(no subject)
7/5/2007
The city is warm again, most days. Sunlight makes it bearable to move without heavy jackets and gloves, and there's no snow on the ground. As night falls, though, so does the temperature, and the small lobby of what was once an apartment building is chilly enough to warrant the blankets pulled up tight around shoulders and the fire that crackles in a small drum. Three exhausted teenagers - barely old enough for the term - sleep next to each other on the floor, lumps under blankets. Sabitha stands next to the door with long hair pulled back into a braid and weapon in hand, watching the darkness of the outside world through the slim hold of window they've left free.
His coat drawn taught around his shoulders, Bahir sits folded on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. He doses lightly, restlessly. His thoughts are scattered and fragmented across his dreams. It is Sabitha's watch, and he lets her stand it, but his gun is near at hand, and his ready to rouse at the slightest hint of need.
Their cargo sleeps deeply, probably the first truly restorative sleep in many months, thanks to the other figure who now squats in a corner, too fastidious to come into full contact with the floor. Emma maintains her own brand of vigilance, sweeping the outer darkness for minds intent on malice in methodical rotations every five to ten minutes, other telepaths pressing in on her shields like smokey flares. Such as the dozing Bahir across the room. She ducks her head and rubs her temples, and a few less than neutral minds are turned elsewhere. She turns to look along the wall at Sabitha's back.
Sabitha stirs. She shifts slightly, straightening away as something in the distance catches her attention, and she raises her gun in near silence. After a moment's tense waiting, she settles back again. Whatever concerned her has passed. Green eyes sweep inward toward the room, past the huddled teens and the dozing slump of Bahir to rest on Emma. "You should sleep. "
Bahir's head lifts slightly at the sound of words as he pulls from his doze to blink up at the two women. He watches them silently through sleep blurry eyes, wakefulness in posture and in the hue of his mind.
A shoulder lifts in a weary shrug, powers batting in reflexive irritation at the press of waking telepathy. "It will be morning soon enough. Time enough to rest after we've delivered them." Emma cranes her neck to peer out of the sliver of window she can see from her vantage point.
"You're no good if you're tired," Sabby points out, and her gaze flickers once more toward Bahir as he lifts his head. She meets his gaze for a moment, silent and still, and then turns away back to the watch.
Bahir holds Sabitha's gaze blankly a moment before his expression clears to a brief dip of his head. Telepathy draws back behind shields like an anemone startled by the nearby brush of a ... barracuda. He slips to his feet unsteadily, and walks away from the children before speaking in a low voice, "No use forcing her to sleep if she doesn't want to," he argues, although he stands at Sabitha's side, not Emma's.
Behind Sabitha's back, Emma rolls her eyes and climbs slowly to her feet. Her hand presses the wall behind her for support as she moves upwards. She doesn't need him at her side anyway. It's reserved for amber eyes. "We should move before it gets too light," she replies, moving to stand over the children as she scratches her head and pulls her ponytail holder from her hair and shakes it out.
"We have a few hours yet," Sabitha answers without looking around behind them. The subject of sleeping does not raise again, although it hangs heavy on her mind, a genuine worry that brushes past the gangs that own the streets of New York these days and the three helpless teens they're shepherding home.
"Then get some sleep yourself," Bahir says, giving Sabitha a brief look before glancing over at Emma. He watches her not warily, but blankly. Still sleepy.
Telepathy expands and uncurls like a yawn, stretching out to it's limits and closing back in. Emma runs her fingers through her hair and gathers up the lengths of gold back into the ponytail. "This is ridiculous," she murmurs softly, then spins away from their charges and crosses the linoleum to the others. Her boots are heavy. "You would think by now, /something/ would be better. Sorted out. You would think someone would have at least /tried/."
Sabitha's gaze turns back to Emma, shadowed and still as her eyes fix on the other woman. She breathes out carefully and does not reply.
Bahir's fingers brush along Sabitha's arm in a brief touch as they lift to rub at his eyes. Rub, rub. Wakey, wakey. "You'd think," he murmurs. "I thought that's what you're doing, Frost. Trying to do."
"One pitiful mutant at a time," Emma snarls, frustration carving chasms in the normally smooth purr. "It is the stupidest, absolute /waste/." Thoughts and other half-formed sentences tumble across her thoughts, aborted and discarded.
Sabitha's rising defenses subside slightly at Bahir's touch. She swallows tightly as she looks to the street again, ever-watchful, and murmurs, "If you have a better idea, I'm sure we'd all love to hear it."
<< She's just frustrated, >> Bahir murmurs to Sabitha, softer than spoken words, and softer yet so that Emma doesn't necessarily hear it -- but imperfectly shielded from her stronger telepathy. << Fuck, I'm frustrated too. >> He doesn't say anything.
She hears it. She can't help but hear it. Emma flicks a glance at this Hellion-come-lately, and turns away. "No, Sabitha. I don't have a better idea. Not now. All my better ideas crumbled into dust with the City." << We were going to change the world. The world changed before we were ready. >>
<< Me too, >> Sabby answers softly, and she leans her weight into the firm support of the doorway for a moment and swings the weight of her weapon - black steel, stolen, the one possession retained in the months since -- down to rest at her hip. She does not answer Emma's response.
"Then for now, let's focus on getting these three into Haven," Bahir says with strict practicality. "That's all we can do for now, and at least it's something." There's maybe a stir beneath the blankets, or maybe not. Regardless, his voice lowers. "We should either get some rest, as Sabitha says, or get them up to start moving again."
Emma exhales, the black cloud hanging over the city getting just a little bit blacker. She nods to Bahir's statement, then looks to Sabby. "How far from Haven are we? Is it safe to travel this early?"
Sabitha straightens and glances toward Bahir. There's a moment's gathering silence as she thinks. "Four miles," she suggests, gaze seeking confirmation from Bahir. "Maybe three. There are other groups that prefer to move at night."
Bahir opens his hands in a shrugging gesture. "I leave the matter to you both. Decide. Either way, decide quickly, so we don't waste time."
"Your call, Sabitha." Emma turns around and skirts the the dully glowing barrel.
Sabitha pushes down irritation at Bahir's shrug and turns to the window again, gaze lifting to the sky this time before she flips her wrist to check the time on her watch. "Give it an hour," she murmurs. "Time enough to wake up. Eat. Then we'll go."
"I'm catnapping, then," Bahir decides, and promptly slithers to the floor in a seat near Sabitha. He's not /quite/ out as fast as all that, but it nearly seems like it.
Emma nods and returns to her corner, where a pile of packs are lined up along the wall. She squats and digs through one. "They'll be out for a while yet. Might as well let the--" Bahir's easy fall into slumber catches her attention, and she blinks in private amazement. "...let them sleep."
"I think he missed the part about 'time to wake up,'" Sabby murmurs, although her glance toward Bahir is both sympathetic and fond before she turns back to her watch. "Remind me to wake up him at least twenty before we're ready to go. Takes him awhile to wake up."
Bahir opens an eye at that to give Sabitha a mock-cranky look. So not! Then he closes his eyes, and dozes.
"At least he's functional half asleep then," Emma answers wryly as she pulls out one of the granola bars she had brought with her on this trip and tosses it toward Sabby's feet. She pulls one for herself and rolls back into her corner to nurse it.
"Somewhat." Sabby dips to catch the bar before it can land and pauses, adjusting the safety on her gun before she slides it away so she can free both hands for stripping the crinkling wrapper from the food.
AU, April 2007: Shepherding little lost lambs to the safety of Haven.
=NYC= East Village - Manhattan
East Village would seem, by name, to be an extension of the arty Greenwich Village and this is precisely what the developers would like you to think. But East Village's spirit is closer to that of Lower East Side. East Village's spirit is that of the punk, the restrained (and unrestrained) riot, the beat poet turned homeless and angry. And some of those ragged street walkers indeed have nowhere to sleep.
East Village /is/, in the end, arty and experimental, but with an edge of drugs and desperation. If also the kind of free thought and frenetic drive that spark cultural revolution.
Tonight's evening rush is less than usual, most everyone off work from the holiday. Traffic is light, and Lark has space enough to wander slowly down the sidewalk. Lost in thought, her hands are shoved into the pockets of her short shorts, eyes on the buckles of her sandals. Occasionally she glances up to smile at a passerby, but more from habit than anything else.
