The Abduction of John Grey
OOC: Backdated. A lot. To November 5th!
Afternoon outside the peaceful building that forms the Grey family residence. The sun shimmers down despite the cold, and a dark blue Ford Transit van makes its way down the road at a stately pace. Garath Harrison sits in the front, with a squad of trenchcoated men sitting pretty in the rear, muffled curses sounding with every slight bump. "Right, ladies. Round the back, get in there, and pull on him. Don't hurt him - Tom's orders. Tie him, gag him, 'fold him. Easy." The van comes to a halt, then begins a reverse, turning slightly to better hide the men appearing from the slowly opening doors.
Inside the old and well-kept house, the elder Dr. Grey sits in the chair before his computer in his study, attention swallowed by some news article or other. One hand curls around his mug of coffee as he leans in it, sipping idly as he reads; the grey-green eyes are masked by round-rimmed reading glasses, the quiet room lit by desk-lamp rather than by overhead light. On the floor near his feet (slippered), a sleeping dog let lie -- and awakens, raising his head, mouth splitting in a doggie yawn. One wide brown eye rolls towards the closed door, attention drawn by the so-muffled sounds of activity outside, but his master remains oblivious.
Thunk, thunk, and a splintering crash. The stolen metal ram does its job quickly, and five men rush into the house, immediately bringing pistols up as they spread to locate their target quickly. One spots a phone an immediately begins dialing random numbers - no 911 for you, elder Grey.
Alas, no, for the cellular phone, too, is well out of reach. John starts in his chair at the noise, even as Bismark leaps to his feet and begins barking (sound the alarm! cries the canine instincts). Growl-bark-growl-bark! The coffee-mug crashes to the desk, on its side, bleeding black coffee across desk and keyboard, rendering the latter utterly useless. "Bother--" is uttered, under breath, though nothing stronger, even in the grasp of sudden and dithering panic.
The sound of doors being kicked professionally open rings closer, closer, and then the study is invaded. "Freeze, fucker!" comes the loud cry from without, pistol levelled in one direction alone.
It's instinct to flee that overturns John Grey's office chair: he starts to bolt, bounding out of it -- before fear commands his muscles, his limbs, and freezes them in place. He stands stock still, round-eyed behind his reading glasses, palms up, and stares in cringing, baffled terror at the mouths of the guns trained on him. "What--?" stammers the man: unarmed, unarmored, unprepared.
"Just keep yeself still, Mr. Grey, and everythin'll be sorted soon." Lips twitch into a smile behind the balaclava, even as a heavier figure struts past the line of fire, wielding his favoured baseball bat. "Anyone else in the house? Don't lie to me, please."
Dogs know, when something's wrong. Bismark barks, and barks, and barks, hackles up: enraged beagle, practically vibrating with fury at his master's side. John stares, as fierce as a man can be with his hands up and the knot of terror firmly constricting his stomach. "Not a soul." The words are bit off, one by one: ringing clarity as sharp as the bullets that haunt his imagination.
"Go check," orders the heavy-set figure, "Name's Harrison - pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grey." The baseball bat swings idly in one hand, as the man begins to stalk across the office. Two men disappear to prove John's words.
John eyes the baseball bat with trepidation. "I wish I could say the same, Mr. Harrison," he says tightly. "Might I be so bold as to ask what--" Pause. Swallow. "-- what in /blazes/ you are doing in my house?"
"Borrowing you," says Harrison, simply. "You'll know anyway, eventually. Your daughter's noisy, Mr. Grey, and she needs to keep quiet for a little while." Idle chatter, really, offhandly delivered, almost friendly is this masked figure. "You're our assurance -- turn around, hands behind your back, if you please -- that she will."
John is torn between conflicting spirits -- fear, drawing at him, suggesting cooperation -- and that old Grey stubbornness, rearing its fine and well-bred head, /demanding/ intransigence. He doesn't, at first, move. "Taking a hostage, to keep people from saying what you don't want to hear?" He draws himself up to his full height, hands dropping to his sides. "There are other voices than Jean Grey's, Mr. Harrison."
"But hers is loud, mutant and telepath," notes Harrison. "Thus, she's a danger to humanity, to our rights to free speech when she fiddles with our heads, and to everyone she comes into contact with." A certain grit reaches into his voice, and his tone begins to edge away from affable. "There'll be someone much better qualified visiting you later -- now turn, shush and wrists together, please."
