Participants:
| Scene Title | Across the River |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Echoes of disaster across the river are brought to the attention of Roosevelt Island when well-meaning citizens arrive on its shores, and the fall of night illuminates what runs beneath the surface. |
| Date | January 31, 2011 |
Roosevelt Island, formerly known as Welfare Island and before that Blackwell's Island, is a narrow island in the East River of New York City. It lies between the island of Manhattan to its west and the borough of Queens to its east. Running from Manhattan's East 46th to East 85th streets, it is about two miles long, with a maximum width of 800 feet, and a total area of 147 acres.
The island is part of the Borough of Manhattan and New York County. Together with Mill Rock Island, Roosevelt Island once had a population of about 12,000 prior to the bomb. The land is owned by the city, but was leased to the State of New York's Urban Development Corporation for 99 years in 1969. Most of the residential buildings on Roosevelt Island are rental buildings.
Following the bomb, Roosevelt Island suffered a great deal of damage from the throw debris from the explosion of Midtown Manhattan. The tram service connecting Roosevelt Island to Midtown was destroyed on the midtown end, leaving one small bridge connecting to Long Island City in Queens as the only means out of the city. Subsequent fires, looting and food riots on the island left what was once a prosperous neighborhood in ruins in the aftermath of the bomb. Business began to close one by one, residence left for the outskirts of New York City, and now Roosevelt Island is like a shell of its former self, a proverbial ghost-town with a population of only 700 on the island. Streets are untended, cracked and dusty, weeds growing up between the broken pavement. It is not an uncommon sight to see old newspapers blowing across the street and the boarded up windows of shops and apartments.
The sun is beginning to set on the first Dome day, lighting on fire the western side of what some people haven't yet considered to be 'the Dome', in a kind of permanent acknowledgement of its existence. Perhaps by nightfall, when people have found a place to sleep — in their own homes, or the floor of the Good Shepherd chapel, or even the boarding spaces of the Suresh Centre — and are shutting their eyes to awake to a new tomorrow, and finding that it will be very much the same as they did upon sleep, the limits of new captivity will be titled and defined. Until then—
Until then, one can watch the sky through the slightly dark, round haziness of the Dome's ceiling, where smoke has collected or dirtied the inverse bowl of its interior. In the waning hours, it's harder to detect — the clouds block out the stars anyway. It's a winter evening, and it's cold, and not as cold as it should be.
The streetlamps are shut down. Most buildings are too, especially here, in the thick of Roosevelt Island. The still standing structure of the ruined Queensboro Bridge is a looming shadow, and beyond, the lights of the Suresh Centre and its back up generators loom like a beacon. Across the river, they can see the affected landmass of Queens — it's a dark, sprawling patch of city, with the ruins of the Edison building dark like a veteran of old destruction, and hardly any light at all as the night time creeps in from the east.
The boat coming in is familiar — it had made a brief stop earlier this afternoon. Rumour has it is that it's the only way back and forth between Roosevelt Island and Queens. A stout vessel, all black and waning paint work, currently motoring slowly for the coast. There's a small gathering of people to receive the injured. There are still people emerging from their homes, finally, to try to understand what's going on.
Ygraine might not have seen the boat previously, but she is attempting to familiarise herself with the resources available to people trapped within the mysterious effect. As a result, sighting movement upon the river she swings her bike towards it, rolling to a halt before silencing the powerful rumble of the engine. Behind her, perched pillion, another figure sits - sporting an all-black helmet to match her own.
"Good to see that we do have communications across the river", the Briton directs over one shoulder to her passenger. "Don't suppose you happen to own a boat, do you?"
Lab coast still on, medical gloves on, stethoscope around his neck, Brennan's been with the crew from the Suresh Center that are running back and forth from the chapel triage to here getting the injured separated from the uninjured. Those who are critical are sent off, do not pass go, to the Suresh Center and everything else off to the Chapel. Michelle's stopped calling after the third time the signal dropped and he'd texted her that he'd try again when he wasn't elbow deep in patients along with other doctors.
The impending arrival of the next boat has Brennan rising to stand from where he'd been sitting and taking a breather. "Incoming," he calls out, not that others wouldn't have already seen. "Let's get ready."