Traffic is light, but it's still clearly traffic. This fact, as much as anything else, has Sabby baffled. The slim, short woman who crosses out of Thompkin's park with a gaze that skitters anxiously around her surroundings and a hand that hovers at her waist looks a bit out of place. Her clothes are dark and mismatched, her face lacking make-up, and her hair hands in a thick, dark braid down her back. More than that, however, is the way she stands. As if she expects an attack from any side, or all sides. As if she expects to be able to handle one. Her searching gaze locks on Lark, and there's only a moment's hesitation before she moves forward toward her in a fast stride.
Lark continues on a few steps, eyes down. Then the speed and purpose of the other woman catches her eye. She doesn't seem to realize that she herself is the goal and simply smiles in a vaguely friendly way as she continues on.
Sabitha leaves little room for Lark to continue on her way. She steps in front of the other woman, effectively halting her stride, and peers at her for a moment before she asks cautiously, "Can you tell me where I am?" She is lacking in the 'excuse me' that might mark her as a lost tourist. Perhaps she's simply a rude lost tourist?
Lark notices the woman in her way just barely in time to avoid bumping into her. She backs off a couple steps, giving her a puzzled but friendly smile. "Um, you're in the East Village. Where are you trying to get to?"
"The East Village?" Sabby's brow knits and suspicion sharpens perceptably in her gaze. She closes a single step toward Lark, pushing personal boundaries again. Lark, short as she is, still has an inch on Sabitha, but the other woman manages to loom for all that. "In Manhattan?"
"Yeah," Lark agrees, her expression growing more puzzled and less friendly at the other woman's attitude. She takes a matching step back to keep her distance, but pulls her hands out of her pocket and stands straighter, trying to use her height advantage. "Manhattan, New York City. Are you visiting?"
A brief flicker of bright green eyes watch the movement of Lark's hands, and her own hovers just a bit closer to her hip. Sabby breathes in as she studies the other woman for signs of a lie. After a moment she lifts her head to look beyond her and calls loudly, "Jason!"
Lark's eyebrows go up and she looks quickly over her shoulder. Seeing nothing, no one responding or waving, she turns back to Sabitha with a concerned question, "Um, are you..looking for someone?"
Sabitha remains standing for a moment, head lifted in desperate search. Eventually she lowers her gaze back to Lark and says, heartfelt, "Fuck." She studies the other woman and mutters lowly, "Wasn't supposed to meet him until tomorrow anyway." A pause and then she lifts her voice to ask, "And it's the 4th?"
"Yeah, that's why it's so quiet out here. Everyone's off work." Lark gestures round to the--to her--half empty street. She tries to catch Sabitha's eyes, studying her in turn. "Are you okay?"
"It's the fourth of July," Sabby seeks to clarify once more, eyeing Lark in obvious disbelief. "In Manhattan." A brief pause and then she thinks to adds, "In 2007."
"And the President of the United States is Henry Richards. Yeah." She looks Sabitha up and down, taking in the mismatched clothing and defensive stance. "Are you sure you're okay? Is there somewhere you should be?"
"Henry-- bloody fucking /hell/," Sabitha snaps, and then turns away from Lark. She stops several footsteps away to look back to her with narrowed eyes. "What's your name?"
Lark starts to answer, then pauses a second, recent events giving her more caution than usual. After a moment of silence, friendliness wins over caution. With a smile, she offers, "Lark. I'm Lark. Can I hail you a cab? Point you to a subway station? Anything?"
"What's your last name?" Sabby demands impatiently.
"Does it matter?" Lark counters, with a hint of a frown.
Sabitha's eyes narrow on Lark, head tipping with suspcion. "Do you have one?"
"Of course I do. And a middle name." Lark shakes her head slightly, frown growing.
Sabitha's turn on her heel is violent, and there's a restrained need to /hit/ something carried in every step away. "Nevermind," she bites toward the other woman, and disappears into the flow of the crowd.
Lark watches her disappear, then turns to continue on her original way. Her hands are in pockets again, eyes down, but now her thoughts cause a puzzled frown.
The world is not what it used to be.
=NYC= Apt 1200 |Percy| - Greenwich Apartments - Greenwich Village
A luxuriance of spacious and furnished in the best of taste, carpeted in beige with a large flatscreen TV the focus of the living room, connected to a pile of electronic equipment: DVD player, VCR, Playstation 2, nestling together in a grown man's apartment. The television is faced with a couch in supple dark brown leather and decorated with cushions in maroon and gold. The coffee table is dark, polished wood, inset with clear glass, to match the couch. The couch is matched by two recliners at opposing diagonal angle to the TV. The walls have been repapered in subtle cream and hung with art: simple, elegant, some paintings although it seems he favors artists who work in wood and glass. One of the walls, however, is free of art, because it is covered in irregular shelves: small stone sculptures, brickabrack, and candles and pretty rocks provide space breaks on a wall almost entirely peopled with books. Tucked into a corner, a small but well-ordered kitchen: tiled in white and pale gold, with its large double-doored black refrigerator, black gas stove and oven, and smooth peach-and-white countertops, creating a half-wall and bar that blockades the kitchen's tile flooring from the rest of the carpeted room. The table is set up beside one of the windows, smooth wood and four matching chairs, cushioned in maroon.
Sabitha has gotten out of the habit of elevators. The eight stories between her (once) apartment and Percy's don't seem nearly as long as they once did, and although she's breathing hard by the time she swings the door cautiously open and steps into the hall, there's still plenty of energy left to pool nervously in her stomach. It's late when she arrives. Fireworks have already burst into the sky and faded to nothing. She watched them for a few minutes from a spot stolen on 14th street before the booming explosions overhead sent her searching for safer territory. Like Greenwich. Like these familiar apartments.
She's dressed practically, if a bit oddly, noted by the occasional odd look from a passerby. Comfortable black pants are loose enough to hide a knife strapped to her calf, and her dark green tee tugs easily down over her waistband, hiding the bulge of the gun tucked at the small of her back. Mostly. Her hair has more length than it once did, left uncut for long months, and it hangs down her back in a thick braid several shades darker than what she used to wear. Features, though, are familiar, save for the minute changes wrought on them by the passing of hard times: a nose that's set slightly crooked, eyes that are a bit harder, the faint etch of worried lines at the corners of her mouth. The set of a suspicious and wary expression.
Sabby draws in a deep breath and stares at the door before her as booted feet come to a halt. The sight of it is nostalgically familiar and comfortable, in the same misty sort of way that she recalls her childhood. Or white chocolate cheesecake. It's also terrifying, and she pauses to rub sweat-slicked palms against her thighs before she raises one hand to the door. Force of will keeps it from shaking. Determination dips it in a single knock. After a moment's pause, her fist adds, 'and a haircut'. She waits.
Inside the apartment, Percy is sitting on his couch in his pajamas, watching Independence Day in that vague sort of way, of a man not really paying much attention to it, but instead wandering in the halls of his own thoughts. With the knock, he cants his head to one side, frowning towards the door, and gets up in a slither of dark silk over cream skin. Cinching the robe tighter about his waist with the drawn loop of its sash, he turns off the television and scratches a hand through the dark waves of his hair.
Barefoot over the carpet, he wanders to the door, saying, "Oliver, I thought we'd already been over this--" and as he opens it, he halts.
He looks blank.
Sabitha's eyes widen as the door swings open, and her gaze searches his face hungrily as she draws in a breath and holds it without meaning to. Her hands hang loose at her side, frozen, and it's several long seconds - forever seconds - before she finds voice to speak in a whisper. "Oh my God. Percy." Her throat closes around his name and almost breaks. "Are you /real/?" Pheromones mark Sabitha as real enough - worry and fear and an undercurrent of desperate, aching relief.
Percy recoils physically first, at the whisper of his name. He takes a step back and stares, his nostrils flaring with an intake of breath. His fingers, caught on the door-knob, flex and curl into a tighter grip.
Sabitha , on the other hand, moves into him with a crashing mindlessness and a sob caught in her throat, eager for the confirmation of touch.
Percy backs further, slipping away from searching hands like a ghost, or a man in fear of one. When he finds his voice, it is a cracking, harsh thing, writ with fury rather than hope. "I don't know what you think you're playing at but you need to /stop/. And get the fuck out of here /now/."
