WHO: Reeves Olinger, Charlie Lansing, Adelaide Lansing, and a bunch of goons WHERE: The Capitol, mayor's office WHAT: Basically the Spanish Inquisition WHEN: Sunday, September 8th. 8:30pm
now our boys, they're fallin', our leaders are all appalling, and you can bet by god, good will is gone.
goodbye babylon, goodbye babylon.
This is bad.
It’s 8:30 pm on a Sunday night, and there is a tidy, stone-faced man in a suit on her doorstep, who upon arrival insisted that she come with him to meet with the Mayor. Immediately.
This is very, very not good.
“My son is asleep, and my husband is off the premises for the night,” she told the assistant, who then instructed her to wake the baby, and bring him along. At her scoffing, righteous protests, the man merely insisted once more that it was entirely necessary, and that he didn’t want to be forced to make her move, but that he had instructions to do so, if necessary.
Double plus un-good.
And that is how Adelaide finds herself in her bathroom “getting the baby” and firing off a round of texts from her Dog Park phone, while StoneFace lingers by the front door.
To Rodeo and Sarge, Olinger sent a man to demand a meeting NOW, suspicious. Wait for word.
To Rob, Olinger dragging me in for meeting NOW, I’m bringing Charlie, wtf?
Then she holds the phone, and considers. If it’s nothing, she can get a new phone. If it’s nothing, she has Rodeo and Sarge’s numbers memorized anyway. If it’s nothing, she’ll feel a little silly having murdered her phone, but only a little.
She doesn’t think it’s nothing.
If it’s something, she’ll be glad she did it. Rodeo tells her absolutely everything, a near-constant flow of information back and forth between them, every thought and bit of news. If it’s something, it’s a lot better to be caught with an extra phone that is dead and suspicious, than this particular one, functioning.
And so she drops the spare phone into the toilet, watches its light wink out, and goes to wake her son.
Ten minutes later they are approaching Olinger’s office - Charlie on her shoulder, wearing pajamas and covered head to toe in a gray and mustard fleece blanket that matches his nursery, already back to sleeping. Adelaide glares sidewards at her escort over the baby’s head. “I’d just like to reiterate for the record that this is absurd,” she says, haughty as an empress, before she opens Olinger’s office door herself and walks in.
“Just what exactly is going on here?” she asks, all indignation as she doesn’t wait for him to set the tone.
Olinger's office is always gently lit by warm lamps, and tonight is no different. The city is black beyond his windows, already dark with dusk so that the shambling creatures below can hardly be seen through the gleaming glass. The leather armchairs and cluttered bookcases should lend the room a homey, comfortable feel, but there's nothing comfortable about this room right now at all. When Adelaide enters, Olinger is sitting in his armchair reading a newspaper, his short legs crossed elegantly at the knee-- but the air is dense with a certain tension, perhaps radiating from the four patrolmen holding rifles standing on either side Olinger.
When Adelaide enters, Reeves Olinger looks up from the newspaper he's perusing, meeting her gaze over his glasses. Any other time she's encountered him his smiles have been quick and easy, his eyes bright and lively, but now she is met with a cool and critical gaze. He glances down, takes in the baby she holds, and then returns his gaze to her face once more.
"Please," he says, calm and even, "take a seat, Mrs. Lansing. And I advise you strongly to keep your hands in sight at all times."
Adelaide stands taken aback in the face of this excess of force, and automatically her hand goes to the back of Charlie's head, protective atop the blanket he is burrowed under. It's all surreal - maybe because it's what she's been working against for so long, without ever knowing what it really would look like. And now here it is. It looks like a pissed off midget of a man straining under his mask of pleasantry, flanked by a handful of drones with too-big guns.
She thinks he will want a trial. He'll want all of those trappings and motions that will make him look legitimate, and Adelaide knows well that Rob has cameras here, recording devices. She knows where the information goes to store, and she knows it's a damn jarring image to see a slight little 22-year-old mother and her sleeping infant faced down this way. Part of her wants to square her shoulders and stare him down and dare him to hurt her and see what happens, but with everything she knows, and with Charlie here? She knows what the smart move is.
