OOC: Interrogation Commentary
Log Entry: Interrogation
Date: 10/15/2005
Summary: Rossi and Beston haul Percy in for questioning after the attack on Alyssa.
Note: This commentary was written back in October, so it's a little out of date. However, I never posted it to the character's LJ. My apologies to Percy for the delay.
I preface this with the following.
I suck.
I was bitterly unhappy after this scene because I did not write well, and I did not do smart things, and looking back I'm even more convinced of it, though I tried to persuade myself otherwise. The scene would be great if, you know, Percy had been playing it with pretty much ANYBODY ELSE. I apologize, xmm-percy. I am unworthy of your greatness. I need new words because, holy crap, stale enough? However, it's all good; I got to play something new and different for my character, so you know. Expanding the horizons. Trying different things. This entire arc has been good for me. Thank you folks for letting me play it!
Now on with the dreck.
Percy is sprawled in his office chair, one expensively-shod foot up on his desk and the other on the carpet. "That isn't even remotely the issue, Jonesy," he informs his phone testily, twining one finger through the telephone wire, corkscrewing it. "It's a question of spending our resources in ways that make actual, you know, sense. -- Don't you weasel me, Jones, you know what I'm talking about. I'm not a bloody slave driver, we've got /people/ for that."
People aplenty, like the cogs of the NYPD. They are an unwelcome, unexpected presence in the esteemed halls of Geotal, and yet here they are on a Friday afternoon: two men in cheap suits and overcoats, striding their way past the outer guardians of the gates with cowing arrogance. "Percy in?" asks the younger of the pair, banking himself against the executive assistant's desk. Leather flares; a badge winks. "Tell him Chris Rossi's here to see him. On business."
It took me a surprisingly long time to write this pose. Isn't that sad? I don't think my full attention was on it when I wrote it. Saturday morning, just figuring on getting the scene done. Picked up Percy's last comment and threw it back in meta. Shame on me. Shame. Since we were backdating, inserted the date; left the names out of it until Percy recognizes them, to make it his perspective rather than shared.
I was toying with this idea of doing a single-perspective RP during this scene. Most RP is from the perspective of everybody in the scene, with both players writing for transparency. I was idly wondering if I could do a scene from the other player's perspective, which implies more interest in the eventual reader's experience than in the experience of the two people in the scene, I realize. Sometimes my brain is off that way. Sorry, Percy. In this case it was because of the pheremones, see, and the fact that we were going to do an interrogation, which meant that the psychological brunt was on Percy, not on Rossi. That, combined with Percy's ability, meant that he would be the most receptive and the most communicative (in a sense) of the two. Anyway. It was an experiment I vaguely started to make, and then never really followed through on much.
Familiar voices through the cracked office door and Percy frowns, sitting up. " -- Call you back, Jonesy," is muttered to the receiver, though he doesn't wait for the response before returning it to its cradle. Instead, he's across the office in quick paces to pull the door open. "It's okay, Sam," he informs the woman behind the desk - still round-eyed and a-dither at the prospect of /badge/. He confronts the cops with pure puzzlement, though hardly disagreeable, amber eyes flicking from the familiar to the unfamiliar and back again. "What can I do for you?"
The hiss and brood of hostility -- suspicion -- spills past the open door into the office beyond, a thing alive. Gazes swing to meet the open door, green-eyed, brown-eyed; the older detective lifts heavy brows over curiosity, while the younger lifts his chin. "Talhurst," Rossi greets, baritone pleasant. "Hate to drop in like this. Nice place. This is my partner, John Beston. We'd like to have a word."
I don't know how to pose to powers. I try. It's been a while since I've done a dragon, for instance, so I'm way out of practice with that, at least. Practice makes perfect! The hostility and suspicion is from Rossi, while simple suspicion is Beston's -- but we established that Percy might not be able to state with pinpoint accuracy where and who is the source in the room, considering movement and proximity and size of area, so I left it amorphous. Was thinking of using Beston as the bad cop later, so it gave me that opening if I chose to use it.
Percy reaches with one manicured hand to rub, idly, at the back of his neck, still visibly confused, though it requires quiet internal clamping to keep from flinching at unexpected pheromonal cues. "Pleased to meet you," is nodded to the older detective, courtesy automatic. He jerks his other thumb over his shoulder, fine brows arching. "My office?"
Whatever thoughts the older detective may have, they remain safely hid behind the folding of a sleepy smile. Mockery slithers across Rossi's glance to the assistant, then back. "That'll work," he agrees. "A little privacy's good. We interrupting anything?" Hands thrust into pants pockets, pressing back the weight of overcoat and suit top; the two men stride into the office, claiming invitation and transmuting it by some physical alchemy into force majeure.
Force majeure. I've never used that phrase in RP before. I am very proud.
Percy closes the door behind them, letting his hands slide into his own pockets for the sake of puzzled diffidence. "Nothing urgent, gentlemen. What's up?"
"Alyssa." Amiability deepens on Chris's face, tracing back lines of friendly concern: for the absent girl; for Percy; for the sharing of bad news. Beston ambles, cut loose from the exchange, exploring the office with an evaluating eye. "You remember Alyssa, don't you? Nice girl, gets into trouble, makes friends with the wrong people?"
"Alyssa?" Percy looks startled. "What about ..." He pauses, brow furrowing, and bites his lower lip, thoughtful. Pheromones snap and coil in the back of consciousness and he clamps down on his reaction, harder. Not nervous. Just concerned. "Has something happened, is she all right?"
Beston lifts his head from a finger-drag across Percy's desk, dark eyes sorrowful and mild. "She had a bit of a scare," he informs in a gravelly, Midwest-drawled bass. "She was attacked by a couple of men a few blocks away from the precinct." Hostility deepens, mingling with a predatory hunger that twines eagerly around the police, grasping at Percy.
They really are predators. Beston's a hunting dog; Rossi's -- I don't know. More feline, maybe? Both of them are hunters, anyway, though they trade off on which one's more dedicated and relentless in a given case. This one is Alyssa, so it's Rossi who's the one who'll take the lead. The pheremones are saying something different than their body language, though of course they aren't aware of that. Right now they're playing friendly cops, come by just to ask a few questions. Just feed Percy a little. Enough so that he knows what they're investigating, so they can push a little on the alarm and anxiety he should've felt just seeing the cops at his door. Nothing like a guilty conscience to help you along -- although in this case, he doesn't have one.
Percy stares in earnest, worried bafflement, amber eyes moving swift from one detective to the other. "She was /attacked/?" he repeats. Dreadful premonition, nagging at a man who's hardly precognitive. He attempts not to twitch, brain seeking the right way to respond, but through a haze of complete confusion -- falls back on concern for his friend (erstwhile shopping partner, sometime phone buddy, eventual partner in ice cream). "Was she hurt?"
"It's a weird thing," says Rossi genially, stirring into motion with a springy, coiled stride that loops its way around Percy, tracing his boundaries, spiraling in. Question? What question? "She said you were one of the guys who attacked her. Go figure, huh? Any reason you can think of why she'd say that?"
They don't answer his question about her. If he's guilty, he damn well KNOWS how she is. Or should. And if he doesn't know how she is and he's still guilty, then leaving the question unanswered adds an extra level of uncertainty in the mix. Rossi moves, pushing a little at personal space. He's got presence on his side -- alpha male -- and he knows it.
Percy stares some more, utterly blank. When he manages to speak, it is but one word, and strangled. "/Me/?"
Poor Percy.
"You," says Beston.
Chris stops at Percy's shoulder, tipping his voice, his gaze, in mild-eyed interest at Percy's ear. "So I got to ask. What were you up to, night before last?"
Here's the thing. I'm not normally a visual person. During this entire scene, I kept seeing Mike Logan doing all the things that Rossi was doing. I only point that out because this is something he does from time to time -- in my head anyway; I'd have to double-check the DVDs to see if I'm remembering this correctly -- in that he creates intimacy and plays the part of either the better angels or the demons, sowing conscience or mistrust, just whispering away in someone's ear. This happens later in the scene.
In the meantime, I didn't do very well by Beston, who comes out of this with very little personality. I would like to assure you that the inadequacies here are purely mine, and not his.
"I didn't - I /wouldn't/ -" Both arguments specious and cops hear them all the bloody time; therefore, unproductive. Percy swallows, flash and bang of fear sparking in his chemical responses - held back, forced back, staying calm. Confusion, anxiety, these are his, blending, coiling around his stomach. "I was at home."
