s not your daughter,” Regan reminds him; her tone is firm but also gentle at the same time. She appears nearly apologetic. “She’s his, remember?”
At that, Josh shoves back from the table, kicks his chair back violently. The sound of it colliding against the wall behind him causes Kristen to flinch.
“She’s mine,” he insists fiercely. “I don’t care whose blood she has. It doesn’t matter. She’s mine, do you hear me?”
Without waiting for an answer, he storms out of the room, and seconds later there’s the dulled bang of a door being slammed shut.
“That went well,” remarks Craww with an amused smirk.
“Shut up,” Kristen and Jason reply simultaneously.
Blowing out a deep sigh, Regan looks to Jason. “I told you, Dohring. This case is too emotional; these kinds of outbursts will only hinder our plans. We never should’ve agreed to allow him to be involved.”
“That doesn’t stop him from being right,” he points out. “The clock is ticking, you know.”
“What do you expect me to do? Send my men into a rush operation with high risks, get them all killed?” Her voice rises with anger. “I won’t do it. Not until it’s cleared with my sources.”
“We’re running out of time! If we could just get in there and, I don’t know, at least see what we’re up against-“
“You may have pulled off the Liberation with that same impulsiveness, Dohring, but this assignment is under my command, and I am telling you now: Stand down. And that is an order, not a request. Understood?”
Jason’s jaw muscles twitch as he stares back in silence. Kristen holds her breath, waiting for a response, something that’ll shift the palpable tension crackling in the air.
“Understood,” he replies between gritted teeth, standing up. “Excuse me. I guess I’ve lost my appetite.”
He stalks out of the room and leaves them there in uncomfortable silence. Finally Craww sets down his fork with a clatter, clears his throat.
“I’m going for a smoke,” he announces to no one in particular, bustling out hastily.
Kristen stares at Regan. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?” she asks.
“You say he has to keep emotion out of it, or whatever, but it’s not-“ She stops to gather her thoughts. “Someone’s life is in the balance. Many someones, even. How can you not make it personal?”
Regan regards her quietly in return. Then, smoothing her hands across her lap primly, she speaks.
“Kristen. Do you know what Scientology did to him?”
The question catches her off-guard.
She frowns, confused. “What?”
“To Jason,” clarifies Regan. “He was born into it, like a lot of them. Grew up devoted, excelled at Delphi-“
“I know the backstory,” Kristen interrupts, bristling. “So what’s your point?”
“Most of us in the Resistance have some personal connection. Family members, friends who are-or were-members or somehow affiliated.” She pauses, glances down at her hands. “My fiancé, Dan, he was a defense attorney in San Francisco. He represented an ex-member who’d published an Internet expose on the Church; they were slapping him with all kinds of libel and slander suits. A few weeks before the case even went to trial, Dan disappeared. The police found him days later floating below the Golden Gate Bridge. Ruled it suicide, but I knew better, of course.”
“Oh.” Kristen feels like the breath’s been knocked out of her lungs. “I. I’m sorry.”
Regan waves her off. “Don’t. It was a long time ago, and it’s not-that isn’t what I’m getting at. I’m just saying: we all have our reasons. Jason has his. For whatever reason, he began questioning what he’d be brought up believing; he chose to take the red pill, jump down the rabbithole, whatever you want to call it. There’s no turning back for him now that he knows it’s a lie. In all of my time being part of the Resistance, I’ve never met anyone as single-mindedly focused on destroying Scientology as him.”
Kristen knows the intensity Regan’s referring to; she’s witnessed it firsthand. There’s something about Jason that changes when she sees him in Resistance mode- it’s the same way when he’s on set, before a scene, where it’s like he’s sealed himself off in his own world. Except then, she’d had access, was allowed in, but when it comes to this it’s like she’s shut out.
“We have to set aside our histories and be as objective as possible,” continues Regan. “I can’t allow Dohring to hijack this to fulfill some personal vendetta. I won’t let him or Jackson jeopardize my team’s safety for that purpose.”
The truth is, Kristen knows that Regan is right. At some point emotions are going to overpower judgment, and Jason or Josh are ultimately going to do something rash.
It’s only a matter of when.
**
The futon is lumpy and hard, and these days she’s a light sleeper already, so she’s already awake when she discovers that Josh, Craww, and Jason are sneaking out alone.
