A week or so ago - Bahir, Percy, Agents (npced by different people)

[xmm_emma]

2/2/2009
Logfile from Emma.

The quiet crackle of rubber against the grey floor of the parking garage marks the roll of the limousine to a halt across from the VIP elevator. It is a long, sleek car in glossy black, its windows smoked so that seeing the driver is not possible. It is not the most discreet car that ever was, although does lack flags piped anywhere along its length. There it sits before the elevator with the quiet menace of unexpected ostentation and familiar cliche, engine purring quietly and windows sealed shut.

The whisper of the elevator barely carries, so the chime of it's arrival echoes quiet surprise through the empty parking garage. It is late afternoon, though still well before closing time. Sounds from the street beyond don't reach this far in, and neither does light. The yellow gleam of elevator lighting bouncing off shiny panneled walls haloes Emma as she steps out onto the pavement, her attention focused in the large case in her hand. Three steps closer to the silvered lines of her own car, she lifts her head and looks around. Quiet menace has a mental signature.

The driver views his job with reserved boredom, that of a man who has been sitting a little too long in a parking garage and has started to glaze over a little. But as Emma Frost emerges from the elevator and into the exhaust-perfurmed air of the garage, he stirs. Moments later, the shaded window in the elongated back of the car cracks open and slowly lowers.

"Ms. Frost. Come with us." His tone is pleasant, but suggests that this is not a request. His face reveals little, a little on the pasty side, receding sandy hair, sunglasses. His mind reveals little exuding from its surface, besides a whisper of certainty and a grim and sober seriousness.

Emma flicks a glance over her shoulder back at the idling car and the lowered window, and she pauses, hand in her case, brows lifted, mind snaking out to taste his stoic determination. "Why?" she asks simply, as if dismissing the likelihood that the reasons were anything so banal as kidnapping, rape, or ransom.

No, not so banal. This is a man intent on doing his duty. Which is, at present, to see her into the car. He is a man with a message to deliver and serious work to do, for the public good, ditto ditto and et cetera. He does not answer her with words, but instead flips a leather case open to the window, showing a familiar federal badge in a flash of color and gleam. He had a little more hair when the identification photo coupled with the badge was taken, but so it goes. "Hop in, please."

Emma blinks, then slowly pivots to step closer and lean in to peer at the badge and the department it identifies. Something leaden forms in the pit of her stomach, but she maintains a cool, bland expression. "Well. How can I refuse such a charming invitation," she drawls as she straightens and takes a step back. The door swings open, and then with a flip of white hem and a flash of shapely leg, she is inside and settled into the corner.

Flipping the leather wallet shut, the man folds it neatly back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He conveys an impression of blandness, not unhandsome but not noticeably attractive; his suit is middling blue, his tie checkered, everything present and correct. As Emma seats herself, he smiles a perfunctory greeting, thin lips crimping even thinner to show his teeth. Which are mostly white. "Thank you," he says.

Moving with deliberation, he withdraws something else from the briefcase that nestles at his hip, and tips his head slightly, displaying the thin sandy hair at his crown as he nocks what could so easily be a cell phone attachment in place at his ear.

So easily, except it isn't is it? Emma sets her teeth as the car pulls forward to circle around the small lot and back toward the exit. Her lips pinch into a thin line and she inhales through her nose before breaking the silence. "What is this about? We had an agreement."

He tips his head back at her, glance reflecting a bland sort of amusement over the tops of his sunglasses. His eyes are grey, of a rather unusual paleness and clarity. "Perhaps you would like to refresh my memory as to its terms," he says.

Emma gives him a hard little look from the corner of her eye. "Either you have read the files or you are simply an escort. In either case, I don't think I /will/."

"Let me put your mind at rest, Ms. Frost." His fingers lace together, almost primly, in his lap. "The deal is liquid where its language is not. You, for example, are no longer running a Greek house and scholarship fund for the express purpose of amassing genetically gifted agents to your beck and call. However ... what /are/ you doing? That is an interesting question, isn't it?"

Her lips quirk as if suppressing a rude expression. "If you had any real concern over what I have been /doing/, you wouldn't have come for me like this." She makes a dismissive gesture, then folds her hands back into her lap.

"It seemed preferable to the alternative." All traces of smile fade from his thin-lipped mouth. He leans forward slightly in the seat, blue trousered legs sliding to a wider set against the soft beige of the leather seat. "We are going to present you with a proposition, Ms. Frost. One that should appeal to the communitarian in you. And I think that you're going to accept it."