"What is this about?" she asks, sounding concerned, bewildered, and touching on angry at the sight of the guns. She won't cower, even for show. "Did something happen to Rob? What exactly is it you think I'm going to do with my hands?"
Olinger shows no reaction to Adelaide's show of mettle, aside from the faintest lift of his furry gray-brown brows. He folds the newspaper in his hands over, resting it down on his lap and crossing his arms atop it. "Rob is at the hospital representing the Capitol as they prepare a memorial for the murdered girl," Olinger states simply. He extends a hand towards the chair across from him, insistent. "Now please. Take a seat. There are some questions I need to ask you, Adelaide."
The fact that Olinger conveniently removed Rob from the picture for this has an icewater chill settling into the pit of Adelaide's stomach. The fact that he so blatantly did so, however, does seem like it could be played against him by a skilled defense lawyer, if it came to that.
Which is how Adelaide knows, with a wrenching twist to her gut, that it won't ever come to a trial. Even as the fear clutches at her she can't help thinking these things, projecting and calculating, and she knows. Should have known instantly, but the suddenness of all this has her playing catchup.
She is bait, pure and simple. It probably doesn't matter in the least what she does or doesn't do, now.
So she steps around the chair and sits, maintaining eye contact with Olinger the entire way. "This is quite a time for a chat," she comments, raising her brows at the darkened windows. After the initial survey upon entering the room her eyes skim past the patrolmen as if they are floor lamps. He isn't going to hurt his bait, certainly not yet. "But since you ask so sweetly. What's this about?"
When Olinger flashes a smile at her, he doesn't bother making it appear sincere. She's no fool and he certainly knows it, so he expends no effort attempting to placate her. The smile is tight-lipped, an automatic reaction to her obeying his order to sit that carries no honest pleasure. "Mrs. Lansing," he says, cordial, "I'm afraid I never asked you about your life before you joined us here in Austin. It seems remiss of me now." Olinger reaches to the end table beside his chair, sliding a file labeled LANSING, Adelaide off and folding it open. "Adelaide, what a name. You know, it's from the Germanic words for noble kind. Not noble as in honorable, Mrs. Lansing. Noble as in of nobility. Now, how did you end up with a name like that?"
For the past two years living under the same roof as Olinger, Adelaide has thought about him infrequently. Her impression was of a crafty man, a deceptively smiling man with control issues and a bit of a god complex, who wouldn't bother her if she didn't bother him - and she had no intentions of bothering him.
What a difference a few months make.
His smile makes her skin crawl now, and so she returns it with venom in her thundercloud eyes, showing teeth. She knows precisely what he's getting at. "Everyone's name means something, Mr Mayor. Though some are admittedly more apt than others," she concedes, archly. Then her brow lifts. "My brother chose my name."
The most reaction Olinger has shown yet comes in response to that statement from her. The declaration is so brazen, so pointed, that he can't stop his face from showing his surprise. Perhaps he didn't expect Adelaide Lansing-née-Hawkins to grovel or beg, but the woman has struck him so far as the self-preserving sort. Nefarious and cunning and prone to subterfuge in lieu of more intrepid tactics. Clearly, though, her brother gave her more than a name. Or perhaps this stubborn defiance is a genetic trait that required no teaching at all.
"Did he?" Olinger says, his voice mild despite the excitement bursting at his seams. "He does seem to enjoy naming things. His little biker gang, their camp, himself. And you. All of his creations."
Adelaide watches Olinger for a couple of beats after those words, watches the way his entire being lights up, manic and fanatical. If there was ever any doubt that Olinger would hunt Rodeo to the ends of the earth - or at least the ends of Austin - there can be none now. Her brother's larger than life persona has taken hold so completely of this man, this man who probably can't tolerate seeing someone's legend, someone's superhuman status match or challenge his own.
Their two egos are too big to coexist, and Adelaide will be damned if her brother's is the one that gets snuffed.
She shifts Charlie to her other shoulder, covering his blonde head back up when he gets there without missing a beat.
"Correct me if I'm interpreting this the wrong way, though with your heavily armed bookends I don't really think I am," she says, precisely. "But I'm getting the impression that you intend to take action against me, based on who my brother is. In which case I would point out that there is no law against being related to outlaws, that I am aware of. So I admit I'm curious to know what you and your friends intend to do with me."
