CB's Grim Frequencies IC -- COMPLETE

RG

OOC





It's Monday, December 29, 2014. 2:30 pm. Chow is served at 5 pm. Morning work detail is done, lunch is over, and it's 8 degrees outside. Too cold to go outside for an hour, even at midday. You are in your cell, whiling away the time. Somewhere down the hall and around the corner, in the rec room probably, a television drones. Stumpy likes to watch Golden Girls re-runs, and what Stumpy wants, Stumpy invariably gets since he's in for two consecutive life sentences and has little to loose by bashing in the face of anyone who dares touch the remote. Blanche's Southern falsetto echoes down your hall, "Honey, I know I told you where babies come from, but did I ever mention where they come OUT?"

Your overhead fluorescent light flickers off, leaving your cell bathed in the dim light from the prison hall. You are all in FCI Terre Haute, a medium security Federal correctional facility. All five of you have cells occupying Block 2B. There are twenty cells in Block 2B. The Feds, in their infinite wisdom, have housed you one to a cell, despite claims of prison overcrowding and some of you being sent to a medium-security joint for white collar or other non-violent crimes. Hell, five of the cells on Block 2B are unoccupied. What a waste. Stumpy's cell is here, as is T-dawg, Cyril, Feral Li, J.R., and some whacked silent chick who goes by the name D3@tH OtT3R. Whatever the hell that is. Best not to ask, sometimes.

Prim heels click down the hall, followed by what sounds like an armada of heavier bootfalls. The heel clicks are different--don't hear those every day. Keys jangle, and cell doors open. First J.R.'s. You think. Then, a few moments later, Feral Li's cell opens. J.R. and Feral Li are escorted elsewhere, somewhere off-wing, by the sound of it. Next "heels" and the "armada" com for T-dawg, who is taken away solo, without anyone else leaving. Round three has "heels" and the "armada," which turns out to be two prison guards and two armed Federal marshalls, coming to collect Cyril and D3@tH OtT3R. "Heels" turns out to be a woman in a black skirt suit, wearing a chignon and two-inch black patent leather heels.

You are escorted, in shackles on your ankles and with your hands handcuffed in front of you, down Block 2B, to the left, and into a large interview room. Each of the five of you is directed to sit in a chair at a table with a metal bar running down the center. One of the two prison guards handcuffs your manacles to the metal bar on the table. Once you are restrained to the table, "Heels" nods and the two prison guards leave, closing the door behind them.

The interview room is white cinder block. There's a one-way mirror on the east wall. T-dawg and Cyril are shackled on the south side of the table. On the north side, with your backs to the door, sit J.R., D3@tH OtT3R, and Feral Li. The two Federal marshalls stand, flanking the inside of the room's doorway. "Heels" gives you a tight-lipped smile and moves to take a seat at the west end of the table, and extracts five orange folders from a Michael Kors briefcase beside her chair. "I'm Beatrice Garvey. Thanks for your time today. You're Thomas Jeffries, Cyril Kennedy, J.R. Lockwood, Fiona Lewis, and . . ." Garvey pauses, frowning at the fifth file, then frowning at D3@tH OtT3R. "The file has your name redacted. We'll just call you Otter."

Garvey claps the fifth file closed and pushes the stack of folders to the side. Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, Garvey continues, "The organization I work for has a job that needs doing. We've run your criminal histories and backgrounds. You five have a specific skill set that suits our purpose. In exchange for your service for a finite time, we are prepared to offer you house arrest for the duration of your prison terms, the remaining balance of which will immediately be halved. For some of you, this is a substantial reduction." Garvey smiles again, waiting for your response.

ALL: Make a Perception check and include the roll result in your next post, which should contain your PC's response to Garvey.

Feral presents a strange figure to those not familiar with him. Somewhat short at 5'5", he is compact and seemingly made entirely of muscle. His Korean heritage is obvious, though his black hair is currently barely a half-inch in length. His features are feminine, yet rugged, his nose having been broken at least once and his jaw dislocated twice.

Feral, while intrigued by the offer, is streetwise enough to know not to put his cards on the table, just yet. Instead, he rolls his eyes and glares at Garvey, "My name is Feral. Feral Li. And that file obviously doesn't tell you jack if you can't even get my name right, lady."

His voice sounds slightly strained, as if he'd been forcing it into a lower register for a long time.

T-dawg sits passivley, his huge bulk taking up most of the room on his side of the table. His gaze moves slowly between all those in the room and, beneath the white taqiyah crowning his bald head, his brow furrows in a look of confusion and indecision.

He sits in silence, seemingly waiting to take his lead from the other prisoners.

I'm Missing Golden Girls For This?

I'm missing Golden Girls for this? Cyril thought as he took in the rest of the room. He knew the other prisoners shackled to the table, most by reputation but now by name, although he had to laugh silently at the excellent record keeping that had Feral tagged as Fiona Lewis. That's the last person I'd want on my bad side... Taking as good of a look at T-Dawg as he could get out of the corner of his eye, the former lawyer relaxed a little bit when he noted that the large man was also shackled to the table.