"Oh, no," she answers, shaking her head, then tucking a loosen strand of hair behind her ear. "There is nothing you have that I find appealing." Hard blue eyes drift down the blue trousered leg and slide back up to face him directly.

"I think you'll find it ..." He pauses, consideringly, and then intones, "--better than the alternative." For all his blandness, there is no softness in the slight man's cool grey eyes. He meets her eyes like a man firmly, weightily upon the high ground.

The car turns off onto a quieter side street while Emma scoffs at his high ground. "You have no alternatives."

"I don't play poker, Ms. Frost. I never got the hang of bluffing a bad hand." Slowly, he removes the sunglasses from his face and folds their arms so that he can let them rest loosely within the circle of his fingers. "I admire your gumption."

"Well, I /don't/ admire you turning up again," she retorts, perhaps a bit childishly, and turns her head to look out the window as they slow and pass through a set of gates.

"Well, we live in interesting times, don't we?" He steeples his fingers as he lets the glasses fall unheeded to his lap, glancing only briefly out the window. "The kind of threats we face as a nation have changed. We need people with special talents. People who can measure up to those new kinds of threats. And you." He smiles slightly again, gaze returned to her face and edged hard like stone, although not near so hard a stone as diamond. "Well, you have a considerable talent for conspiracy. You have the contacts we want with the people we need. And I think you know what will happen if you choose not to help us out."

Emma looks back at him and smiles sweetly. "Why don't you refresh my memory?"

The grey-eyed man's reply is prompt, and almost toneless. "Conspiracy to overthrow the government might ring a bell."

She frowns, twisting her lips into a purse, then shakes her head. "I don't think so. I don't think you can make it stick now. Your leverage is lacking, dear."

"Don't I?" His sparse eyebrows lift slightly. "I think my leverage is more than adequate. We know who you are and what you can do. We know the kinds of resources you have at your disposal." As the car turns again before the front doors of a small building, he goes on, unfolding his hands in a broad, open gesture, "So why don't you step into my office and we'll discuss the /details/ of my proposal. I suspect you'll find them quite compelling."

Emma doesn't reply audibly, but the lift of her brow and the quirk of her lip conveys her impression of his offer adequately. Nevertheless, once the car stops, she climbs out without resistance.

In likewise /companionable/ silence, the slightly built man and his receding hairline escort Emma through the lobby, up a single flight of stairs, and down a thinly carpeted hallway to a surprisingly roomy office. Once there, though, he excuses himself for just a moment.

"Just a moment," he assures her, as blandly as ever. "You won't be alone for long."



2/5/2009
Logfile from Emma.

Three cars converage on a building in New York's midtown. A building like many in New York, indistinguishable from the other towering, glass-faced buildings that surround it save for the security one meets inside. The three cars' three passengers see this security first hand, although they do not see each other. Past guards, down hallways, up elevators, until, one by one, they are delivered to an empty room filled with nothing but a wide, flat screen and a large conference table of polished black, ringed by comfortable chairs. They are left there, alone, the door secured behind them. First Emma. Then Bahir. Percy comes last, ten minutes after the others, his appearance a little less precisely choreographed.

First Emma. She stands inside the room, arms folded across her chest, eyeing the black table with surprising disgust. Irritation crawls up and down her spine. A few moments later, she starts to creep around the table, pressing her finger to the polished surface and smudging it. She's never liked to see unmarred black. By the time Bahir arrives, she's in the far corner of the room, perfectly positioned to look up at the door opening and exhale hard. << Shit. >>

<< Nice to see you, too, >> Bahir says, would-be flippancy and the ironic arch of his eyebrow marred by a low undertone of tension. His shoulders are square, muscles tightly knotted as he scuffs in. "Ms. Frost," he greets aloud, courtesy distant, with a slight, questioning lift to his voice, as if to imply he doesn't really know her. Emma who?

The third of three blind mice, Percy arrives in an attitude of muted tension, his face difficult to read beyond the stubborn set of his jaw. His glance skips between the other two, his assocations with neither subject to much dissembling, old loves and new. He doesn't say anything. He's really quite rude! Instead, he drops into one of the seats and pushes back into it in a slouch, elevating his feet to cross his ankles on the shiny table. Who he thinks he is kidding is a subject up for debate. His shoes are Italian leather and reveal a similar black gloss.