"Yeah?" asks Rossi, baritone quizzical. "All night? Anybody who can confirm that?"
Percy lets a sigh escape through his nose and shakes his head. "No," he answers. "It was a quiet night."
The detectives exchange glances, speaking without words in the rapport of an old and familiar partnership. Chris roves away from Percy to make his own circuit of the office; Beston, sympathetic, observes with deprecating apology, "See, this is sort of a problem for us. On the one hand, we've got a girl who's identified you by name as her assailant. On the other hand, we've got you with an unsupported alibi."
Chris: I could deck him behind the ear, right now. Pow.
Beston: Putz.
I like the image of the two of them being like an old married couple. They can finish each other's sentences; they've adopted each other's mannerisms and turns of phrase. Chris is instantly annoyed by Percy's alibi. Beston mutely tells Chris to go away. He'll take over being the nice guy. Chris obediently goes away.
Percy runs a hand through his hair and offers, weakly, "I can see how that would be problematic."
"Big word." Rossi slings sardonic humor by the window, leaning a shoulder into the wall beside it. He glances out that view, profile limned white by the afternoon light. "Hey, look. I can see our car from here."
Says Beston, smoothly, "It's probably just a big misunderstanding. Maybe someone made a mistake. It happens. See it all the time." Eyes crinkle, harmlessly friendly; Irish charm, at odds with the eddies of antagonism that skirls around the office. "We can all go down to the station and talk it out. Be more comfortable there."
See? Chris is vaguely pissy. Who knows what that was about, with being able to see the car. He's being an ass. Beston is the nice cop. Calm Percy down, make him relax, be ominous and comforting at the same time. And above all, don't give Percy enough to make him want his lawyer.
Percy sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, nervous glance skittering from Beston to Rossi at the window, and then back again. "Okay." The word is spoken, dull edge of fear flattening it: sieving off Oxonian sophistication, leaving behind nothing but anxiety. "Am I under arrest?"
"Nah," the older detective demurs, while Chris straightens to attention, the snick and clatter of handcuffs hidden behind his expression. Comfortably, Beston explains, "Just coming down to help us out a little. Figure out what's going on. We can drive." Brown eyes twinkle over the watchful gaze. See? A smile. All is well.
Percy's mouth twists into a grimace, eyes lowering briefly to he carpet. He nods. "Okay." A pivot on his heel and a few slow paces for the office door, hand white-knuckled on the knob: he pauses for composure's sake before opening it.
No lawyer? No lawyer. We shoot, we score. Just a friendly chat at the station, that's what this is. WE'LL DRIVE.
The detectives' pace is swift and remorseless, and bears Percy with it like a hapless piece of flotsam on its riptide. The precinct is as foreign and as strange, full to bursting with pheremonal lashes of fear, pain, rage, and dark amusement. Past the bustling lobby and down a corridor, into a small and isolated room with sparse decoration: a table. Simple chairs. Puke-green walls and a large mirror on one wall. "You want something to drink?" asks Chris, opening the door for their passage.
"No, thanks." Dismal-voiced, quiet, Percy slinks into the room.
"You sure?" Solicitous Chris. He pauses at the door while Beston disappears beyond him into the hallway, gesturing towards the table and its seats. "Grab a seat. We'll be right back. --We got coffee, we got sodas...."
Percy sits down, all obedience, legs crossing ankle-at-knee that fingers might drum at his near thigh. "I don't need anything," he answers. Then, again, bland, robotic courtesy: "Thanks."
The detective nods and disappears, closing the door behind him. Silence, for a while. Solitude. Time to contemplate the stale scent of old fear, clinging to the battered walls; the streak of blood that still stains paint. The noise of shouting from another room. And then they are back -- /Chris/ is back -- without his coat, without his gun, sleeves rolled up around his elbows. "Brought coffee anyway," he informs cheerfully. "It's been a long couple of days. You don't have to drink it. Just want you to be comfortable."
Some solitude after fast-paced travel, to let the reality sink in a little and scare Percy.
Rossi's back to being the nice cop again. He's comfortable, he's casual -- the rolled sleeves were for xmm-percy -- there's no threat, we're all buddies here. Thus the coffee, and the visible lack of gun ... although I think the reason they don't have a gun there is because there's obviously mental powers at play somewhere in this case, and they're not taking any risks. Somewhere offline there're people monitoring a video feed, ready to act if something starts going strange in the room. I debated having Beston there, and ended up not. It's distracting to play two characters at once, and the pace goes slower as a result. John is watching that video feed. He's got Rossi's back.
Percy twitches with the reentry, jerking upright in the chair - no more slouching - to peer nervously at the detective. "Thanks," he answers, tremor of wryness sneaking into tenor voice through a back-door. "Very considerate of you."
"I figure, you're one of Sabby's friends," says Rossi with engaging unprofessionalism, planting the coffee cups on the table before settling himself in a chair. "And you're just helping us out. So let's figure this. You're walking down the street to meet that friend of yours, you run into Alyssa--"
Percy blows a short breath through pursed lips and shakes his head. "And then what do I theoretically do?"
Chris leans back in his chair, an arm resting against the table's edge. "Good question. You don't like it that Alyssa's caught you. Is that it? Didn't expect to see her there?" Green eyes crease a smile, rueful, so very rueful around the hard gaze. "She's a sweet kid, but she's talkative, isn't she?"
First move: us against her, siding with the perpetrator against the victim. For the record, I state that I know nothing about interrogation or manipulation of people. I am not by nature a manipulator. My personal style is more the 'shortest distance between two points is a straight line' kind. Rossi is better than I am, which is a problem because I'm not better than I am, so I have a problem playing that. (That sentence made more sense when I was thinking it.) xmm-magneto will have to educate me on how to do interrogations someday -- is there a chapter on that in your book? -- but in the meantime, I bumble along. Have I mentioned I know nothing about the police?
It's obvious Percy is nervous. This is good. He tries to set Percy at his ease without ever, you know, /trying/ to set him at his ease -- this is hard to explain. He wants Percy to be uncomfortable and anxious, and at the same time let down his guard a little. This is why he brings up Sabby, to remind him that they know each other from a different setting and have a bond, of sorts. He is shameless, really. Once he has you in his sights, nothing is sacred.
"I don't know about you, but I'm generally, you know, happy to see people I know when I run into them on the street," Percy answers, trying not to prickle, trying not to fidget. The hands are fidgeting anyway. "Talkative, sure." He breathes a snort, shifting in the chair. "I'm not exactly the silent type myself."
"Nah. But you've always been pretty straight with me," Rossi admits, straightening only to contract over a loose clasp of hands, Academy ring winking ruby-eyed and etched on his finger. Baritone coaxes over the Brooklyn cadence. "So has Alyssa. So maybe you didn't want her talking about your friend, is that it? Didn't want word getting back about him. Hey, I understand that. Everyone's got secrets."
The Academy ring is purty. He's just recently started to wear it again. I actually debated specifying the gender of the other person in the pair, but ICly it made sense. (And OOCly it worked out just fine for me.) His reply to Percy is a little odd, since they're talking about 'talkative' and suddenly it's about 'honest.' Their last conversation, Percy was curiously upfront with Rossi, and while he's not really familiar with the normal Percy, Rossi's reminding the guy that he's seen the honest Percy. At the same time, he's balancing it against the verity of Alyssa, who's the witness for the prosecution.
Percy looks abruptly quizzical. "Wait," he says. "What?"
Rossi tips his head, gently inquisitive. "Where'd I lose you? Must be some kind of secret to threaten someone over."
Percy shakes his head. "You lost me," he intones, sitting up in the chair and letting his foot drop to the floor, "at word getting back - about what friend? Who?" Two fingers draw either hand to rub at his temples. "I haven't threatened anybody. Least of all Aly."
"Yeah? Maybe she misunderstood," says Rossi easily, while impatience jibs at the restraint of discipline. Shoulders settle under the thin, pale green shirt. "I tell you what. Why don't you tell me exactly what you did on Wednesday night. Start to finish."
Let the suspect dig his own grave. He tells the story, then you can pick it to pieces. Works better this way.
Percy drops his hands to his lap, fingers joined and palms turned over, thumbs turning outward as he shrugs. "I got home from work at around a quarter to six. I read for awhile, checked my email, made a few phone calls. Read some more. Ordered a pizza, watched TV, took a bath, and went to bed."
