delilah_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif francois_icon.gif isabella_icon.gif

Scene Title Heroism
Synopsis When a snowplow driver suffers a heart attack and collides with another vehicles, it's some of New Yorks citizens to the rescue.
Date June 4, 2010

Roosevelt Island - Outside the Suresh Center

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.

Weather drops, condensation in the atmosphere freezes, falls and you get snow. Snow piles up, gathering in the lee's of buildings, pushed to the side of the street by snow plows, pushed back onto the street by smaller versions of the vehicles. People with shovels do the same by sheer brute force and the burning of carbs.

Then the weather warms, and the snow melts, temperatures fluctuate and so long as it remains at or below zero, you'll get ice from the run off. Salt can counter this, kitty litter or any sort of grit,c rushed up gravel, embeds in the snow and helps. But this is only good if it's sidewalks, steps, places for pedestrians. Cities that are prepared and when the season actually is Winter and it's not winter weather in the summer season.

A snow plow works it's way from one side of the road, helping to pile the snow into a convenient strip so that it can be hauled away after dumped into a truck that is on it's way soon. People come and go from the Suresh Center, the city with it's renewed access to electricity and warming climes allows for people to emerge from their hideyholes and shelters.

One such person emerging from the dark recesses of New York is Isabella Dawson. Isa, thanks to the reanimation of the power grid, no longer has to stand her own awful cooking or the shelter food, and presently steps out of a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a bag full of dinner. Bedecked like the rest of the population, the scarved and bundled woman sips at her hot coffee, already striding purposefully down the street. Where to is anyone's guess.

There are two figures making their way from the Suresh Centre itself, a companionable enough couple easy in each other's company if not always their surroundings. Francois, for all that he is, does not seem out of place — a black leather jacket is zipped halfway, a warm thing to combat the brittle icy chill of the air, legs clad in blue denim soaked around the ankles where his boots have sunk into slush since heading out of his home. Striped wool makes up a loose scarf he's busily tightening around his throat, looking at where he's going as opposed to the slip of a young woman at his side.

"It might be too soon," he's saying, each word producing a minor plume of steam, "to submit applications, but I would prefer too soon than too late, oui. Granted, I have never done this before." His gloved hand comes up to rub numb fingertips against his scarred ear. "It still feels like cheating."

Unbeknownst to Francois- or Eileen, for that matter- There was a familiar face into some sort of business inside of the Suresh Center, whose business had nothing to do with the same part of the building; that is, except for when it comes time to leave, and Delilah finds herself about fifteen feet behind the familiar backs-of-heads. Bundling her coat up, she squints. Eileen's easier, but noticing Francois takes an extra few seconds while she waits for his head to tilt. Ah! Ahah! Delilah decides to go with something of note, piping up loudly behind them as she starts to catch up.

"Hey Frankie!" Sup.

The woman at Francois' side is dressed in similar tones but different materials, alpaca wool in place of leather and leather in place of wool gloves. Jeans might have been the better choice for the weather, but her legs are covered in knit stockings instead, the hem of a dark gray skirt visible beneath the bottom of her heavy coat with its silk lining, deep red. It matches the shade of her lipstick and the carnation she wears pinned to her collar, a common garden sparrow peeking out from underneath.

Whatever she'd been about to say to Francois is cut short by Delilah's greeting, however, and rather than address the Frenchman whose stride she isn't having much trouble matching in spite of her small size thanks to a pair of stylish black flats, she turns her head and steers an inquisitive look over her shoulder that ends up reeling past the redhead to Isabella's approaching shape, though it does not linger there for very long.

Who's watching where she's going? Not Isabella. With her attention entirely stolen by the hot, liquid ambrosia that is her coffee, she doesn't at all notice Delilah. That is, until she walks smack into her, knocking her teeth into her coffee lid and dislodging it so that the scalding liquid spills all over her front and Delilah's back. What's worse is her delicious kebabs have been not only smooshed but soaked.

The petite woman shrieks in surprise, dropping her cup and gasping at the burning taste. "HEY!!" she shrills angrily, accusatory stare at Delilah. "Watch where you're going! Oh, god, my dinner!" Because it's definitely Delilah's fault. Of course.

