Dave had always been good at talking to his friends. They had similar interests (granted, those interests were often for illegal activities) and had spent enough time together to know what the other people were comfortable talking about. Dave had not had such opportunities with Bransen. His first encounters with the man had been cordial enough, escorting him around and generally looking a little menacing. To go right from there to interrogation was hard on their relationship, though. Dave couldn’t get past the idea that he was just some thug, a [i]suit[/i], a body without a brain. Yea, his brain wasn’t huge, and he couldn’t do calculus or build planes or anything, but in his world, he hadn’t been dumb. He didn’t even think he was particularly dumb now. He was the reason they had gotten as far as they had, switching cars, plates, getting supplies, and doing things that would keep them off of the radar. He had made what he thought were the good decisions, and he answered Bransen’s questions as best as he could. The response he received from the man, however, was less than Dave had hoped. It was like he had taken two steps forward only to move three steps backwards. 

The man had barely responded to his ideas, which were really just trying to confirm that they would continue to work together. Had he still been interrogating the man, he would have called him a liar in a heartbeat. The man looked sick at the prospect of continuing, and Dave could tell that something was very wrong. He had messed something up, but he had no idea what. Bransen mumbled something to agree with him, and Dave made one more attempt at conversation, talking about missing being connected to the net. Once they had new identities, they would be able to start that sort of thing again, make new friends and have new lives, it would just take time. Dave hadn’t changed his name when he had moved to Chicago, but he did have to cut all ties and start fresh, to maintain his own sanity.

The last attempt at conversing with his traveling companion, however, was met with a vacant look, and Dave knew that his words had meant nothing. The man made some excuse to leave, and stumbled into the bathroom. Dave sat in shock for a few moments, and then shook his head as he had gotten up. He wanted to tell himself that the stitches had just made Bransen a little queasy, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He had misjudged the man, thought that they could have a conversation, be somewhat friendly towards each other, but he was wrong. Dave cleaned up the supplies from the table, busying himself quickly so he didn’t have to think about the disappointment. He put aside enough things for Bransen to take care of his foot again in the car, whenever the man felt up to it. He then packed up the rest of their things and went outside. 

It was probably best to get a new car, and so Dave looked around the parking lot for a few moments. He saw a few contenders, but decided to go to the front desk and check out first. Getting someone to come to the desk so that he could return the keys was annoying, but fortunately the man left the desk as soon as Dave was done, giving the man the opportunity to look at the lost and found siting behind the counter. He grabbed the two sets of keys that had been there, and brought them out to the parking lot to see what luck he had. There was a sporty-looking thing, red with a racing stripe down the middle, and a rather boring looking dark blue Jeep. While the little one was more his choice, he knew that it would be noticed quickly, no matter what he did to the plates, and so he picked the Jeep, grateful that this time he would have the keys. Again he switched the plates, cautiously since it was day-time now. Fortunately, it seemed that everyone in the motel was likely still hung-over from their activities the night before.

Once the cars were settled, he went back to the room and brought everything out, packing up the Jeep quickly and getting ready to go. All he needed now was Bransen. Dave went back into the room and knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, umm… I am ready to hit the road. The car is all packed, and we might want to get going before anyone notices… Oh it’s a dark blue Jeep now.” He turned and left the room once more, glancing over to make sure that he hadn’t left anything incriminating behind. Dave got in the car, and fiddled with the stations, hoping to find something decent to listen to. The second pop-tart still sat in the cup holder on the driver’s side, since he knew he would want to munch while he drove. 

The passenger’s side was empty, apart from a plastic bag on the floor that had what Bransen would need to re-patch up his wound, if he wanted it. Their bigger bag was in the back on the floor. When Bransen returned, Dave would silently put the car in gear and begin to drive. He had failed miserably at small-talk before, and Bransen had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in conversing, and so Dave stayed quiet. He could do silence, and maybe even make it all the way into New York earlier, if they didn’t stop for food. He figured Bransen would prefer that, since he had gotten rather annoyed at the mention of having to stop at another motel for the evening. 

-.-

Kit seemed to try to maintain his composure, which amused Thompson a bit. She sat quietly, waiting as he called HILDA defective, and put all of the blame on Tucker—convenient since he was gone. “Mr. Marshall.” Melissa Thompson finally stated when the man was done spewing whatever thoughts popped into his head. “Most individuals, when asked a question, see fit to answer that question. When speaking to me, most individuals see fit to reply concisely. I had yet to meet an individual, who not only refused to answer the single request posed to them, but instead babbled incessantly, saying nothing of any consequence, until you. And please, feel free to take offense to that statement, for I have spoken to your former partner, and even he [i]boneheaded[/i] as he might be, was able to answer a simple question.” 

Mr. Marshall was annoying. He was annoying, cocky, arrogant, and many other synonyms that she had no desire to name. If he had been a capable individual, then she wouldn’t have been in such a position, so early in the morning. “Perhaps HILDA does need some reprogramming. After all, she did predict that you would be capable of performing such a job, and clearly that was incorrect, and your intelligence was…over-estimated as much as Mr. Tucker’s loyalty. So I will take this incredibly slow for you.”

“You have stated thus far that Mr. Tucker compromised the mission, that he is rogue. Tell me how, and why. What changed in the storage unit that made Mr. Tucker side with the intended target and betray you? You have worked with the man, if only for a short while. I take it you did not predict such an extreme level of betrayal ahead of time, because you certainly would have called us up earlier.”

Melissa Thompson knew absolutely nothing about what had happened after they had captured Berkman. Something had clearly changed, because Mr. Tucker had taken the evidence and the man, and left. Had Berkman offered him money, power, drugs? She had predicted these circumstances before she thought that Tucker would have grown a heart and actually wanted to help the fellow clear his name and go up against all of Hawtholders. No, Kit Marshall was supposed to be the intelligent one, so for all Melissa Thompson truly knew, they had all planned this together. Hilda had run the analysis—of course the program was still highly trusted—and it was far more likely that Marshall had been the mastermind behind any plans made than Tucker would have been. Perhaps Marshall was left behind on purpose, to throw off Hawtholders while the rest of his new allies set up something else, or had time to get away. 

Thompson hadn’t gotten anywhere in life by trusting people, and she had no intention of starting now. “I expect a full report of the events that transpired Mr. Marshall, immediately.” She said and clasped her fingers together as she turned to face him. If he would refuse, she would happily get her own interrogators in here to help him finish his report. However, Marshall still needed to prove his own innocence, and Hilda had given Thompson some indication that Marshall was running on very high levels of adrenaline, and a few other chemicals that implied revenge might be an apt route for them to use to control the operative. For now, though, Thompson would wait until the man climbed off of his high horse, and began to take responsibility for what had happened in the unit.