Olinger's smile is more earnest now, though not in the friendly sense. The delight is there, but it's far more maniacal than cordial. He enjoys the power he has in this situation-- the fact that the power in question is wielded against a woman and her child doesn't seem to lessen the genuine pleasure he takes from having them at his mercy. "If you are innocent of any crimes, Mrs. Lansing, we intend to do nothing at all," he assures her, but there is a faintly sarcastic note to his voice that shows that he is already quite certain she's guilty. "Certainly, it is not a crime to be related to an outlaw. To collude with one, however, that would be criminal-- and considering the current state of affairs, perhaps could even be interpreted as treason. We are, after all, at war."
Or, at the very least, they will be after tonight. Olinger flashes another smile. He drops his gaze, looking down at the newspaper in his lap as he unfolds it again. Finally, Adelaide can see the date printed on the front-- April 15 2012, the week that James Hawkins was arraigned for the murders of Jonathan Straely and Lawrence Green. "How long have you been aware of your brother's presence in this city, Mrs. Lansing? Before or after you and Robert arrived here in Austin?"
It seems plain to Adelaide that Olinger's appetite for this war has been growing, feeding every time Rodeo has eluded him, made him look a fool, threatened his godlike supremacy - it's pure delighted hunger she sees in his eyes, like a half-starved carnivore and she is the meal ticket he's been waiting for. That knowledge cuts through the alarm that is coursing through her, ignites anger like kindling in her chest and has her eyes narrowing.
"I arrived in Austin hoping to find my brother," she says, every word daring him to tell her that's wrong. "When I found a torn up corpse in Huntsville, locked in the cell that was his, with his ID badge on it next to a box of letters he'd written me, I was convinced he was dead." There was no darker time in her life than that time, bleak and alone in a world that had nothing left to recommend it, and though she doesn't particularly bother to hide that fact, it just makes her eyes blaze all the more hotly. "He sought me out much, much later. I didn't know who he was to Austin or to you, Mr Mayor. Frankly I didn't give a damn."
Olinger's eyes are on the newspaper for most of what Adelaide says, but they finally flick up near the end when her vitriol increases and she says his name in blatant italics. The look he gives her is stern, like a parent stink-eyeing a badly behaved child. "Adelaide," he chides, shifting, uncrossing his legs and extending the newspaper out to her so she can see the article he's been studying.
There, under the headline AUSTIN COP KILLER ARRAIGNED AT TRAVIS COUNTY COURTHOUSE, she sees a photo of Rodeo on his way out of court the day he was formally charged with the murders and plead not guilty. Her brother is being led out of the courtroom in handcuffs and prison scrubs, Nina right beside him. There are others immediately around him-- cops, corrections officers, lawyers-- but somewhere in the back, nearly lost in the crowd, is a small figure with a stony face.
"Now, I knew your brother was in Huntsville. When I was given his name, I had some APD officers who once assisted in his arrest approach me to confirm that they believed the man calling himself Dog King was this Cop Killer. But they hadn't come forward because they too had visited the prison and found a convincing stand-in for Hawkins still locked in a cell. They said it was quite dangerous there, Mrs. Lansing. They didn't believe anyone could have survived. All two thousand prisoners either dead or infected. I do not believe you went into this setting alone, Adelaide. Who helped you?"
Adelaide is not in the business of giving up people who help her. Thomas Kerr went into that hellhole for her in exchange for a few bottles of booze and a thrill, and though she's about ninety-nine percent certain that he read her letters before he gave them to her, she would have done the same and she's not going to go throwing him under any busses. There's nothing technically wrong with having gone into that prison on her behalf, but there is blood in the water and Adelaide isn't fool enough to think that anybody in the vicinity will make it out unscathed. She is cool as an autumn breeze when she responds, not missing a beat. "Arthur Manning made the trip for a bottle of Jack and a haircut," she supplies. Arthur, a single young supply runner Adelaide had known just a little, sadly was bitten on a run five months ago, and put down in quarantine when he turned, and is thus well beyond the influence of any hungry sharks.