It's an uncomfortable situation only made worse by circumstances beyond his control. But there's Devon riding on the back of a bike, gripping with legs and hands just enough to keep from falling off. Twin to Ygraine's, his helmted covered head turns toward the water side to watch the boats approach, squinting against the oncoming darkness.
"If I did," Devon replies, "I'd be out there seeing how far from land this bubble goes." The teenager gives a small shake of his head, exaggerated by the helmet though not enough to knock into Ygraine's.
Odessa's coat was discarded some time ago, despite the chill that lingers in the dome, given over to Bella Sheridan, who's been somewhat reluctantly pressed into service as Doctor Price's nurse. Blood spots her white coat, evidence of her work that makes her look more gruesome than the part of a saviour. She's also taking a break from her work.
A proper break, rather than a borrowed moment of time. This one includes other people, and the relative fresh air outside the walls of the Suresh Center. "This is what I get for complaining my life is not exciting enough," the snowy-haired doctor relates to the russet-haired counterpart. When Doctor Brennan alerts them to the next boat, Odessa's head lifts and she stares out at the water with an inaudible curse under her breath. Are there more injured? Goody.
Among the gathered, Edgar has a protective arm around Lydia, simply watching as the boat makes slow progress across the water. It's almost agonizing to him, how slow it is. Every once in a while, he glances toward Lydia, as though silently begging permission to leave her side. Finally he breaks, "Lydia— " the word is choked out as he stares at the boat. She'd be left in good company, the shift of his eyes toward their new British friend indicates. "Sorry luv, I got'eh go."
In a blink, he's gone. A few whips of wind and litter swirl in his wake and soon there's a blue streak high above them along the surface of the dome as his feet hit on his way toward Queens.
There are a lot of worries that come along with a massive, impenetrable dome, and only some of them are harmlessly abstract ones like 'how could it come into being?' 'what is its composition?' 'what metaphysical implications arise from the sudden appearance of a geometrically perfect barrier?'. No, the things on Dr. Sheridan's mind are much more pedestrian. Things like 'what is going on?' 'am I in immediate danger?'. And, more and more pressingly, 'is this thing airtight?'
She really, really hopes not.
"Maybe this time you'll learn your lesson?" Bella suggests, and if her smile is thin it's not due to any disapproval of Odessa. But it's probably not Dr. Price's tempting of fate that brings that boat in their direction. A coat on and a coat off, folded over her arms, Bella turns her gaze in the common direction. "Oh, this is just perfect…" So far Bella has enjoyed (okay, 'enjoy' is an overstatement) avoiding the real responsibility allotted to those doctors with recent emergency and surgical experience. This oncoming group of wounded, though? She hasn't dealt with anything like this since the Bomb.
Faced, then, with hard and bloody practicalities, retreat into conjecture suddenly seems so much more appealing. "Shouldn't- shouldn't some of us be trying to investigate the, I don't know, cause of this goddamn thing?" Which is to say, can't some of us go and do something else?
Quiet contemplation has consumed Lydia for most of the day. Her generally stoic expression with its nearly perpetual smile fails her today; discontentment is the rule of the day, her lips curl downwards into a vague frown, indicated by nothing more than a faint downward curl of lips, nearly joking at the image and their current circumstance. The retreating arm around her warrants a parting of her lips, but for now, and more generally with Edgar, whatever she plans to say is lost while her husband departs, an action that brings her arms around her body in a self-hug.
She takes a near silent breath while still staring at the boat in the distance. Until her arms lower to her sides, forced downward with that feigned confidence she wears when she can. Out of the corner of her eye, she addresses their newfound British friend, "Forgive me, Ethan." Her voice is quiet, but her tone maintains its richness. While she pseudo-apologizes, she makes no explanation as to why, but such is her way.
Her head turns to meet his gaze while her arms return across her chest in that self-hug. Quietly she observes, "Some souls were born to run."
Smoke blows out of Holden's nose, as the cigarette is held at his side. One hand touching his side gingerly, Ethan drops his hand. His eyes raise up to the top of the dome. His lips purse, if Gabriel can't get through the dome. No one's getting through the dome, and no one's getting in. The cigarette re-enters his mouth, held loosely by his lips. "Forget about it, sweet'eart." Holden dismisses, his eyes wandering over the gathered crowd.
