Participants:
| Scene Title | Dussat Count? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Delilah calls for, and gets, a ride home. |
| Date | March 9, 2010 |
St. Luke's Hospital is known for its high-quality care and its contributions to medical research. Its staff place an emphasis on compassion for and sensitivity to the needs of their patients and the communities they serve. In addition to nearby Columbia University, the hospital collaborates with several community groups, churches, and programs at local high schools. The associated Roosevelt Hospital offers a special wing of rooms and suites with more amenities than the standard hospital environment; they wouldn't seem out of place in a top-rated hotel. That said, a hospital is a hospital — every corridor and room still smells faintly of antiseptic.
Other than 'I'm at the hospital', the phone call that Delilah made to Cat early in the morning was very sparse. It didn't sound too serious from her tone of voice, but Cat is ought to assume some bad things. She's Cat. There's no nurses and no doctors when Cat gets to Delilah's room, which she is sharing with two older ladies who are still sleeping in their beds. The redheaded girl has gotten re-dressed into her black dress from the night before, and her hair has dried from being washed. The left side of her face is bruised up, and the top of her right temple has a gauzy bandage over it. Over the front of her neck is a bar-shaped ligature mark, dark and purple. Her left hand has some white bandages over the first two fingers, and overall she doesn't entirely took too bad,
Mentally, however, is another story. Mentally, she is unsettled. Mentally- she is angry. At what feels like a dozen different things. Her brown eyes remain downcast to her folded hands in her lap, and every now and then she coughs slightly as if her throat were itchy.
She knows this place, has seen the inside of it a number of times. Her first presence here was approximately a year and a half before, after Dani was treated here for injuries from her attempt to investigate the Linderman Group and she encountered one Kain Zarek, among other unpleasant personages. These memories tail onto the concern over whatever has Delilah here, mixing with emotions from dealing with Russian nazi assassins and viral plagues which limit themselves to a specific bit of genetic code she herself has.
But none of this is let on as she steps into the room, bundled up in winter clothing and heavy boots. Stoicism and poise are the rule. Until, that is, she spots the naturalized citizen and her array of injuries. There's a spark of cold fury in her eyes, and a single question is asked. "Who attacked you, Delilah?"
Knowing Cat, Delilah doesn't need to look up to know that Cat's anger is boiling up the thermometer. The younger woman chews at her lower lip a moment, sucking quietly at the inside of her bruised cheek. The motion fidgets at the bruises on her face, which are all still very red and puffy. the one on her neck is rimmed in stark pink. Eventually, she straightens and looks over to the brunette, mulling over her words.
"The Russian." Which Russian? Well, Dee only knows about one. It sounds like they all know about her, though.
"The Russian." Those two words are spoken with a growling noise punctuating her words, her jaw setting. Gloved hands reach into a coat pocket and pull out two photos. One is the grainy cellphone image of Skoll, the other is of Dreyfus from the Ryazan U site. "One of these two?" Cat queries. "And where is he? I'll call Sawyer to come claim the corpse and handle the legal details." Because she knows, just knows, whoever attacked her must be dead as a result.
"He's not dead. I couldn't poison him. Beat him back though." Delilah knows why Cat assumes that he's dead, and oh- oh how Dee wishes she was right like she always is. She can only be content in the possibility that just maybe she ruptured something while attacking his manhood, or gave him some sort of Evorabies from the bite. "Followed me into the girl's loo. He did know my name, but that was all he said." Then she glances down at the pictures, squinting at both for some reason before pointing out Skoll's grainy photo. After pointing him out, however, the girl reaches for the other picture. The one of Dreyfus.
"Wait, who is this guy?" Give it over!
"Carlise Dreyfus," Cat tells her as the photo is relinquished. "The one you id'd as your attacker is Aleksandr Koslow, the Vanguard called him Skoll." Her voice is kept at a low volume, she making sure the other people in the room remain asleep. It wouldn't do to have them overhear. "Get up, we're leaving," she announces next.
"Was he alone when he attacked you? Skoll isn't a negator, his thing is making scar tissue to seal wounds. It's what Teo ran into."
"Couldn't Teo just get someone to recut and reheal it then?" Delilah asks this while studying the second picture. Her coat is beside her, and one hand reaches to grab it. It is the hand covered in bandages, and she does wince a little as she picks up the jacket to pull it on one arm at a time and stand up. "He was alone, yeah."
"I'm getting such a weird vibe off this guy, I'm not sure what to make of it. He seems kind of familiar. Is he Russian too? Dreyfus isn't a Russian name."
"I would think he could," Cat states, "the problem is finding a healer." Feet are moving out the door once Delilah is on her feet, she assumes the younger female is following. "You didn't say whether or not he was alone in attacking you. Did you see anyone else nearby? Could've had a negator close at hand."
With her voice remaining at low volume to avoid being overheard, she glances over one shoulder to speak of Dreyfus. "He isn't Russian, no, but lives there. Teaches at a Russian university, and is a member of the Vanguard himself. That's the man who assassinated Mother."
Delilah does follow, though at her own speed and hoping Cat slows a little. "He was alone, I said he followed me into the ladies room. Just us." She clears her throat against a curled fist. Dee's eyes wrinkle slightly at the other bit of news, and she frowns before hesitantly handing the picture back to Cat. Cat knows that Delilah is as sorry as could be about what happened to her mom. Losing parents is something that she knows every well. "Anyway-" She continues, much more meek and with a bit of a rasp. "I don't think he wanted to kill me- He would have, right?"