He knows that voice and that nickname, especially in combination — it has its desired affect. Pivoting just enough to comfortably send a look back, Francois has a ready smile for Delilah — one that is genuine and does exceptionally little to take away from the obvious lines of exasperation now crinkling his forehead when he lifts an eyebrow. "Bonjour, Delilah," he says, once she's within speaking distance, affording her a wave. He notes sidelong to Eileen— just loud enough for Delilah to catch— that; "She often forgets my name. I think it is a lingering symptom of when she was sick. Anterograde amnesia, maybe, it is very…"

Maybe he should have said that it affects depth perception, because when the collision occurs, all scalding liquids and shrieky accusations— well. Wincing, Francois abandons his slightly more verbal burn in favour of taking a few concerned steps on over. Either to make sure no one is hurt or to provide Delilah the necessary blackup against angry New Yorkers.

Lucky thing that this is winter, and not summer, or else Delilah would probably have a burnt back- as it stands it goes all over the back of her coat, she lets out a surprised squeak of air, legs tipping her onto her toes, That's kind of …warm, innit. All she can really do is turn herself around, simply astounded at what the woman just said. Perhaps it is her inability to shut up, or perhaps she is just having one of those days-

"Excuse me? I was walking away from you, lady." Complete with fists balling on her hips, the tall redhead looks about ready to start a ruckus if she must. Though the uncomfortable wiggle in her shoulders gives away that the soaking coffee is getting to her.

The sparrow ducks back under the safety of Eileen's collar rather than kick off her shoulder and take flight, not only because it has nowhere else to go, but because it's safer there than between the other two women, which is where its path would take it if it attempted to dart away. This is either going to get ugly fast or the tension crackling electric in the air is going to dissipate as suddenly as it manifested. It's why she chooses, at least for the time being, to hang back. "You were saying?" she asks Francois in a low voice.


Someone yells by the street side and What anyone is saying, is for the moment lost in the sound that assaults everyone's ears. Isabella had provided a distraction from what started the accident that was happening on the street.

Like in slow motion, a cascade of errors that slide into being and is soon to become the start of a bad day for many. Behind the steering wheel of the snow plow, the heavy set driver's hand suddenly clasps his chest, turning red in the face as a heart attack steels it's deadly fingers around his heart and chest like a vise. His foot presses down on the gas pedal in an involuntary reaction, speeding up the vehicle.

A sedan coming in the opposite direction doesn't notice, not soon enough. The occupants try to turn the wheel, turn the vehicle out of the way, but they are unsuccessful. Caught by the plow, they're brought along for the ride, wheels reversing direction with a visual and labored shudders before it's caught on a lamp post, twisted and then flipped onto the sidewalk upside down. Wheels spin in the air and there's stillness from inside.

The snow plow moves ahead, full force and into another lamppost, bringing down the pole atop of it, running into a shop front and coming to a stop finally after the span of time filled with screeching tires, revving engines, screams and then silent aftermath.

Isabella opens her mouth for a tirade at Delilah, anger mounting. But before she can get more than an "OOOOOHH no you—" there's a screech and crunch of metal that causes her to whip around. "Holy shit," she gasps, though her voice is dwarfed by the raucous sound of the wreck. The woman is either stunned by surprise, or just not intending to go see if the victims are okay. And anyways, good thing it wasn't coming towards her, or she might have really been scared.

"Merde," is— not at all what Francois was saying, but distracted attempts to continue down the line of career prospects and/or Delilah's imagined sicknesses are summarily stolen away as the thunderous screech of wreckage drowns out his hissed curse, unable to do much but watch as the wreck's climax reaches its crescendo through a shop front and spinning wheels in the air. They say this is one of those things from which you cannot look away for a reason. Not only is it kind of fascinatingly horrible, but you can't do much else.

But once the shriek and crash of laboured metal finally dies in the air, that's when he can. His crooked hand had, automatically, been gripping onto Eileen's elbow, and only squeezes before release as he takes off towards the flipped car at a loping run, speed hindered by his attempts not to slip or break something on the icy pavement.

Being more than ready to deal with Isabella, it takes a moment for Delilah to register what else just happened outside of her vision; she can see the blurring of the sedan, but she doesn't look until the scraping of steel to plow rattles into the air. Her expression is much like Francois for the span of the accident's incidents. Even if there was something she wanted to do- unless she somehow had telekinesis, it would not be much help.

Not that she can be of much help regardless- her expertise lies elsewhere. As Francois starts to move, Delilah begins to frantically search her coat pockets for her phone, Isabella all but totally forgotten. Quick! What's the number for nine-one-one?

While Francois is loping like a greyhound across the street and Delilah fishes in her pockets for her phone, Eileen is left to assess the scene of the accident from afar with Isabella, green eyes sharp as they move between the crumpled sedan to the lifeless figure slumped over the snowplow's steering wheel before her attention is inevitably drawn to the fallen lamppost. There's no pop or fizzle to suggest the presence of live wires writhing around like snakes on the pavement on the other side the vehicles, or she might be hoarsely screaming Francois' name at his back.

