Participants:
| Scene Title | Get A Fire Extingu- |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Smalltalk diverts into letter giving. Joseph then sets Abby on fire. Indirectly. |
| Date | May 26, 2010 |
Grand Central Terminal: Main Concourse
With the topside of the iconic Grand Central Terminal in ruins, it's its basement level that sees most activity, as covert as such activity may be. Entrances are sealed (at least, to those who don't know any better) to the upper levels leading above ground, whether with rubble, or with manmade additions of gates and blockades, and so most will find their way to this place via the countless tunnels that run like arteries in what could appropriately be termed the heart of Manhattan's train system.
Electric lights shine pallid white in the arching ceilings of the basement concourses and foyers, running off their own generators and so power is only used conservatively. Here, the wide open spaces are used for storage that is destined to be moved either towards the arching doorways opening to platforms and subways for shipping out, or waiting to be dragged down to the subbasements for longer term storage. The floors, the walls, the ceilings are differing kinds of tile and vary in cleanliness.
Tables have also been set up so that supplies can be sorted, shifted, packed properly. Folded cardboard boxes awaiting use can be discovered in most corners. Signs on the walls in the form of crude spray paint indicate where things might go, from food, to clothing, to medical supplies, and some things even more exotic. This is a place of motion and organization.
Last but not least, a makeshift recreation room has been set up for the workers of the Grand Central Station, and this can be found within what used to be known as the Whispering Walls. Famously, this interstitial space was known for its strange acoustics, wherein one could whisper to a companion from one far side of the corner to the other by talking directing into the curving corner, where sound would travel along the curve of the arcing ceiling. This, of course, still works, but now the space is no longer simply a foyer - there's a semi-portable kitchen area offering simple food and beverages, a television (which gets no reception, but is hooked into a VCR and a DVD player, with a modest library for both), a card table, a few comforts such as couches and armchairs.
Upon one of the walls, is a rough but well-meaning mural, a mock up of an aquarium - an addition that came after the Ferrymen claimed this space as theirs. It seems to grow in size every several days, with new aquatic characters added each time.
There is a preacher somewhere around here. Within the tunnels of the GCT, the people who have flocked here from the other closed safe houses because of the weather and need of a place to stay, Joseph is supposedly down here. Having come down in the company of some others this morning, and likely to leave later in the same because of the safety in numbers, Abigail's peeling off the winter gear that Liz produced for her and stopping the nearest person with a hand on their shoulder. "Have you seen Pasto- Joseph?" Habitual, she's one of the few that still calls him a pastor whether he has a church or not.
"Over here," echoes off the curved ceiling, footsteps landing on tile — definable as Joseph's if only because they're moving towards her, at the time specified, headed from where the concourse branches off into an interchangeable subway. It's warmer down here, if only from the lack of exposure — but not by much, and so he has an unzipped winter coat hanging over sweater and denim, feet strapped in boots and very much dressed in the exact same attire he's usually donned since foregoing the need for beige and suits.
Except with added layers for the arctic climate, and all. Unaccompanied by dog, big or small, and offering a smile and a wave when she nears. "Thanks for comin' down. I don't got a lot of faith in New York's mail these days."
"I don't think I'm going to get my stuff I mailed from Vegas for another two months. Can you imagine all the bills too that will be coming in the mail? How are you Joseph?" Gloves tucked into pockets, Abigail shuffles over to the older man, lips curled upwards in a soft smile and corner of her eyes crinkled just a bit. "Your vision, it came true. Both parts. As always, you and the lord are right on the spot"
She rolls to a stop in front of the pastor, hands out to take his. "And we now share something in common, both our places of work have burned to the ground"
His hands pause mid-journey to hers, eyebrows going in and up at this news, concern made manifest first before a crooked smile comes into being instead, and Joseph links his fingers with her's. "You know I credit the Lord in that one. Is this— bad news or good news? I take it that He didn't see fit to give you back healing."
A squeeze to both hands before he's releasing her, arm going up to gesture expansively towards the dining table set up in the middle of the concourse, having long ago replaced the card table. One end is occupied by a couple of chatting Ferryworkers, and so Joseph leads her to the other, pulling out a metal chair for her to sit.
"Not healing, no, but the lord provided another avenue for Richard to be made whole. At what cost, I don't know, but" A squeeze of his hand, the blonde clomps after him, unzipping her coat once she gets her hand back. "A pyro, of some sort. It's strange but, I'm sure i'll learn to control it, I have to learn to control it. I manifested in the bar at a bad time. I guess, it's good and bad? Bad in that the Bar burned, but good in that when it happened, it took with it the Russians who had been hunting a bunch of us. Bittersweet, very much. But insurance will pay to rebuild it when the time is right"
She leans forward in her seat, elbows taking up on the table so she can regard the man across from her. "Matthew Three eleven was a very appropriate passage that He saw fit to tell me. I just should have taken it more literally than… abstract. How are you Joseph. Did you uhh… get Eileen's gift?"