She’d like to be able to say that it’s some intangible, intuitive connection to Jason that leads her to discovering him in the hall, but really, her first thought when she hears the click of the door is that Craww is making a run for it. She rolls out of bed, careful not to wake Regan as she slips into the hall. It’s there that she sees Jason, closing the door to his bedroom, a packed duffel bag at his feet.
“Hey,” she hisses, and he freezes in his tracks, turns to look at her.
Jason shushes her, a finger raised to his lips, looking surprised as she hurries over to them.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
Both of his hands reach out, spanning her waist, but his touch is cold and impersonal, holding her back. Away from him. She blinks and sees him suddenly as something else. Something darker, more detached.
“You should go back to bed,” he responds, impenetrable eyes fixed on the wall over her shoulder.
He’s already left her; she can feel it.
“No.” The conviction in her voice surprises even herself. “I know what you’re doing.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I know,” she says, and then: “I’m going with you.”
**
"You know what's going to be awesome?" Kristen muses aloud. "The E! True Hollywood Story that'll come out in, like, ten years from now." Her thoughts derail temporarily as she pauses to hop over a small snow drift. "Of course, if they pass us for an expose on One Tree Hill, I could always write my memoirs. 'Sex, Stardom and Blowing Shit Up: True Confessions of an Eponymous Television Star Turned Revolutionary.' Or do you think that's too lengthy of a title?"
Jason slows his pace a hair and glances over his shoulder. Josh keeps walking, clinging to Craww's side as though the scientist will make a run for it if Josh is outside of a five foot radius of the man.
"I think that I, uh, need to concentrate on where I'm stepping," he replies pointedly.
Kristen adjusts the headlamp that rests over her knit hat, plunges her mittened hands into her coat pockets and plows forward.
The truth is that she’s babbling because the silence of the dense, darkened woods surrounding the small group is more than a little unnerving. She wonders how any of them can have any remote idea of what direction they’re heading in, since she can hardly see a thing in the pitch black aside from the muted glow of their headlamps, but Craww's stride denotes a sense of certainty, and so she decides to trust that he knows where to go.
The uneven trail is obscured by rolling drifts of snow, and she almost trips over a concealed rut. Ugh. Good thing she didn’t bring her Steve Maddens, she thinks, grabbing onto a low tree branch for support. A sudden wind blows through the trees and her teeth chatter from the cold.
She closes her eyes and thinks about her mother’s house, where she’s probably fussing over the big fake plastic tree they set up every year due to her sister Sara’s pine allergy. There’s probably some babyproofing to do, since her sister Jody will be toting her toddler and husband along this year, and on Christmas morning, her mother will cook the best kiełbasa available in Huntington Woods, and she and her sisters will kick each other under the table, even though they’re all too old to act like such children.
If she can just get through this.
"I don't see why we couldn't have waited for Regan and the Resistance. Or, you know, morning," Kristen says tentatively.
"No time," Josh replies tersely. "By the time the Resistance got their asses together and did their by-the-book mission, Sara could already be a thousand miles away. Or worse."
"Worse?" Kristen asks.
"God, girl, haven't you been paying attention, or have your googly eyes clouded your vision?" Craww spits. "The Scientologists are going to attempt the same ritual that they were going to do before you so kindly strolled up and 'liberated' Suri, leaving me - ah, 'unemployed' - with a three inch piece of shrapnel in my side."
As Kristen covers her open mouth with her mitten, Jason pushes aside a large evergreen branch blocking their path and ushers them through.
"If we had waited for the Resistance front to get on with their plan, Suri might have still been alive, but she'd already be gone. The stars are reaching the proper alignment today. We couldn't wait for Regan to decide it was the right time to take us to the location. It was now or never."
It doesn't slip Kristen's notice that Jason follows Craww's example and calls Sara by her former name, and it certainly doesn't escape Josh's.
"We have all the guide we need right here," Josh jogs up to Craww, who has been walking five paces in front of the group. "Brains over firepower, right Doctor?" He throws a choking arm around the scientist's thin throat in a gesture that definitely doesn't read companionship, and Craww stumbles over nothing and almost drops the compass he holds in his right hand.
"But why would they wait if it would be too late to save Sur-Sara?" In her confusion, Kristen almost slips, but manages to correct herself in time.
"The Resistance possesses endless optimism. They believe the ritual is reversible," Craww interjects hoarsely, squirming out from under Josh's hold. He pauses to inspect his compass and regain his bearings. "But that's impossible. I made her. I know. Once she's turned, there's no return to babbling and cooing. Her life will be secondary to tubes and electrodes running under her skin, speeding up the metabolic process and leeching the alien proteins off of her vital organs. Not to mention the tiny black claws."