"What time'd you order the pizza?" asks Rossi, taking up his coffee to sip it, brave man: precinct brew. "Who'd you call? Any idea what time?"
Percy shakes his head, mouth twisting to a grimace for his own memory. "I don't know. Sam told me to go away, she was eating dinner -- 6:30, 7."
The cop knits his hands around his cup and regards it, pensive. "That's a problem," he says with regret. "We can confirm the phone call and the pizza delivery, maybe -- if the pizza delivery guy can identify you, say -- but that still leaves a bit of a gap. Enough time."
Doesn't specify the time. Know why? The players had no clue when it actually happened. However, from the IC point of view, it still makes sense not to mention it. Why feed Percy more than you need to? If he's guilty, he already knows. If he's innocent -- why give him something to lie against?
Rossi is very disciplined in the interrogation room. He's taking it easy, steering the conversation without serious pressure. Thus, no pheremones, because there aren't any to give off yet, really. It's just another case, and Percy's just another suspect, and this is just another interrogation with all its attendant theater. You start out with an intellectual exercise. Maybe Percy'll tell him the truth off the bat. If not, then we'll move on and try other things.
Percy sighs and rubs at his eyes with thumb and middle finger. "Enough time," he repeats. "Enough -- for me to have /randomly/ attacked a /friend/ of mine."
"Not /random/," says Chris, shoulders stiffening to prop his rise up. The chair skims, scraping back as he stands. Pleasant still, that rich voice and its richer accent. "Not at all random. Not once she saw your friend. Are you working for yourself, Percy? Or for someone else? You told me you were a lapdog. Who's yanking your chain?"
Rossi does Percy a disservice here -- or maybe not -- in moving so quickly to the notion that maybe Percy is being directed by someone else. Not that Percy isn't capable of being the malevolent criminal mastermind Jason claimed to be. Chris just doesn't see it. (Of course, he doesn't know Percy that well, so shame on him for leaping to assumptions.) On the other hand, this is also a tactic: give Percy an out, let him blame it all on his companion and turn him in. Rossi wants both of them anyway. Let the DA sort out who to charge with what.
Standing is a cue to shift into a slightly darker, more pressing kind of interrogation. Less buddy-buddy. More intimidating. The same thing with the words; there's a little contempt behind them. Rossi's not on anybody's leash but his own.
"/What/ friend?" Percy demands, voice plaintive as he stares, still worried and confused, at Chris. "Who could you possibly mean?"
"The man she saw you with." Rossi roams, prowls around the table, measuring with a loose-limbed cat's stride the periphery of the room. "The one you got to dress up like Summers. Don't disappoint me, man. You've always been straight with me -- I /want/ to help you. My partner, he's not anywhere near as friendly." Teeth flash in passing, glittering. "Why don't you tell me all about it."
Overt threat of the unknown: Beston. The Bad Cop. (Who is currently drinking a coffee in the monitoring room, telling Yamaguchi about his granddaughter's first softball game.)
Percy looks extremely blank. "Summers -- like, /Scott/ Summers? Why on Earth would I --? Even if I /hadn't/ been in my apartment, why in blazes would I be dressing people as Scott Summers?" He blinks repeatedly, utter confusion. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not averse to a little roleplaying now and again, but -- what the fuck?"
"Going after bigger targets?" asks Rossi, smile fading, pace increasing, as impatience frets in the strong frame. Hostility -- the first niggling suggestion of violence -- dances and whirls in his path, biting languid love against Percy's senses. "Looking to make a splash, maybe? Money can't be the reason ... or maybe it is. Your brother Oliver keep a close eye on you? Word on Wall Street says he's the golden boy."
Escalation, because it suits the pace of the interrogation, and also because Rossi's honestly getting a little irritated. A little roleplaying? Christ -- and so he moves a little faster, he presses a little harder, looking for a button, and expanding his physical presence because the alpha in him identifies Percy as a coward, someone you can overpower with simple threat. Even without irritation, he would behave the same way, because this is what he does, this is his job. However, given Percy's mutation, the reality has far more impact than the acting would have on any normal person.
Percy cringes a little in his seat, chemical warnings, chemical answer: soothing edge, calm the violence. He slams down on the answering twinges of fear to keep the predator from seeing he's prey -- not that he's not fairly certain the cop hasn't already figured /that/ one out. "She saw someone impersonating a teacher of hers," he latches, quiet desperation. "But me, she knows for sure it was me?" Panic's crackle, despite his best efforts, winding its way through hurried words. "I'd never hurt her, who /could/, for fuck's sake, Rossi, I'm the least threatening guy in the whole /city/."
The chemical taint of violence subsides -- but the physical threat is moving, fast, striding towards the table and the sudden slap of a hand against metal. A sharp retort; the heavy table jerks under Rossi's straightened arm. He leans on it, leveling lash-sliced green at Percy, cool and hard. "/I'm/ not," baritone says, gentle. "But even a coward has some guts when he's got a gun. We got a witness, man. The cab driver. He picked you out. You should've remembered the cab driver."
See? He don't need no irritation to be a threat. The only difference is that any violence he does will be calculated. He slaps the table to startle Percy with the retort, because violence that happens nearby can unnerve an anxious person, and he wants Percy's imagination to picture what else Rossi could do to him. He reminds Percy verbally of that as well: he is most definitely NOT the least threatening guy in the whole city. It doesn't occur to Chris to be surprised he's not irritated anymore; like many emotional people, he has these little spasms that peak and then fade very quickly.
Percy stares up at him with round, frightened eyes, cringing back still further in the chair. He whimpers, "I wouldn't even know how to /fire/ a gun."
"It's easy." Laughter lines deepen. Not for laughter. "You load the chamber, you release the safety, you pull the trigger." Forefinger and thumb shape a weapon, touching a warm muzzle in mime against Percy's temple. Rossi's lips move in macabre tenderness. "Bang."
In general, I have to say that I hated my writing throughout this entire scene. I sucked ass, and hard. However, I am not entirely dissatisfied with this pose -- not because the writing was any good, but because I just liked the visual of it. Not a threat (though a lawyer might disagree) but it is, nonetheless, threatening, and intimate, and bizarrely playful while also being dead serious.
I just pictured Logan doing it and was all, hm. Yum.
"I was in my /apartment/." Trembling-voiced, Percy shakes his head, vehemently, as he grasps at this tremulous fact: the only certainty he has in this mind-boggling, terrifying mess. "I don't know anything about Scott Summers impersonators or guns or a cab driver. And I'd never do /anything/ to hurt Alyssa."
"You had her shot," says Rossi, settling his hip against Percy's side of the table, a foot claiming space on the edge of the his chair: to pin him there, to dominate, an elbow propping on the knee, his shadow cast over the smaller man's. "She fought back, you had her shot. Did it get too loud? Is that it? That why you didn't kill her?"
Er...nothing really to say about this pose, except that Rossi really does take every advantage he can and has at his disposal, even lighting. Light behind an object makes it loom larger, so he puts himself between Percy and the light. Covers him with his shadow, so the other man will feel subordinate and dominated. He ups the ante: now we're talking the possibility of intended murder; if it gets too high, too scary, maybe Percy will confess to the lesser sin to avoid the enormity of the greater.
"She was /shot/ -- Jesus Christ," Percy's voice crackles, strangled, panicked, and he shakes his head vehemently, the fingers of one hand tangling in his dark hair, cringing as low in his seat as his body will allow him to go. "I wouldn't kill her. I wouldn't kill anybody. My God, I didn't /do/ anything --"
Rossi leans into his elbow, spine curling, head lowering to the whisper of lips against Percy's ear: terrible intimacy. "Maybe I'm wrong," he murmurs. "Maybe it's not money. Maybe it's about power. That it? You like it when women are helpless and scared? That the sort of thing that gets you off, man? Like it when they can't do anything to fight you? That why you spent all that time with Sabby in the hospital, watching her, knowing she was weak and needed you?"
Another pose that I don't absolutely loathe, but which could've been so much better and dammit. I do not do you justice, Rossi. I am sorry. Or you, Percy-player, who deserve better. Again that image of Rossi as the serpent in the Garden, whispering into people's ears -- better angels, lesser demons, whatever. Percy is overset and overwrought, so he brings in the personal touch: coming in close, murmuring in his ear. Power. He's got it, Percy doesn't, and the way he dominates Percy with his body language emphasizes that.
