Thread: Vertigo (VivifiedVanityxSeven)

RE Vertigo So they say you don't have a name. Jackson awoke to find himself sitting upright at some point in his restless sleep, he had heard the sound of heavy-soled shoes striking against sterile industrial rubber flooring and a metal chair rest squeaking along the tiles and had physically reacted before his opiate-addled mind had caught up with everything. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at a police officer who had taken up camp in a chair at the foot of his bed, the same officer that had been quietly and dutifully standing guard outside of the room for the last week. A brass badge that had been polished with a heavy hand gleamed on the man's uniform Sgt. Teller. They say that you didn't come with any I.D. Teller continued, That they're still trying to get your information from the airport. No identification? That meant Joe Reisert's wallet had gone missing at some point between the plane and the ambulance, and that was one hell of a distance to cover. Jackson said nothing he had no choice in the matter with his breath still occasionally coming in wheezes through a still healing windpipe. But I read the reports. One of the witnesses involved said your name was Jack the Ripper. Bet you think that's clever. Exactly the opposite Jackson hated the allusion after a lifetime of being Jackson Rippner - anyone who heard his full name would immediately comment on the parallel as though they were the first to realize it, as though he had never heard it before. Again and again. You're getting the big boy treatment, Teller said, voice dripping with condescention it seemed a week of standing guard was trying the man's patience. Jackson nearly smiled. Just because you had your hand in all of this, you're being treated like Charles Manson, but what did you do? You scared a girl. And then she kicked your ass. A fair point Jackson had always been a perfectionist when it came to his targets, but even with his intimate knowledge of Lisa Reisert's past life as a competitive athlete and her coping mechanisms from a high-stress job, even with her multiple attempts to attract attention - the soap on the mirror, the highlighter in the self-help book, the damn disconnected phone - Jackson had underestimated her. The most frustrating part was that he had done so in an almost imperceptible way - he had underestimated her in the sense that he simply hadn't thought about her capacity for violence . It was a mistake he wouldn't make again, one that he had unconsciously based off of her passive-aggressive personality in regards to every other aspect of her life - he simply hadn't factored in what she might be capable of if she was cornered for long enough. Nor had he factored in her past. The image of her skin flickered across his vision the white cotton of a sensible shirt and the scar hidden just beneath it - it was a detail he had missed, as his observations hadn't extended to pure voyeurism. Not exactly. You know what I think? Oh, he was still talking. Jackson had forgotten that he was still frozen in the same position, staring at the officer. He reminded himself to blink, and found his eyes burned in protest. I think you're just a pawn, Teller said, Sure as hell guilty, but you aren't what we're after. I think you're just a paper-pusher who tried to roll with the big boys and failed. And I think you're going to rot in prison for it for the rest of your life - if you survive in there, the way you look. This time Jackson really did smile it was a small thing, a flicker at the very corners of his mouth, something that might have looked friendly and welcoming under any other circumstance, without even the hint of derision. He had become very good at that sort of thing. He lifted his unrestrained hand to his throat, pressing gently against the bandaging as though to test it before he spoke for the first time in a week his voice came out raspy, but familiar You're capable enough to make it to Sergeant before age thirty, he said, And you're proud enough to spend the time polishing your old nameplate until the letters threaten to peel. Yet you're on security detail. Sgt. Teller's eyebrows dipped, an expression that was caught between annoyance and confusion as usual, Jackson had hit the nail on the head. The officer was dealing with a damaged ego, so Jackson drove the spike in just a little further We're all someone's pawn. Sgt. Teller didn't speak to him again after that. --- One of the reasons Jackson Rippner had always been good at his job was his ability to forsee outcomes his strict adherence to logic, fact, and simplicity had given him the upper hand on many occasions where others had failed due to the complexities and fragility of human emotions. It was why he was disturbingly calm when three big men in expensive suits arrived from Homeland Security in a disorganized, frenetic attempt to get answers from him while they alternated between threats of jail and bargains for information, Jackson simply observed. They were desperate, that much was clear a week had passed since the assassination attempt, a period of time where all of the