<< Well it /isn't/ nice to see /you/, >> Emma grouses, her lips pressing into a tight frown as she once again folds her arms in front of her. "Mr. Al-Razi." She looks even more pained when Percy enters, and doesn't even bother to greet him. It doesn't take a telepath or a pheromonist to read the tension sloughing off her. She leans back, hip thrust out at an aggressive angle, and glares at the door.

Something about Emma's greeting causes a twitch at the corner of Bahir's lips. << Could be worse. >> Percy's arrival draws a blank to his expression, and he settles back on his heels with arms folded over his chest. He gives Percy a short nod, telepathy brushing a more intimate greeting by way of wordless, << WTF. >>

<< Not good, >> is Percy's succinct analysis of the situation. His nostrils flare with the exhalation of a snort as his gaze flicks across the table towards Emma. He frowns, then, and rubs the pad of his thumb along his nose.

<< Oh, considerably less that good, dears. Last time I met with these people, we ended up in custody. And not even in the same room to keep each other company. >> The ghost of warm confidence solidifies in her thoughts for a brief moment, then is doused in cold dread. << They also ended up with Wide Awake. >> She doesn't move from her challenge of the door.

The door cracks open. It ought to glide on smooth, silent hinges, really, given the spit and polish of the place, but instead it creaks slightly. Ominious. The man who appears there is dressed in tailored black, with neatly brushed brown hair and a face and expression that are entirely unmemorable. A dampener sits snug at his ear, and he carries a slim manilla folder in one hand. "We'd really prefer you speak aloud, you know," he remarks mildly by way of hello as he circles the large table, moving to take his place at the front of the room before the massive black screen. He does not bother to look at Bahir, nor Percy. Emma gets only the briefest flicker of his eyes on his way past.

Bahir gives a slight smile at the bland man's version of hello, and says nothing. His eyes lift to track across the walls and ceiling, searching out variations in the smooth surfaces that might indicate where best to direct his irony. << Oh, well. Good thing we don't have anything for them to take this time. >> He tries for funny. He fails.

Percy's smile reflects an abortive twist of gallows humor that goes nowhere. "What would you like me to say?" he says lightly, letting his slouch deepen into the seat as he tips his head, fingers roofing loosely together over his stomach.

"I'm not particular," the man replies, and he pauses at the head of the table to table his folder there and lifts his head to smile, blandly, at Percy. "It's simply a matter of being polite, don't you think?" A pause, and then he wonders, "You're all quite comfortable?"

Now faced with a target instead of a door, Emma pulls herself upright and smoothes the anger from her face to leave immobile blankness. She reaches out for the chair opposite the man and pulls it out, making a deliberate show of sitting and crossing her legs. Her hands fold in her lap and she looks down the table. "Are we here for etiquette lessons then?"

Bahir does not again try for humor. His arms cross a little more closely, barred over his chest. Never one to be accused of showing an excess of courtesy, he remains impolite: << Did they tell either of you anything? >>

"I don't see that any of us owe you a particular debt of courtesy." Percy answers blandness with his own, his mildest, sweetest hue of hostility, as he drums his fingertips lightly against each other over the rumpling of fabric above his stomach. << Not a damn thing. >> With his feet up and posture indolently lounging, he has Emma beat for ready languor. "But let's put aside the dilly-dally comedy of manners while you get to the /point/," he goes on blithely, gaze narrowed across the table. He is an old hand at bravado, because his fraying nerves have been locked up neatly in a box of cheating. "I'm a busy man. I have work, which will not wait for whatever game you think to play here."

The folder slaps down atop the table with a sudden vengeance, and the sound echoes into the room for a moment as dark-shadowed eyes fix on Percy. "This is not a /game/, Mr. Talhurst. Treason is not a game. Conspiracy is not a game. And most importantly, what I am about to show you /is not a game/. It would save us all a great deal of time and effort if you would all cease to pretend that we have somehow missed your little /organization/, that your connections are all shadowed in secret. I assure you, they are not. If you're quite ready to explore the somewhat foreign concept of 'honesty', I would be delighted to move on."

Emma's index fingers steeple, her thumbs balancing the configuration by digging into her stomach. "It would save us all a great deal of time if you were as ready to explore the concept of respect. You know what the say about honey and vinegar," she replies sweetly as the gust of air lifted by his folder slam ruffles the hair on her wrists. << They want something from us, >> is her only private guess for the others.