Sabitha halts. Every muscle in her body stands still, holding in breathless confusion before possibilities dawn like dark secrets. She watches him for a long moment and does not move.
"Seriously," Percy says, and there is a strangled note of panic thinning his voice as he backs a few paces further towards the coffee table and the cell phone abandoned on it. "I don't know /how/ or /why/ you -- but I can have ten Pawns here in ten minutes, and one of them can track you without that thing on, and the others can track you with it."
"Percy--" Sabby's voice breaks off and she swallows, eyes closing briefly for a moment, expression gone pained, before she steps lightly over the threshold and into his apartment. She closes the door behind her, but remains standing next to it, leaning against it for support. Privacy with as little instrusion as she can manage. Chemical markers wind tight with tension as she asks softly, "Who do you think I am?"
"I don't care for this game," Percy says. His glance skims warily over his apartment, another step taken backwards towards the table and the phone. "You won't find anything here. How stupid do you think I am?"
Sabitha's voice lifts in anxious despair as her hand spasms against the doorknob behind her. "Why don't you think I'm /me/?"
"Real funny, Wyngarde." Percy drops to a knee so that he can pick up his phone without the chance of accidentally looking directly at the apparition. "I gave you your fucking letter. I didn't even turn the Pawns out to hunt you down. You want the /renewed/ emnity of the White Court, pal? Because you're about to get it."
"Mastermind," Sabby recognizes with a ragged laugh, and at that single, familiar name she steps forward into Percy's apartment. Her words come without thought, gaining speed as she goes. "I thought so too. But it's been too long. He'd have given out by now. And I don't know why he /would/, not /this/, not-- Percy."
"What the fuck are you doing?" Percy snarls, his thumb poised over a button on his phone. "I /gave/ you your /letter/. Get out of here!"
"I'm not Jason." Sabby's voice winds tight and ragged as she steps quickly toward him. "Please don't make me leave, Percy. I don't know where else to go. Please--"
"Who the fuck are you, then?" Percy's hand tightens over the phone rather than pressing the button. "Of course you are. Don't be ridiculous. Who /else/ would? Who else would /bother/?" He circles the couch, keeping its dark leather bulk in between him and his visitor. "I am not interested in your guilt games, you self-righteous son of a bitch. Why don't you go do something constructive with your time, like assassinate somebody!"
Sabitha stops cold and stares at Percy. There is silence for quite some time, and she lifts a hand to scrub hard at her face. Fingers draw across the line of a once-broken nose out of habit and then fall back to her side. Eventually she speaks again, softly. "When we first met, it was in the laundry room. It was wicked hot, and I didn't have any clean clothes left except this denim skirt, and you told me you were a linguist and I thought that was fucking cool, and we flirted while I sat on the washing machine. The next time I saw you was at the library and I thought you were a narcissistic bastard. And then there was the club, and then you got drunk and brought me chocolate cake and for ages I wouldn't tell you my last name and that's why you always call--" Her voice chokes and she has to stop before she can finish, "Always called me Agent Melcross."
Percy meets that without his voice, with only the phone clutched in curling fingers, and stands very still behind the sofa. Then he slowly starts to shake his head. "No," he says. "No. No, no, no, no." He lifts his gaze to look at her full on for almost the first time since she has entered the room, and in a voice thick and rough and dark, he growls, "You aren't her."
"And when I was in the hospital, sick, you sat and read to me. You were there the whole time. The Three Musketeers." Sabby stops and stares at him, green eyes bright with the threat of tears. "Percy. Tell me why you think I'm not me."
"You're not her," Percy insists without answering the question. He steps back another pace, and then another, until he feels the wall behind him.
"Are we dead?" Sabby asks abruptly, gaze tearing away to swing around the apartment proper. Her laugh borders on hysterical. "Is this-- fuck. Not hell, I guess. Or heaven. Purgatory?"
Percy doesn't say anything. He knuckles the wall and clamps his teeth.
Sabitha remains silent for a moment herself, and then she steps away from the living room and toward the kitchen without another word. She's looking for alcohol.
"You need to get out of here," Percy says quietly, almost dully, as he forces all of the panic down to a more manageable level and tightens his restraints over himself. "You don't belong here. I don't know who you are or how you can know what you can't know, but you /can't/ be her."
Sabitha spins in the middle of Percy's kitchen to face him, anger and fear rising to match each other in a tightly wound spiral. "Where do you want me to /go/, Percy? What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't even know what you /are/," Percy hisses back, the words more whispered than spoken. His fists knot at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
"I'm /Sabby/. What the /fuck/ do I look like?"
"You're /not/." Percy pushes off from the wall, but only so that he doesn't have to face her anymore. His pacing steps drag through the room as he moves, motion undirected and random.
Sabitha moves after him, footsteps loud as they pound against the floor. "What else do you want me to tell you? How about the night I called you in a panic because Chris couldn't remember me? Maybe the first night we fucked?" She waves a hand, gesturing toward the coffee table. "We were sitting there, on the floor, and I hugged you and when I pulled back you kissed me-- /Fuck/, Percy!" She's crying now, eyes bright with the glisten of angry tears. "I'm not making this up, and I /need/ you!"
Percy stops stock still and holds himself stiffly for a moment, shoulders set and fists yet clenched. "How about the time I spread your ashes," he rasps hoarsely, half looking over his shoulder at her. "Get out of here. Go /away/."
"How about the time I spread /yours/," Sabby shoots back, arms raised to cross desperately over her chest.
"Get /out/," Percy repeats again, desperation strangling in his throat.
Sabitha stares at him for a moment and then lifts a hand to rub it angrily across her eyes. When she lowers it, she spins on her heel and stalks for the door without another word.
Percy sways a little on his feet where he stands, staring after her at the door with a kind of blank shock in his expression.
The door opens. The door closes. Sabby is gone.
Sabby seeks out an old (dead) friend for help.
=NYC= Foyer - Hellfire Clubhouse
A study in understated opulence, the foyer of the Hellfire Club's manor breathes luxury and sedate elegance. The floor is marble, a field of black inlaid with a stylized mosaic representing the world. Green, brown, and blue stone glimmers in the shape of continents and seas; semi-precious stones represent the larger cities, and a few more valuable gems glitter where the Hellfire Club has a chapter headquarters. The walls alternate dark, polished wooden columns with mirrors blackened to be only slightly reflective: just enough to give the feeling of space and spread the light around more without creating a riot of images. A crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the vault-beamed ceiling, bathing wood and stone in a mellow golden glow.
Guards keep watch at the security station set just inside the arched doorway leading out to the front of the estate; across the foyer is a hallway framed by another high arch with matching doorways that are typically left open for easy access to the back deck. On the other two walls are open arched entrances to the north and south wings of the clubhouse and the informal and formal areas, respectively. A wide staircase sweeps up to the second floor.
Sabitha sits in a chair dragged for her convenience (really!) to just outside the security station. She's jittery, one leg shaking in a rapidfire rhythm despite her weariness, and her hands are twisted tight in her lap. Nerves are frayed to their bare edge as she waits, silent. Obedient. Ever-accomodating to the requests of the pawns who guard the entrance, and wryly allowing of their spooked looks as a ghost requests audience with Emma Frost.
Emerging from the north wing of the Hellfire Club on rapid strides, the Pawn's summoned superior in appears, wearing white-piped black workout pants, white sports bra, a white towel slung over her shoulders, and a light coating of sweat. Her agile body moves just a little too fast, but slows as she approaches the security station, and the orange-brightness of her eyes recedes to coal darkness. Her eyebrows go up as she gets close enough to get a better look at what appears to be Sabitha. "Well, well," she says. So pleasant, she careens into an airy greeting, with her hands braced at her hips: "Good evening, ma'am. Welcome to the Hellfire Club. I understand there's some confusion as to your identity. I'm sure we can get this all sorted as quickly as possible."
Without the benefit of Sauer's cheating tweak of speed, Bahir is forced to either run, or show up late. Dignity a precious commodity, he walks. He is slow to arrive.
Sabitha's gaze sweeps fast to Sauer and then narrows in nervous irritation. "You're not Emma," she points out needlessly, pushing up to her feet with anxious movement. Fingers twitch anxiously, but do not reach for the gun still tucked up at the small of her back. Her frown is close to a scowl. "I get it, I'm supposed to be dead, but there's a whole thing and I would /really/ like to speak to Emma Frost."