He's lying about the claws. He has to be lying.
Right?
Under Craww's dubious leadership, the four soon leave the cleanly marked trail behind. The snow in the next section of the woods is hardpacked and hip deep, making walking a chore. Even though she follows the men's tamped down tracks, carefully placing her feet in the holes left by their strides, Kristen begins to fall behind. First ten feet, then fifteen as the three tromp ahead.
She has to pause near a large tree, resting her palm against the trunk. "Way to go, Scientology!" she mumbles to herself "Couldn't you have picked someplace warmer to hide out? Like TEXAS???"
Jason must have excellent hearing, because he finally turns and looks back at her. By the time he's slogged his way back to her side, she's yawning.
"Up and at 'em, Bell,” he urges softly as he puts an arm around her waist. “The world doesn't save itself while you nap."
Kristen sighs and begins to move. Her legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each.
"You know, Tom Cruise can't alter my circadian rhythms."
“Not yet,” says Jason with a grim look. "One day, Tom Cruise will be able to make planes fall out of the sky just by thinking it."
She pauses in her tracks. "Really?"
"No."
They push on, breathing hard, winding through the woods. She wonders how many miles they’ve hiked so far, how many more they have to go. Each inhalation of frigid air feels like shards of ice branching out in her lungs, and her daily yoga exercises really have not prepared her for a long trek through rough, uneven terrain.
“It’s up here,” announces Craww, some time later.
Thank god. Kristen's feet lost all sensation at least twenty minutes ago and she thinks her nose may have frostbite. Not that she knows what that feels like.
There’s a short incline, and then the trees open up a little to a small clearing. Craww slows to a stop and the rest do as well. She steps up beside Jason, shoulder-to-shoulder. Her eyes have long since adjusted to the limited light given off by their headlamps, and she can make out the crumbling one-story building before them, darkened and desolate. Most of the windows have been covered by plywood, and the concrete walls appear stained and crumbling.
"This is it?" Kristen squints. "Really? Huh."
Jason turns his head to eye her. "What?"
"Well, I have to say I'm not impressed. I guess I was expecting something, like, I don't know-- something with more barbed wire fences and watchtowers and scary patrolling German shepards."
"It's a Scientology compound, not Auschwitz. Besides, this facility is mainly for research now. It has all these underground labs,” he explains, looking back to the building with a kind of shaky, heaving sigh. “Used to be it was a training camp for the Org."
"Oh,” she says. “Impressive recon."
"Personal experience." His gaze shifts away from her, his jaw set tight, like he's trying to hide his shame behind gritted teeth. "Junior year, Delphi Academy. Weekend retreat."
Surprised, Craww gawks at him. "You've been here?"
"Just the once, and not this sector specifically, if I remember correctly. That was before most of the training camps were moved to Clearwater." He frowns, puzzled. "You know, I still don't know why they would come here. We've got about seven facilities in the U.S. that have Resistance sects stationed nearby to monitor activity on. When we rank 'em by threat level, this one comes in at number seven."
"Huh. Maybe we don't need you after all, Professor Frink," Josh bites at Craww, who crosses his arms over his face as if he expects a blow.
"Stop," Jason says sharply, and Josh stands down. "I don't know where the entrance is. He does."
She follows behind the group as they approach the nondescript building, skirting around the perimeter. There’s not a single light on inside, and the exterior is all in ruins, the roof caving in at one spot.
Jason peers through an unboarded window. His breath collects in frosty whorls on the dirt speckled surface, and Kristen wants to warn him to take a step back.
"Seriously abandoned," he informs her as he pulls away from the window. "For a long time, by the looks of it."
"Great," says Josh, hoisting his pack higher on his right shoulder. His gaze is colder than the early morning air as he looks at Dr. Craww. "Is this a trap or just a way to lead us off course?"
"No, no, no," the scientist bumbles, picking at the fingertips of his gloves. "There's a way in. There's got to be. I've seen the schematics."
"I thought you'd BEEN inside the compound." Jason says. He levels his gaze at the pale, rattish man. "Isn't that what you'd said?"
"The Scientologists - they're very -" he pauses, coughs into his hand. "Secretive."
Kristen can't see Josh standing behind her, but she knows he's rolling his eyes.