"Hm," Olinger hums, eyeing Adelaide skeptically. It seems convenient that her helper is already dead, but whoever helped her is hardly a priority now. Olinger doubts that knowing who went to that prison will reveal any of Adelaide's true co-conspirators. "Such a shame about Arthur." Olinger doesn't try to hide his disbelief. He taps the folder in his lap on his knees to straighten the papers before setting it aside again. His hands seem to be in constant motion, fiddling restlessly. "How complicit has Robert been in all of this? I see your file makes no mention of the name Hawkins. It lists your maiden name as Grant. I have to believe that is Robert's handiwork."
The other questions were nothing but warmups compared to this.
She feels an icy chill at the thought of her husband, paying dearly for his loyalty to her, and the desire to protect him surprises her. Adelaide may not be in love with Rob, but she is not without feelings completely - not always - and he's been her most constant companion for over three years now. The changes between them recently have only served to enhance that. She considers her options quickly, but there is a part of her that knows that the Lansings are done in the Capitol. That fanatical fervor in Olinger's eyes is not one that is going to be appeased or tamped down - she hardly even knows why he's bothering with the questions. He is a man who likes things to look correct, but underneath that he is a man who heats and heats a thing until it bends to the shape he wants it, regardless.
She's glad she got off her warning to Rob, only hopes it will make a difference.
"In the interest of full disclosure, I made Rob aware early on that I'm related to a convicted felon. Nothing more, nothing less," she answers, letting her eyes stay sharp through the lie, letting the indignity of answering to him about her private business come through. "I didn't know any more than that, at the time. He thought it... preferable that that not reflect back on us. Or on Charlie, some day," she says. "It's maybe worthy of a slap on the wrist, but protecting his family doesn't make him complicit."
The back and forth is slow torment, like a cat playing with its dinner, and though she is massively wary of what happens next, the wondering is worse. She shifts in her seat, sitting perched on the edge, and decides to force his next move. "Now please, if I've answered all you need, my son should be in bed," she says, and waits, waits, just managing not to look like she's holding her breath.
Olinger's gaze drops to the baby in Adelaide's arms, his eyes difficult to read behind the shine of his glasses when he looks at the child. Before he can answer Adelaide there comes a knock on the door, and Olinger rises up, turning to nod at the patrolman standing by the doorway to signal him to open it.
"Just a moment, Mrs. Lansing," Olinger says, looking back to her. "Make yourself comfortable. I'd suggest you peruse that paper, but it's all old news." Olinger flashes a smile, as if proud of the joke. As if she ought to find it funny, too. He turns away, going to the door. Two patrolmen enter, and over the back of Olinger's armchair she catches a glimpse of the box of letters Rodeo wrote her from Huntsville as the patrolman passes it to Olinger. They speak in hushed voices, and finally Olinger steps away and heads back to his chair. He sets the box down on the chair along with a tote bag she recognizes from her own closet and remains standing. "I presume this is the box of letters you spoke of earlier, Mrs. Lansing? Am I likely to find any current correspondence from your brother in this box? I'd advise you to be honest, I am going to read them anyway."
It is not uncommon for Adelaide to disagree rather vehemently with thoughts that are accepted in the collective consciousness as being true. Most people, for example, will state with little hesitation that physical belongings aren’t important - especially these days. Adelaide would beg to differ. Sure, she’d choose her loved ones over her books and shoes and furniture in a heartbeat, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t mourn the loss. She’s a creature who loves her comforts, loves to have a strong home base that makes her feel good and grounded and steady, and she’s not ashamed of it.
So when those goons come walking in holding her letters, clearly indicating that they’ve been searching her home and pawing through her things, the reaction is not a subtle one. She gets to her feet so abruptly that Charlie stirs and lets out a sound of protest. “You’re searching my rooms,” she says, with far more outrage than disbelief. “You don’t have a lick of evidence I’ve done anything more wrong than having a brother.” She quiets Charlie, and glares daggers. There’s nothing new in that box, nothing more incriminating than her brother’s heart on a pile of pages though the idea of Olinger occupying the same space as them boils her blood - but what she can’t see inside the tote concerns her. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” she says, braver than she feels because really, she knows her sentence was read the instant Olinger recognized her stony white face in that damned newspaper picture.
