InsaneJournal

Tweak says, " says Tweak"

Emerson Mordant (emerson_mordant) wrote in lineof_fire_rpg,
@ 2008-01-27 11:20:00

Oh, so you are admitting there are some interesting stories to be told.
Who: Bridgette and Emerson
What: Emerson saves Bridgette’s life, Bridgette discovers Emerson’s a massive douche.
Where: Steak & Legs & FBI Building
When: Just before Christmas
Rating: Mature?
Open? No.

	Emerson: A gunshot reverberated out of the service entry of Steak and Legs, a well known bar and grill notorious for housing Boston’s criminally minded wannabes, echoing in the dark car-park behind the venue where Emerson Mordant was standing over the victim of a bullet. His senses fell into overdrive as he unholstered his firearm and motioned for the accompanying FBI Agent to remain at the service entrance. Seconds later saw him making his way through the kitchen, following the shouts that had replaced the silence in the wake of the shot. Two and a half hours ago he’d been called into a crime scene, what looked to be a mob hit. The FBI had rolled in, securing the scene before processing it. Apparently the scene hadn’t been secured well enough. Someone had remained hidden and now they were looking for an out. Siding up against the doors that opened up into the bar, he pushed them open a fraction and took a few moments to grasp the nature of the situation. In the next room, he could hear the assailant clearly, “I want a clear path, or the girl gets it” as the words reached his ears, a bewildered look crossed his face. Girl? There weren’t any females on his team and they had cleared all the staff out two hours ago. Pushing a door open a fraction more he peered into the restaurant, his eyes locked with a young blonde woman and he pressed a finger to his lips. He looked beyond her, noting that as the irate man turned to shout his demands at the two other FBI agents on the opposite end of the room, the muzzle of the gun that was held inches from her neck wavered. Emerson wouldn’t have another opportunity like that. Neither would the blonde. He gestured for her to dive to the floor on the count of three; three fingers held up, before pointing to the ground. She returned with a slight nod, “Don’t you get it?” the assailant yelled at the two other agents, “I will kill her” Emerson tuned out the demands. He held up one finger, two and then three. He shouldered the door open and took the shot. The attacker barely swiveled his head around at the sound of the door being opened, before a bullet pierced his chest, sending him to the ground. The agents swarmed in, fingers reaching out to check for a pulse. There was no pulse to be found. The attacker was dead, but the blonde was safe. Any chivalrous notions Emerson Mordant had been feeling towards the woman disappeared with the assurance she was safe. Clicking the safety of his gun on, Emerson returned it to the waist of his jeans as he approached the woman, “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing at my crime-scene?” he growled, waving any response she may have had off, “Don’t bother answering, you can think of something clever on the way to interrogation”, he crouched down next to the body and began to search the garments for a form of identification on the assailant, “Detain her, take her back to HQ” he’d deal with her later. A further two hours later, 11 pm, saw Emerson lying on the couch in his office. Glancing up at the clock on the wall he figured he’d probably given the woman long enough to stew in interrogation. Rolling off the couch, he detoured by the vending machine before stepping into the interrogation room. Dropping a Hershey’s bar in front of the woman, he pulled off his leather jacket, letting it fall onto the table between them, “I’ll be hearing that clever story now” he stated as he began to roll up the cuffs of his shirt.