Money, jealousy, these are all (to some extent) banal and common. On the other hand, what he's suggesting now is sordid, and implies with it a kind of intimacy with a victim that he's perfectly willing to exercise (turnabout being fair play) on Percy. He brings up Sabby for that reason, making it personal between them, turning something that might very well have been pure into something disgusting and dangerous.
Percy jerks his head away, sharply - the memory of breath, accusatory shivers down his spine - and stares at him with eyes wide and darkening. "I don't like it when /anyone's/ scared," he snaps, suddenly fierce.
"But you're scared, aren't you?" asks Rossi, deep black velvet in voice, in mien, cradling power in the slow flex of lips and body. Sympathy, the glove over threat. "You should be, Percy. This isn't fun and games. We've got witnesses. We /know/ you were there."
Chris: You IDIOT.
See, this is where I curse myself for being a bad player. (And so does Chris.) Rossi would have -- should have -- kept pushing that button. Percy reacted to the question of power and control. Push further! Push harder! ...and instead, he backed off a little. Why? BECAUSE HIS PLAYER IS A MORON. She felt SORRY for him, and thought Rossi should too.
Chris: Except I DIDN'T.
Shit. I still kick myself over this.
Chris: Women. Always thinking with their ovaries.
"But I /wasn't/ --" Percy wails, despairingly, and then stops. And blinks, once, slowly. He looks up at Rossi, his expression grim. "Of course I can't convince you of that. Of /course/ there was a witness, of /course/..." Amber eyes narrow, considerably - fear draining from his expression, despite himself, despite the fact that the situation hasn't /really/ changed.
The detective watches with hard eyes, professional and keen. "So maybe there's more to this than I know," he says, straightening a little. "Maybe it wasn't your idea. Was it your buddy? Was he calling the shots? What is he: telepath? Illusionist? Or are you the one with the powers?"
Chris: Jesus CHRIST...
Shut up, Chris. And now, Rossi loses control of the interrogation, and oh, how it annoys him. He backs off a little to reassess, and chills to professional rather than Evil Father Confessor.
Percy shakes his head, sitting up straighter in his seat and letting his hands clasp in his lap. "I wasn't in this at all, my dear Detective." He smiles, a brief, hard flash of his own. "I've been set up. How many times d'you hear /that/ one in a twenty-four hour period, just out of curiosity?"
"More times than you can count," says Rossi, eyes hooding to bare slivers of color. Cynicism slashes through the quiet voice, white-taloned and bloody -- but he'll listen. "Set up. Tell me the story, man."
"Mmm." Percy snorts and slumps back in the chair, settling - relaxing. He crosses his legs. "I'm in the habit of irritating people. I didn't realize how effective, perhaps, but I seem to have pissed the bejesus out of a pretty powerful illusionist. Sabby was pretty paranoid about him, I thought she was overreacting --" He lets rueful eyes roll ceilingwards at that.
"Got a name for the guy?" invites Rossi, sliding off the table to drift again around the table, gaze turning to the locus of his suspect. "How's he know about you and Alyssa? And Summers?"
...on the other hand, we have some progress. Maybe. Rossi is suspicious, but he'll take a name.
"I told him I wouldn't tell," Percy reflects thoughtfully, "but I'm /thinking/ all bets are off at this point. Kid's named Jason. Wyngarde." The latter information from another source, a circular source, not from that day at the manicurist's, but still valid. He stops then, confused again. "I have no idea how he would know that. I mean, she /talks/, of course she does, but ..." He trails off, thinking. Looking troubled.
Chris takes up his station on the other side of the table, arms splaying wide to strut his torso's lean. Green eyes narrow. "So this illusionist guy. You're saying he made you up, that you weren't there at all. That it? That's some enemy you made there, man. Why you? Why her?"
Even more distance. Just a conversation now, albeit not a friendly one. Clinical, concise, straightforward: Rossi is doing Percy the service of pretending he's telling the truth. It's a start.
Percy shakes his head again, slowly. He sighs a defeated breath and cants a weary look back up at Rossi. "I don't know."
A small pause, while Rossi regards Percy: weighs. Measures. Dissects. Asks quietly, "You a mutant, Percy?"
It's a test. If he lies on this, everything he's said is tainted, and it's a lie they can verify because they can order the DNA test and get what they need from hard science. It's an impulse on Chris's part to ask him this question; his instincts -- which are really just intelligence making connections while he's not paying attention -- inform him that there's a strong possibility that Talhurst is a mutant. He's surrounded by them. He knows about the school. Mutants seem to move in a very small community. This is, I might add, very spurious logic and if he'd sat down to think about it a little longer, Rossi might have never asked. (After all, HE's surrounded by mutants, and he knows about the school.) However, that didn't happen. So Chris asks.
Percy tilts his head up, watching him quietly for a moment before answering. "Yes."
Something in Rossi's face stills, some meter of calculation met. A litmus test of truth. "How powerful is this guy? Where can we find him?"
He's a little surprised, because he honestly wasn't sure of the answer. But who lies in the positive on this question?
"/Very/ powerful," Percy answers, mild-voiced and fingers interlaced. "And young. He's a student at Emerson."
"And you?" asks Rossi after a moment's pause, a muscle leaping in his jaw. Baritone roughens, rasping across the urban sail. "What kind of mutant are you?"
Percy breathes a slight sigh and reaches with one hand to smooth rumpled dark hair. "I ... control pheromones." He rubs at the side of his face. "And read them."
Curiosity puzzles its way across Chris's face, briefly softening the harshness of its lines. He sinks into his chair, elbow hiking onto the table's ledge, a fist's curl hiding his mouth. "Pheremones," he says, flatly. "Really. You use that since you came in the station?"
Percy winces. "Um. Yes. A little."
"What'd you do? How far's your range?" Chris asks, eyes narrowing.
"It's not far. I don't really --" Percy stops and starts again, clearing his throat. "I calmed you down. When I sensed, er -- I'm sorry. It's kind of reflexive." He fidgets, every bit the penitent schoolboy in his interrogation chair.
The look Rossi levels at Percy is hard, but -- pheremones, perhaps -- without heat. "Don't do it again." The free hand flattens on the table.
Percy nods once, chewing on his lower lip as he lowers his eyes. "I won't."
Revelation during this little passage: Chris hates, hates, HATES having mutant powers used on him. Intensely. Nobody controls Chris Rossi but Chris Rossi. This is compatible with him marching into Jean's apartment once a week to have telepathic shielding lessons, sort of -- he tolerates her visits in his head -- but he does it to maintain control, knowing that what she does is communication rather than subversion or manipulation. Hopefully. Or maybe not. There's a strange grey (hah!) area there that I'll have to sit down and figure out at some point.
He's asking details about Percy's mutation so the police will know how to imprison him, by the way.
There's silence then, brooding, considering, while Chris regards Percy with hooded attention. Then: "Okay. We got to confirm your story. Pick up this guy Jason, see what he's holding. You'll have to sign a statement." Lips turn in a wintery little smile, crooked and without mirth. "You'll get to be a guest of the state for a while. Private accommodations. Special service."
"Ah," Percy says dryly. He cants his head slightly to one side, rueful quirk to his lips. "Peachy."
The chair skids again for Rossi's rise as the door opens. Beston, unarmed, handcuffs ready and waiting in one broad hand. "If you're innocent, you got nothing to worry about," says Chris with a nod for his partner, a hand dropping to splay over the coffee's open mouth. "If you're lying to me--"
Percy slides smoothly to his feet with his hands presented blandly for the cuffs. "Then I deserve what I get, Detective," he opines in a wry drawl.
Chris Rossi's mouth thins. Eyes smile. "I'll make sure you get it."
"Percy Talhurst," begins Beston, crossing the floor with the snick and crisp grate of 'cuffs. "You are under arrest for aggravated assault. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law--" People aplenty, in the machinery of Law. Two men in cheap suits. A man in an expensive one. All of a Friday afternoon.
...and that's all she wrote. Chris by no means believes that the system won't grind up innocents as well as the guilty, but it's a palliative, and he doesn't mind using it if it'll keep Percy from using his powers. Percy hasn't seen Chris at his worst in interrogation yet -- they never even got close -- but as far as he's concerned, whatever relationship they had before Percy got arrested is pretty much over. He could never be friends with someone who had broken him, so even though he didn't /really/ break Percy, he can't fathom overcoming this encounter in the future. Hopefully this won't be the case, because dangit, I love xmm-percy RP. And if Rossi doesn't get everyone killed (or get killed himself) there will hopefully be more Percy/Rossi in the future.
