Armamentarium

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1. The total store of avaliabe resources:
a. the equipment (as drugs or instruments) and methods used in an activity or profession, especially in medicine.
b. factual, experimental, and speculative.

2. Array (as of materials); collection.

3. Essential components; apparatus.

One (1) Skirt

One (1) pair of plain beige tights

Two (2) Shirts – one wrap top, and one singlet.

Two (2) Heeled shoes.

One (1) Unexpected Tragic Back story.

And, of course, Jackson thought as he stared down at the list of things that Lisa Reisert had immediate access to when he trapped her on the plane, one brain, more devious than expected. He slid the piece of paper aside – what Lisa Reisert had had was not important. He was far more interested in what she had gained.

One (1) trip to the Airplane Bathroom, holding a toilet, sink, mirror, napkins, and soap – used as an attempt to alert other passengers.

One (1) Novelty Pen, gained from another passenger, most likely when he was distracted while reinforcing the image of a 'Bathroom Quickie' – used as a weapon.

One (1) Stolen Van, from the Airport Drop-Off zone – used as transport.

One (1) Hockey Stick, from her old bedroom in her father's home – used as a weapon.

Two (2) Phones, one his own mobile, the other the house phone, one used to inform key people of the attack on the Keefe family, the other to call local authorities.

Not to mention an overprotective father who knew how to shoot a gun. Jackson leaned back from the desk and stretched, wincing slightly as the new skin on his chest pulled. Lisa Reisert had upgraded herself. She had previously been someone who Charles Keefe would trust the word of when his hotel room was changed. Now she was someone who'd saved the life of him and his family – a little more important. She had come across as someone who knew the way to get up in the world. Jackson was well aware that the best way was to step on someone – and Lisa Reisert had stepped on him. So, though he was well aware that being asked to retrieve and contain the bargaining chip was a significant step down from being the puppeteer of the plan, when he learned exactly who he would be spending his time with, he was rather alright with his circumstances.

The plan was, thankfully, a good deal simpler than the last time he'd had to deal with the girl. She lived in an apartment building, in a single bedroom apartment, and the rooms above hers were for sale. He knew her work schedule off by heart – to his surprise she seemed to have settled back into a routine after her 'flight from hell' as the media had called it. He'd gotten a good look at the locks on the buildings, and the block security as a whole – minimal, of course – when he'd posed as a buyer. As Lisa worked a night shift once a week, there was a high chance of her being alone in the parking lot when she arrived home (Jackson intended to increase that chance by knocking out the guard, but that was beside the point). As there would be likely no witnesses, it would be fairly easy to use an incredibly useful chemical called chloroform, and, as Lisa would be unconscious during her transportation from garage a small room that contained a toilet, a tiny sink, and a bed that was bolted to the floor, Jackson couldn't imagine she'd be able to do much to fuck it up for him.

Jackson stood across the room from where Lisa Reisert was slowly twitching into consciousness onto of the bed that was bolted to the ground (to his own disgust he'd checked several times that none of the bolts would give). He legs were protesting – he wasn't exactly physically large, she'd taken longer than he's expected to wake up after he'd had to carry her in, and he refused to let himself be sitting, whether on the small toilet sans seat or on the floor, when she woke up. It was simply unbecoming. Her eyelids finally flickered open, and Jackson reveled in the fearful expression that crossed her face as she took in her surroundings, and memories rushed back to her. She sat up slowly, eyes scanning the room before they hit him; her entire being seemed to freeze. He barely restrained himself from smiling.

"Welcome to your new home, Ms. Reisert." He saw her throat work for several moments before anything actually emerged.

"How …?" was all she managed to get out, eyes unnaturally wide. Jackson raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not sure what your question is referring to." When all she managed in response was a stuttered combination of 'You' and 'here', he heaved a sighed and walked casually towards the bed, enjoying the sight of her scrambling away to press against the headboard, and placed his hands on the end of it, leaning slightly forwards. "If your question is referring to me being in this room, I am here because there is a job involved. If you refer to my presence being elsewhere than a cell or grave, I point you towards the police, who are not quite ready to face the embarrassment that would fall upon them if the news escaped that a highly dangerous, and heavily injured, prisoner escaped." He let a small, predatory grin distort his features, and watched her press herself harder against the headboard. "If your question is more existential, I really can't help you."