"Some souls were born to bleed." Holden mentions. Which might be creepy, but he just so happened to spot an old familiar face in the masses. An old friend that he's not all too excited to see. The cigarette dangles limply from his lips. He glances in the direction he thinks Edgar went. "'ow d'ya get 'im to come back?"
When the boat nudges into shallow enough water, it's the captain that leaves her first — he leaps easily from vessel and into water that laps icily at his knees, foaming white as he makes his way to land and at the gathering of people. From the deck, a flashlight arcs out white and piercing, glancing off the faces of some watching as well as briefly haloing the figure of the captain and showing up the grey in his brown hair. He can't be much more than 5'8", in his brown leather jacket, his denim and gloves.
The wounded are quick to follow. A burly looking man, somewhat thuggish in demeanor and appearance, cradling gently a woman who doesn't so much look unconscious as she does drugged to hell. In the remaining light, the burn qualities of her injuries are plainly visible. Others of the crew — all male, all capable, maybe dockworkers — assist in helping carry the injured to land. "A gas main explosion," the captain announces as he makes his way for the shore. "And other complications."
His accent is difficult to label — European, certainly, but nothing so distinctive as French or German, if not dissimilar to the untrained ear. To the trained ear, the word 'Slovak' comes to mind.
Ygraine sighs quietly upon hearing the confirmation of one of her concerns. "The longer we go without more of those, the more chance we have of avoiding them", she murmurs, before shaking her head and refocusing upon Devon and continuing quietly. "If you want to hop off now, you can. Or we can move on around on our survey if you can't bear more wounded just yet."
Brennan's moving forward to meet up with the foreign sounding Captain, workers swarming to meet up with the injured and start assessing. As the burly man brings the woman forward, Brennan's already carefully cradling that arm up to get a good look under the lights, lifts collars just a bit, see how far and how bad. He can't help but feel the heat she gives off, pulling his glove back enough to put back of palm to her forehead.
"Price!" Calling over the other physician. "Second opinion." Stuffing stethoscope into ears and against the undamaged part of the woman's chest, looking over to the Captain. "What kind of other complications are we talking about?"
Devon's reply is to climb off the bike and pull his head free of the helmet. While placing the helmet on the back of the bike, he scrubs a hand through his head and looks toward the boat and those coming off. "Haven't thrown up yet," he says, a weak grin accompanying the glance directed to Ygraine. With luck, the kid's lunch will remain right where it's suppose to.
Giving a nod to Ygraine, one that turns into a motion toward the boat and those making their way onto the coast, Devon heads that way. Brows knit together as his steps draw him closer, eyes flicking first toward those coming from the water then to the ones in white coats, finally touching on the various others gathered.
Odessa hurries forward, silver satin heels that were not made for this kind of work (unless you ask the woman wearing them), clicking nosily on harder ground as heads up to Brennan's side. A pen light is fished from one pocket and shined in the woman's eyes. "Does anybody have any clue what she's on?" She asks loud enough to be heard by the gathering of workers and other injured. She turns a look briefly to her boss and shakes her head. "We should get her inside. We should get them all inside."
This isn't quite the calamity that the Bomb was, but it's all vaguely reminiscent of it. Odessa's cheeks puff out and she turns to survey the crowd, a flicker of passing interest. Except for one face scanned that makes her blood run cold. Suddenly she's turning back to the crew of the ship and making a sweeping gesture of her arms for them to follow. "Come this way!" She cannot get back inside the perceived safety of the Suresh Center fast enough.
There's a rush of wind that zip past Lydia and Ethan both, something quite familiar to the former as her husband returning but he doesn't stop. Not until he's in front of the doctors with a small child under each arm. One of children is stunned into silence, quite possibly from the ride and the other one tucked under his right arm is wretching the last of his McDonalds that had been hoarded from moments before the dome went up. Now it's just a puddle on the ground. Mmmm cheeseburger and fries. Too bad Gabriel isn't here (the cat), he might be feasting right now.