Date: 10/15/2005
Summary: Rossi and Beston haul Percy in for questioning after the attack on Alyssa.
Note: This commentary was written back in October, so it's a little out of date. However, I never posted it to the character's LJ. My apologies to Percy for the delay.
I preface this with the following.
I suck.
I was bitterly unhappy after this scene because I did not write well, and I did not do smart things, and looking back I'm even more convinced of it, though I tried to persuade myself otherwise. The scene would be great if, you know, Percy had been playing it with pretty much ANYBODY ELSE. I apologize, xmm-percy. I am unworthy of your greatness. I need new words because, holy crap, stale enough? However, it's all good; I got to play something new and different for my character, so you know. Expanding the horizons. Trying different things. This entire arc has been good for me. Thank you folks for letting me play it!
Now on with the dreck.
Percy is sprawled in his office chair, one expensively-shod foot up on his desk and the other on the carpet. "That isn't even remotely the issue, Jonesy," he informs his phone testily, twining one finger through the telephone wire, corkscrewing it. "It's a question of spending our resources in ways that make actual, you know, sense. -- Don't you weasel me, Jones, you know what I'm talking about. I'm not a bloody slave driver, we've got /people/ for that."
People aplenty, like the cogs of the NYPD. They are an unwelcome, unexpected presence in the esteemed halls of Geotal, and yet here they are on a Friday afternoon: two men in cheap suits and overcoats, striding their way past the outer guardians of the gates with cowing arrogance. "Percy in?" asks the younger of the pair, banking himself against the executive assistant's desk. Leather flares; a badge winks. "Tell him Chris Rossi's here to see him. On business."
It took me a surprisingly long time to write this pose. Isn't that sad? I don't think my full attention was on it when I wrote it. Saturday morning, just figuring on getting the scene done. Picked up Percy's last comment and threw it back in meta. Shame on me. Shame. Since we were backdating, inserted the date; left the names out of it until Percy recognizes them, to make it his perspective rather than shared.
I was toying with this idea of doing a single-perspective RP during this scene. Most RP is from the perspective of everybody in the scene, with both players writing for transparency. I was idly wondering if I could do a scene from the other player's perspective, which implies more interest in the eventual reader's experience than in the experience of the two people in the scene, I realize. Sometimes my brain is off that way. Sorry, Percy. In this case it was because of the pheremones, see, and the fact that we were going to do an interrogation, which meant that the psychological brunt was on Percy, not on Rossi. That, combined with Percy's ability, meant that he would be the most receptive and the most communicative (in a sense) of the two. Anyway. It was an experiment I vaguely started to make, and then never really followed through on much.
Familiar voices through the cracked office door and Percy frowns, sitting up. " -- Call you back, Jonesy," is muttered to the receiver, though he doesn't wait for the response before returning it to its cradle. Instead, he's across the office in quick paces to pull the door open. "It's okay, Sam," he informs the woman behind the desk - still round-eyed and a-dither at the prospect of /badge/. He confronts the cops with pure puzzlement, though hardly disagreeable, amber eyes flicking from the familiar to the unfamiliar and back again. "What can I do for you?"
The hiss and brood of hostility -- suspicion -- spills past the open door into the office beyond, a thing alive. Gazes swing to meet the open door, green-eyed, brown-eyed; the older detective lifts heavy brows over curiosity, while the younger lifts his chin. "Talhurst," Rossi greets, baritone pleasant. "Hate to drop in like this. Nice place. This is my partner, John Beston. We'd like to have a word."
I don't know how to pose to powers. I try. It's been a while since I've done a dragon, for instance, so I'm way out of practice with that, at least. Practice makes perfect! The hostility and suspicion is from Rossi, while simple suspicion is Beston's -- but we established that Percy might not be able to state with pinpoint accuracy where and who is the source in the room, considering movement and proximity and size of area, so I left it amorphous. Was thinking of using Beston as the bad cop later, so it gave me that opening if I chose to use it.
Percy reaches with one manicured hand to rub, idly, at the back of his neck, still visibly confused, though it requires quiet internal clamping to keep from flinching at unexpected pheromonal cues. "Pleased to meet you," is nodded to the older detective, courtesy automatic. He jerks his other thumb over his shoulder, fine brows arching. "My office?"
Whatever thoughts the older detective may have, they remain safely hid behind the folding of a sleepy smile. Mockery slithers across Rossi's glance to the assistant, then back. "That'll work," he agrees. "A little privacy's good. We interrupting anything?" Hands thrust into pants pockets, pressing back the weight of overcoat and suit top; the two men stride into the office, claiming invitation and transmuting it by some physical alchemy into force majeure.
Force majeure. I've never used that phrase in RP before. I am very proud.
Percy closes the door behind them, letting his hands slide into his own pockets for the sake of puzzled diffidence. "Nothing urgent, gentlemen. What's up?"
"Alyssa." Amiability deepens on Chris's face, tracing back lines of friendly concern: for the absent girl; for Percy; for the sharing of bad news. Beston ambles, cut loose from the exchange, exploring the office with an evaluating eye. "You remember Alyssa, don't you? Nice girl, gets into trouble, makes friends with the wrong people?"
"Alyssa?" Percy looks startled. "What about ..." He pauses, brow furrowing, and bites his lower lip, thoughtful. Pheromones snap and coil in the back of consciousness and he clamps down on his reaction, harder. Not nervous. Just concerned. "Has something happened, is she all right?"
Beston lifts his head from a finger-drag across Percy's desk, dark eyes sorrowful and mild. "She had a bit of a scare," he informs in a gravelly, Midwest-drawled bass. "She was attacked by a couple of men a few blocks away from the precinct." Hostility deepens, mingling with a predatory hunger that twines eagerly around the police, grasping at Percy.
They really are predators. Beston's a hunting dog; Rossi's -- I don't know. More feline, maybe? Both of them are hunters, anyway, though they trade off on which one's more dedicated and relentless in a given case. This one is Alyssa, so it's Rossi who's the one who'll take the lead. The pheremones are saying something different than their body language, though of course they aren't aware of that. Right now they're playing friendly cops, come by just to ask a few questions. Just feed Percy a little. Enough so that he knows what they're investigating, so they can push a little on the alarm and anxiety he should've felt just seeing the cops at his door. Nothing like a guilty conscience to help you along -- although in this case, he doesn't have one.
Percy stares in earnest, worried bafflement, amber eyes moving swift from one detective to the other. "She was /attacked/?" he repeats. Dreadful premonition, nagging at a man who's hardly precognitive. He attempts not to twitch, brain seeking the right way to respond, but through a haze of complete confusion -- falls back on concern for his friend (erstwhile shopping partner, sometime phone buddy, eventual partner in ice cream). "Was she hurt?"
"It's a weird thing," says Rossi genially, stirring into motion with a springy, coiled stride that loops its way around Percy, tracing his boundaries, spiraling in. Question? What question? "She said you were one of the guys who attacked her. Go figure, huh? Any reason you can think of why she'd say that?"
They don't answer his question about her. If he's guilty, he damn well KNOWS how she is. Or should. And if he doesn't know how she is and he's still guilty, then leaving the question unanswered adds an extra level of uncertainty in the mix. Rossi moves, pushing a little at personal space. He's got presence on his side -- alpha male -- and he knows it.
Percy stares some more, utterly blank. When he manages to speak, it is but one word, and strangled. "/Me/?"
Poor Percy.
"You," says Beston.
Chris stops at Percy's shoulder, tipping his voice, his gaze, in mild-eyed interest at Percy's ear. "So I got to ask. What were you up to, night before last?"
Here's the thing. I'm not normally a visual person. During this entire scene, I kept seeing Mike Logan doing all the things that Rossi was doing. I only point that out because this is something he does from time to time -- in my head anyway; I'd have to double-check the DVDs to see if I'm remembering this correctly -- in that he creates intimacy and plays the part of either the better angels or the demons, sowing conscience or mistrust, just whispering away in someone's ear. This happens later in the scene.
In the meantime, I didn't do very well by Beston, who comes out of this with very little personality. I would like to assure you that the inadequacies here are purely mine, and not his.
"I didn't - I /wouldn't/ -" Both arguments specious and cops hear them all the bloody time; therefore, unproductive. Percy swallows, flash and bang of fear sparking in his chemical responses - held back, forced back, staying calm. Confusion, anxiety, these are his, blending, coiling around his stomach. "I was at home."