John's nostrils flare with a gusted snort, but he does slowly turn, wrists held grimly together behind his back. Bismark barks on, tireless champion that he is.
"Loud dog," Harrison notes, as he tosses his bat backwards and to the floor. Some padded badages and cable ties appear in his hands from pockets, and are swiftly headed towards John's wrists. "Long as you don't struggle, these won't hurt a bit -- padded especially for you."
"I can't tell you how grateful I am." The words are dropped in a sardonic murmur. John scowls at the wall.
Bandages first, then cable ties -- not too tight, not too uncomfortable. "That alright for you? Good, good." Professional, and unceasing in his movements. Something cotton from another pocket. "Now the gag - can't have you shouting, can we?"
"That /would/ be inconvenient," John answers darkly.
The gag settles around, Harrison careful to check breathing is not impaired too much. He moves to take John by the shoulder, and begin to march him away. "No struggling, and we can leave your feet as they are. No 'fold if you behave."
Grey-green eyes smolder in silence behind the reading glasses, but for all the fury and fear twining and roiling in his gut, John Grey chooses the wiser path to walk, and does not struggle.
Bismark /growls/ as the bad-bad-not-familiar-men begin to lead his master away and leaps forward to worry Harrison's trousers with his protective beagle teeth.
Harrison idly lifts his foot backwards to the dog - not really a kick, but a lift. "Move it out of the way, someone," he mutters, somewhat annoyed. "Trot along, Mr. Grey, and we'll have you to your resting place in no time. It's the Ritz, I hear."
John growls into the gag as he paces along, shepherded by guns and manpower.
To the van! An almost empty wooden-panelled interior, though there's mattresses on the floor for something like comfort. "Get in, please -- lie down if I were you, for comfort's sake," Harrison says, congenial again. He, however, makes his way round to the front, to drive, while four others begin a rougher handling of John into the back.
Forlorn and left behind, Bismark whines behind the closed door of the study, his claws scrabbling uselessly against its paneled surface.
John, man-handled roughly into the back of the van, huddles. There is little else that he can do.
The van begins its journey without incident, driving sedately towards the safehouse, towards captivity, towards a quiet few days for one John Grey.
Afternoon outside the peaceful building that forms the Grey family residence. The sun shimmers down despite the cold, and a dark blue Ford Transit van makes its way down the road at a stately pace. Garath Harrison sits in the front, with a squad of trenchcoated men sitting pretty in the rear, muffled curses sounding with every slight bump. "Right, ladies. Round the back, get in there, and pull on him. Don't hurt him - Tom's orders. Tie him, gag him, 'fold him. Easy." The van comes to a halt, then begins a reverse, turning slightly to better hide the men appearing from the slowly opening doors.
Inside the old and well-kept house, the elder Dr. Grey sits in the chair before his computer in his study, attention swallowed by some news article or other. One hand curls around his mug of coffee as he leans in it, sipping idly as he reads; the grey-green eyes are masked by round-rimmed reading glasses, the quiet room lit by desk-lamp rather than by overhead light. On the floor near his feet (slippered), a sleeping dog let lie -- and awakens, raising his head, mouth splitting in a doggie yawn. One wide brown eye rolls towards the closed door, attention drawn by the so-muffled sounds of activity outside, but his master remains oblivious.
Thunk, thunk, and a splintering crash. The stolen metal ram does its job quickly, and five men rush into the house, immediately bringing pistols up as they spread to locate their target quickly. One spots a phone an immediately begins dialing random numbers - no 911 for you, elder Grey.
Alas, no, for the cellular phone, too, is well out of reach. John starts in his chair at the noise, even as Bismark leaps to his feet and begins barking (sound the alarm! cries the canine instincts). Growl-bark-growl-bark! The coffee-mug crashes to the desk, on its side, bleeding black coffee across desk and keyboard, rendering the latter utterly useless. "Bother--" is uttered, under breath, though nothing stronger, even in the grasp of sudden and dithering panic.
The sound of doors being kicked professionally open rings closer, closer, and then the study is invaded. "Freeze, fucker!" comes the loud cry from without, pistol levelled in one direction alone.
It's instinct to flee that overturns John Grey's office chair: he starts to bolt, bounding out of it -- before fear commands his muscles, his limbs, and freezes them in place. He stands stock still, round-eyed behind his reading glasses, palms up, and stares in cringing, baffled terror at the mouths of the guns trained on him. "What--?" stammers the man: unarmed, unarmored, unprepared.