Both of the kids have hamburger for hands, knees, and shins. "They crawled outta sum'then full'a glass," the speedster manages before depositing them gently in seated positions. "Goin' teh ge' more." Then he's off again, pausing for a moment in front of Lydia to give her a peck on the cheek. Not Ethan though… Lydia might get the wrong idea about their relationship. He already has a little trouble explaining the dresses.
There's helpless and then there's useless, and unless Bella wants to default to misogynist stereotype of hysterical dame, paralyzed by the events as they happen, she really ought to do something. Other than run her fresh mouth.
So when potential psychotropics are brought into play, Dr. Sheridan imagines this as reason enough to at least affect value to the operation. She wasn't always this bad, she swears. Months of purposeful, adolescent-style truculence and slacking have taken their toll on her operational readiness. So now, if after some delay, she's over by Odessa's impromptu patient, reaching out to check her body temperature with the back of her hand, an ear thermometer not being handy.
"Has she exhibited any other symptoms?" Bella follows up, in the wake of Odessa's question, "does anyone know her name?"
Lydia's lips turn upwards into a tight smile while she watches the water, her best guess of where Edgar currently is. There's a sparkle in her eye as she considers her husband while her already-warm voice becomes richened further, "He's never been the only one running." The words are punctuated by a momentarily easier smile.
As far as getting Edgar back now. "He's never gone long," she soothes quietly while she adjusts her stance to easily watch Ethan and then Edgar is whooshing back, warranting a tighter smile until she sees the children; her lips turn down.
When Edgar leans in to peck his wife on the cheek, Holden glances over to him. "Get me a knife, Smythe?" The question is asked politely. "Any kind will do." The cigarette leaves his lips again for a moment. Turning halfway to face the boat captain ad his flock of fools. Smoke flows through his nostrils again, as he looks over Lydia's shoulder to watch Odessa stonily. A light smile crawls up his lips, breaking the stoic facade.
His free hand rises up, giving a tiny little finger wave to the Doctor. The cigarette is balanced on his lips.
The others that climb off the boat, while obviously not a part of the crew, seem to be well — and maybe attracted by the shining gleam of hope that is the Suresh Centre to decide to make the trip across. One of these is a lanky gentleman in his early forties, by the looks of him, with scruffy off-blonde hairs bristling along his jaw and throat, a floppy amount of scraggly hair and that borderline look of homelessness to him than the recently impoverished tend to carry with them.
But there are a lot of other people here that are homeless too. Now. Malcolm staggers his way ashore, occasionally sending a glance skywards, here and there, in wonderment — and though he doesn't look all together there, he is unharmed.
"Refrain."
This from the captain as he watches his crew move around the boat, two remaining on guard, as it were, before he turns towards the gathering of the three doctors, but it's the two women he glances, from one to the other. Michal Valentin might only be known to Bella Sheridan by name, and it's not immediately offered, but for someone who has been Company all her life, the man is of a distant familiarity to the woman with her white hair and eyepatch. She's gone through some transformation, some growing up, but Valentin rarely ever forgets a face.
He smiles at her, then, glittering amusement in blue eyes. "Her identification says her name is Kerry." His accent slants it a little wrongly. "She is 23, and a— an Evolved. We found her shortly after she dosed herself," he reports, his voice pleasant and conversational. "To escape the agony of an exploding gas main, I would not wonder."
This, while the last helps the last victim down and across the water, a man in a suit, tie long gone. There's been a trend amongst the injuries so far — horrific amputation, burns from explosions, broken bones and bruises from traffic jams, physical shot. A bullet wound is new. The man carries himself okay, the bullet imbedded into thick muscles and no organs, hand clutched at his shoulder as he's guided through the water, his face moon-pale.
"Looting, doctor," Valentin adds, to Brennan. "Queens is a little wild in sundown. Hello," he tacks on, to those approaching, a grateful nod. "How is everyone?"
After turning her gaze to the sorry parade of casualties, Ygraine looks back to Devon once more. "Take care of yourself", she instructs the youngster. "I'll complete the survey, then swing back to the Centre and look for you there. If I don't find you, I'll check here, then the church." As she talks, she stows the spare helmet back in its pannier, before nodding to Devon, kicking her bike back into life and swinging away to continue her investigations.
Refrain.