Dark, perceptive eyes flick to the twitch of Sabitha's fingers, and then back towards her face. Eliza cocks an eyebrow. "I'm sure that Ms. Frost would be delighted to see an old friend," she says, "but you'll understand we need to make sure that everything is in order before we arrange anything like." Her smile is a bladed flash. "Can I see some identification?"
Sabitha starts to laugh, low and slightly unhinged.
Eliza snaps, "Eisenberg."
One of the security pawns comes to loom behind Sabitha and lays a hand on her upper arm. It is unquestionably restraint, despite the remarkably gentle touch.
Sweetly, Eliza addresses the laughing Sabitha: "I'm sorry. Did you forget your wallet?"
Racer stripes of brilliant blue highlight the black of Bahir's workout pants, and his shirt has gone missing. Instead, he has a towel, and a cranky expression. Scruff scrapes along his jaw, but his hair is short and neat, if damp with perspiration. He enters well behind Eliza, but when he does, he comes to a jerked stop.
"I haven't carried a wallet in two fucking years," Sabby spits at Eliza. She notes restraint, and although her eyes flash dangerously bright for a moment, she accepts it without question. One hand moves back - cautiously back - toward a bulging pocket and she offers, "You want the one I stole earlier today for cab fare? Fucking /hell/, if I were someone else walking into this place, do you really think /ID/ would be the shit I got hung up o--" And then she stops, because her eyes have lifted enough to settle on Bahir, and with the sight of him her shoulders slump with instinctual relief before her mind can catch up to the likely reality. A mental greeting, anxious and familiar and desperate for comfort, shouts his name, and then she swallows and offers it aloud instead, calmer. "Bahir."
"No, sweetheart," Eliza says, with glitter-eyed patience. "Al-Razi. You're convenient. Come here and do me a favor." Telepathic speech does not come easily to Sauer, but the unspoken rips staccato through her thoughts, over loud with barely restrained tension. << Identity check telepath. Renegade. Bitch can't be who she looks like. Threat. >>
Bahir's chin lifts slightly with the wash of acknowledgement at Eliza, and then he allows shields to fall as he swoops down to cover Sabitha's mind in the power of his telepathy. This is a far more controlled thing than that she remembers, refined and practiced; the power is no different, just its application. Her senses mute, as if hearing from a distance and seeing through a veil, but her body goes dead still. Threat negated, and identity--. Well. He seeks /that/.
Sabitha closes her eyes and waits. Her body may still, but tension still threads through every inch of it, and it washes clean over her mind as passing thoughts note differences, similiarities, ache for the familiar comfort of Bahir's hand along her arm, at the small of her back. Through it all she is firmly, undeniably Sabitha - although different than that he remembers. History splits at a point two and a half years past. So, too, does personality.
Eliza waits patiently, folding her arms over the dark skin of her toned stomach. The other two Pawns, Eisenberg and one other, do not appear to be quite as patient or at their ease. They are nervous.
It is neither easy, nor quick. Bahir finds a place leaning against the wall as he picks his way through Sabitha's thoughts. He doesn't bother to blunt the sweep of telepathy, making an unease itch that can't be scratched. Finally, a few minutes later, "--the fuck." He rubs at the back of his neck, loosing control of Sabitha. To Eliza, confirmation: << She's Sabitha, or thinks she is. Except--. >> And then, pertinent details, shared again.
"--the fuck?" Eliza spends a moment on looking blank.
Sabitha shakes her head uncomfortably and fixes her gaze tight on Bahir, watching him rather than Eliza. She doesn't offer any explanation for their response. She simply remains stiff and straight, uncomfortable in her stance. Weary.
<< Yeah. >> Bahir rubs at his eyes. << We either keep her in the cell or give her a room and stick a guard on her. Do you want to call Lensherr or Frost? >>
<< Talhurst, Frost, Lensherr, al-Razi. All of the fucking above. >> Eliza gives Bahir a sour grin << -- don't get many resurrected assassins -- >> and then turns back to Sabitha. "Okay," she says. "Ms. Melcross. Welcome back. I'm afraid it's simply too late to disturb the White Queen, but I'll have my friend Luke here escort you to one of Hellfire's fine guest rooms. If you'd like anything to eat, or bath salts for the tub, or whatever the hell, please don't hesitate to ask the guard who will be posted at your door overnight and your wants will be seen to." She smiles. So pleasantly! << I want to hit something why do I always get the WEIRD shit? >>
Sabitha's gaze snaps swiftly back to Eliza. "Are you fucking /kidding/ me?" she answers. "Too late--" And then her eyes swing back to Bahir in a plea. "Bahir. /Please/." << Help me, >> she begs.
Bahir avoids Sabitha's gaze, dark eyes holding steady on Eliza. He swallows. << I let Adel know. He's calling Frost now. >>
<< Thanks. I'll get Lensherr when we're done here. >> Eliza nods once to Bahir, and then turns another false-sweet smile back on Sabitha. "Ms. Frost is quite busy," she says, jerking her chin at Luke. "Relieve her of any weaponry or suspicious drugs she happens to have on her person and show her to one of the empty guest suites."
"Ma'am," Luke Eisenberg agrees pleasantly, and then turns the warm courtesy with which he has been trained to the, er, prisoner. "Now, ma'am, if you'd care to lift your hands above your head, this won't take hardly a jiff."
<< Bahir, >> Sabby begs, eyes fixing dark on him again. << At least /talk/ to me. Please-- >> Her head snaps around to Luke, and she stares at him for a moment before she lifts her hands silently. Her jaw sets as her shirt hitches up to reveal the handgun at her back, and her voice draws tight as she says, "There's a knife at my left ankle."
Which ... leaves Bahir to let Percy know. He gives Eliza an annoyed glance, like she planned the Sabitha surprise on purpose. He turns to her, eyes briefly closing as he checks her mind for any other weapons she might have besides the obvious firestarting. As she's listed them all, he nods to Luke. "Sabitha, one way or the other, we will get this settled. For now, these are normal precautions."
"Thanks for your cooperation, ma'am," Luke says mildly. He hands off the gun to the other Pawn and bends low to unhitch the knife from her ankle and then rises to hand that off as well.
Eliza grins at Bahir's discomfiture. Just a little. She so didn't want that job! She says, "You'll find Hellfire's hospitality leaves nothing to be desired, Ms. Melcross."
Anger fades into resignation and Sabby slumps slightly, bone-weary. Her hands drop as Luke straightens away and she draws in a careful breath. "Adel?" she wonders of Bahir, soft.
"What about him?" Bahir asks, baffled.
"Is he alive?" Sabby asks simply. "Here?"
"What?" Having previously shied from those things he didn't want to see, Bahir rips back through Sabitha's memory even as he says, "He's fine."
Eliza looks bewildered.
Luke stands just behind Sabitha, with a hand at her upper arm, and waits for the conversation to conclude like a good escort.
Sabitha's memory carries Bahir backwards, skittering over bumps and breaks until it settles on an image of plumply ripe tomatoes. Sabby follows with him and closes her eyes tight against his assurance as tears well once more at the corners, threatening to overwhelm her. In memory, a gunshot rings free and there's the cold assurance of metal in her hands. Teenagers fall. So does Adel. And then she's at his side, hands pressed hard against a bleeding wound while Bahir drops to his knees next to them and Adel's not breathing, Adel's staring up at them but not seeing--
Recoiling from her mind, Bahir stumbles backwards -- but the wall is already behind him, and he comes up hard and short. He shakes his head, with no immediate response.
Sabitha's eyes open and she looks at Bahir for a moment. She swallows and lifts a hand to scrub angrily at one eye. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.
"Al-Razi?" Eliza shoots Sabitha a glance, sharp and dark with irritation as well as suspicion. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Bahir says, irritation just as sharp in his tone as in Eliza's eyes. He straightens, but avoids Sabitha's gaze again.
Sabitha remains silent, but she finally looks away and gives Luke a brief nod.
Luke smiles, friendly and slightly relieved. "This way, please, ma'am," he says, and starts to guide her across the foyer and up the hall towards the guest rooms.
"Okay," Eliza says, nodding once in a sharp jerk. "I'm going to go talk to the King."
Sabitha goes without further objection, steps swift and loud against the floor.
Bahir waits until the room has cleared before setting off to go get his phone, and call Percy.
Sabby decides to visit the Hellfire Club for some help.