"Yeah?" asks Rossi, baritone quizzical. "All night? Anybody who can confirm that?"
Percy lets a sigh escape through his nose and shakes his head. "No," he answers. "It was a quiet night."
The detectives exchange glances, speaking without words in the rapport of an old and familiar partnership. Chris roves away from Percy to make his own circuit of the office; Beston, sympathetic, observes with deprecating apology, "See, this is sort of a problem for us. On the one hand, we've got a girl who's identified you by name as her assailant. On the other hand, we've got you with an unsupported alibi."
Chris: I could deck him behind the ear, right now. Pow.
Beston: Putz.
I like the image of the two of them being like an old married couple. They can finish each other's sentences; they've adopted each other's mannerisms and turns of phrase. Chris is instantly annoyed by Percy's alibi. Beston mutely tells Chris to go away. He'll take over being the nice guy. Chris obediently goes away.
Percy runs a hand through his hair and offers, weakly, "I can see how that would be problematic."
"Big word." Rossi slings sardonic humor by the window, leaning a shoulder into the wall beside it. He glances out that view, profile limned white by the afternoon light. "Hey, look. I can see our car from here."
Says Beston, smoothly, "It's probably just a big misunderstanding. Maybe someone made a mistake. It happens. See it all the time." Eyes crinkle, harmlessly friendly; Irish charm, at odds with the eddies of antagonism that skirls around the office. "We can all go down to the station and talk it out. Be more comfortable there."
See? Chris is vaguely pissy. Who knows what that was about, with being able to see the car. He's being an ass. Beston is the nice cop. Calm Percy down, make him relax, be ominous and comforting at the same time. And above all, don't give Percy enough to make him want his lawyer.
Percy sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, nervous glance skittering from Beston to Rossi at the window, and then back again. "Okay." The word is spoken, dull edge of fear flattening it: sieving off Oxonian sophistication, leaving behind nothing but anxiety. "Am I under arrest?"
"Nah," the older detective demurs, while Chris straightens to attention, the snick and clatter of handcuffs hidden behind his expression. Comfortably, Beston explains, "Just coming down to help us out a little. Figure out what's going on. We can drive." Brown eyes twinkle over the watchful gaze. See? A smile. All is well.
Percy's mouth twists into a grimace, eyes lowering briefly to he carpet. He nods. "Okay." A pivot on his heel and a few slow paces for the office door, hand white-knuckled on the knob: he pauses for composure's sake before opening it.
No lawyer? No lawyer. We shoot, we score. Just a friendly chat at the station, that's what this is. WE'LL DRIVE.
The detectives' pace is swift and remorseless, and bears Percy with it like a hapless piece of flotsam on its riptide. The precinct is as foreign and as strange, full to bursting with pheremonal lashes of fear, pain, rage, and dark amusement. Past the bustling lobby and down a corridor, into a small and isolated room with sparse decoration: a table. Simple chairs. Puke-green walls and a large mirror on one wall. "You want something to drink?" asks Chris, opening the door for their passage.
"No, thanks." Dismal-voiced, quiet, Percy slinks into the room.
"You sure?" Solicitous Chris. He pauses at the door while Beston disappears beyond him into the hallway, gesturing towards the table and its seats. "Grab a seat. We'll be right back. --We got coffee, we got sodas...."
Percy sits down, all obedience, legs crossing ankle-at-knee that fingers might drum at his near thigh. "I don't need anything," he answers. Then, again, bland, robotic courtesy: "Thanks."
The detective nods and disappears, closing the door behind him. Silence, for a while. Solitude. Time to contemplate the stale scent of old fear, clinging to the battered walls; the streak of blood that still stains paint. The noise of shouting from another room. And then they are back -- /Chris/ is back -- without his coat, without his gun, sleeves rolled up around his elbows. "Brought coffee anyway," he informs cheerfully. "It's been a long couple of days. You don't have to drink it. Just want you to be comfortable."
Some solitude after fast-paced travel, to let the reality sink in a little and scare Percy.
Rossi's back to being the nice cop again. He's comfortable, he's casual -- the rolled sleeves were for xmm-percy -- there's no threat, we're all buddies here. Thus the coffee, and the visible lack of gun ... although I think the reason they don't have a gun there is because there's obviously mental powers at play somewhere in this case, and they're not taking any risks. Somewhere offline there're people monitoring a video feed, ready to act if something starts going strange in the room. I debated having Beston there, and ended up not. It's distracting to play two characters at once, and the pace goes slower as a result. John is watching that video feed. He's got Rossi's back.
Percy twitches with the reentry, jerking upright in the chair - no more slouching - to peer nervously at the detective. "Thanks," he answers, tremor of wryness sneaking into tenor voice through a back-door. "Very considerate of you."
"I figure, you're one of Sabby's friends," says Rossi with engaging unprofessionalism, planting the coffee cups on the table before settling himself in a chair. "And you're just helping us out. So let's figure this. You're walking down the street to meet that friend of yours, you run into Alyssa--"
Percy blows a short breath through pursed lips and shakes his head. "And then what do I theoretically do?"
Chris leans back in his chair, an arm resting against the table's edge. "Good question. You don't like it that Alyssa's caught you. Is that it? Didn't expect to see her there?" Green eyes crease a smile, rueful, so very rueful around the hard gaze. "She's a sweet kid, but she's talkative, isn't she?"
First move: us against her, siding with the perpetrator against the victim. For the record, I state that I know nothing about interrogation or manipulation of people. I am not by nature a manipulator. My personal style is more the 'shortest distance between two points is a straight line' kind. Rossi is better than I am, which is a problem because I'm not better than I am, so I have a problem playing that. (That sentence made more sense when I was thinking it.) xmm-magneto will have to educate me on how to do interrogations someday -- is there a chapter on that in your book? -- but in the meantime, I bumble along. Have I mentioned I know nothing about the police?
It's obvious Percy is nervous. This is good. He tries to set Percy at his ease without ever, you know, /trying/ to set him at his ease -- this is hard to explain. He wants Percy to be uncomfortable and anxious, and at the same time let down his guard a little. This is why he brings up Sabby, to remind him that they know each other from a different setting and have a bond, of sorts. He is shameless, really. Once he has you in his sights, nothing is sacred.
"I don't know about you, but I'm generally, you know, happy to see people I know when I run into them on the street," Percy answers, trying not to prickle, trying not to fidget. The hands are fidgeting anyway. "Talkative, sure." He breathes a snort, shifting in the chair. "I'm not exactly the silent type myself."
"Nah. But you've always been pretty straight with me," Rossi admits, straightening only to contract over a loose clasp of hands, Academy ring winking ruby-eyed and etched on his finger. Baritone coaxes over the Brooklyn cadence. "So has Alyssa. So maybe you didn't want her talking about your friend, is that it? Didn't want word getting back about him. Hey, I understand that. Everyone's got secrets."
The Academy ring is purty. He's just recently started to wear it again. I actually debated specifying the gender of the other person in the pair, but ICly it made sense. (And OOCly it worked out just fine for me.) His reply to Percy is a little odd, since they're talking about 'talkative' and suddenly it's about 'honest.' Their last conversation, Percy was curiously upfront with Rossi, and while he's not really familiar with the normal Percy, Rossi's reminding the guy that he's seen the honest Percy. At the same time, he's balancing it against the verity of Alyssa, who's the witness for the prosecution.
Percy looks abruptly quizzical. "Wait," he says. "What?"
Rossi tips his head, gently inquisitive. "Where'd I lose you? Must be some kind of secret to threaten someone over."
Percy shakes his head. "You lost me," he intones, sitting up in the chair and letting his foot drop to the floor, "at word getting back - about what friend? Who?" Two fingers draw either hand to rub at his temples. "I haven't threatened anybody. Least of all Aly."
"Yeah? Maybe she misunderstood," says Rossi easily, while impatience jibs at the restraint of discipline. Shoulders settle under the thin, pale green shirt. "I tell you what. Why don't you tell me exactly what you did on Wednesday night. Start to finish."
Let the suspect dig his own grave. He tells the story, then you can pick it to pieces. Works better this way.
Percy drops his hands to his lap, fingers joined and palms turned over, thumbs turning outward as he shrugs. "I got home from work at around a quarter to six. I read for awhile, checked my email, made a few phone calls. Read some more. Ordered a pizza, watched TV, took a bath, and went to bed."