Leaning his head down to his shackled hands, Cyril scratched his chin and checked out Beatrice. Even though he had been in prison for a little while, he knew that wasn't the only reason he found her attractive. Red heads... Why does she have to be a red head? Sure has expensive taste too...

Putting on his slickest smile, Cyril replied, "Hey, hey, hey... Esquire, Mrs. Garvey. Cyril F. Kennedy, Esq. At the moment, the Bar and I may have a disagreement over my ability to practice law, but I still earned the title. But we're not here to talk about proper appellations, right? Sounds like you need us. It also sounds like this is some real spooky Dirty Dozen kind of $#$%. So I think my clients and I need some questions answered here. First, who do you represent? We need to know that what you're offering is actually valid. We're also going to need something in writing that I can mail to a trusted and disinterested third party. Second, what do you want us to do? I'm looking around the table and not seeing a skill set suited for much on the right side of the law. I think that's a good start to what my clients will need to know."

There was a 'bonk' sound from farther down the table as an unkept mop of red and...purple?...hair hit the hard wood surface. She shook her hands, rattling the chains of the manacles, then looked up. Yep, short red hair, with her bangs dyed purple. Blue eyes with bags that implied poor sleep. Freckled cheeks. She looked young; a teenager, or not long past that. She had a skinny, lanky build with her prison jumpsuit hanging baggy on her that made it a little hard to tell for sure.

"God, would you just...SHUT..." She squinched her eyes for a second, then opened them to glare at Cyrill and Beatrice. "Okay. OKAY. First of all, it's DEATH Otter. L'otter de MORT. This is not DIFFICULT. Second, DURR it's illegal! Look, we're the porridge, okay? Minimum security is full of LOSERS who don't know what they're doing. Max is full of psychopaths. WE are the *EFFING PORRIDGE."

She looked back at Beatrice. "Of course it's bullcrap, right? Half sentence? House arrest? Can't do that without the courts. Appeals. Lawyers. None of that on the table. Documents OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN. She's Lectering us. Make an offer, we do the job, yank the hand back...what are we going to do?"

Death Otter shrugged. "Cry probably." She yawned and halfheartedly tugged at her manacles, pulling the chains taut against the bar, apparently having lost interest in the offer entirely.

Perception [roll0]

* - Out of deference to Enworld's policies on language, please fill in these euphemisms with the contextually-appropriate profanity. D0 is pretty foul of mouth.

Max Must Be One Psychopath Short

Cyril simply stared at Death Otter during her tirade, sighing silently as the girl jacked up any pretense of civility. I bet her public defender loved her...

As the strange woman seemed to have lost interest in the conversation following her outburst, Cyril attempted to salvage what he could. Winking at Beatrice, he said, "Between you and me, I think Max must be one psychopath short. So where do we stand?"

Feral glared at Cyril, "Who appointed you our lawyer-in-chief? At least the creepy furry over there is being real about all of this. This is some seriously under the table BS if you ask me."

Always Be Smiling

Cyril's smile never faltered. If he had ever been in a situation where his worst clients were all being tried at once, he imagined it would be a lot like this.

"Hey, hey, hey, if someone else at the table has a Juris Doctorate I'll be happy to step aside. Raise your hand if that applies to you." Chuckling at his own joke, he finished, "All kidding aside, Mrs. Garvey needs something from us and has something to offer in return. Given the legal questions involved, you should be happy to have me as your representation, especially for the low, low price of free... and of course there's some serious under-the-table BS going on. This kind of thing only happens in the movies. Thus, our requests!"

Turning to Garvey, he finished, "Unless you're waiting for the rest of the table to get riled up, you might want to start giving us some answers."

Feral shook his head, still glaring at Cyril, "Nope. You don't get to dictate or take command or commandeer any of us. I don't care about your fancy degree or your esquire or whatever. Each of us makes their own choices and you can shut the hell up unless one of us asks for your help. Got it?"

Fair Representation

Still smiling, Cyril responded, "Hey, hey, hey, who's dictating? Who's taking command? I'm a lawyer, this is what I do. My job is to ensure we all have the best options made available to us. Once those options are presented, you get to make your own decision. But hey, I'm used to the challenge. You know Little Pun in Block D? He was one of my clients. Sure, he's in jail now... but for tax evasion. Not for running the largest drug distribution ring in the Great Lakes area." Looking sideways at Garvey, he concluded, "Not that he was actually guilty of that or anything."

Finishing with a rhetorical jibe, he said, "So if we each get to make our own choices, why is my ability to talk conditional? That seems a little unjust, don't you think? So no, I don't think I got it..."

Leaning back into his chair, Cyril ignores Feral's continued glare and looks at Garvey, shrugging.