What she does instead is reach out and touch one gloved hand to Isabella's shoulder, hoping to get the other woman's attention. "Do you know anything about first aid?"

There's movement in the Sedan in the front seat, passenger and driver as both either come to, or have realized the vehicle has stopped. Dangling in their seats, kept in by seat belts, there's screaming from the female passenger and twisting in her seat so that she can try and reach for the back seat or something in the back seat.

Screams come from the shop that the snowplow plowed into, someone looking to be struggling to squeeze past the vehicle and get out of the store. Others grab their phones, dialing for 9-1-1 and even more others seem to lope towards the Suresh Center in the hopes that the medical personnel there, will deal with the trauma as well. Evolved or not.

Ohmygod, someone is touching her. Isabella turns a scathing look on Eileen for a moment before it sinks in what the woman said. Oh, right. Snapping quite suddenly into a more official demeanor, the petite Isabella nods curtly and lopes over towards the sedan. Fishing out her phone, she hits speed dial, and the phone is pressed to her ear with her shoulder. "Don't move!" she says loudly to the passengers within. "You might traumatize your injuries further!"

Francois is taking something of a more hands on approach. Having gracelessly come to a skidding halt at the car, freezing, urban dirty meltwater instantly soaks his jeans at the knees as he gets low to peer into the vehicle. With Isabella barking orders, he only strains to see into the back of the sedan, and the crumpled figure within that the panicked woman is desperately trying to reach for. His hands— loose of gloves, stripped away during his dash across the road— scrabble at the driver's door, teeth showing in a sneer as it holds fast.

Crabbing to the side, he goes for the door to the backseat, a huff of an exhale as his only sign of relief as it gives with a creak. Half-inside the overturned car, his cool hands reach out towards the unmoving small body of the toddler in the back, though does not move him right away, eyes quick to take in what's there to see — strange angles, blood, things that determine how bad an idea moving the child might be — as his fingers gently touch around the throat, checking for breathing. For a pulse.

There are probably at least a dozen calls going into the center for this same incident, but Delilah stays on at least long enough to remind them where it is and what is happening. She starts over while she is still on the phone, hovering between where she had been and where the accident has come to a close. "Yeah, someone's gone into the Center too- no, the plow stopped running, I don't think he's alive. There are a couple people in the car. The pole's not live as far as I can tell."

"There's a doctor here but he can only do so much- need an ambulance yesterday." She hangs up, leaving the rest of the chatter to others who have cells, yelling above the cold breeze and the remaining noise. "What do you need!?" There isn't much else she can ask.

"Delilah," Eileen's voice, although softer than the curt tone she'd taken with Isabella, is a warning. She isn't far enough along in her pregnancy that she can see the bump starting to swell under her ribcage beneath her clothes, but one of the advantages of belonging to a network the Ferry's size is that rumours travel almost as swiftly as bulletins do; she's well-aware of the other woman's condition and, much more importantly, who the father is.

She imagines Teodoro, if he was here, would do the same thing.

"Don't get too close," she cautions, even as she comes up alongside her and, like she'd done with Isabella, places her hand on her shoulder, though she does nothing to physically restrain her or attempt to haul her back. She's carrying a baby, not infirm.

"Thomas! Tommy! Oh my god Tommy!" The woman's panicked screams assault Francois's ear as the pulse of the blonde haired, tow headed toddler flutters under his hands and breathing seems strong. It's hard to see if any limb is hurt thanks to the bundling up of winter clothes and the angle that his arms dangle at with tiny fingers lax in the air. "Help him! Oh my god, help him please! Tommy!" The woman focused on her son, despite that she too is hanging upside down, a gash on her forehead that bleeds liberally, seat belt holding her in and curved around her hips below and above her swollen belly. Easily into a late pregnancy.

The husband groans, half the glass gone from his side of the car and speckles of blood dotting his face from where glass bits struck. "Nancy?! Tommy! Oh my god, I didn't see him. I thought he was stopping!" Common sense and issued orders from Isabella go unheeded by the vehicles occupants

Across the street, a survivor from what seems to be a cafe is hopping loose, yelling at the top of his lungs about needing help, that a truck just plowed into the little spot. Three more people inside. "There are ambulances being dispatched ma'am, if you could tell us anythi-" The 9-1-1 dispatcher is cut off as Delilah cuts the call short and one can imagine the look on her face afterward.