Reaction flickers across Bahir's features with a thinning of his lips and shiver of his eyelids. He imperfectly forces stillness and forgets to dissemble into denial. His knuckles go white as he clenches his hands in a closed fist. << I hate inhibitors, >> he says generally. << How many parts bluff to how many parts knowledge do you think that was? >> His tone suggests that he would desperately prefer to continue calling it a game: << And what /could/ they want? Fashion tips? They could use them. >>

His lip curling in a snarl, Percy unfurls slowly from his languid drape, feet hitting lightly on the floor as he sits up and straight. << Don't know. Lines between we three aren't exactly hard to trace, but the knowledge is out there to be found if they look in the right fucking place. >> He identifies old weak points with an unhappy reminiscence like the probe of a sore tooth. << Grey. Rossi. >> His nostrils flare with the intake of his breath, his tongue's tip pressed to the roof of his mouth as he tests the air -- for certainty, for nerves, hands falling to encircle his knees. He's no lie detector, though. "Treason is an absurd charge to throw around like so much confetti, Mister /Government/," he says. "Especially while you accuse my associates and I of such extraordinary pretense. If it's not a game, I would humbly suggest," his voice is sharp, and lacking in humility, "that you cease /playing/. Or, if we are under arrest, I think there's room in this office for about six or seven more lawyers than we are presently possessed of."

The man in black does not bother to respond to Emma. Respect, after all, is earned. Instead, he flips his file open and glances down at it. There's silence for a time, and then he looks back up, fleetingly. Only a brief glance at Percy, and then back to the folder. "Harper Enterprises," he says. "Zoe McMillian -- now she's quite a face, isn't she? Some success there." He pauses, fingers tapping atop the papers in the folder. "This is not a bluff, folks. This is a choice. It may be best if you consider it an opportunity. You're here today because we want something from you. If we're agreed on honesty, in fact, we need it. Very much."

There is a faint hint of nervousness to the man's pheremones, but it's largely overwritten by adrenaline, by a push to move /through/ and /past/ and /accomplish/. There is not fear, and there's no hint of untruth or dissembling in posture, expression, or chemical taste.

Emma flicks a glance and a very small smile to Percy for his courtroom dramatics, then returns her very narrowed eyes to the agent. << Well. Rather more knowledge than I am comfortable with. But at least they don't have a robot this time. >> She presses her index fingers into parallel lines, inhaling and lifting her chin. "What is it?" she asks flatly.

The proprietary smugness with which Bahir regards Percy lasts about as long as it takes Mr. MiB to start naming names. He makes a face, albeit a slight one, and gives a telepathic lean over Percy's shoulder to borrow his observations where telepathy is blunted by the inhibitor's presence. He continues to say nothing. Chatty!

Percy joins his silence to Emma's, his mirroring of her query reflected only in the arch of his eyebrows. The flavor of determination is a familiar one, identified readily. << Choice without options is not much of a choice, is it? >> His mouth presses closed, lips thinning.

"You." The man pauses for a glance around the table, at each of them. "All of you. Are uniquely qualified in this world. You have very specific gifts. Above and beyond your mutations, in fact - you are used to working in secret, covert, clandestine. Together." He pauses and smiles, a brief expression that's far from happy. "The time has long since come for the United States government to admit to itself that there are threats out there, very real threats, which require such skills. To equip itself." The man in black straightens slightly and lets his gaze linger on Emma, Emma Frost, the central pin of it all. "And that, Ms. Frost, is where you come in."

"Of course it is," Emma replies agreeably, apparently skimming past his dramatic declarations as she leans forward slightly. She is aware of Percy's impressions seeping through the open thread of communication like cold through a window on a bitter winter day. She does not follow Bahir's example, though. Rather she relies on observation and bravado. "Spit it out. This is... irritating."

Bahir's poker face could use work: his lips twitch at their unique qualifications, expression sardonic as he takes in the unhappy smile of the man opposite. A faintly curious light gleams in his eyes, but it is not enough to break his silence. Dum-de-doo.

"Awake to threats, are you?" Percy brushes his thumbnail along the curve of his lower lip, head lowering slightly as his brow creases, his expression suggesting a suppression of a laugh with the clamp of his mouth. "They must be /awfully/ near at hand for humanity to draw its head out of its collective ass long enough to notice."