The city is warm again, most days. Sunlight makes it bearable to move without heavy jackets and gloves, and there's no snow on the ground. As night falls, though, so does the temperature, and the small lobby of what was once an apartment building is chilly enough to warrant the blankets pulled up tight around shoulders and the fire that crackles in a small drum. Three exhausted teenagers - barely old enough for the term - sleep next to each other on the floor, lumps under blankets. Sabitha stands next to the door with long hair pulled back into a braid and weapon in hand, watching the darkness of the outside world through the slim hold of window they've left free.
His coat drawn taught around his shoulders, Bahir sits folded on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. He doses lightly, restlessly. His thoughts are scattered and fragmented across his dreams. It is Sabitha's watch, and he lets her stand it, but his gun is near at hand, and his ready to rouse at the slightest hint of need.
Their cargo sleeps deeply, probably the first truly restorative sleep in many months, thanks to the other figure who now squats in a corner, too fastidious to come into full contact with the floor. Emma maintains her own brand of vigilance, sweeping the outer darkness for minds intent on malice in methodical rotations every five to ten minutes, other telepaths pressing in on her shields like smokey flares. Such as the dozing Bahir across the room. She ducks her head and rubs her temples, and a few less than neutral minds are turned elsewhere. She turns to look along the wall at Sabitha's back.
Sabitha stirs. She shifts slightly, straightening away as something in the distance catches her attention, and she raises her gun in near silence. After a moment's tense waiting, she settles back again. Whatever concerned her has passed. Green eyes sweep inward toward the room, past the huddled teens and the dozing slump of Bahir to rest on Emma. "You should sleep. "
Bahir's head lifts slightly at the sound of words as he pulls from his doze to blink up at the two women. He watches them silently through sleep blurry eyes, wakefulness in posture and in the hue of his mind.
A shoulder lifts in a weary shrug, powers batting in reflexive irritation at the press of waking telepathy. "It will be morning soon enough. Time enough to rest after we've delivered them." Emma cranes her neck to peer out of the sliver of window she can see from her vantage point.
"You're no good if you're tired," Sabby points out, and her gaze flickers once more toward Bahir as he lifts his head. She meets his gaze for a moment, silent and still, and then turns away back to the watch.
Bahir holds Sabitha's gaze blankly a moment before his expression clears to a brief dip of his head. Telepathy draws back behind shields like an anemone startled by the nearby brush of a ... barracuda. He slips to his feet unsteadily, and walks away from the children before speaking in a low voice, "No use forcing her to sleep if she doesn't want to," he argues, although he stands at Sabitha's side, not Emma's.
Behind Sabitha's back, Emma rolls her eyes and climbs slowly to her feet. Her hand presses the wall behind her for support as she moves upwards. She doesn't need him at her side anyway. It's reserved for amber eyes. "We should move before it gets too light," she replies, moving to stand over the children as she scratches her head and pulls her ponytail holder from her hair and shakes it out.
"We have a few hours yet," Sabitha answers without looking around behind them. The subject of sleeping does not raise again, although it hangs heavy on her mind, a genuine worry that brushes past the gangs that own the streets of New York these days and the three helpless teens they're shepherding home.
"Then get some sleep yourself," Bahir says, giving Sabitha a brief look before glancing over at Emma. He watches her not warily, but blankly. Still sleepy.
Telepathy expands and uncurls like a yawn, stretching out to it's limits and closing back in. Emma runs her fingers through her hair and gathers up the lengths of gold back into the ponytail. "This is ridiculous," she murmurs softly, then spins away from their charges and crosses the linoleum to the others. Her boots are heavy. "You would think by now, /something/ would be better. Sorted out. You would think someone would have at least /tried/."
Sabitha's gaze turns back to Emma, shadowed and still as her eyes fix on the other woman. She breathes out carefully and does not reply.
Bahir's fingers brush along Sabitha's arm in a brief touch as they lift to rub at his eyes. Rub, rub. Wakey, wakey. "You'd think," he murmurs. "I thought that's what you're doing, Frost. Trying to do."
"One pitiful mutant at a time," Emma snarls, frustration carving chasms in the normally smooth purr. "It is the stupidest, absolute /waste/." Thoughts and other half-formed sentences tumble across her thoughts, aborted and discarded.
Sabitha's rising defenses subside slightly at Bahir's touch. She swallows tightly as she looks to the street again, ever-watchful, and murmurs, "If you have a better idea, I'm sure we'd all love to hear it."
<< She's just frustrated, >> Bahir murmurs to Sabitha, softer than spoken words, and softer yet so that Emma doesn't necessarily hear it -- but imperfectly shielded from her stronger telepathy. << Fuck, I'm frustrated too. >> He doesn't say anything.
She hears it. She can't help but hear it. Emma flicks a glance at this Hellion-come-lately, and turns away. "No, Sabitha. I don't have a better idea. Not now. All my better ideas crumbled into dust with the City." << We were going to change the world. The world changed before we were ready. >>
<< Me too, >> Sabby answers softly, and she leans her weight into the firm support of the doorway for a moment and swings the weight of her weapon - black steel, stolen, the one possession retained in the months since -- down to rest at her hip. She does not answer Emma's response.
"Then for now, let's focus on getting these three into Haven," Bahir says with strict practicality. "That's all we can do for now, and at least it's something." There's maybe a stir beneath the blankets, or maybe not. Regardless, his voice lowers. "We should either get some rest, as Sabitha says, or get them up to start moving again."
Emma exhales, the black cloud hanging over the city getting just a little bit blacker. She nods to Bahir's statement, then looks to Sabby. "How far from Haven are we? Is it safe to travel this early?"
Sabitha straightens and glances toward Bahir. There's a moment's gathering silence as she thinks. "Four miles," she suggests, gaze seeking confirmation from Bahir. "Maybe three. There are other groups that prefer to move at night."
Bahir opens his hands in a shrugging gesture. "I leave the matter to you both. Decide. Either way, decide quickly, so we don't waste time."
"Your call, Sabitha." Emma turns around and skirts the the dully glowing barrel.
Sabitha pushes down irritation at Bahir's shrug and turns to the window again, gaze lifting to the sky this time before she flips her wrist to check the time on her watch. "Give it an hour," she murmurs. "Time enough to wake up. Eat. Then we'll go."
"I'm catnapping, then," Bahir decides, and promptly slithers to the floor in a seat near Sabitha. He's not /quite/ out as fast as all that, but it nearly seems like it.
Emma nods and returns to her corner, where a pile of packs are lined up along the wall. She squats and digs through one. "They'll be out for a while yet. Might as well let the--" Bahir's easy fall into slumber catches her attention, and she blinks in private amazement. "...let them sleep."
"I think he missed the part about 'time to wake up,'" Sabby murmurs, although her glance toward Bahir is both sympathetic and fond before she turns back to her watch. "Remind me to wake up him at least twenty before we're ready to go. Takes him awhile to wake up."
Bahir opens an eye at that to give Sabitha a mock-cranky look. So not! Then he closes his eyes, and dozes.
"At least he's functional half asleep then," Emma answers wryly as she pulls out one of the granola bars she had brought with her on this trip and tosses it toward Sabby's feet. She pulls one for herself and rolls back into her corner to nurse it.
"Somewhat." Sabby dips to catch the bar before it can land and pauses, adjusting the safety on her gun before she slides it away so she can free both hands for stripping the crinkling wrapper from the food.
AU, April 2007: Shepherding little lost lambs to the safety of Haven.
=NYC= East Village - Manhattan
East Village would seem, by name, to be an extension of the arty Greenwich Village and this is precisely what the developers would like you to think. But East Village's spirit is closer to that of Lower East Side. East Village's spirit is that of the punk, the restrained (and unrestrained) riot, the beat poet turned homeless and angry. And some of those ragged street walkers indeed have nowhere to sleep.
East Village /is/, in the end, arty and experimental, but with an edge of drugs and desperation. If also the kind of free thought and frenetic drive that spark cultural revolution.
Tonight's evening rush is less than usual, most everyone off work from the holiday. Traffic is light, and Lark has space enough to wander slowly down the sidewalk. Lost in thought, her hands are shoved into the pockets of her short shorts, eyes on the buckles of her sandals. Occasionally she glances up to smile at a passerby, but more from habit than anything else.