"WEll, Dr. Sheridan, Congratulations, your patient. That's your speciality" Oh yes, yes Dr. Sheridan, he knows, as he scratches at the side of his nose, gesturing to the burned woman. THere's a handful of other comments that he could make, but that'd be unprofessional. Far more than the last comment was.
Besides, there's more injured and there is… two pukey children with scrapes. He's grabbing two people by the shoulders, steering them to the kids. "Chapel, find out who they belong to. Make sure they take pictures of them and send the pictures to the suresh center" Form a wall of those missing, get a list started or at least added onto.
"Looting is a standard response it seems, when something catastrophic happens" Hello gunshot, her's ushering the man forward so he can have ODessa aim her flashlight, get a good look and her opinion on whether he's someone that can be cared for at the church or the center. "PMC's are everywhere here, I'll be surprised if that happens here. More apt to be violence in reverse from them. Are there any people across the river who can't be moved?" Aka, does he and some others need to jump in the boat when they make a return trip to see what they can do?
An over the shoulder wave is the response offered to Ygraine, acknowledgement that he'd heard her. Before his hand drops entirely to his side, he pulls a flashlight from his back pocket. It's that Frontline guy's light, and he probably should've returned it after the tunnels, but it's been a little crazy all afternoon.
Thumbing the light on though keeping it trained onto the ground, Devon makes his way into the crowd much like he belonged there all along. Passing looks are cast to the injured as they're shuffled along, but the teenager makes no move or offers of help. With doctors here, he'll find other ways of being useful.
Though she's surprised to see Valentin's face, his is not an unwelcome countenace. "«It's been a while.»" Odessa's Russian has improved since she and the captain of the vessel last spoke. She's less painfully American with her accent, for one thing. Perhaps she's hoping to impress him. "«Excuse me.»"
The young doctor turns back to the other familiar face to actually lock gazes with him this time. The absolute picture of maturity, and sanity, when Ethan wiggles his fingers to his former lover in a wave, she gives him back the one-finger salute. Then, Odessa's turning her attention back to Brennan, looking frustrated if not a little spooked. "You're the boss. You send them into the building," she gestures to the Suresh Center, "and I will take care of them."
Edgar's eyebrows furrow in confusion as he spies the exchange between Ethan and Gale, and then the former's request of a weapon. Without thinking, his hand travels to the back of his pants to feel the handle of a blade tucked there, one of the many hidden around his person. Then it sinks in. "You're want'en i' fer wo' 'zac'ly?" He gives a short nod to the woman he hasn't seen for quite some time now, though her title gives him a pause. She's a doctor. Fancy.
Shaking his head, he holds up both hands, palms out to the other Briton. "I go' people in need'a savin' la'er we'll talk abou' knives." Meaning that later Ethan will explain the need for them. In a blur, he's off again. This time to collect the adult driving the vehicle he found the children crawling from… if he or she is still alive.
Brennan receives a slightly too-bright and pointedly oblivious smile from Bella, a gleaming, reflective thing. Immune to implication. Specialty? But of course, psychiatric medicine is what you and I and and everyone understands this to mean. Of course. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Ha.
"Burns like that, best not to interfere yet," Bella says, grimacing, "refrain mimics opiates. Effective painkiller. Get this woman burn treatment, but if you need to wake her up for any reason, give a double standard dose of dextroamphetamine, kick her into lucidity." She points towards the Center. "Get her inside. There's no helping her condition out here. But keep a doctor on her. And don't administer suppressant drugs, if she's SLC-Poz." That's not an interaction Bella's keen to replicate.
Heavy, even-paced steps take Lydia to Ichihara Bookstore, disappearing a moment before returning with several books for the children— a vague distraction, yielding what she can give. They're issued a gentle smile, warmer and more genuine than those before as she passes over what she has to give. Having entered the story anyways, she has a knife tucked away in the pocket of her skirt, but it's not so easily surrendered, particularly with Edgar's question already posed.
She presses her lips together tightly, neutralizing any expression on her face while repositioning herself next to Ethan while tucking her hands away in her pockets. "Weapons cannot yield more than the bearer wishes," her tongue dabs her lips, "what wishes do you wield?"