"Okay, Craww and I -" Josh eyes the scientist with menace "- are going to walk to the other side of the property. Hopefully something jogs his memory. You two, keep checking things in this location, alright? Complete radio silence, unless we find anything of note. That's how we got made last time."
Kristen hopes that it is too dark for Josh to see her cheeks redden.
Nodding, Jason pulls a walkie talkie out of his pocket and flips a switch on the side. A red light glows on the radio's face before he slides it back into his coat. Kristen resists the urge to salute as the two men disappear behind the building's corner.
Jason begins poking around in the shriveled-up shrubs surrounding the warehouse, testing the rotted wooden panels slanted across the windows with his gloved hands.
"Josh wouldn't do anything that breaks the Geneva Convention, would he?" Kristen blurts out suddenly.
He turns and shoots her a look before returning to his... whatever he's doing.
"Well, I don't think he's a Republican, but…"
"God, Jason. Come on!"
"Kristen, do you honestly believe standard rules of warfare apply to people in our situation?"
"I guess when we find Sara and bring her back with us, he'll probably drop the creepy Abu Ghraib vibe." She pauses. "That is the plan, right? Find an entrance, snag the baby, and get out? No explosives. No -" she swallows "-unnecessary deaths?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
She doesn't want to ask him to clarify what that means.
Raising from his crouched position in the bushes, Jason dusts the snow that has collected on his hands on his black jeans. Hefts the duffel bag strap back up over his shoulder again. Kristen reaches out and grabs him by the elbow.
"Jason."
When he looks at her, it's like his eyes are just coming into focus and actually seeing her for the first time tonight.
"And then what?” she asks. “What's the plan?"
"We run. Try and get to the safehouse, get her to--"
"No." Her voice almost wavers. "I mean. After that. After-- all of this."
He falls silent, mouth gaping, unable to come up with an answer. Her hand drops to her side, and she can feel her cheeks flushing with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.
"Oh." She nods, lips pursed. "I see."
"Kristen--" he starts, making a move like he's going to reach for her, but he doesn't.
"No, I figured it out. This thing-- this vendetta you have, it just, it takes up everything in you, right? And there's no room for anything else. Not even me," she tells him.
Jason's face changes, his eyes pained, and she backs away, shaking her head.
"You told Tom Cruise-- I remember, you told him, you didn't think he'd be able to exist without everything Scientology provided. Remember that? But you know what, I don't think you would know how to live without this fight. And I don't think you want to."
"You don't understand." The angry words burst out of him, ragged and sharp, almost painful. "You can't get it. You'll never get it."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because I thought you COULD. Maybe I couldn't trust Craww, or Regan, or even Josh-- but you,” he spits, voice cracking, “I could trust you. I thought you got it. But I was wrong."
"That’s not fair. My life is not the Jason Fucking Dohring Show! I can't sit around waiting, hoping that one day you’ll decide, ‘Hey, I guess I can do this thing now,’” she retorts, furious. “I need something real from you, or else I need to just know that it’s never going to happen so I can move on already. Tom Cruise could die and you could blow up every evil building out there and Scientology could cease to exist, but is this all ever going to be over for you? Really?"
"You want something real?" He steps up to her, right in her face, and it takes everything in her not to shrink back. "Every time I look at you-- all I can think about is how I don't want to go home."
She stares at him, not understanding. "Wh-what do you--?"
"When this is... done. When we're finished--" He takes a deep breath, stares her straight in the eyes. "I don't want to go back to L.A.; I want to go home with you."
The words stun her, and the power of them actually sends her stumbling backwards a step, mind reeling.
In their mutual silence, there’s the sudden snap of a twig cracking under someone’s boot.
The sound cuts her to the bone.
Jason’s eyes widen, his mouth forming a small oval of shock, and he spins automatically; she half-turns and all at once, it’s like a swarm coming at her, hunched figures in combat gear emerging from the surrounding woods, so fast it’s like a blur.
She thinks Jason yells something, but she doesn’t even have time to open her mouth to cry out. One of the men rushes her, grabs her arm and twists it roughly behind her back, and a second later there’s a stabbing shot of pain in her hip. A gasp escapes her, an odd, sudden warmth spreading out underneath her skin, and she can feel her knees beginning to buckle.
The side of her head connects with the concrete wall with a shocking amount of force. Spots flare in her vision and she can hear herself moan as she slumps to the ground, surrendering to the blackness.
-
to be continued.