Traffic is light, but it's still clearly traffic. This fact, as much as anything else, has Sabby baffled. The slim, short woman who crosses out of Thompkin's park with a gaze that skitters anxiously around her surroundings and a hand that hovers at her waist looks a bit out of place. Her clothes are dark and mismatched, her face lacking make-up, and her hair hands in a thick, dark braid down her back. More than that, however, is the way she stands. As if she expects an attack from any side, or all sides. As if she expects to be able to handle one. Her searching gaze locks on Lark, and there's only a moment's hesitation before she moves forward toward her in a fast stride.
Lark continues on a few steps, eyes down. Then the speed and purpose of the other woman catches her eye. She doesn't seem to realize that she herself is the goal and simply smiles in a vaguely friendly way as she continues on.
Sabitha leaves little room for Lark to continue on her way. She steps in front of the other woman, effectively halting her stride, and peers at her for a moment before she asks cautiously, "Can you tell me where I am?" She is lacking in the 'excuse me' that might mark her as a lost tourist. Perhaps she's simply a rude lost tourist?
Lark notices the woman in her way just barely in time to avoid bumping into her. She backs off a couple steps, giving her a puzzled but friendly smile. "Um, you're in the East Village. Where are you trying to get to?"
"The East Village?" Sabby's brow knits and suspicion sharpens perceptably in her gaze. She closes a single step toward Lark, pushing personal boundaries again. Lark, short as she is, still has an inch on Sabitha, but the other woman manages to loom for all that. "In Manhattan?"
"Yeah," Lark agrees, her expression growing more puzzled and less friendly at the other woman's attitude. She takes a matching step back to keep her distance, but pulls her hands out of her pocket and stands straighter, trying to use her height advantage. "Manhattan, New York City. Are you visiting?"
A brief flicker of bright green eyes watch the movement of Lark's hands, and her own hovers just a bit closer to her hip. Sabby breathes in as she studies the other woman for signs of a lie. After a moment she lifts her head to look beyond her and calls loudly, "Jason!"
Lark's eyebrows go up and she looks quickly over her shoulder. Seeing nothing, no one responding or waving, she turns back to Sabitha with a concerned question, "Um, are you..looking for someone?"
Sabitha remains standing for a moment, head lifted in desperate search. Eventually she lowers her gaze back to Lark and says, heartfelt, "Fuck." She studies the other woman and mutters lowly, "Wasn't supposed to meet him until tomorrow anyway." A pause and then she lifts her voice to ask, "And it's the 4th?"
"Yeah, that's why it's so quiet out here. Everyone's off work." Lark gestures round to the--to her--half empty street. She tries to catch Sabitha's eyes, studying her in turn. "Are you okay?"
"It's the fourth of July," Sabby seeks to clarify once more, eyeing Lark in obvious disbelief. "In Manhattan." A brief pause and then she thinks to adds, "In 2007."
"And the President of the United States is Henry Richards. Yeah." She looks Sabitha up and down, taking in the mismatched clothing and defensive stance. "Are you sure you're okay? Is there somewhere you should be?"
"Henry-- bloody fucking /hell/," Sabitha snaps, and then turns away from Lark. She stops several footsteps away to look back to her with narrowed eyes. "What's your name?"
Lark starts to answer, then pauses a second, recent events giving her more caution than usual. After a moment of silence, friendliness wins over caution. With a smile, she offers, "Lark. I'm Lark. Can I hail you a cab? Point you to a subway station? Anything?"
"What's your last name?" Sabby demands impatiently.
"Does it matter?" Lark counters, with a hint of a frown.
Sabitha's eyes narrow on Lark, head tipping with suspcion. "Do you have one?"
"Of course I do. And a middle name." Lark shakes her head slightly, frown growing.
Sabitha's turn on her heel is violent, and there's a restrained need to /hit/ something carried in every step away. "Nevermind," she bites toward the other woman, and disappears into the flow of the crowd.
Lark watches her disappear, then turns to continue on her original way. Her hands are in pockets again, eyes down, but now her thoughts cause a puzzled frown.
The world is not what it used to be.
=NYC= Apt 1200 |Percy| - Greenwich Apartments - Greenwich Village
A luxuriance of spacious and furnished in the best of taste, carpeted in beige with a large flatscreen TV the focus of the living room, connected to a pile of electronic equipment: DVD player, VCR, Playstation 2, nestling together in a grown man's apartment. The television is faced with a couch in supple dark brown leather and decorated with cushions in maroon and gold. The coffee table is dark, polished wood, inset with clear glass, to match the couch. The couch is matched by two recliners at opposing diagonal angle to the TV. The walls have been repapered in subtle cream and hung with art: simple, elegant, some paintings although it seems he favors artists who work in wood and glass. One of the walls, however, is free of art, because it is covered in irregular shelves: small stone sculptures, brickabrack, and candles and pretty rocks provide space breaks on a wall almost entirely peopled with books. Tucked into a corner, a small but well-ordered kitchen: tiled in white and pale gold, with its large double-doored black refrigerator, black gas stove and oven, and smooth peach-and-white countertops, creating a half-wall and bar that blockades the kitchen's tile flooring from the rest of the carpeted room. The table is set up beside one of the windows, smooth wood and four matching chairs, cushioned in maroon.
Sabitha has gotten out of the habit of elevators. The eight stories between her (once) apartment and Percy's don't seem nearly as long as they once did, and although she's breathing hard by the time she swings the door cautiously open and steps into the hall, there's still plenty of energy left to pool nervously in her stomach. It's late when she arrives. Fireworks have already burst into the sky and faded to nothing. She watched them for a few minutes from a spot stolen on 14th street before the booming explosions overhead sent her searching for safer territory. Like Greenwich. Like these familiar apartments.
She's dressed practically, if a bit oddly, noted by the occasional odd look from a passerby. Comfortable black pants are loose enough to hide a knife strapped to her calf, and her dark green tee tugs easily down over her waistband, hiding the bulge of the gun tucked at the small of her back. Mostly. Her hair has more length than it once did, left uncut for long months, and it hangs down her back in a thick braid several shades darker than what she used to wear. Features, though, are familiar, save for the minute changes wrought on them by the passing of hard times: a nose that's set slightly crooked, eyes that are a bit harder, the faint etch of worried lines at the corners of her mouth. The set of a suspicious and wary expression.
Sabby draws in a deep breath and stares at the door before her as booted feet come to a halt. The sight of it is nostalgically familiar and comfortable, in the same misty sort of way that she recalls her childhood. Or white chocolate cheesecake. It's also terrifying, and she pauses to rub sweat-slicked palms against her thighs before she raises one hand to the door. Force of will keeps it from shaking. Determination dips it in a single knock. After a moment's pause, her fist adds, 'and a haircut'. She waits.
Inside the apartment, Percy is sitting on his couch in his pajamas, watching Independence Day in that vague sort of way, of a man not really paying much attention to it, but instead wandering in the halls of his own thoughts. With the knock, he cants his head to one side, frowning towards the door, and gets up in a slither of dark silk over cream skin. Cinching the robe tighter about his waist with the drawn loop of its sash, he turns off the television and scratches a hand through the dark waves of his hair.
Barefoot over the carpet, he wanders to the door, saying, "Oliver, I thought we'd already been over this--" and as he opens it, he halts.
He looks blank.
Sabitha's eyes widen as the door swings open, and her gaze searches his face hungrily as she draws in a breath and holds it without meaning to. Her hands hang loose at her side, frozen, and it's several long seconds - forever seconds - before she finds voice to speak in a whisper. "Oh my God. Percy." Her throat closes around his name and almost breaks. "Are you /real/?" Pheromones mark Sabitha as real enough - worry and fear and an undercurrent of desperate, aching relief.
Percy recoils physically first, at the whisper of his name. He takes a step back and stares, his nostrils flaring with an intake of breath. His fingers, caught on the door-knob, flex and curl into a tighter grip.
Sabitha , on the other hand, moves into him with a crashing mindlessness and a sob caught in her throat, eager for the confirmation of touch.
Percy backs further, slipping away from searching hands like a ghost, or a man in fear of one. When he finds his voice, it is a cracking, harsh thing, writ with fury rather than hope. "I don't know what you think you're playing at but you need to /stop/. And get the fuck out of here /now/."
Sabitha halts. Every muscle in her body stands still, holding in breathless confusion before possibilities dawn like dark secrets. She watches him for a long moment and does not move.