evidence and witnesses were at their most informative, and yet they had come to the bedside of a man who was heavily sedated - they had hit a dead end. They had nothing, except the testimony of a kidnap victim, the statements of a handful of witnesses, and the name of a boat that had managed to fly under the bloodhound radar. Give us a name and we'll talk reduced sentancing. Jackson's voice had nearly returned to him by then - save for the strained rasp that lingered - but he was content to let them believe otherwise, given that they were already naively caught up in the fantasy that he was going to prison. Jail time had never been a concern for him for one very simple reason he would be intercepted before he could ever get there. While mafia men, petty thieves, and white-collar businessman languished in prison, his kind had the tendency to dissappear before a formal court date could ever be arranged. It was the sort of thing that should have worried him, but one didn't get into his line of work without being aware of the consequences, and he wasn't foolish enough to believe he could escape the hospital and police custody in his current condition. Insofar as pain management went, Jackson was par none, but reality deemed that even he had physical limitations he had decided he would bide his time and give himself as much time to heal as he could afford to. If we go solely by Lisa Reisert's testimony, you're going to take the hit for all of it. Everything from start to finish. Jackson's eyed snapped over to meet with the speaker's. Oh, we have your attention now, do we? Give us something more to go on, and we can change that outcome. The big bloodhound looked smug he thought he had hit a nerve, but it had just been the mention of her that hand yanked him out of his reverie. He wasn't interested in anything they had to say, he wouldn't take any of their deals, and he wouldn't go to jail. They had nothing to barter with and nothing to keep him listening, they never had. He let his eyes fall closed again. He would need the rest for what was inevitably coming. --- Predictably, they had come for him in the night and he had been in no condition to argue, something they had further ensured by increasing his sedative dosage. The man in the lead, Malvre, was familiar enough with Jackson's exploits to know what they were dealing with - unlike Sergeant Teller, he wasn't fooled by the illusion of helplessness that the injuries and medication had created. I know what you are, Malvre said coyly the man was tall and broad around the shoulders, nearing his forties but his skin was sun-damaged in a way that made him look ten years older and implied a lifetime in hot climates, regardless of the heavily Parisian accent. He was standing at Jackson's bedside and looking down at him, a smile on his thin face, a thin little brown cigarette burning between his lips. And I know what you did. he continued, And we both know you're here now because of what you failed to do . And you know what happens when men like us fail, don't you, Jackson? He didn't bother to play along and he remained silent only because the massive dosage of opiates had made his voice stop functioning all over again Malvre was going soft around the edges, as though he was looking through fogged glass. But I'm not here to kill you. Not yet. That will come later until then, you have loose ends to tie. Malvre said, and cocked his head when he saw the unfocused look in Jackson's eyes, Are you still with me, Rippner? Malvre moved a big hand out and jabbed him in the chest, a precise strike into one of the bullet wounds, and Jackson felt his brain snap back into focus the finger dug in, but he didn't make a sound, he merely stared at Malvre. Good. Malvre added, I think we understand eachother. --- Pain wracked him with every step, but his plain expression belied his physical state the woman on the other side of the booth offered him a bright, toothy white smile as she handed him back his airline ticket and passport. Enjoy Chicago, Mr. Dahmer, she said cheerily, and Jackson smiled back, only to drop the expression entirely when he entered the loading bridge. He found some small irony in being seated by the window, beside Malvre. --- The flight was three hours long, but Jackson felt the concept of time had been lost at some point back in the hospital, driven by the lack of windows, the absence of clocks, and the over-abundance of barbituates. The flight had given the morphine time to wear off and the results were unpleasant as Jackson found himself not only more aware of the pain, but suffering the beginning symptoms of withdrawal. His carry-on had been provided with painkillers, but he was more willing to bet on his ability to adapt to the pain and discomfort, over his ability to adapt to being stoned out of his mind. He needed to be able to think - he could deal with pain. Malvre had been characteristically chatty through the course of the flight, an aggressively friendly captor in the sense that he persisted on giving his opinions about the in-flight movie and, occasionally, the stewardesses' rear ends. Annoyingly, there was no