Sitting down adjacent to her, Joseph mostly loosely shrugs at abstraction versus literal interpretation — if God pays much attention to the difference, He does it in ways that don't relate to the precognitive visions Joseph delivers with his hands. Said hands roaming now to the zippered pocket of his jacket, tugging at the metal tab where it catches, stuck, at the stubborn row. "I'm alright, and yes," his attention diverts to deliver a mildly accusing glance Abby's way, giving up on pocket for now. "I woke up with Eileen's gift tearin' into a pair of my shoes. He's in a puppy crate right now — mostly so he don't eat anythin' he ain't meant to, and so Alicia don't eat him."
Exasperations, if good-natured ones, for all that he doubts Eileen puppified him out of the goodness of her heart, necessarily. "He don't got a name yet. Holdin' out 'til I either find owners for 'im or I break and keep him."
"You need to break and keep him. Give Alicia company for when she can't be at your side. Someone for alicia to look after." there's a glance to his pocket, one can't help it and he'd likely do the same if he was in her place. "A pair of shoes are nothing compared to what the beasts all did collectively to eileen. I took home the runt. Company for Scarlett to harass when Scarlett is brought back to the Rivage" Which it seems is where she's staying.
"Another for your personal flock. I think you could give the poor beast a good home Joseph. They're the offspring of the feral pack that roamed the island. It's.. something good and beautiful out of something so dark and hurtful, deadly" That's how she looks at it. "But if you really don't want to, I can see if one of the girls from the bar wants one. Or I could give him to Robert"
Finally struggling pocket zip down, and out comes a folded over envelope that whatever is inside probably was not in originally. It's a plain white affair, unmarked, and Joseph fidgets with it between fingers as she talks. "I'll see how it goes. If he's too much've a handful down here— he's a nervous little thing. Dunno. Maybe if a name for 'im comes to me." He gestures a little with the envelope, then sets it on the table between them, sliding it over an inch for her to take.
Last time Joseph was used as a messenger, mail man, it was Abigail giving him an envelope with something for Deckard. Goodbye, I'm going to Russia, I love you etc etc. Whatever she was going to say with regards to the nervous canine - understandably so, given it's age and where they were - dies on her lips as she looks down to the envelope.
She lets it stay there a few moments, almost afraid to touch it, wary of what it's contents might be.
Her fingers descend on it though, taking it in hand, turning it over so she can thumb it's flap and pull out the papers inside. "Who's it from?" Though she has her suspicion. She just wants to hear it from the preacher even as she's letting her eyes drop to the first words.
Joseph's back straightens — a hand drifts out like maybe he wants to urge her to keep it shut until she can read it somewhere better. You'd think he'd be good at this by now, including not reading the little love notes sent between her and Deckard and back again. Then again, maybe they know he reads them. This thought hardly ever makes him feel less guilty about it. Maybe a little. Anyway, he does not stop her, just uneasily sits back in his chair, knits his fingers together.
"Flint. Flint— actually, he gave it to me a while ago," he admits. "But I was handlin' some stuff, you went to Vegas, then all the snow… Anyway. He wrote it for you, after Teo brought him back to the network. I think he said, to you about it."
The flush settling over her is the first warning, the heat that settles in her face, high on her cheeks as she reads the words that Flint set to paper that she's holding in her hands. She was lighthearted when she came in here, happy that Richard had survived and was alive. A new pet, bad stuff and a hadnful of other things a faint impression shoved down deep.
This is Deckard, was Deckard and for all that she's gotten over him, the fucker has a direct line to her heart.
Salty tears well along her eyes adn fall over the edge only to dissipate within moments. He doesn't know whether he'll just be gone, or whether he'll be dead, he's sorry, he's… a lot of things and it isn't until the paper itself starts to turn brown beneath her fingers, heat that Joseph can feel coming off the Blonde that she has a few moments to realize just how stupid it was of her to read this here.
"Oh lord, Joseph, get people away" She knows what's coming, paper tossed down and away from her and trying hard to get out of her jacket as quickly as possible to toss towards him and away from the table. Save the winter clothing. Save the winter clothing.
"Get a fire extingu-" This is not going to be good.
Woah nelly. Joseph's chair goes skittering away from him when he goes to stand — automatically clasping the thrown letter as she wrestles out of her jacket, which he takes too, backing up with bewilderment written on expressive features. The furnace-like, unnatural heat has him backing up all the more, until he takes note of those turning to the excitement, and realises he's one of the gawking bystanders. "Hey, hey,"he says, abruptly moving to gesture a worker away from her. "Back up, everyone— "
Someone is already moving, taking Abby's words to heart, and the shorthand warning of fire! Main concourse! should be heard all down the subways. No matter how little sense it might make.