She didn't say anything, just stared at him, and, instead of enjoying it like he had been, Jackson began to find her pathetic expression rather distasteful. He let the foot of the bed go and stepped back. "Meals will be provided three times a day, and I can bring you toiletries on the condition that you use them only as directed and return them as soon as they are used." He let a small smile which, under any other circumstances could have been seen as reassuring, curve his mouth. "Call. and I will hear you."

As he left he paused in the hallway outside the room, where most of the wall was taken up by a one way window. Reisert remained curled against the headboard of the bed. Jackson studied her for a moment before deciding that yes; taking away her shoes had been a good decision, and continuing into the house.

Three days passed with no trouble. They didn't exactly pass quickly – the only thought that kept Jackson from going stir crazy was the fact that he wasn't the one locked in a bare room without even books or television to pass the hours. The upper part of the house looked like any in suburban Miami – no one on the outside would guess it had a hostage in the heavily renovated basement. The first day she'd asked him repeatedly why she was there, but he refused to tell her anything. It wasn't like he knew the grand details of the plan anyway – it was something about blackmail, and money changing hands. Sometimes he wondered if she thought it was about assassination or murder again, and whether or not the truth (if she ever found out what it was) would cheapen the experience. For his part, Jackson brought her food, on paper plates and with plastic cutlery, and a toothbrush twice a day (he squeezed the toothpaste on himself, and didn't bring the tube in – in his mind the brush itself was dangerous enough), and tried to ignore the fact that he was a glorified babysitter.

Later he would curse his fatal flaw – he relaxed when things were going well, and let himself be distracted. It was exactly what she'd taken advantage of on the plane. He really should have seen it coming. She used the exact same structure – an emotional moment followed by using some sort of ridiculous every day item as a weapon. He'd been worried about the toothbrush because it reminded him a little too much of the pen she'd managed to grab the last time they'd worked together. However it had no sharp points, so he had stopped thinking of it as a threat. When she'd bent over, hands on the sink, gripping and releasing the toothbrush, and getting mint paste all over one hand, he'd thought she was breaking slowly, letting the emptiness of the routine get to her. He hadn't been expecting her to turn around and swing her toothpaste covered hand directly into his eyes. His eyes, though they turned bloodshot, and would have trouble focusing properly for several minutes, didn't sting as much as his pride.

It was a small lead, but sadly it was enough. Of course it was increased by the fact that as soon as she could get her hands on a projectile she used it – one of his spare shoes lying neatly by the door the house hit him in the head as soon as he emerged from the doorway into the main house. Then she disappeared out the open front door. He snarled, and turned to see that the mobile phone and keys that had been sitting on the coffee table were gone, and ran to the front door to see the BMW that had been parked in front of the house pulling away with a screech. He ran to the kitchen and pulled a drawer open, to find that the spare keys were still there. He grabbed the relevant one, and ran to the garage, where a second car was kept. He sped after her, hunched over the steering wheel, and feeling more manic by the second. He managed to keep her in sight, though she was speeding just as fast as he was. He cursed as she reached a motorway several cars ahead of him; he'd never been good at chases, and he needed to get her back to the house soon.

Terror was obviously serving Lisa well, and Jackson could feel his focus narrowing, until all that remained was the BMW. Finally his superior driving skills paid off, and there were no more cars in between them. Unfortunately he didn't notice that there were still cars on either side, especially at the enormous intersection where the light changed as he sped after the other car. There was a cacophony of honking, and Jackson turned, thinking no fucking way I'm going to die in a car cra- before all thoughts ended.

Next time: Arriviste

ah-ree-veest

1. One who is bent on 'arriving', i.e. on making a good position for himself in the world; a pushing or ambitious person, a self-seeker.

2. A person who has recently acquired unaccustomed status, wealth, or success, especially by dubious means and without earning concomitant esteem.

3. One who employs any means however questionable or unscrupulous to achieve success: an aggressive pushing person: parvenu, upstart.