2011 06 19: Training Wheels

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Mission Name: Training Wheels
Date of Mission: June 19, 2011
Locale: Mickey's Dorm - Division HQ

Crewe meets up with her new recruit partner for the mission.

crewe mickey

"Man, this is some bullshit," Crewe says to an empty dorm room. "Haven't even had this assignment a week and they want to stick a recruit on my ass? Working alone, that's what I need to do," she grumbles. Her weight is resting against the dorm room desk, not really caring what the bottom of her butt might be smushing. She's got a folder in one hand, and idly checks out the fingernails of her other hand while waiting for this particular recruit to 'return home' as it were.

The door opens and a figure positively fills the door-frame, and looks, well, shiny. He looks to have been working out, his tank-top covered upper half hugged tight, while his head runs with rivulets of both dried and drying sweat, a towel slung over his shoulder. He pauses right there and turns his head slowly from the cabinet where his first instinct was to go and then towards Crewe, towards the folder, and then back to her and asks, "Is it my birthday already?" Insinuating all sorts of things, perhaps.

"Stow it, meat head. I'm not here to give you a strip tease." The folder, about a quarter-inch thick with more than a few paperclips and butterfly clips holding together things inside, is tossed onto his bed. "The only present I'm here to deliver is that. It's all the information you need to know about the mission you're going to be undertaking. With me. And I know you need to know it, because I put it all together in there." Free of the folder, she's left to cross her arms over her chest, which right now is in the same Mets t-shirt she's been wearing all day.

"I wonder if it's a copy of this folder," Mickey replies and reaches into his cabinet and pulls out a folder with what one can only imagine is a photocopy of everything in her folder. Looking into it, he studies it for a moment before putting it back into the cabinet, "So, you're Crewe," he states, and looks her up and down, though he doesn't linger anywhere inappropriate, he's just studying her outfit, the way she dresses. He's thinking.

"Yeah. The fucking wrecking crew as far as you're concerned. This is a pretty simple mission, and it looks like they want me bringing you so you can get some experience, and so I can get some muscle. Between us, we need to devise a cover story that explains why the hell you and I are out and about together…and don't even say dating couple." Crewe huffs a bit, and pulls herself up straight against the desk. "Snatch and grab, tase and grab, hell…traq darts would work fine with me. But you can't hurt her. She bruises real good I hear, and I think they want to see her without us screwing up what bruises she already has."

A laugh. "I'm your bodyguard and driver, you're the heiress. You identify with her, she identifies with you. Invite her to your place to look at some new dresses from uh.." he pauses to think, "One of those designers that rich girls like. Slip her a, pardon the pun, mickey and we bring her here. Do you think we can get a Royce limo, some appropriate outfits and something that will mix well with alcohol? We'll need to dose everything in the car," says Mickey.

"Good plan and all, except that, she's already met me out on the street in my hobo, hipster, surplus-chic attire. But then…if that shit really is chic, or couture, or whatever she wants to call it…" Crewe thinks out loud. "Goddamnit, anything to get me in a dress, I swear. I'm no heiress, but…spoiled rich girl in the same situation I think she'd go for. She already wants me to hook her up with a shrink. I was going to work that angle and bring her directly here rather than to some shrink's office."

"We can do that too. I can still just be your driver and bodyguard, just in case she needs to be handled. But we can't bring her here conscious, so you'll have to slip her something either way," Mickey replies and walks over to his desk, pulling out the chair, spinning it around and taking a seat. "By the way, why couldn't we be a couple? What's wrong with me?" he asks and looks down at himself.

She takes a look at him, sure, but only becasue by his posturing and what have you she feels obligated to do so. "Suffice it to say, you're not my type. Definitely not my type," she says with a shake of her head. "Too young. Too big. Too…whatever will make you drop the conversation." But hey, at least she's honest. "At the very least, we'd be able to get a car easier if we weren't gunning for transportation used by the hyper-rich. Chances are, we'd attract hoods and paparazzi."

A light laugh. "I'll drop the conversation, but you're the one who brought it up, and you're also not a very good liar," Mickey teases, not the least bit flustered or shaken by her cavalier tough-girl attitude. His thick Bostonian accent ringing in every word. "We'll go for something more sedate then. Low key. Black, BMW Seven series. They make a good limousine that looks rather ordinary, it won't quite make eyebrows jump, but it'll say status, that more acceptable? If you want to just sit on the psychologist angle, we could scrap the whole bit about my being your driver. Which would leave us with what other options?"

"Path of least resistance. We go in, we knock her the fuck out, we tie her the hell up, and we carry her ass on back here as quick and easy as can be. This capture thing…it's not my ballgame, man. Observe and report, pull the trigger when I'm told. Of course, trigger's an analogy or simile or whatever. It's not just guns." She gives a casual shrug to all that, not much of one for the nitty-gritty of the whole sneaky adventures.

"You think it's easier to carry someone with paparazzi around, than to have them walk out and get in a car with you? Do you think we could at least get her somewhere near transportation first?" Mickey asks. Taking a breath, he goes on, "Is this my call, or yours? You're obviously the full agent here, I'm just a recruit, so if that's your call, I'll go with it. I'll just need a few things then, and we can go as soon as we can get an up to date location."

"I want to hook her with the psych bit, first. Maybe con her into getting in the car by using this rich broad idea of yours, then drive her right straight back here, right into the garage. That's what I want to do. Tinted windows, private driver. Shabby chic, that's what I'll call it. No cell phones, either, because that did something to her just earlier." And that sounds like a plan the way she straightens up, chin up, and says it with some authority.

"Okay, then we're back to that. We need to slip her something, you can't just bring a civilian to a covert facility fully conscious. We'll see what we can get for cars, no use in asking for something we can't have. Anything else? Do you want a backup plan? Do we want to setup a safe house in case she has major tails. Do we need to sweep her for tracking devices, something her daddy might have put on her in case she winds up in some crack den?" Mickey posits some of the what-ifs, trying to make sure this has been fully discussed.

"Quit acting like you're working from the damn handbook. One, of course she'd be knocked out. Yes, always have a safe house that you can use to hide out and hide the car, have a backup car to switch if needed. Use the sweepers the tech guys downstairs give you. It's all kiddy stuff, but like I said, I didn't train to take them alive." One more casual shrug, and she turns away to make for the door. "It's not like we're going to be trekking through the jungles of Cambodia or whatever and escaping to another country. We're just taking her from the city to Jersey, a nice little ride to go shopping or see a shrink or something," she calls over her shoulder. "Read the file, and we'll start by drawing tech in the morning. We won't find her tonight anyway."

"Tech in the morning. One more thing, what's your cover ID name?" Mickey calls after Crewe as she makes her way towards the door. Sliding his chair after her, he catches the door and stands up. Waiting for her to pass, he fills his own door frame. He has dried off by virtue of sitting still long enough, though he still probably intends to file off to the showers rather shortly. "I'm curious if I'll get a cover," he wonders aloud then, thinking to himself. Would they issue some sort of ID, perhaps?

"I'm going with Toni. Toni Reynolds. Short for Antoinette. I've used it before, have the paperwork for it, but I've never been stopped by anyone. Alias is still clean, to the best of my knowledge. For something like this, make it a good one, because you'll probably have the chance to use it again until you do something super nutso and have to lose it for a new one. Keep a good stable of names and acts ready to go. 0600 I'm in the firing range, and 0800 we're drawing tech. Target likes to sleep in, so, we're not in a rush." That said, she turns into the hall and starts to walk off toward her own dorm room.

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