Olinger is sifting through the box, not looking at her while she speaks. He leans casually against the armchair, brows raised demurely as he tosses curiously though the letters. He picks up a piece of one Mama tore to shreds, looking up at her inquisitively as if he's wondering at the story behind it. He doesn't ask, though, and drops the scrap back into the box as he reaches for the tote.
"Mrs. Lansing, I am responsible for the safety of the people living in this city. Your brother has been a violent and destructive presence since his arrival, and is responsible for the deaths of countless honest men and women trying to survive here. I understand that you may think that you haven't committed any crimes, but if you have given the Dog King any information at all about this shelter then you have given him far too much." Olinger takes what appears to be a ziplock bag full of rice out of the tote, but when he gives it a shake Adelaide can see that the phone Rodeo gave her is there inside the bag. "Private Edlund tells me they are confident they will be able to dry this out and access its data. As it is, they have no doubt that this is not a Capitol-issued phone. It isn't listed in our database of registered communications devices and was, without a doubt, supplied to you by your brother." Olinger drops the bag of rice back into the tote and starts to rifle through the rest of the bag's contents, though he doesn't draw anything out for her to see. "I also have no doubt that your recent interest in volunteering for the Department of Resources came on his behalf. Frankly, Mrs. Lansing, you don't actually strike me as the altruistic sort."
Adelaide can only hope that he’s bluffing about the phone - certainly, the goddamned Geek Patrol at the Apple Store wasn’t half so optimistic in better days - but there is nothing to be done about it now, not with the ratio of brains to rifles currently in the room.
Instead she steps forward, slow enough that it’s clear she’s not making any aggressive moves, and stands there looking Olinger over without a trace of softness in her expression or her stance. Her resemblance to Rodeo is pronounced, now that Olinger knows to look for it, and emphasized by her thunderous expression. Despite the fact that he is a slight man, Adelaide is shorter still - but she doesn’t look fragile, not now. “Why don’t we dispense with the questions and the accusations,” she says, tired of the dance. “We both know you don’t care whether I’m innocent or guilty, and you don’t care about finding justice either way. How about we get to the point, and you tell me just what it is you do want.”
Olinger smiles, eyes on the bag. Adelaide's terseness doesn't make his enjoyment of this moment any less. He drops the tote back onto the chair and lifts his gaze, looking to the patrolman beside him who bears the name McEwan stitched to the breast of his uniform. "I believe this will be sufficient for the Department of Justice to warrant holding her," he tells the patrolman, who nods in resolute understanding. Olinger turns back to Adelaide, giving her a tight-lipped smile as two patrolmen step forward. One reaches for Charlie while the other removes a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "If you'd prefer to get to the point, Mrs. Lansing, I will oblige. I am placing you under arrest. You will be held in the Department of Justice pending further investigation into your present relationship with the Hellhounds."
Adelaide shifts automatically away from the man reaching for Charlie, snapping with protective instinct. “I’m not fool enough to try anything with an infant and those creatures standing over me,” she snaps, looking to Olinger. There isn’t quite a plea in her proud eyes, but maybe something like it, and she inclines her head toward the most tree-like of the patrolmen. “Cuff me to him if you’re afraid of what I’ll do, but I’ll carry my son.” Olinger shakes his head, eyes narrowing sharply at Adelaide's blatant defiance. He has a terrible distaste for noncompliance, and he is only feeling more cross with Adelaide for forcing him to bear witness to what needs to be done now. His orders can be unscrupulous but Olinger doesn't prefer to observe the execution of his edicts.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lansing, but you are suspected of conspiring with violent criminals to commit acts of treason against the Capitol," Olinger says cooly. "You will be arrested, processed, and searched in the Department of Justice the same as any other accused party. Despite your noble name, Adelaide, you are not entitled to special treatment. Hand your son over or my officers are authorized to use force to carry out their protocol."