The glance over her shoulder shows Delilah's location relative to her own and produces a change in pace, to match speed so they stay together to make conversation at low volume more practical. "He was alone," Cat muses, "that means four possibilities. One, that he had a negator whose field is large enough to work without being right there during the assault. Two, that whatever you might've been drinking was spiked with some sort of negating drug. Three, you've been infected with the 510 virus. Four… all or some combination of the other three." There's a stretch of silence as her path continues at that matched speed, making the way out. "He's not inexperienced at murder. He tried to strangle you, your neck tells me that much. If you were ever at his mercy, unable to defend yourself, the odds are you'd be dead if that was his intent, unless someone or something intervened in your defense."
"I didn't drink anything but water when I was there- I'd had something before going since I've been in the habit of not testing age brackets." Curse you, Abby. Making Delilah be good. "And I had a cold last week, but it's been gone." Her waffling on how things ended up isn't very helpful, but as long as Cat has the facts, Cat can puzzle them all she likes. Delilah mimics a bird when they sign her out and get outside, fluffing up inside of her coat against the chill of the morning.
"I suppose …I did fight back pretty hard, I don't think he was really betting on it though…" Her voice is mostly thoughtful, oddly quiet. Almost lazy.
"Did you ever leave your water unguarded, were you bumped into by anyone, anything you can think of which might've covered a dosing?" Cat's path is toward a snowmobile parked not far from the hospital. "It isn't warm, but it is functional with the streets as they are," she offers sans apology. Keys are produced. "A cold… Colds are viral. Influenza also infects the lungs. One could seem like the other. I think if you have 510 flu you'd still feel ill, but it can't be ruled out."
She really hopes, if Dee is infected, she doesn't cough or sneeze on her. This would be no time for Cat to turn nineteen again.
"I dunno." Delilah uncharacteristically groans when she responds, waiting for Cat to okay her getting onto the machine slightly out of place on a road. Well, she's right- but- where the hell did Cat get a snowmobile? The redhead waits, fluffed in her coat and scarf and peering over at the brunette with weary, reddened eyes. "I can't remember most of the club, he hit me in the head like- four times. I just remember drinking water and going to the bathroom to fix my makeup."
Engine starts, the vehicle ready to move once Delilah's on board. "This should already be over," Cat growls. Soon as possible they're in motion, headed back to the Verb. "Bastard was located and easy for the taking, DHS couldn't grab him." She's fuming.
She has no intent of speaking again for the duration of the journey.
That would be all well and good, if Delilah were not slowly passing out against her back. Her arms stay looped around Cat during the extent of the ride, but when it eventually comes time to disembark or to otherwise react to getting home, her grip is revealed as little more than a reaction in her arms locking around Cat's waist. Without the rumble of the mobile on, Delilah's breath is audibly hitched up, and her presence is shaky- her face, when studied, is clammy and distant. It's a classic fever state.
She disengages carefully, to avoid dumping the unhealthy toadwoman out onto a snowy, icy street, before undertaking to examine her condition. "This does considerably narrow down the possible reasons for ability loss," Cat mutters. Such timing: Skoll's useless life prolonged by the 510 flu. She works to assist Delilah into the building and to her apartment. "Tell me you coughed and sneezed on him," the panmnesiac requests darkly.
The Verb, Apartment 312
Just entering the apartment, it gives of a feeling of comfortable homeliness; light colors, pastel shades, floral designs, clean and sweet smells, and only accents of dark where it most fits. The front room leads to a den further on, with a large sofa in a coffee cream color sitting opposite a similar chair, and a wooden table in between. There is only an almost retro-looking television off on the other side, but the things hooked up to it show that it is not as old as it seems. Nothing is, really.
To the far end is the kitchen, which always seems to smell like something recently cooked there; the appliances and counters are squeaky clean, but obviously used on a regular basis, and the leftover anything in the fridge can attest to that, as can a perpetual dish of cookies on the table. The bathroom is also squeaky clean, and it seems as if anyone coming out smells significantly nicer than when they had gone in; there is a closet within where the washer and dryer stay. There are two bedrooms, but one is emptied and instead made into a big rainbow-colored sewing and storage room, complete with fabric bolts and racks on wheels centered around a masterfully ordered sewing machine and table.
The actual bedroom is based in those mainly soft colors, yet the lower walls have at least two long, cluttered tackboards home to pictures, clippings, seemingly random crafts, and generally quirky things. A desk in a similar state sits in the far corner by the closet, opposite a low, wide, fluffy-looking bed swamped in pillows and comforters. At least half a dozen stuffed animals peek out from various points.
Once Cat has the patient settled in, the word goes out for arrangements to see to her care and to make notifications of the attack.
Delilah feels like a drunk flopping about like a dry fish. Thankfully Cat is a big girl and can handle Delilah's accidental unwillingness to properly walk straight. Hrrrrrrgh. When they get to the apartment and Cat requests that bit- Delilah is more than happy to lean away, lean closer …lean away again and cough into her far sleeve. "I bit him, dussat count?"
It is unlikely that she'll be so conversational while Cat settles her into a recliner and Samson wanders through to find out what in the world is going on. Like a good dog, he sits down by the chair and noses at Dee's bandaged hand. "Mnnnguhdug." That was a phrase, really. Dee leaves Cat for the dirty work, all the way from calling up The (Plague) Den to notifying the Anti-Skoll, whoever that may be.