	Bridgette: Boston was boring. That was a simple fact she'd come to learn. At least by her standards, there was nothing to do. There was however, the absolutely glorious thing that was a Starbucks, on every single street corner. She had missed the simple joy of coffee that she didn't have to cook over a fire, and having someone else put such luxuries as caramel in it. Still, her editor was on her about some photos that could be used in the next issue, and she had yet to find a hook for her next story. It was easier said than done. It was not like her treks in Africa or Malaysia where she followed around the culture and took photos of the life but who would be interested in Boston? Most of the people around only cared about beer and sports and getting a good lay in before sunrise. She'd heard rumblings of some sort of mob activity, but nothing to back up her story. "Bum Picks 1000 Can Out Of Trash" really doesn't grab a reader like it used to. Speaking with some of the locals, she found out some of the more dodgy areas in town might very well lead her to some very interesting characters. Packing up her camera, her mace, and her notebook, she hopped into her car and maneuvered downtown, to what she could only be described as the ghetto of Boston. No matter, she was after a story, and she'd been in far more dangerous places than that. Pushing the door open of the 'Steak and Legs' she cringed, looking around and trying to decide if there was any place sanitary in the entire lot of the place. Just ordering a bottled water, figuring that much was safe, she sat down at a table and took out her camera. Blue eyes looked around the place, studying faces and couples, seeing if there was a story around here anywhere. Just as she was about to give up when a couple of men caught her eye in the corner. Speaking in hushed tones, that only made her interest peak a little more. Apparently though, as she raised her camera to her eye, she came to realize that when taking part in illegal activities, people did not wish to be photographed. Everything else came so fast, guns raised, people fleeing, and ever the woman she was, she crouched under the table and snapped pictures as people ran past, getting some great action shots, if she did say so herself. Things grew quiet, eerily so, and she walked toward the back of the store, not finding anyone else about. Camera raised, her mace between her fingers just in case, she crept back toward the exit in the back. No sooner had she peered around the corner than a grubby hand grabbed at her, effectively using her for leverage. Her camera fell to the ground, scattering a bit out of the way as she was pulled back into the room. Well, so much for Boston not being very exciting. Bridgette, in all of her fervor, had sincerely tried to talk the man down. First assuring him that the cops would be coming, then when they did get there, assuring him that if he just let her go, she would try and talk out a deal for him. And that did not work either. She got a little huffy, rambling on about how stupid he was being, as he continued to yell at both her, and the negotiators outside. Really, her rambling came from her fear, but she couldn't help herself. Admittedly, she was getting nervous as the man became more angry, the hour got later, and she had no way out. Her heart leapt right up to her throat when the door began to push open a little, but she was put at ease by the man's calming presence, his fingers raising to his lips to keep her quiet. She nodded slowly as he seemed to speak in charades of what he wanted her to do. Luckily for the both of them, she'd always been excellent at charades. Hitting the floor at the correct time, she yelped a little when the gun shot reverberated throughout the room. Waiting until she was pulled up by another officer, she put her hand over her chest, feeling more than just slightly traumatized by the whole situation. Thinking she'd be offered a kind word, her brow furrowed as she turned to look at the man currently barking at her. "Excuse me? Your crime scene? You should be a little nicer to the hostage from a situation, don't you think?" She said, folding her arms defiantly across her chest. Before she could actually give him an answer, a suited man began to pull her away. "WHAT?! Interro...Clearly you all must be mad!" She yelled, throwing up her hands in frustration. Every minute she was left in interrogation, Bridgette only grew more and more irritated. The blinking florescent light above her, the smell of old coffee and sweat making her nauseous. She finally folded her arms in front of her on the table and buried her head in her arms, figuring if they were going to leave her there after she'd done nothing, she'd at least catch a little nap. When the door finally opened, she looked up to see the man she'd seen at the 'crime scene'. She gave him a look, her lips pursing together. Her eyes flickered down to his sleeves that he began to roll up. So what, he was going to rough her up? "Hm. I could have come up with a 'clever story'..." She said, mocking his American tone and staring straight at him, "But I don't need one, as you have clearly kept me here far longer than is legally permitted without charging me for anything. Unless you're arresting me for something, what's keeping me from walking right out that door. I'm the victim here, sir."
	Emerson: “What’s keeping you from walking out of that door?” Emerson asked, turning to point at the door he’d just entered through as though the room had more than one door, “What’s keeping you from walking out that door, Miss Wellington, is me” he took a seat across from her and folded his arms in front of him, she was definitely a handful; he certainly didn’t envy her boyfriend, “The floor of disgruntled agents who are working overtime, the secure elevators and the small security force in the lobby” Emerson waved vaguely towards the door once more, a wolfish smile crossing his face, “But by all means, if you feel you’re up to the challenge, go for it. I could do with a giggle” they were always under the impression that they had ‘rights’, especially the foreign ones. The truth was, that this wasn’t an interrogation. Emerson Mordant was simply feeling agitated because the woman who sat before him had inadvertently given him a lot of paperwork to fill out. He had no suspects, his only witness was an irate English woman and he was going to spend tomorrow haphazardly trying to type a report on his computer. Emerson didn’t know how to deal with women, or computers. Keeping Bridgette Wellington out past her bedtime was an act of immaturity that he justified by telling himself that had their roles been reversed, the spirited English woman would have done exactly the same thing to him; taken him into interrogation and kept him waiting for several hours.