"Just keep yeself still, Mr. Grey, and everythin'll be sorted soon." Lips twitch into a smile behind the balaclava, even as a heavier figure struts past the line of fire, wielding his favoured baseball bat. "Anyone else in the house? Don't lie to me, please."
Dogs know, when something's wrong. Bismark barks, and barks, and barks, hackles up: enraged beagle, practically vibrating with fury at his master's side. John stares, as fierce as a man can be with his hands up and the knot of terror firmly constricting his stomach. "Not a soul." The words are bit off, one by one: ringing clarity as sharp as the bullets that haunt his imagination.
"Go check," orders the heavy-set figure, "Name's Harrison - pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grey." The baseball bat swings idly in one hand, as the man begins to stalk across the office. Two men disappear to prove John's words.
John eyes the baseball bat with trepidation. "I wish I could say the same, Mr. Harrison," he says tightly. "Might I be so bold as to ask what--" Pause. Swallow. "-- what in /blazes/ you are doing in my house?"
"Borrowing you," says Harrison, simply. "You'll know anyway, eventually. Your daughter's noisy, Mr. Grey, and she needs to keep quiet for a little while." Idle chatter, really, offhandly delivered, almost friendly is this masked figure. "You're our assurance -- turn around, hands behind your back, if you please -- that she will."
John is torn between conflicting spirits -- fear, drawing at him, suggesting cooperation -- and that old Grey stubbornness, rearing its fine and well-bred head, /demanding/ intransigence. He doesn't, at first, move. "Taking a hostage, to keep people from saying what you don't want to hear?" He draws himself up to his full height, hands dropping to his sides. "There are other voices than Jean Grey's, Mr. Harrison."
"But hers is loud, mutant and telepath," notes Harrison. "Thus, she's a danger to humanity, to our rights to free speech when she fiddles with our heads, and to everyone she comes into contact with." A certain grit reaches into his voice, and his tone begins to edge away from affable. "There'll be someone much better qualified visiting you later -- now turn, shush and wrists together, please."
John's nostrils flare with a gusted snort, but he does slowly turn, wrists held grimly together behind his back. Bismark barks on, tireless champion that he is.
"Loud dog," Harrison notes, as he tosses his bat backwards and to the floor. Some padded badages and cable ties appear in his hands from pockets, and are swiftly headed towards John's wrists. "Long as you don't struggle, these won't hurt a bit -- padded especially for you."
"I can't tell you how grateful I am." The words are dropped in a sardonic murmur. John scowls at the wall.
Bandages first, then cable ties -- not too tight, not too uncomfortable. "That alright for you? Good, good." Professional, and unceasing in his movements. Something cotton from another pocket. "Now the gag - can't have you shouting, can we?"
"That /would/ be inconvenient," John answers darkly.
The gag settles around, Harrison careful to check breathing is not impaired too much. He moves to take John by the shoulder, and begin to march him away. "No struggling, and we can leave your feet as they are. No 'fold if you behave."
Grey-green eyes smolder in silence behind the reading glasses, but for all the fury and fear twining and roiling in his gut, John Grey chooses the wiser path to walk, and does not struggle.
Bismark /growls/ as the bad-bad-not-familiar-men begin to lead his master away and leaps forward to worry Harrison's trousers with his protective beagle teeth.
Harrison idly lifts his foot backwards to the dog - not really a kick, but a lift. "Move it out of the way, someone," he mutters, somewhat annoyed. "Trot along, Mr. Grey, and we'll have you to your resting place in no time. It's the Ritz, I hear."
John growls into the gag as he paces along, shepherded by guns and manpower.
To the van! An almost empty wooden-panelled interior, though there's mattresses on the floor for something like comfort. "Get in, please -- lie down if I were you, for comfort's sake," Harrison says, congenial again. He, however, makes his way round to the front, to drive, while four others begin a rougher handling of John into the back.
Forlorn and left behind, Bismark whines behind the closed door of the study, his claws scrabbling uselessly against its paneled surface.
John, man-handled roughly into the back of the van, huddles. There is little else that he can do.
The van begins its journey without incident, driving sedately towards the safehouse, towards captivity, towards a quiet few days for one John Grey.