Scary sight to see for some, striking and awe inspiring for others, depending upon what your opinion is on spontaneous combustion. What clothes she's wearing, including yet another one of the air casts, smolders, smokes then flares up in flame, even as she's trying to get the plastic off her foot, curse words flowing from the blonde.
One minute she's just smoking, possibly the victim of some bad joke and the next, the transformation from human to person composed of living flame is complete in a handful of seconds. five feet around her, she implodes, the kitchen table bearing the brunt of the small explosion, flesh, hair, everything gone in something probably worthy of a high budget movie and the coronal silhouette left in it's wake, flames rippling around the crouched woman, concrete below what her feet are scorched, anything within the radius, scorched.
The main concourse has gotten considerably hotter and Abigail's face en flambe with it's strange surface looks over to Joseph or at least to the blue form that's ever shifting, where he was standing last she knew. shit.
Someone screams, some flee, ducking and running, including the lady Joseph had directed back. Joseph stands his ground, an arm lifting against the brightness of the woman-shaped fire, the searing heat that he's forced another step back from. Above, a lightbulb explodes beneath the heat, the crack of glass sounding sharp as smoke consumes the curving, tiled ceiling, dining table now only half-recognisable but still standing for all that it's blackened.
The sound of running echoes through, the red shape of an existinguisher in Neil Milburn's broad hands. His more considerate twin brother might worry about attacking a person made of fire, but Neil isn't having it, so even as Joseph winces and lifts a hand in wordless protest as the chemical foam is promptly sprayed directly towards the fire-nymph blackening concrete and cracking tile just by— well. Standing there.
What one has to do to protect the people, will not be looked down upon by the flaming blonde, even as the white foam hits her, face turned away from the chemicals that make contact with the surface of her 'skin'. She turns into it, hoping to help them coat her even as it turns uncomfortable for her. Far better than if they doused her with water, not that they know what that would do, but it's suffocating the flames and suffocating her.
It has the desire effect though and much like a real fire and one not made from unnatural means, beneath the foam, coronal surface gives way to skin, pink and fresh, the same as it was before she turned. The table's flames die out and not more than three or four minutes after it started, Abigail's on the ground wheezing, trying to suck in air as she's flesh and blood, devoid of clothing and wearing a suit of white chemicals.
The fire is out it seems.
As the world comes into focus through oxygen-starved disorientation, she'll see Joseph moving on closer, peeling off his own, larger coat as he hurries, boots navigating fearlessly over the sooty black tiling. There's voices, echoing over head, and she'll hear Joseph clear as he crouches close— she's okay— no of course she didn't know!— before his warm coat comes to drape over her, heedless to chemicals. "Abby! Christ. Honey, are you okay? I'm sorry, no one knew what to do— "
She will take that jacket. Thank you. Very. Much. "Sorry. Sorry. Stupid." Fingers leave white marks as she's helping drag it around her, a little dazed at it all. Only the second time ever doing that and it's still a bit of a shock to her mentally to know that she can and does do that. "Lord I am so sorry." Abigail's sentences short and choppy and spoken out on strained exhales even as she's trying to wipe away and clear her eyes and face. "I was stupid. So stupid." She turtles inside the jacket, cheeks flooding red from embarrassment, more than any chance of herself igniting again. The bath she just took will keep that from happening anytime soon. "I wasn't thinking. I'm fine. Lord my clothes, my cast."
The sleeves of Joseph's sweater get a little ruined too as he tries to help clear her face so as not to get the chemicals in her eyes, and there's a hint of warm mirth beneath all the concern now that he can see she's okay. "I see what you mean, 'bout Matthew three-eleven. That's quite a skill. Here, we can— we'll help with the clothes, see if we got anythin' for your leg. I'll get you home if not, it's all alright. No one got hurt, just— the table, a little."
Glancing around, Joseph shifts back in his crouch, letting her configure the coat around herself while he politely takes the time to glance around at those forming a rough circle around the spectacle. "Someone get a change of clothes? C'mon," and he offers out his hands. "Sick bay ain't far away, you should be able to clean up in peace."
Just a table. That's all. Joseph, Neil, others can see the relief on her face that it was just a table. "Maybe, I'll luck out and there will be a sedative with my name on it huh?" Slapping on an attempt at smiling, try and laugh it off, make light of what just happened, give a wheezy laugh that just doesn't quiet sound natural so much as forced.
Arms go in the jacket, fingers grasping hem and yanking it down to cover as much of her as possible. Sick bay. Hopefully it will have a bucket with some water, or a shower, or something for her to wash this all off with. Surely it's not meant to stay in contact with skin too long. She'll take the support though, lean on the Pastor and limpingly make her way with him, head down to avoid the looks from others.
"Isn't this a story huh. Broken up and he's still… getting me hot and bothered"