"Seriously," Percy says, and there is a strangled note of panic thinning his voice as he backs a few paces further towards the coffee table and the cell phone abandoned on it. "I don't know /how/ or /why/ you -- but I can have ten Pawns here in ten minutes, and one of them can track you without that thing on, and the others can track you with it."
"Percy--" Sabby's voice breaks off and she swallows, eyes closing briefly for a moment, expression gone pained, before she steps lightly over the threshold and into his apartment. She closes the door behind her, but remains standing next to it, leaning against it for support. Privacy with as little instrusion as she can manage. Chemical markers wind tight with tension as she asks softly, "Who do you think I am?"
"I don't care for this game," Percy says. His glance skims warily over his apartment, another step taken backwards towards the table and the phone. "You won't find anything here. How stupid do you think I am?"
Sabitha's voice lifts in anxious despair as her hand spasms against the doorknob behind her. "Why don't you think I'm /me/?"
"Real funny, Wyngarde." Percy drops to a knee so that he can pick up his phone without the chance of accidentally looking directly at the apparition. "I gave you your fucking letter. I didn't even turn the Pawns out to hunt you down. You want the /renewed/ emnity of the White Court, pal? Because you're about to get it."
"Mastermind," Sabby recognizes with a ragged laugh, and at that single, familiar name she steps forward into Percy's apartment. Her words come without thought, gaining speed as she goes. "I thought so too. But it's been too long. He'd have given out by now. And I don't know why he /would/, not /this/, not-- Percy."
"What the fuck are you doing?" Percy snarls, his thumb poised over a button on his phone. "I /gave/ you your /letter/. Get out of here!"
"I'm not Jason." Sabby's voice winds tight and ragged as she steps quickly toward him. "Please don't make me leave, Percy. I don't know where else to go. Please--"
"Who the fuck are you, then?" Percy's hand tightens over the phone rather than pressing the button. "Of course you are. Don't be ridiculous. Who /else/ would? Who else would /bother/?" He circles the couch, keeping its dark leather bulk in between him and his visitor. "I am not interested in your guilt games, you self-righteous son of a bitch. Why don't you go do something constructive with your time, like assassinate somebody!"
Sabitha stops cold and stares at Percy. There is silence for quite some time, and she lifts a hand to scrub hard at her face. Fingers draw across the line of a once-broken nose out of habit and then fall back to her side. Eventually she speaks again, softly. "When we first met, it was in the laundry room. It was wicked hot, and I didn't have any clean clothes left except this denim skirt, and you told me you were a linguist and I thought that was fucking cool, and we flirted while I sat on the washing machine. The next time I saw you was at the library and I thought you were a narcissistic bastard. And then there was the club, and then you got drunk and brought me chocolate cake and for ages I wouldn't tell you my last name and that's why you always call--" Her voice chokes and she has to stop before she can finish, "Always called me Agent Melcross."
Percy meets that without his voice, with only the phone clutched in curling fingers, and stands very still behind the sofa. Then he slowly starts to shake his head. "No," he says. "No. No, no, no, no." He lifts his gaze to look at her full on for almost the first time since she has entered the room, and in a voice thick and rough and dark, he growls, "You aren't her."
"And when I was in the hospital, sick, you sat and read to me. You were there the whole time. The Three Musketeers." Sabby stops and stares at him, green eyes bright with the threat of tears. "Percy. Tell me why you think I'm not me."
"You're not her," Percy insists without answering the question. He steps back another pace, and then another, until he feels the wall behind him.
"Are we dead?" Sabby asks abruptly, gaze tearing away to swing around the apartment proper. Her laugh borders on hysterical. "Is this-- fuck. Not hell, I guess. Or heaven. Purgatory?"
Percy doesn't say anything. He knuckles the wall and clamps his teeth.
Sabitha remains silent for a moment herself, and then she steps away from the living room and toward the kitchen without another word. She's looking for alcohol.
"You need to get out of here," Percy says quietly, almost dully, as he forces all of the panic down to a more manageable level and tightens his restraints over himself. "You don't belong here. I don't know who you are or how you can know what you can't know, but you /can't/ be her."
Sabitha spins in the middle of Percy's kitchen to face him, anger and fear rising to match each other in a tightly wound spiral. "Where do you want me to /go/, Percy? What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't even know what you /are/," Percy hisses back, the words more whispered than spoken. His fists knot at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
"I'm /Sabby/. What the /fuck/ do I look like?"
"You're /not/." Percy pushes off from the wall, but only so that he doesn't have to face her anymore. His pacing steps drag through the room as he moves, motion undirected and random.
Sabitha moves after him, footsteps loud as they pound against the floor. "What else do you want me to tell you? How about the night I called you in a panic because Chris couldn't remember me? Maybe the first night we fucked?" She waves a hand, gesturing toward the coffee table. "We were sitting there, on the floor, and I hugged you and when I pulled back you kissed me-- /Fuck/, Percy!" She's crying now, eyes bright with the glisten of angry tears. "I'm not making this up, and I /need/ you!"
Percy stops stock still and holds himself stiffly for a moment, shoulders set and fists yet clenched. "How about the time I spread your ashes," he rasps hoarsely, half looking over his shoulder at her. "Get out of here. Go /away/."
"How about the time I spread /yours/," Sabby shoots back, arms raised to cross desperately over her chest.
"Get /out/," Percy repeats again, desperation strangling in his throat.
Sabitha stares at him for a moment and then lifts a hand to rub it angrily across her eyes. When she lowers it, she spins on her heel and stalks for the door without another word.
Percy sways a little on his feet where he stands, staring after her at the door with a kind of blank shock in his expression.
The door opens. The door closes. Sabby is gone.
Sabby seeks out an old (dead) friend for help.
=NYC= Foyer - Hellfire Clubhouse
A study in understated opulence, the foyer of the Hellfire Club's manor breathes luxury and sedate elegance. The floor is marble, a field of black inlaid with a stylized mosaic representing the world. Green, brown, and blue stone glimmers in the shape of continents and seas; semi-precious stones represent the larger cities, and a few more valuable gems glitter where the Hellfire Club has a chapter headquarters. The walls alternate dark, polished wooden columns with mirrors blackened to be only slightly reflective: just enough to give the feeling of space and spread the light around more without creating a riot of images. A crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the vault-beamed ceiling, bathing wood and stone in a mellow golden glow.
Guards keep watch at the security station set just inside the arched doorway leading out to the front of the estate; across the foyer is a hallway framed by another high arch with matching doorways that are typically left open for easy access to the back deck. On the other two walls are open arched entrances to the north and south wings of the clubhouse and the informal and formal areas, respectively. A wide staircase sweeps up to the second floor.
Sabitha sits in a chair dragged for her convenience (really!) to just outside the security station. She's jittery, one leg shaking in a rapidfire rhythm despite her weariness, and her hands are twisted tight in her lap. Nerves are frayed to their bare edge as she waits, silent. Obedient. Ever-accomodating to the requests of the pawns who guard the entrance, and wryly allowing of their spooked looks as a ghost requests audience with Emma Frost.
Emerging from the north wing of the Hellfire Club on rapid strides, the Pawn's summoned superior in appears, wearing white-piped black workout pants, white sports bra, a white towel slung over her shoulders, and a light coating of sweat. Her agile body moves just a little too fast, but slows as she approaches the security station, and the orange-brightness of her eyes recedes to coal darkness. Her eyebrows go up as she gets close enough to get a better look at what appears to be Sabitha. "Well, well," she says. So pleasant, she careens into an airy greeting, with her hands braced at her hips: "Good evening, ma'am. Welcome to the Hellfire Club. I understand there's some confusion as to your identity. I'm sure we can get this all sorted as quickly as possible."
Without the benefit of Sauer's cheating tweak of speed, Bahir is forced to either run, or show up late. Dignity a precious commodity, he walks. He is slow to arrive.
Sabitha's gaze sweeps fast to Sauer and then narrows in nervous irritation. "You're not Emma," she points out needlessly, pushing up to her feet with anxious movement. Fingers twitch anxiously, but do not reach for the gun still tucked up at the small of her back. Her frown is close to a scowl. "I get it, I'm supposed to be dead, but there's a whole thing and I would /really/ like to speak to Emma Frost."