	Bridgette: Perching a brow at his comment, she folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her seat. "Oh so those rumors about police brutality in the states are true, hm?" She said, giving him an unimpressed look. His attitude toward her was far from charming, and she wasn't amused in the least bit. "I assure you I have no intention of making a run for it, officer." Sighing a bit, she crossed her legs and gave him a look. "So can we get on with it then? I'd like to get home. Go to bed, perhaps take a bath first and wash off this entire experience." Oh she could have a column alright. Something to do with how the FBI apparently made it a custom of interrogating - not to mention annoying - people who were victims in a hostage situation. Not exactly a fluff piece, to say the least. "The nutjob who dragged me off into quite possibly the dirtiest storage room in a restaurant I've ever seen didn't inform me of any of his dealings, I assure you." She said, giving the very 'in charge' looking man across from her a cheeky smile. "So really, I'm of very little help to you sir."
	Emerson: “Alright” Emerson replied nonchalantly as he reclined slightly in his chair, trying to achieve the most comfort possible in such a poor excuse for a chair. He turned slightly and made a gesture towards the glass on the wall behind him, there was absolutely nobody behind there, but the Englishwoman didn’t know that. The gesture was vague, it could have meant anything from ‘start recording’ to ‘fire up my helicopter’, but he was banking she also didn’t know that, “You’re a photographer for Vanity Fair” he observed, rubbing a hand across his chin, “I’m going to assume you weren’t at Steak and Legs because you got a hot tip that Angelina and Brad were treating the kids to a night out on the town”
	Bridgette: Glancing toward the glass he gestured to, she made an unamused face at his motion to whoever was back there, even if she was a little nervous about what exactly he was doing, not to mention completely annoyed. Tapping her fingers against her arm as she kept her arms securely folded over her chest, she rolled her head to the side and nodded at his question. "I really do not see how my job has anything to do with this, nor is it any of your business for that matter." She said, her own tone a little short and completely flippant to his antics. "And for your information, I don't cover the celebrity rag crap that's splashed all over everywhere, I'm on world events and far more interesting stories than what Paris is wearing this season."
	Emerson: “It’s just protocol, Ma'am” Emerson replied with a wolfish grin as he admired the British woman’s stamina to ramble on irately without missing a beat, “I’d hate to let you go now, only to realize later that you were actually in cahoots with the dead guy. Happens all the time to the Boston PD” he wasn’t really sure of the validity of his statement, but he’d never pass up the opportunity to take a jab at the Cops. She seemed to become very defensive at his not so casual remark about why she’d been at the bar, which delighted him; he’d had no doubt that she was aligned with the more ‘Interesting’ stories, what bothered him was the fact that she was a woman who seemed intent on placing herself in dangerous situations, something that didn’t sit right with him, “Humor me, Miss Wellington and let me give you some advice” he stated, his voice serious, “Stay away from the Killing Fields stories. Whatever you’re chasing, leave it alone; the ‘interesting stories’ in this town really don’t want to be told.”
	Bridgette: Perking a brow at him, she shook her head and scoffed a little laugh. "In Cahoots? Honestly, does anyone even use that term anymore?" She said, completely unamused and not at all appreciative that he was accusing her. It was her turn to fold her arms across her chest and look at him with a similar look of annoyance. "Oh, so you are admitting there are some interesting stories to be told, hm?" She said, ever the budding journalist. Moving to lean against the table in front of her, she laced her fingers together and stared at him as if she were about to tell him a story. "I'll have you know, I'm not much of one for writing." She had a bargaining chip, or at least, she might. "I'm a photographer." She said, narrowing her brow at him. "My film might just have something useful on it to you. Too bad you've been such a ruddy jackass to me, I'm not in a particularly giving mood."
	Emerson: Emerson let out a frustrated sigh, “Did you just listen to anything I just told you?” he asked impatiently, the question was a rhetorical one, but he had no doubt that the woman would try to answer it anyway; she seemed like the kind of person who would answer rhetorical questions, “Forget it” he concluded with a shake of his head, he wished she’d have the sense to keep out of trouble, but he had a feeling Bridgette Wellington would go out of her way to get into trouble, regardless as to what he tried to do for her. He stood, appraising the woman for the last time that evening, he’d keep an eye on her, short of locking her up for her own safety, it was the least he could do, “You’re right. It might have something useful on it, which is exactly why I plan to confiscate it. You don’t have to be in a giving mood to give to the United States government”