"Keep calm before you bleed yourself to death, lady," Isabella snaps, before she lets out a breath and focuses. Whether or not they're listening is not a factor to her right now. After a moment, she abandons the car, though, with all the help, and goes for the plow to see how the guy's doing. "Anyone alive in there?" she calls. To Delilah, she shouts back, "Flares! Would be nice!"

Almost all the way into the car, Francois is gathering the child into his arms, navigating around dangling and clinging-vine seat belts as he gently lowers the body to the ceiling of the vehicle. "I'm a doctor. Please be still," he snaps, now, towards the front of the car, even as he goes to peel back the coat bundled around the boy. "I have your son — he is fine." Kind of a lie, but a necessary one. Unconscious, but of any wrongness he can detect, nothing to do with the spine — though his hand tentatively seeks out the coat clad limbs, wincing. Does not inform the parents of a broken arm.

Backing out of the car, he yells into the cold air over his shoulder, "Eileen!" with the intention of leaving the boy in her care. "His arm— and a head injury. Keep pressure and keep him warm until help comes, oui?"

Eileen is one of those people that even if you don't listen to anyone else on a regular basis- you tend to pay attention to them. Dee was never sure why that was, exactly. She does the same now, taking a a half step back when her name is called and Eileen puts her hand to a shoulder. The redhead looks down to the other woman for a few seconds, hearing the reply coming from the location of the crash. Flares? "Where does she think I'm going to get flares? My ass?" - Well- . "The center's bound to have help, I'll be back. Francois needs you-"

And with that, Delilah's course has changed; her hand moves to clap Eileen lightly on the arm, before she turns on her heels and makes off towards the building she had just left minutes ago, intent on helping or otherwise sounding yet another alert.

Parting with Delilah at the periphery of the accident where the crowd has begun to assemble, their faces lit not by the flares Isabella is shouting for but by the intermittent flash of camera phones, Eileen hurries to Francois' side. Her coat is already half-off her shoulder by the time she's taking the child from him and bundling him up in the garment. A flash of pale brown wings, followed by the flick of a drab, angular tail denotes the sparrow's departure. It's not off to seek help. The only other person in New York City who might understand such a message probably isn't the type of person who would appreciate being summoned to the scene of a car wreck where there are women and children involved, especially not one so close to the Suresh Center.

Neither is he needed. She, Francois and Isabella have the situation under control — or at least as under control as it can be until an ambulance arrives. "Oui," she says, gathering the child to her chest and looking over the top of his bloodied head to where Isabella is investigating the plow.

Wrenching open the door to the snow plow, Isabelle is greeted with the sight of the driver red faced and wheezing, slumped over his steering wheel. He'd managed to get his seat belt off it seems and at the sight of Isabelle, he's reaching out, grabbing her shoulder. "H..heart. Heart attack, I think I'm having a heart attack" Stating the obvious. The guy who'd crawled ad squeezed out of the storefront is immediately behind Isabella, tugging on her. "There's a guy inside, pinned, he needs help. Screw this guy, you need to come help, please" The individual caring more for the person mowed down by the plow, than the guy who did the mowing.

The little boy rests rag doll limp in Eileen's arms, unaware of the world or his parents and their concern for him or that Francois is a doctor. He would have been delighted by the bird that took off from her jacket. Someone comes running, scrubs seen in the periphery, offering a blanket to Eileen and offering to take the child, more people calling out from behind and emerging from the center. The runner however had a head start.

Inside the car, Francois's rebuke works and it shuts the woman up, after a handful of thank you's fall from her mouth, blood making a steady drip, drip, drip onto the grey roof of the chevy. "My wife, you need to see my wife first. I can wait. You need to get her out first. She's pregnant" Stating the obvious, that award goes to the husband. "Nancy, Nancy, you get out first" His own hands going for his seat belt in an effort to get his own self out and leave the help to his wife.

Isabella snaps her arm away from the guy behind her. "This man is having a heart attack! Guh. Hold on. You!" She points at Eileen, and then looks over to the man. "Both of you help me get this guy out of the vehicle so we can help the other guy!" She begins trying to tug the poor guy out of the seat, in hopes of getting him flat on the ground with his feet elevated. "Anyone have any aspirin?" she calls, before she looks at him. "Sir, are you allergic to aspirin?"