The struggle to make herself obey an order, when she’s almost never been told what to do in her life, is deep and strangling. But the struggle to let go of the warm little bundle that’s snoring against her chest with no guarantees she’ll ever get him back is far, far deeper and her fingers close in the folds of that blanket as she steels herself for it. She thinks of the people in the Capitol that aren’t these monsters - of Rob, of Archer, of Nina and even Isaac Callahan, of O’Brien and Karen and Nate. Of Bunny, and the women and men who came to see Charlie when he was born, the first baby in the Capitol in ages. She has to believe that even Olinger won’t hurt a baby, if only because of how it would look, and that those people she trusts will see that he’s alright. That handing him over peaceably will be safer than letting force get involved.
Her face is a stony mask when she allows the patrolman to approach. “Will he be returned to me when the processing is through?” she asks, monotone over the rage that wants to shake her voice.
"If that is what you wish," Olinger nods, turning more placid as he watches McEwan take Charlie. The patrolman gives Adelaide an apologetic sort of smile, and he takes the baby carefully, if a bit inexpertly. The move still wakes Charlie, and he makes a sound of discontent as the Private steps back for the other patrolman to place the handcuffs on Adelaide's wrists. This one-- Bowen, his uniform says-- is not as apologetic as the other. He approaches quick in a manner meant to intimidate, and he's got a look about him that suggests that he's met her brother personally. He shows his bitterness when he tightens the cuffs.
“It is,” Adelaide confirms in no uncertain terms. She meets McEwan’s bit of a smile and she remains stony but she isn’t full of venom when she does it. She meant the things she has said, to Demi and to others - these people know only that the Dog King kills and spreads poison, and until he proves otherwise she could just as easily compare McEwan to any prospect or patch in the Dog Park who would obey orders on Rodeo’s say-so. The one who clamps the handcuffs tight enough that she’s sure she feels the bones in her wrist grind together, on the other hand? That one can fuck right off and her expression says so. She’s grimly glad that he isn’t the one holding Charlie.
When Bowen steps away, Olinger sets a phone down on the corner of his desk. The screen is open to dial a call, and Olinger waves at Adelaide to come forward. "You do get a phone call," he says, as if this is protocol and not pure vanity on his part. "I presume you know your brother's phone number?"
She takes her time stepping up when Olinger beckons her, and lifts her eyes to meet his, flatly. “I presume I don’t get to decline?” she says, matching Olinger’s tone for bland pleasantry.
"I'm afraid not," Olinger says, lifting a hand to poise a finger over the keys on the screen. "Go on. I'll dial for you."
It’s not that she doubts her brother. Adelaide knows that once this phone call goes through, once the taunt is in and the bait is set, Olinger is the one who should really be pitied because while the wrath of the Dog King is a massive, crushing thing that can burn down worlds, it doesn’t have to make him stupid.
She dictates the number coldly, clenching her small hands into fists in front of her and using the pain in her wrists to ground her as Olinger’s too-slim fingers punch the buttons on the screen. She is someone who is, aside from childbirth, not the least bit used to physical pain, and the sensation of being unable to stop this discomfort is strange, but she rides it. She’s going to sound calm, she tells herself. She’s going to make sure he knows that she’s fine. She’s going to give Rodeo everything she can, just like she did before his phone call with Rob, to make it easier for his cooler head to prevail like she knows it can.
She holds her breath waiting to hear his voice.
Rodeo doesn't know the number, but when the call comes in he answers immediately. Olinger perches at the edge of his desk, watching the phone in unabashed interest as Rodeo's voice comes through over the speaker. "Who's this?" he demands, both authoritative and urgent. Rodeo needs it to be her.
“It’s me,” Adelaide says immediately, calm as she can but undeniably grim. She ignores Olinger, the eager look on his face that is both childlike and devilish at once, and stares down at the phone after a glance at where McEwan holds Charlie. “I’m on speakerphone with your biggest fan here in the Capitol. Mr Mayor was looking through some old news clippings and found a bit of a family portrait of ours,” she says. Her tone is steady, though Rodeo will recognize the sarcasm she speaks with as a defense mechanism of hers.
Rodeo is silent for several long beats, and Adelaide knows him well enough to know he's there on the other end of the line chewing down his rage, trying to keep it from exploding, trying to keep himself under control. It takes him immense effort but after a moment he finally can speak without screaming. "Yeah? Bet it's fit to frame," he says, the rage boiling in him there just under the surface of his words. "What's happening now?"
