(For Phoenix) "It seems your mission did not go as planned, lieutenant. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Doctor Jonathan Crane, better known in your circles as the Scarecrow. I will be conducting your...interrogation. You see, my benefactors wish to extract certain information from you. I hardly care either way, but you will also make a most interesting research subject." Restraints hold the pilot to her chair as the fear toxin flooded her system through an IV. A blindfold over her eyes prevents her from seeing anything.
The brunette lurches at the unanticipated sound of a voice. Her eyes attempt to fixate upon the other individual, but find themselves greeted by nothing but inky black darkness. Phoenix swallows thickly, her arms instinctively flinch towards the undesired blindfold only to find that they are tethered to the chair. A pinch of unfettered panic starts to pulse through her heart.
"No shit, Sherlocks," the Naval Aviator bad-temperedly growls, frustration peeking around every syllable. If the flight had gone according to plan, Phoenix would be back at the base, not here, not mincing words with this abhorrent menace. Fingers and wrists flex patiently. If she remembered the trick Mav taught her, maybe she could find a way to slip their tightened knots. In order to do so, she needed to remain calm. A task that was incrementally getting more and more difficult.
He is not a real doctor. She's SEEN his file, the one the Navy kept on hand. He had snapped somewhere along the way, by growing too fond of torturing those entrusted to his care. "You should be in jail," Phoe rumbles irately. "Who? Who are your benefactors?" She has just enough presence of mind to press.
Corners of her stolen vision come to life with vivid colors of an all too-real hallucination. If she listens to intently to the space between them, she can hear it. She can hear a slow, building, concoction of familiar noises. Gentle at first in their notification that the F-18 is failing. Those nebby noises blossom into something far more dreaded......
...an instant series of wailing alarms. There are too many of them erupting from every corner of the cabin. The Naval Aviator flinches instinctively to answer the summoning, as if she is still flying, as if her arms were not bound. Her heartbeat ticks a few paces faster, anxiously pulsing in the cavity of her chest. FIRE. She has to deal with the fire in the ENGINE first.
She tries to extinguish the consuming flames, only her actions result in the loss of her control over the F-18. Panic, raw and unadulterated, bleeds through Bob's voice. "We're going in, we're going in!!!!!" Helpless, there is nothing she can do. Nothing is responding the way she requires it too and his voice which had been so near, fades away.
Phoenix's gaze flashes up to the dash where the steady dial on the altimeter begins to circle, maddening, maddening circles-- As if she is still flying, she can feel the way gravity is pulling them downwards at frightening, break-neck speeds. The plane is spiraling out of control.
In a frightened fervor, she pulls at the tethers, letting them bite into her porcelain flesh.
"EJECT!! EJECT!!!" Her lips order. However, the urgent tug on the ejection chords is NOT responding.