Still kneeling on dirty road once the child is passed off, Francois steers a look towards the plow and the mirrored drama happening on over there, before looking towards Eileen. She certainly doesn't need anymore orders, never mind permission, but he gives it anyway: "Go, I am okay here." Without looking to see what's happening any further, he levers himself to his feet, rounding around the car to descend in a crouch by the woman's door. Wrenching it open, he offers out a hand, gripping her slick palm to his.

"Help is coming," he tells the man even as he concentrates on Nancy's own situation. "You crashed just outside a clinic, oui? You are okay. Will be." A hand searches out the seat belts, before moving to get an arm around her. "Alright, hold on to me. Can you tell me where you hurt?" he asks of the woman, before glancing to the man. "Monsieur, get her seat belt, on my count, please." Backwards from three. Trois, deux, un.

It's not that Eileen is particularly attached to her coat. It's the items inside its pockets that she has no desire to part with, including her knife and pocket watch, and so she swaddles the little boy in the blanket as soon as it's handed to her, exchanging it for her coat before she passes him off to the scrubs-clad runner. A bare arm smeared with blood, none of it her own, comes up to cover her mouth when she heaves a cough into it. It comes away redder than it was before, but this possibly has to do with her lipstick and the fact that it doesn't have the staying power she might like it to.

Either way, she's up on her feet again, coat hanging from the crook of that same arm as she closes the distance to the plow in a series of brisk, purposeful strides. "His hands are full," she informs Isabella. "Where do you need me?"

"He plowed into a shop!" The man is spitting back - quite literally, spittle from the vehemence of his tone - to Isabella, brushed off physically but not verbally, turning to Eileen next when she comes, hands grabbing at her sleeve in an attempt to drag her towards the front end of the truck where it meets the shop.

The driver easily gets out of the truck with the help of the Company agent, shaking his head, baseball cap falling off and landing beside him. "not allergic. Oh god, my chest. I'm going to die." Jean clad legs up on the inside lip of the vehicle, elevating his legs.

The husband gives up on getting his own seat belt off, nodding to Francois to show that he understands what the Frenchman is asking. Nancy clings to Francois's hand, holding tight to it and then to him with her arms wrapped around him. At the count of three, the seat belt is released with a scream and just like that, 170 + pounds of pregnant woman is dropped weight into his arms, nothing else holding the woman back.

Isabella throws up her hands. "Shut the fuck up and let me get this man taken care of! For Christ's sake, being a Samaritan in this city is a fucking thankless job!" She has the patience of a saint, this one. Once she gets the man on the ground she looks to Eileen. "He needs aspirin, and to keep his legs elevated. Do you know CPR? He's going to stop breathing soon if the ambulance doesn't get here and he's going to need some help breathing. I'm going to go help Loudy McShoutingMouth with his buddy, if you've got this."

Easily does Teo have like twenty pounds on this lady and her unborn child, and there'd been that time in the bathroom of hiking knees and a severe lack of friction that had lasted maybe four seconds and then some giggling, but that's not the point. Point is that Francois isn't going to let her fall on her head, secure arms tugging her towards himself and more or less falling with her. "I have you," is breathless assurance, unwilling to bleat into the poor woman's ear for a little help over here.

Graceless, both Francois and woman are levered out of the car and its tangling seat belts, the wreckage, a firm arm now curled around her shoulders to keep head braced to his shoulder, other hand occupied with gripping her's. It's the mutilated hand, at that, but he'd rather it get squeezed and traumatized than rely on it to handle anyone.

Eileen doesn't like being touched by strangers, much less grabbed by them, and when the man tries to direct her toward the front of the shop, her initial reaction is to sink her fingernails into his wrist in an attempt to wrest it away from her. He's asking her to do one thing, Isabella is telling her to do another — it's times like this that she can appreciate how easy it can sometimes be to be the one delivering orders instead of the one taking them.

In the end, Isabella has at least an inch of height on her and maybe a dozen pounds, and although it probably won't make much of a difference who tends to what, she leaves the storefront to the other woman and breaks off to tend to the dying man. She doesn't have any aspirin, but she does know CPR.

Hopefully it won't come to that.

The snowplow driver grasps at Eileen's hands, holding tight to them, drawing her close. "My wife. Tell my wife I love her. You gotta tell her. Jennifer. Her name is Jen" He's already having a hard time breathing and Eileen's hope is being crushed as his face goes more ashen as time ticks on by on the second hand. Ambulance sirens sound off in the distance and from the mouth of the Suresh Center, there's people with wheel chairs and even gurney's brought down from the medical wing by the elevators.