There is a pause. A brief one. It contains a glance toward Bahir, lifted brows that wonder, 'is she /always/ like this? Is /he/?' And then the man, the very patient man in black, continues as if such a pause had never occurred. "We have a team. Have had a team. They are very good at their job, but they're very small. We're looking to expand. Recent events, in fact, have made it /necessary/ to do so. And you are going to provide us with personnel."

"Why?" A simple enough question, but the look behind it brings considerable force of personality to bear.

Whose personality remains a mystery, though.

Emma's, of course. And by personality, we probably mean cleavage.

The twitch at Bahir's lips pulls again. His eyes widen just slightly. Naked curiosity fenced in by wariness, he tries very hard to avoid squirming.

"Because if we don't we'll be given the electric chair, clearly," Percy says, leaning slowly back in his chair and steepling his fingers, tips of his forefingers resting against his lips as he narrows his gaze at Mr. Government.

"Because if you do not, you will spend the rest of your lives in prison," the man supplies simply in return, nearly in unison with Percy before he smiles slightly. Indeed. At some unseen signal, the door opens at the rear of the room, and the man in black steps slightly aside to make room for another. "This is Agent Drake," he introduces, as if that means something rather important to them. And really, from now on, it does. "His information might provide some alternative motivation."

Bad answer. Those without dampners (Oh, and /with/ telepathy) in the room could easily sense the sudden clanging of determination and anger that slam down to crush any incipient curiosity. She unfolds her legs slowly and plants her hands on the table, preparing to rise. Drake's entrance is a distraction. Probably a good thing, really.

Wary caution surges forward, stomping over curiosity in self-preservational recoil. Bahir's hands turn, fingers curling to grasp the opposite elbow where his arms are folded over his chest. His gaze transfers to the newest arrival, expression on the /unfriendly/ side of defensive.

<< Emma, do you need me to control your temper for you? >> Percy's directed thought is snide and probably not that helpful; he slants a sidelong glance at her across the table, tongue's tip pressed to the back of his teeth. "Oh good," he says, tone light. "I'm sure information would be welcome."

Instead of the casual clothing, Will, or Agent Drake, is wearing a black suit. Sans the tie. The ensemble is odd on his body, however, like fallen leaves crowding the trunk of a tree. Walking forward, holding four sets of folders, he approaches the table.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all. Take these." He slides the folders to each of the three guests, then finds a chair and sits. "My associates and I have been watching the news recently. You might have heard, there have been child abductions across the United States, populated regions of Canada, Brazil, England, etc." He pauses. "But we've discovered a unique connection. They're all mutants."

The man in black steps back, fading toward that wide, blank screen as Drake moves in to speak. For now, he will remain silent.

Emma stills, then shifts her weight back from an intention to rise. She eyes the folder, but does not take it just yet, leaving it in a reverse silhouette on the table. << I am very much in control of my temper, darling, >> Emma purrs back, acid licking at the edges of the thread of communication.

Bahir peels his arms out of their cross in order to step forward and take one of the folders. A slight wrinkle remains pressed in his shirt beneath the zippered hoodie and only slowly eases. He flicks open the folder to page through the documents within, skimming quickly. He frowns.

<< Stay that way. >> Percy meets acid with a sharp rap of ice, and shoots her a narrowed look, before returning a measuring glance to the newcomer, studying. His manicured fingertips slide over the folder, which he does not immediately open. "Really," he says, tone neutral in a vague prompting, though his gaze is intent.

"Reports indicate that a smuggling slave-trafficing organization has formed overseas, and possibly in the USA herself. My associates and I are interested in taking them down." Inside the folders are pictures of children: the first is a twelve year old blonde headed girl, rosey cheeks, pink dress. Name: Charlie Barrows; Hometown: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. The next, a small boy for his age, fourteen, with long black hair and grey eyes. Name: Victor Farrows; Hometown: Los Angelas, California; Mutation: Rapid Friction Generation. The list goes on, detailing crime scene reports, witness accounts, even family injuries during reported kidnappings.

"As you can see, Doctor al-Razi," his pronunciation is strangely good, "the reports are... quite brutal, in some cases." He nods to Percy. "Yes. The kidnappings have been taking place for several weeks, all over the world."

At the back of the file is a familiar face: a boy with dark hair and intelligent green eyes named Tom Sikorski. "It is our hope that you will provide some help."

