[Vegas takes the liberty to mimic Lindianne's mannerisms with his translation, leaning in and making his voice just a touch more menacing. The wording isn't hard to pick up on: talk or we will make unpleasant things happen to you.
Bohdan looks to Vegas, then to Lindianne, then back to Vegas. He snorts, crossing his arms. Vegas follows along.]
"Pigs are pigs, and pigs die like pigs. It doesn't matter what colors they wear."
[He makes a gesture that is not rude in and of itself, but whose meaning is unmistakable - buzz off.]
"If you don't know, why would I tell you? You think any of this scares me?" [A mirthless sneer.] "I know you Americans can't lay a hand on me without it being called abuse. Your prisons are like summer camps compared to the ones back home."
[There's a pause as the air stills, before Vegas seems to act on a hunch he's had for a while. He gets up and walks over to Bohdan's jacket, rifling through its pockets. Bohdan starts to get up-
-and is quickly slammed back down onto the bed by Vegas, his hand like a vice on his forehead. The meaning is clear: stay down. Bohdan, teeth gritted, complies.
A few more moments of rifling produces an old flip phone from a pocket - no biometric ID or passcode required to get at the goods. He holds it aloft to Lindianne before handing it over to her - best not to throw things in these suits, clumsy as they are.
It would seem that Bohdan didn't think to wipe it before they came in. His contacts list has no proper names on it - it's populated with what seems like Ukrainian diminutives, and the last call received was around this time day before yesterday. The texts are mostly in Ukrainian, too, with some coded English interspersed with some contacts as appropriate - talk of "cargo", "hauls", "pickups", et cetera, but nothing in plainspeak.
The photos are another matter. Most of them are innocuous, or at least the type you wouldn't think twice about a dirtbag like him having - friends, guns, new clothes, et cetera.
But three of the newer ones break the pattern. They're out of focus and in bad lighting, to boot - but there's blood, rope, naked skin on bare concrete -
Upon further inspection, the subjects - one per photo - don't match Sam's description. One is a young black woman. Another is an older Asian woman, and the last looks like a Hispanic male of unknown age. All are bound with rope and gagged with what looks like bedsheets. It's hard to see their faces, but they look alive, with some bruising but no major injuries.
It's harder still not to infer from their body language that they're terrified. Like they think they won't survive the night.]
no subject
Bohdan looks to Vegas, then to Lindianne, then back to Vegas. He snorts, crossing his arms. Vegas follows along.]
"Pigs are pigs, and pigs die like pigs. It doesn't matter what colors they wear."
[He makes a gesture that is not rude in and of itself, but whose meaning is unmistakable - buzz off.]
"If you don't know, why would I tell you? You think any of this scares me?" [A mirthless sneer.] "I know you Americans can't lay a hand on me without it being called abuse. Your prisons are like summer camps compared to the ones back home."
[There's a pause as the air stills, before Vegas seems to act on a hunch he's had for a while. He gets up and walks over to Bohdan's jacket, rifling through its pockets. Bohdan starts to get up-
-and is quickly slammed back down onto the bed by Vegas, his hand like a vice on his forehead. The meaning is clear: stay down. Bohdan, teeth gritted, complies.
A few more moments of rifling produces an old flip phone from a pocket - no biometric ID or passcode required to get at the goods. He holds it aloft to Lindianne before handing it over to her - best not to throw things in these suits, clumsy as they are.
It would seem that Bohdan didn't think to wipe it before they came in. His contacts list has no proper names on it - it's populated with what seems like Ukrainian diminutives, and the last call received was around this time day before yesterday. The texts are mostly in Ukrainian, too, with some coded English interspersed with some contacts as appropriate - talk of "cargo", "hauls", "pickups", et cetera, but nothing in plainspeak.
The photos are another matter. Most of them are innocuous, or at least the type you wouldn't think twice about a dirtbag like him having - friends, guns, new clothes, et cetera.
But three of the newer ones break the pattern. They're out of focus and in bad lighting, to boot - but there's blood, rope, naked skin on bare concrete -
Upon further inspection, the subjects - one per photo - don't match Sam's description. One is a young black woman. Another is an older Asian woman, and the last looks like a Hispanic male of unknown age. All are bound with rope and gagged with what looks like bedsheets. It's hard to see their faces, but they look alive, with some bruising but no major injuries.
It's harder still not to infer from their body language that they're terrified. Like they think they won't survive the night.]