Dark, perceptive eyes flick to the twitch of Sabitha's fingers, and then back towards her face. Eliza cocks an eyebrow. "I'm sure that Ms. Frost would be delighted to see an old friend," she says, "but you'll understand we need to make sure that everything is in order before we arrange anything like." Her smile is a bladed flash. "Can I see some identification?"
Sabitha starts to laugh, low and slightly unhinged.
Eliza snaps, "Eisenberg."
One of the security pawns comes to loom behind Sabitha and lays a hand on her upper arm. It is unquestionably restraint, despite the remarkably gentle touch.
Sweetly, Eliza addresses the laughing Sabitha: "I'm sorry. Did you forget your wallet?"
Racer stripes of brilliant blue highlight the black of Bahir's workout pants, and his shirt has gone missing. Instead, he has a towel, and a cranky expression. Scruff scrapes along his jaw, but his hair is short and neat, if damp with perspiration. He enters well behind Eliza, but when he does, he comes to a jerked stop.
"I haven't carried a wallet in two fucking years," Sabby spits at Eliza. She notes restraint, and although her eyes flash dangerously bright for a moment, she accepts it without question. One hand moves back - cautiously back - toward a bulging pocket and she offers, "You want the one I stole earlier today for cab fare? Fucking /hell/, if I were someone else walking into this place, do you really think /ID/ would be the shit I got hung up o--" And then she stops, because her eyes have lifted enough to settle on Bahir, and with the sight of him her shoulders slump with instinctual relief before her mind can catch up to the likely reality. A mental greeting, anxious and familiar and desperate for comfort, shouts his name, and then she swallows and offers it aloud instead, calmer. "Bahir."
"No, sweetheart," Eliza says, with glitter-eyed patience. "Al-Razi. You're convenient. Come here and do me a favor." Telepathic speech does not come easily to Sauer, but the unspoken rips staccato through her thoughts, over loud with barely restrained tension. << Identity check telepath. Renegade. Bitch can't be who she looks like. Threat. >>
Bahir's chin lifts slightly with the wash of acknowledgement at Eliza, and then he allows shields to fall as he swoops down to cover Sabitha's mind in the power of his telepathy. This is a far more controlled thing than that she remembers, refined and practiced; the power is no different, just its application. Her senses mute, as if hearing from a distance and seeing through a veil, but her body goes dead still. Threat negated, and identity--. Well. He seeks /that/.
Sabitha closes her eyes and waits. Her body may still, but tension still threads through every inch of it, and it washes clean over her mind as passing thoughts note differences, similiarities, ache for the familiar comfort of Bahir's hand along her arm, at the small of her back. Through it all she is firmly, undeniably Sabitha - although different than that he remembers. History splits at a point two and a half years past. So, too, does personality.
Eliza waits patiently, folding her arms over the dark skin of her toned stomach. The other two Pawns, Eisenberg and one other, do not appear to be quite as patient or at their ease. They are nervous.
It is neither easy, nor quick. Bahir finds a place leaning against the wall as he picks his way through Sabitha's thoughts. He doesn't bother to blunt the sweep of telepathy, making an unease itch that can't be scratched. Finally, a few minutes later, "--the fuck." He rubs at the back of his neck, loosing control of Sabitha. To Eliza, confirmation: << She's Sabitha, or thinks she is. Except--. >> And then, pertinent details, shared again.
"--the fuck?" Eliza spends a moment on looking blank.
Sabitha shakes her head uncomfortably and fixes her gaze tight on Bahir, watching him rather than Eliza. She doesn't offer any explanation for their response. She simply remains stiff and straight, uncomfortable in her stance. Weary.
<< Yeah. >> Bahir rubs at his eyes. << We either keep her in the cell or give her a room and stick a guard on her. Do you want to call Lensherr or Frost? >>
<< Talhurst, Frost, Lensherr, al-Razi. All of the fucking above. >> Eliza gives Bahir a sour grin << -- don't get many resurrected assassins -- >> and then turns back to Sabitha. "Okay," she says. "Ms. Melcross. Welcome back. I'm afraid it's simply too late to disturb the White Queen, but I'll have my friend Luke here escort you to one of Hellfire's fine guest rooms. If you'd like anything to eat, or bath salts for the tub, or whatever the hell, please don't hesitate to ask the guard who will be posted at your door overnight and your wants will be seen to." She smiles. So pleasantly! << I want to hit something why do I always get the WEIRD shit? >>
Sabitha's gaze snaps swiftly back to Eliza. "Are you fucking /kidding/ me?" she answers. "Too late--" And then her eyes swing back to Bahir in a plea. "Bahir. /Please/." << Help me, >> she begs.
Bahir avoids Sabitha's gaze, dark eyes holding steady on Eliza. He swallows. << I let Adel know. He's calling Frost now. >>
<< Thanks. I'll get Lensherr when we're done here. >> Eliza nods once to Bahir, and then turns another false-sweet smile back on Sabitha. "Ms. Frost is quite busy," she says, jerking her chin at Luke. "Relieve her of any weaponry or suspicious drugs she happens to have on her person and show her to one of the empty guest suites."
"Ma'am," Luke Eisenberg agrees pleasantly, and then turns the warm courtesy with which he has been trained to the, er, prisoner. "Now, ma'am, if you'd care to lift your hands above your head, this won't take hardly a jiff."
<< Bahir, >> Sabby begs, eyes fixing dark on him again. << At least /talk/ to me. Please-- >> Her head snaps around to Luke, and she stares at him for a moment before she lifts her hands silently. Her jaw sets as her shirt hitches up to reveal the handgun at her back, and her voice draws tight as she says, "There's a knife at my left ankle."
Which ... leaves Bahir to let Percy know. He gives Eliza an annoyed glance, like she planned the Sabitha surprise on purpose. He turns to her, eyes briefly closing as he checks her mind for any other weapons she might have besides the obvious firestarting. As she's listed them all, he nods to Luke. "Sabitha, one way or the other, we will get this settled. For now, these are normal precautions."
"Thanks for your cooperation, ma'am," Luke says mildly. He hands off the gun to the other Pawn and bends low to unhitch the knife from her ankle and then rises to hand that off as well.
Eliza grins at Bahir's discomfiture. Just a little. She so didn't want that job! She says, "You'll find Hellfire's hospitality leaves nothing to be desired, Ms. Melcross."
Anger fades into resignation and Sabby slumps slightly, bone-weary. Her hands drop as Luke straightens away and she draws in a careful breath. "Adel?" she wonders of Bahir, soft.
"What about him?" Bahir asks, baffled.
"Is he alive?" Sabby asks simply. "Here?"
"What?" Having previously shied from those things he didn't want to see, Bahir rips back through Sabitha's memory even as he says, "He's fine."
Eliza looks bewildered.
Luke stands just behind Sabitha, with a hand at her upper arm, and waits for the conversation to conclude like a good escort.
Sabitha's memory carries Bahir backwards, skittering over bumps and breaks until it settles on an image of plumply ripe tomatoes. Sabby follows with him and closes her eyes tight against his assurance as tears well once more at the corners, threatening to overwhelm her. In memory, a gunshot rings free and there's the cold assurance of metal in her hands. Teenagers fall. So does Adel. And then she's at his side, hands pressed hard against a bleeding wound while Bahir drops to his knees next to them and Adel's not breathing, Adel's staring up at them but not seeing--
Recoiling from her mind, Bahir stumbles backwards -- but the wall is already behind him, and he comes up hard and short. He shakes his head, with no immediate response.
Sabitha's eyes open and she looks at Bahir for a moment. She swallows and lifts a hand to scrub angrily at one eye. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.
"Al-Razi?" Eliza shoots Sabitha a glance, sharp and dark with irritation as well as suspicion. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Bahir says, irritation just as sharp in his tone as in Eliza's eyes. He straightens, but avoids Sabitha's gaze again.
Sabitha remains silent, but she finally looks away and gives Luke a brief nod.
Luke smiles, friendly and slightly relieved. "This way, please, ma'am," he says, and starts to guide her across the foyer and up the hall towards the guest rooms.
"Okay," Eliza says, nodding once in a sharp jerk. "I'm going to go talk to the King."
Sabitha goes without further objection, steps swift and loud against the floor.
Bahir waits until the room has cleared before setting off to go get his phone, and call Percy.
Sabby decides to visit the Hellfire Club for some help.