In the back, a faint smile flickers something that's almost amusement. 'Hope.'

The sharp suck of Bahir's breath is unsubtle as he hits that familiar face: it hisses through his teeth to come to a hard stop in his throat. "Sikorski," he whispers, sibilants sharp, and fricatives decisive: "Fuck."

Emma pulls the folder closer with the tip of her index finger and opens it gingerly. She is slower in her perusal than Bahir, so when the name hisses out, she glances at him sharply and flips through faster. A mirroring frown tightens her own face.

"Sikorski," the man in black confirms quietly, leaning into the wall with arms folded over his chest. "Two days ago. We have no way of knowing for sure that they have him, but the pattern matches. He's what... twelve?" A brief pause, and the man adds, "What do you imagine an international smuggling ring might want with a twelve year old telepath?"

"Friend of yours?" Drake asks, crossing a leg. He watches the group carefully, then glances at the man in black. Nodding several times, he adds, "Yes, we're unsure of their motives or intentions, but with the plethora of possibilities -- it doesn't seem as relevant."

Bahir's whisper locks Percy's attention. He looks down at his own folder, flips blank-faced through the pictures and comes to look at Tom's face. Considering how long a similar photograph sat on his assistant's desk day in and day out, he doesn't remember the face all that well. He rubs his face with the spread of his fingers, sliding along smooth shaven jaw and chin, to curl his knuckle against his lower lip. Wordless growl faint in his exhalation, he looks back up at the others, his expression bordering on the edge of a thinking scowl. He doesn't say anything, flaring bravado and sniping quips suppressed in the face of an actual request.

Bahir glances at Emma with narrowed eyes. He holds his tongue, and remains a moment on Tom's young face before flipping through to the last few, and then back again, more slowly, from the beginning.

"We know of him," Emma admits quietly, a brief image of the boy's mental signature blazing on the astral plane about all she /does/ know. She gives the others a wordless inquiry, probing for response and inclinations.

"You see," says the man in black. "I didn't bring you here for blackmail and threats, although I'm more than prepared to do both. What we have here is a very real, very serious problem."

Will watches the guests quietly as they consider the folders, then pushes back his seat and stands up.

"I think we all know what needs to be done here. Slavery will never return to this country, and can't be tolerated anywhere. The option is a fair one: recruit members for a strike team and my associates and I will bring them into the fold. We'll train them, then bring these fuckers down." He pauses.

Percy cocks an eyebrow at Will, a flicker of sour amusement reflected in his expression for that stranger's earnestness. "Leaving aside for a moment the irony of the moral outrage I am hearing about abducting mutants," he says, with a sardonic glance in MiB's direction, mouth turning up at one corner. At 31, he is not as sweet and innocent-looking an abductee, anyway, although he's probably sweeter than Tom Sikorski. << I don't know about you, Emma, but it probably beats /solitary confinement/. >> "Our options are very plain, are they not?" Quieter, more internally, a restive, unhappy twist of thought: << Too much duty owed to blow up all we have worked for in a blaze of pride ... >>

<< You know, >> Bahir ventures after a long moment, speaking to Queen and to Rook, and not at all to his new friends, << if nothing else, it would be very interesting to know what sort of mutants they are working with, and what they are doing. >> He looks down at the pictures and the reports, staring without seeing.

<< They could hardly keep /Erik/ imprisoned for more than three months at a time. I doubt they would do much better with us, >> Emma notes with sharp wryness that turns onto the flat of the blade to reflect a smoother, cooler thought. She glances thoughtfully at Bahir and nods slowly, making it obvious that they're being rude again. She looks at Mr. MiB and laces her fingers on the table top. "What, specifically, is it you want from us?"

"I think the government has made them rather clear," Will says with a nod. "Although, I doubt the choice is difficult." He pushes his chair in, then looks at the company man as well.

"Plain," the MiB responds to Percy. "But we would rather it not come to that. What we are doing is worthwhile, Mr. Talhurst. It is worth your time." There is a pause, and then he turns toward Emma, patient. "Personnel," he repeats. "There are details to be considered. I will leave you three to discuss. You won't be allowed to leave the building until you've made a decision, but we will provide rooms for you." He stands, glancing at Drake in return. "We'll give you 48 hours. I dearly hope you won't need that long. Someone will be in for you shortly."