Ethan frowns pointedly at Edgar's response. Bringing his arms up somewhat. He glances around as if to find his own knife. Somewhere on this stupid island there will be knives, and he'll probably have to go find them himself. Galncing over to Lydia, he tilts his head to the side lightly. He bobs his chin through the crowd at Odessa. "See that doctor? The blonde, with th'stupid face?" He gives a nod as if Lydia will say yes.
"Yeah th'one flippin us off. I was going to gouge 'er other eye out." Holden smiles peacefully before standing up straightly. "An eye for an eye, all that." He explains calmly. No reason to lie. Not in the DOME.
The blurring rush of a speedster briefly draws Valentin's attention before he can reply to Odessa or compliment her Russian, that smile disappearing from his face, brows pulling together in a briefly troubled expression as he squints to make out the path Edgar cuts, but no dice. (Is that the phrase? 'No dice'?) His stare shifts then towards where the somewhat shellshocked children are being ushered to the partially bisected chapel, and he breathes in, breathes out hard enough for steam to whip whiter through the air.
"There is a lot of Queens to cover, doctor," Valentin says, attention back to Brennan, hands coming to clasp behind his back. "If the runner— " His head tilts off towards where Edgar went. "— does not tire, then there will be time devoted hopefully to a rescue team, I would think. But not tonight.
"And perhaps it can give the contractors something to do," he adds, with a glance to Brennan, head tilted curiosity at the concept of violence from those that guard the people. His tone is of someone who might wonder who guards the guards. "My name is Michal Valentin. I am at your services."
Malcolm's footsteps are heavy and determined, headed in what might well be a random direction from the group, shoulderchecking Devon on the way and hands going out automatically as if to right the young man — though there is really no need, Malcolm having mostly just bounced off Devon. Still, there is a sort of apologetic patting down effort to straighten the blonde's jacket and such forth. "It's going to be such a lovely evening," he tells him, in a drawling kind of English, working class. "Not a cloud in the sky."
And then collapses. Being of the tall persuasion, this takes some time. Ankles give first, then knees— thud— then hip— whud— then shoulder and head— thump.
As if this island needed more victims.
"I'll be sure to suggest it to the PMC's when I get back to the center Mr. Valentin, I'm sure this is going to be a long night irregardless. I'm Dr. Brennan, this is Dr. Price but it seems perhaps you know each other?" If the communal language is any indication. Any further questions are cut off, the physician looking over a the thuds of Malcolm going down. With a curse under his breath, the never ending sea of people who are stuck within whatever this barrier is and injured seems to be wearing on the man.
"Hey!" This to Devon. "You." Brennan gestures to him and to a few others near the teenager. "Get him to the chapel." No obvious bleeding. "Tell them Dr. Brennan said to have him looked over." Likely shock, or exhaustion or nerves, something. Brennan rubs at the back of his neck, looking around with a grim line to his lips. This is not good. Period.
The impact causes Devon to shuffle a step, not near so much as Malcolm, but it gets the boy's attention. As hands of a random stranger fluster over his jacket and person, he reaches out the non-flashlight holding hand in effort to steady or stay him. "You're te-" the teenager's words cut off as Malcolm collapses, shocked enough to not react immediately. When he does finally, it's just a hair too slow.
Grabbing the man's shoulders and hauling him upward, along with the help from someone sensible enough to heed Brennan's directions, Devon looks to the doctor and gives a nod. "Think I prefer 'Kid' to 'Hey You'," he says in an undertone, already directing and carrying the fallen Malcolm back toward the church.
"We should talk… later, yes?" Odessa offers a nervous smile to Valentin and a nod of her head. One last nervous flicker of her gaze toward Ethan has her turning to Brennan to excuse herself. "I'm going back inside to work. Send whoever you need to up to me and I'll do my best with my ward." Then, she takes her coat back from her indentured assistant, pulling the red wool around her shoulders as she heads toward the building. "You know where to find me," she tells Bella.
On his next pass Edgar actually skids to a stop in front of Brennan with a woman in his arms. "Their mum, I figger.." The speedster is holding her in a princess carry and she's hanging limp from his arms. It's easy to see that she's been long dead from a steering column through the chest, who knows what sort of work it took for the carnie to get her out in the first place. Thank goodness the kids are already shuffled toward the church.