discussion regarding why their destination was Chicago, a lack of information that Jackson found troubling - not out of fear of the unknown, but because, from a professional standpoint, the lack of clarity made things difficult. This left Rippner with no choice but to privately speculate Malvre had alluded to unfinished business, which could only be a reference to Charles Keefe - in a play off of his obsession with finishing the job, they were taking him to complete his last one, perhaps with the mocking knowledge that he could hardly function. As they stepped out into the Chicago airport, Malvre put a hand on Rippner's bicep, taking hold of it and steering him away from the crowd, towards the baggage claim, despite the fact they hadn't brought any on board. Behind them, four men who had exited off the same plane wandered nearby they lingered and gazed idly around the airport, all of them standing within a close raidus, too casual to be anything except Malvre's back-up. Your mistake will cost you, Malvre murmured, hand still gripping Rippner's arm, the hold just strong enough to be an unspoken threat as he directed him towards the distant elevators, But now you will finish what you started, and I am here to ensure it happens. I don't believe I need to tell you not to do anything stupid. As they walked, Jackson was aware that none of the men around him would be armed with anything more than a cellphone, as it was nigh impossible to smuggle weapons onboard any North American transport in the new millennium. It was the biggest advantage he could hope to have, and one that would dissappear the moment they left the airport. In their current location, Malvre was limited in what he could do - there was enough security around that he would be tagged the moment he got aggressive. Distraction was too complicated too many things could go wrong. Jackson tested his leg on the ground, bearing as much weight on it as he could during each step, even briefly doing a bizarre little half-skip that made Malvre give him a cock-eyed look. He found that the injury twinged, but it was nothing he couldn't deal with later. Occam's razor was always the answer. The simplest solution people ran for their planes all the time. Without missing a beat, Jackson went from walking to sprinting in the blink of an eye, so sudden that Malvre was briefly staggered by it the Frenchman dropped his shoulders in a show of exasperation before he broke into a run. Relying purely on self-preservation and a lifetime of heavy cardio, Jackson ran for the moving walkway, skimming across it and dodging a woman who was talking on her cellphone, knocking her pile of luggage onto the walkway in the process. Hey! she called after him, putting her cellphone to her chest, You bastard! She put the phone to her face again, This guy just knocked all my stuff over! I can't believe - Malvre knocked her clean off her feet he stumbled, clawed through the pile of luggage, and kept going, kicking the blackberry as he went. Jackson, meanwhile, took a left and darted behind a nearby column though he normally wasn't one for playing hide-and-seek, his injuries were protesting and his breath was coming back as a wheeze. He peered around the edge of the column, looking towards the elevators that were no more than twenty feet away the doors had yet to open and he wasn't sure he could risk - No. he said flatly he could feel sweat on his hairline, a result of the strain he was putting on his body he told himself he was seeing things, just the way he had in the hospital. He was in Chicago, not Miami, and the woman in front of the elevator, dressed in plain business-clothes was not - there was no way that - - wait. Jackson shut his eyes he could hear his pulse throbbing in his temple and feel his heart thumping against his chest wall - he focused on his breathing, he opened his eyes again, and he refocused. He had watched Lisa Reisert for eight weeks, had sat on a plane next to her for hours. It was her. He hadn't been brought to Chicago to kill Keefe . Rippner pressed his head back against the column, thumping it once against the marble, gritting his teeth. Behind him, Malvre was standing in the open, scanning his surroundings for any sign of Jackson - when he found none, he began a slow walk around the area, going right, and Jackson took the opportunity to go left, running for the escalator that went to the next floor, taking it two stairs at a time, halfway up it just as the elevator doors opened. His options were limited he ran for the elevator on the next floor. He pressed the button. He waited. When the doors slid open again, Lisa Reisert would find him standing on the other side, his normally neat hair sticking to his temples, angular jawline covered in two weeks of growth, his chin tilted down as he looked at her through the hair that fell awkwardly over his brows. He was wordless, his jaw clenched, as he strode forward, putting one hand on Lisa's mouth, his other arm barring across her chest as he shoved her back into the elevator, the doors closing behind him. He hit the emergency stop button and the entire thing jostled to a sudden halt.