"What time'd you order the pizza?" asks Rossi, taking up his coffee to sip it, brave man: precinct brew. "Who'd you call? Any idea what time?"
Percy shakes his head, mouth twisting to a grimace for his own memory. "I don't know. Sam told me to go away, she was eating dinner -- 6:30, 7."
The cop knits his hands around his cup and regards it, pensive. "That's a problem," he says with regret. "We can confirm the phone call and the pizza delivery, maybe -- if the pizza delivery guy can identify you, say -- but that still leaves a bit of a gap. Enough time."
Doesn't specify the time. Know why? The players had no clue when it actually happened. However, from the IC point of view, it still makes sense not to mention it. Why feed Percy more than you need to? If he's guilty, he already knows. If he's innocent -- why give him something to lie against?
Rossi is very disciplined in the interrogation room. He's taking it easy, steering the conversation without serious pressure. Thus, no pheremones, because there aren't any to give off yet, really. It's just another case, and Percy's just another suspect, and this is just another interrogation with all its attendant theater. You start out with an intellectual exercise. Maybe Percy'll tell him the truth off the bat. If not, then we'll move on and try other things.
Percy sighs and rubs at his eyes with thumb and middle finger. "Enough time," he repeats. "Enough -- for me to have /randomly/ attacked a /friend/ of mine."
"Not /random/," says Chris, shoulders stiffening to prop his rise up. The chair skims, scraping back as he stands. Pleasant still, that rich voice and its richer accent. "Not at all random. Not once she saw your friend. Are you working for yourself, Percy? Or for someone else? You told me you were a lapdog. Who's yanking your chain?"
Rossi does Percy a disservice here -- or maybe not -- in moving so quickly to the notion that maybe Percy is being directed by someone else. Not that Percy isn't capable of being the malevolent criminal mastermind Jason claimed to be. Chris just doesn't see it. (Of course, he doesn't know Percy that well, so shame on him for leaping to assumptions.) On the other hand, this is also a tactic: give Percy an out, let him blame it all on his companion and turn him in. Rossi wants both of them anyway. Let the DA sort out who to charge with what.
Standing is a cue to shift into a slightly darker, more pressing kind of interrogation. Less buddy-buddy. More intimidating. The same thing with the words; there's a little contempt behind them. Rossi's not on anybody's leash but his own.
"/What/ friend?" Percy demands, voice plaintive as he stares, still worried and confused, at Chris. "Who could you possibly mean?"
"The man she saw you with." Rossi roams, prowls around the table, measuring with a loose-limbed cat's stride the periphery of the room. "The one you got to dress up like Summers. Don't disappoint me, man. You've always been straight with me -- I /want/ to help you. My partner, he's not anywhere near as friendly." Teeth flash in passing, glittering. "Why don't you tell me all about it."
Overt threat of the unknown: Beston. The Bad Cop. (Who is currently drinking a coffee in the monitoring room, telling Yamaguchi about his granddaughter's first softball game.)
Percy looks extremely blank. "Summers -- like, /Scott/ Summers? Why on Earth would I --? Even if I /hadn't/ been in my apartment, why in blazes would I be dressing people as Scott Summers?" He blinks repeatedly, utter confusion. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not averse to a little roleplaying now and again, but -- what the fuck?"
"Going after bigger targets?" asks Rossi, smile fading, pace increasing, as impatience frets in the strong frame. Hostility -- the first niggling suggestion of violence -- dances and whirls in his path, biting languid love against Percy's senses. "Looking to make a splash, maybe? Money can't be the reason ... or maybe it is. Your brother Oliver keep a close eye on you? Word on Wall Street says he's the golden boy."
Escalation, because it suits the pace of the interrogation, and also because Rossi's honestly getting a little irritated. A little roleplaying? Christ -- and so he moves a little faster, he presses a little harder, looking for a button, and expanding his physical presence because the alpha in him identifies Percy as a coward, someone you can overpower with simple threat. Even without irritation, he would behave the same way, because this is what he does, this is his job. However, given Percy's mutation, the reality has far more impact than the acting would have on any normal person.
Percy cringes a little in his seat, chemical warnings, chemical answer: soothing edge, calm the violence. He slams down on the answering twinges of fear to keep the predator from seeing he's prey -- not that he's not fairly certain the cop hasn't already figured /that/ one out. "She saw someone impersonating a teacher of hers," he latches, quiet desperation. "But me, she knows for sure it was me?" Panic's crackle, despite his best efforts, winding its way through hurried words. "I'd never hurt her, who /could/, for fuck's sake, Rossi, I'm the least threatening guy in the whole /city/."
The chemical taint of violence subsides -- but the physical threat is moving, fast, striding towards the table and the sudden slap of a hand against metal. A sharp retort; the heavy table jerks under Rossi's straightened arm. He leans on it, leveling lash-sliced green at Percy, cool and hard. "/I'm/ not," baritone says, gentle. "But even a coward has some guts when he's got a gun. We got a witness, man. The cab driver. He picked you out. You should've remembered the cab driver."
See? He don't need no irritation to be a threat. The only difference is that any violence he does will be calculated. He slaps the table to startle Percy with the retort, because violence that happens nearby can unnerve an anxious person, and he wants Percy's imagination to picture what else Rossi could do to him. He reminds Percy verbally of that as well: he is most definitely NOT the least threatening guy in the whole city. It doesn't occur to Chris to be surprised he's not irritated anymore; like many emotional people, he has these little spasms that peak and then fade very quickly.
Percy stares up at him with round, frightened eyes, cringing back still further in the chair. He whimpers, "I wouldn't even know how to /fire/ a gun."
"It's easy." Laughter lines deepen. Not for laughter. "You load the chamber, you release the safety, you pull the trigger." Forefinger and thumb shape a weapon, touching a warm muzzle in mime against Percy's temple. Rossi's lips move in macabre tenderness. "Bang."
In general, I have to say that I hated my writing throughout this entire scene. I sucked ass, and hard. However, I am not entirely dissatisfied with this pose -- not because the writing was any good, but because I just liked the visual of it. Not a threat (though a lawyer might disagree) but it is, nonetheless, threatening, and intimate, and bizarrely playful while also being dead serious.
I just pictured Logan doing it and was all, hm. Yum.
"I was in my /apartment/." Trembling-voiced, Percy shakes his head, vehemently, as he grasps at this tremulous fact: the only certainty he has in this mind-boggling, terrifying mess. "I don't know anything about Scott Summers impersonators or guns or a cab driver. And I'd never do /anything/ to hurt Alyssa."
"You had her shot," says Rossi, settling his hip against Percy's side of the table, a foot claiming space on the edge of the his chair: to pin him there, to dominate, an elbow propping on the knee, his shadow cast over the smaller man's. "She fought back, you had her shot. Did it get too loud? Is that it? That why you didn't kill her?"
Er...nothing really to say about this pose, except that Rossi really does take every advantage he can and has at his disposal, even lighting. Light behind an object makes it loom larger, so he puts himself between Percy and the light. Covers him with his shadow, so the other man will feel subordinate and dominated. He ups the ante: now we're talking the possibility of intended murder; if it gets too high, too scary, maybe Percy will confess to the lesser sin to avoid the enormity of the greater.
"She was /shot/ -- Jesus Christ," Percy's voice crackles, strangled, panicked, and he shakes his head vehemently, the fingers of one hand tangling in his dark hair, cringing as low in his seat as his body will allow him to go. "I wouldn't kill her. I wouldn't kill anybody. My God, I didn't /do/ anything --"
Rossi leans into his elbow, spine curling, head lowering to the whisper of lips against Percy's ear: terrible intimacy. "Maybe I'm wrong," he murmurs. "Maybe it's not money. Maybe it's about power. That it? You like it when women are helpless and scared? That the sort of thing that gets you off, man? Like it when they can't do anything to fight you? That why you spent all that time with Sabby in the hospital, watching her, knowing she was weak and needed you?"
Another pose that I don't absolutely loathe, but which could've been so much better and dammit. I do not do you justice, Rossi. I am sorry. Or you, Percy-player, who deserve better. Again that image of Rossi as the serpent in the Garden, whispering into people's ears -- better angels, lesser demons, whatever. Percy is overset and overwrought, so he brings in the personal touch: coming in close, murmuring in his ear. Power. He's got it, Percy doesn't, and the way he dominates Percy with his body language emphasizes that.