After gently laying her to the ground, he backs up a few paces looking obviously broken from the labor. Turning slowly, he makes his way toward Lydia and Ethan, his head bowed low. He's already covered in blood, while it's not something usually distasteful to him, this time it is. He doesn't look up until he's a few paces away from the gypsy woman and then it's only to meet her eyes briefly before flickering over to the smoking man. "Tell me wha' teh do…"
"I may see you in there shortly," Bella says, "I think I'll follow Kerry in. Keep an eye on her." Since Harve Brennan assigned her as Bella's patient, and all. "Thank you, Mr. Valentin," she manages, finally, to the man in question, "I'll see she's cared for." Does she recognize him, even recognize his name? In this moment, in this context, no. That synaptic charge is needed elsewhere. She taps the burly body bearer, then points to the Suresh Center. "You've been deputized," the medical profession ought to have the same rights as the law in a medical emergency, right? "Take her to the first open table. We need to get her cleaned and gauzed as soon as possible."
What she really needs is a burn specialist, but Bella's not about to say that out loud.
It's just as well Lydia didn't give the knife to Ethan, having left it concealed where she had. The smile is long gone while her face whitens at the dead woman in Edgar's arms. Her lips press together tightly, holding back any words, any thoughts, or any musings she may have. The sharp pain in her chest deepens as her gaze meets Edgar's, the pain drawing across her face in lined etches quick, sharp, deep, and sorrowful. The crow's feet around her eyes ages her indescribably, particularly as her teeth bite on her bottom lip, fighting the glassy tears welling in the bottom of her eyes. Loss of life is sad enough, but the image of Edgar— her Edgar— doused in other's blood is too present in memory. In fact, her arms draw over her chest again, while her lips whisper a single word, "Jenny." It had been Jenny's blood the last time she'd seen him like this.
She sniffs, purposefully uncrossing her arms before rubbing her face, clearing the tears from the edges of her eyes. Even in her little bit of movement she feels stuck. Her feet planted firmly to the ground, painfully stiff while she blankly stares at the entrance to the bookstore. The numb sorrow far outweighs anything stoicism she can muster.
The cigarette is dangerously close to the part where people will start making dumb filter and joint jokes. So it's taken out and flicked to the ground. One last exhalation through his nose and his black shoe stomps down on the dying ember. Glancing at Odessa making her way away from the crowd, his chin bobs after her. Edgar gets a slow arch of his brow before a broad grin spreads up his lips. "See where she goes. Don't get spotted." Holden growls lowly before his eyes flick over to Lydia. She doesn't seem happy. Did he offend her that much?
"She blinded my daughter." Ethan explains quietly, and then she's muttering about Jenny. Oh that's sad. Dead female person. Probably. Bringing one hand up, it rests on Lydia's shoulder briefly. Not much he can say to console her, but the hand remains there for a moment. Because he's guessing he's consoling a lost daughter. If not, he will take that sympathy hand away!
Valentin, after cutting a quick smile Bella's way, the kind that seems to know too much behind ivory teeth, presses a hand to his chest in a gracious gesture to Odessa bidding adieu, giving her a nod before he offers Brennan a smile. "We go far back, Dr. Brennan, Dr. Price and myself," he says, hand making a dismissive gesture before he deals a glance to where Devon is headed away from the group with Malcolm's long limbed form in his arms, towards where the church remains standing despite where it suffers the all-important dividing blue line that glows a faint blue.
It draws his eye, in fact, out towards the river, breathing out an admiring puff of air at the effect of nightfall. Out into the grey river, it's visible to them, where water presses in on either side of the clear panes of glass. A heavenly blue glow that defines the curvature of their established prison, all the way down to the bottom and showing itself as an indefinite haze of illumination.
Flicking up the collar of his jacket, Valentin heads back instead for his boat, feet splashing through the murky river water.
Later, it will be determined that Malcolm Pitt (for all that no one will know his name until he next rouses) suffers malnourishment and exhaustion, and he is one of the lesser victims of the Dome.
The man that lost both his feet, cauterised stumps with raw radiation, died slowly during the night.
Kerry and her burn scars has something important to tell Bella Sheridan when she awakes, fitful and doped.
The Dome remains standing when the sun rises.