Adelaide draws in a slow breath while Rodeo responds. Her fury is easier to keep in check than her brother's, with the added motivator of her son, and in its absence it is fear that she's working to keep from her voice. She doesn't think she's ever felt so helpless, so totally at the mercy of someone with so much malice, and none of her usual subversive methods will work here. Rodeo is the entirety of her hope.
If it had to be someone, he would be her choice every time, and she takes comfort in that. "Rob was conveniently dispatched to the hospital before this little meeting, so it appears Charlie and I will be spending some time with the Justice Department," she says, giving him as much information as she is able, though it is limited. At least he will know that she and Charlie are together.
Silence again for a few seconds too long. Fury is getting harder for her brother to swallow, and it won't be long before he chokes on it and it takes control of him. For now he's just barely managing it, and his closest friends all by his side help him hold on. "They're arresting you," he states, not a question. "For what? Bein' my blood? What's the crime?"
Adelaide brings both hands up, rubs against her temple where the stress is building, so intently is she listening to his every nuance. “Apparently that blood is enough to get my rooms searched,” she says, a little tremble of indignant rage there - though she would admit Olinger would be a fool if he didn’t search them, if she was being honest. She doesn’t feel like being honest, just now. “He seems to think that the phone that got dropped into the toilet is suspicious enough to hold me, while they see if that old bag of rice trick will bring it back,” she adds, coolly. Still amid everything else she is crossing her fingers that that goddamn phone stays good and dead.
"That ain't why he's holdin' you," Rodeo growls out, no doubt in his mind. There's no reason for this phone call but to gloat-- and to bait him into action. Olinger is counting on him to be hot-headed and foolish, stupid with rage. But the rage Rodeo feels is the deadly sort, the kind that sharpens instead of dulls him. He believes Adelaide can hear that in his voice-- the cool note of calculated fury instead of the hysteria of wild wrath. "Anybody hurt you?"
She does hear exactly what she needs to in his voice, exactly what she’s staying calm to encourage. She’s had faith in him, and she’s fiercely proud it is proving right. “Don’t you worry, Jims,” she says, with a brief, cool little look up into Olinger’s face. “There aren’t any illusions between the Mayor and I about why I’m here.” Then she lets her hands down, skims her eyes past the man called Bowen like he is already dust. “Nothing more than a too-tight pair of cuffs,” she adds, in answer. Truthfully the thing that hurt the most was handing over Charlie, but Rodeo doesn’t need to hear that. There is plenty here to fuel him, any more and his control could burn away.
Charlie lets out an irritable cry from within McEwan’s arms, and Adelaide tenses. The sound is brief, and Adelaide moves on by it. “I’m sure we’ll be kept plenty comfortable while we wait for justice to arrive,” she concludes, steely. Her preference would be justice in the form of a few bullet holes through Olinger’s giddy little eyes.
There’s something in Adelaide’s tone now that Olinger doesn’t like at all. A scowl twists his lips and he reaches for the phone, shaking his head. “That’s enough. Goodnight, James.”
“Fuck you,” Rodeo snaps on the other end of the line, and now that hot-headed rage shows, provoked by the sound of Olinger’s voice. Olinger doesn’t wait to hear any more from him-- he ends the call and places the phone back down on the desk, looking to Adelaide.
“I’ll have someone bring a bag for you and the child,” he tells her, as Bowen steps forward and places a hand on her arm, wrapping his fingers around tightly to guide Adelaide towards the door. “You’ll have to excuse Private Bowen. I’m afraid your brother has left him with one too many scars.”
Adelaide looks down at the hand on her arm, and then up into the face of the man attached to it with an expression that is something like the refined little sister of a sneer. “And I suppose that’s my fault too,” she deadpans. Before Bowen can propel her onward Adelaide starts to move, following McEwan with Charlie. She doesn’t look back at Olinger as she goes, just throws the last words over her shoulder. “I hope you’re ready for the can of worms you just opened up,” she says, before she turns the corner and is gone from the office, hands bound but head high.