Money, jealousy, these are all (to some extent) banal and common. On the other hand, what he's suggesting now is sordid, and implies with it a kind of intimacy with a victim that he's perfectly willing to exercise (turnabout being fair play) on Percy. He brings up Sabby for that reason, making it personal between them, turning something that might very well have been pure into something disgusting and dangerous.
Percy jerks his head away, sharply - the memory of breath, accusatory shivers down his spine - and stares at him with eyes wide and darkening. "I don't like it when /anyone's/ scared," he snaps, suddenly fierce.
"But you're scared, aren't you?" asks Rossi, deep black velvet in voice, in mien, cradling power in the slow flex of lips and body. Sympathy, the glove over threat. "You should be, Percy. This isn't fun and games. We've got witnesses. We /know/ you were there."
Chris: You IDIOT.
See, this is where I curse myself for being a bad player. (And so does Chris.) Rossi would have -- should have -- kept pushing that button. Percy reacted to the question of power and control. Push further! Push harder! ...and instead, he backed off a little. Why? BECAUSE HIS PLAYER IS A MORON. She felt SORRY for him, and thought Rossi should too.
Chris: Except I DIDN'T.
Shit. I still kick myself over this.
Chris: Women. Always thinking with their ovaries.
"But I /wasn't/ --" Percy wails, despairingly, and then stops. And blinks, once, slowly. He looks up at Rossi, his expression grim. "Of course I can't convince you of that. Of /course/ there was a witness, of /course/..." Amber eyes narrow, considerably - fear draining from his expression, despite himself, despite the fact that the situation hasn't /really/ changed.
The detective watches with hard eyes, professional and keen. "So maybe there's more to this than I know," he says, straightening a little. "Maybe it wasn't your idea. Was it your buddy? Was he calling the shots? What is he: telepath? Illusionist? Or are you the one with the powers?"
Chris: Jesus CHRIST...
Shut up, Chris. And now, Rossi loses control of the interrogation, and oh, how it annoys him. He backs off a little to reassess, and chills to professional rather than Evil Father Confessor.
Percy shakes his head, sitting up straighter in his seat and letting his hands clasp in his lap. "I wasn't in this at all, my dear Detective." He smiles, a brief, hard flash of his own. "I've been set up. How many times d'you hear /that/ one in a twenty-four hour period, just out of curiosity?"
"More times than you can count," says Rossi, eyes hooding to bare slivers of color. Cynicism slashes through the quiet voice, white-taloned and bloody -- but he'll listen. "Set up. Tell me the story, man."
"Mmm." Percy snorts and slumps back in the chair, settling - relaxing. He crosses his legs. "I'm in the habit of irritating people. I didn't realize how effective, perhaps, but I seem to have pissed the bejesus out of a pretty powerful illusionist. Sabby was pretty paranoid about him, I thought she was overreacting --" He lets rueful eyes roll ceilingwards at that.
"Got a name for the guy?" invites Rossi, sliding off the table to drift again around the table, gaze turning to the locus of his suspect. "How's he know about you and Alyssa? And Summers?"
...on the other hand, we have some progress. Maybe. Rossi is suspicious, but he'll take a name.
"I told him I wouldn't tell," Percy reflects thoughtfully, "but I'm /thinking/ all bets are off at this point. Kid's named Jason. Wyngarde." The latter information from another source, a circular source, not from that day at the manicurist's, but still valid. He stops then, confused again. "I have no idea how he would know that. I mean, she /talks/, of course she does, but ..." He trails off, thinking. Looking troubled.
Chris takes up his station on the other side of the table, arms splaying wide to strut his torso's lean. Green eyes narrow. "So this illusionist guy. You're saying he made you up, that you weren't there at all. That it? That's some enemy you made there, man. Why you? Why her?"
Even more distance. Just a conversation now, albeit not a friendly one. Clinical, concise, straightforward: Rossi is doing Percy the service of pretending he's telling the truth. It's a start.
Percy shakes his head again, slowly. He sighs a defeated breath and cants a weary look back up at Rossi. "I don't know."
A small pause, while Rossi regards Percy: weighs. Measures. Dissects. Asks quietly, "You a mutant, Percy?"
It's a test. If he lies on this, everything he's said is tainted, and it's a lie they can verify because they can order the DNA test and get what they need from hard science. It's an impulse on Chris's part to ask him this question; his instincts -- which are really just intelligence making connections while he's not paying attention -- inform him that there's a strong possibility that Talhurst is a mutant. He's surrounded by them. He knows about the school. Mutants seem to move in a very small community. This is, I might add, very spurious logic and if he'd sat down to think about it a little longer, Rossi might have never asked. (After all, HE's surrounded by mutants, and he knows about the school.) However, that didn't happen. So Chris asks.
Percy tilts his head up, watching him quietly for a moment before answering. "Yes."
Something in Rossi's face stills, some meter of calculation met. A litmus test of truth. "How powerful is this guy? Where can we find him?"
He's a little surprised, because he honestly wasn't sure of the answer. But who lies in the positive on this question?
"/Very/ powerful," Percy answers, mild-voiced and fingers interlaced. "And young. He's a student at Emerson."
"And you?" asks Rossi after a moment's pause, a muscle leaping in his jaw. Baritone roughens, rasping across the urban sail. "What kind of mutant are you?"
Percy breathes a slight sigh and reaches with one hand to smooth rumpled dark hair. "I ... control pheromones." He rubs at the side of his face. "And read them."
Curiosity puzzles its way across Chris's face, briefly softening the harshness of its lines. He sinks into his chair, elbow hiking onto the table's ledge, a fist's curl hiding his mouth. "Pheremones," he says, flatly. "Really. You use that since you came in the station?"
Percy winces. "Um. Yes. A little."
"What'd you do? How far's your range?" Chris asks, eyes narrowing.
"It's not far. I don't really --" Percy stops and starts again, clearing his throat. "I calmed you down. When I sensed, er -- I'm sorry. It's kind of reflexive." He fidgets, every bit the penitent schoolboy in his interrogation chair.
The look Rossi levels at Percy is hard, but -- pheremones, perhaps -- without heat. "Don't do it again." The free hand flattens on the table.
Percy nods once, chewing on his lower lip as he lowers his eyes. "I won't."
Revelation during this little passage: Chris hates, hates, HATES having mutant powers used on him. Intensely. Nobody controls Chris Rossi but Chris Rossi. This is compatible with him marching into Jean's apartment once a week to have telepathic shielding lessons, sort of -- he tolerates her visits in his head -- but he does it to maintain control, knowing that what she does is communication rather than subversion or manipulation. Hopefully. Or maybe not. There's a strange grey (hah!) area there that I'll have to sit down and figure out at some point.
He's asking details about Percy's mutation so the police will know how to imprison him, by the way.
There's silence then, brooding, considering, while Chris regards Percy with hooded attention. Then: "Okay. We got to confirm your story. Pick up this guy Jason, see what he's holding. You'll have to sign a statement." Lips turn in a wintery little smile, crooked and without mirth. "You'll get to be a guest of the state for a while. Private accommodations. Special service."
"Ah," Percy says dryly. He cants his head slightly to one side, rueful quirk to his lips. "Peachy."
The chair skids again for Rossi's rise as the door opens. Beston, unarmed, handcuffs ready and waiting in one broad hand. "If you're innocent, you got nothing to worry about," says Chris with a nod for his partner, a hand dropping to splay over the coffee's open mouth. "If you're lying to me--"
Percy slides smoothly to his feet with his hands presented blandly for the cuffs. "Then I deserve what I get, Detective," he opines in a wry drawl.
Chris Rossi's mouth thins. Eyes smile. "I'll make sure you get it."
"Percy Talhurst," begins Beston, crossing the floor with the snick and crisp grate of 'cuffs. "You are under arrest for aggravated assault. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law--" People aplenty, in the machinery of Law. Two men in cheap suits. A man in an expensive one. All of a Friday afternoon.
...and that's all she wrote. Chris by no means believes that the system won't grind up innocents as well as the guilty, but it's a palliative, and he doesn't mind using it if it'll keep Percy from using his powers. Percy hasn't seen Chris at his worst in interrogation yet -- they never even got close -- but as far as he's concerned, whatever relationship they had before Percy got arrested is pretty much over. He could never be friends with someone who had broken him, so even though he didn't /really/ break Percy, he can't fathom overcoming this encounter in the future. Hopefully this won't be the case, because dangit, I love xmm-percy RP. And if Rossi doesn't get everyone killed (or get killed himself) there will hopefully be more Percy/Rossi in the future.