It's a squeeze to get into the shop, the narrow passage between wall and plow covered with broken brick, snow and Ice, and when Isabella makes it inside, the panicking man squeezing in behind her, it's not hard to see who he means, and it's also not hard to see that the person pinned, a young woman, has expired in the time taken between getting out to get help and coming back in. The blessing is, is that there doesn't seem to be anyone else under the rubble or plow. Behind the counter peeps the eye's of an Asian woman who was manning the counter and took cover. "You gotta help her man! Do something!" Panicky grabs at Isabella's shoulder, pulling her down to the dead woman. "Help her!"

Sobbing, bleeding, grateful pregnant woman, clinging to the Frenchman. Who knows if this is a first for him or not, or whether it will be the last, but onto the ground the two go, snow and slush making for damp clothes. 'Tommy! Put me by Tommy, oh god, Tommy!" Seeing the child still unconscious. "Daniel!" nearly scrabbling out of Francois's arms to get back to the car and her husband, stopped by the tightening of muscles around her middle, letting go of Francois's bad hand to grip her belly. A scrub wearing and sweater bearing nurse is running forward. "What can I do to help?"

Weeeell, shit. Isabella glares at the pushy man, and stalks over to take the woman's pulse. It's a few moments of prodding around before she shakes her head. "There's nothing I could have done," she says shortly, briskly. "With no equipment— getting her unpinned would have killed her faster. Sorry." Maybe this isn't true; maybe it is. Isa doesn't care. She just wants the guy off her back. Turning to the woman behind the counter, she gestures around and speaks loudly, as if the woman doesn't understand English. "People, hurt? Anyone else? You? Under rocks? Anyone?"

Francois takes a selfish two seconds to shake the tension from his left hand upon its release, a revving kind of growl at the back of his throat before both palms come to hold onto the frantic mother, lifting a look up towards the nurse sprinting on over. Asking him what to do. He turns his attention back to the woman, a hand coming up to steer her face towards him as he looks at the wound to her head, bleeding worse than it looks as is so often the case with these injuries.

Then follows her hands gripping onto her swollen belly, the lines of pain in her face. "Are you serious?" The words of an American turn of phrase come tumbling out before he can really think of them. What an exasperating day. "This woman, she needs to get into the clinic if the ambulances aren't coming any time soon. Keep her by her son — her husband is still in the car."

Which is looks like Francois is willing to handle, with no mess of critical injury to deal with out here, but it occurs to him to look towards the site of the runoff wreckage ahead before he does.

"You're going to tell her yourself." Eileen closes her fingers around the man's hands, much larger than her own, and gives them a tight squeeze that does not immediately relent even after it's made its point, conveyed its intended message. They're a stone's throw away from the Suresh Center, Delilah's fiery red hair flaming bright somewhere in the dark sea of wool coats, gaunt faces and dingy hat, scarves, gloves, but just in case she raises her voice above the dull roar of the crowd and thunders, "We need a gurney over here!"

"I speak English bitch." Perfectly pronounced English with a Bronx accent. "No one else was in here, just her, him and me" She still stays behind the counter, agog at what has happened. "Fuck, my boss is going to flip. A snowplow. Does this look like a drivethru!" Lacquered fingers still grip the counter, wide eyes eying everything.

Fate is laughing at Francois, thumbing it's nose at him even as he speaks, eye's wide, drops of blood dripping off her chin and onto his clothing. "Right away Sir" Not doctor, these ones couldn't know that, and two nurses swiftly go to either side of the woman even as her son is being lifted with care onto a gurney, a wheelchair being brought over for the pregnant woman to sit in. They only have so much equipment ready to bring out. But ambulances are squealing around the corner and there's a hospital not too far from here. The lone individual in the car left, Daniel it seems, thumps to the floor as Francois looks over, with a groan but seems to have fared far better than his wife and child. "Nancy! Oh god, is the baby coming? It's too early!"

Eileen's getting the help that she's calling out for as well, scrub clad legs rounding the back end of the snow plow, followed by another gurney. "We're here ma'am, we can take over now. Were you hurt?" Assuming that she was involved in the incident and not just a bystander.

"Well excuuuse me," Isabella snaps, the half-japanese woman turning on her heel. "If that's all, then have fun dealing with your boss." And out she goes, leaving them behind with the corpse, unceremoniously pinned and bleeding out past death still. As she squeezes outside, she surveys the victims, seeking the next one who might need her Very Impressive first aid skills. But with the influx of doctors and real equipment, the woman debates instead retreating to pick up the remains of her dinner and find out for sure if kebabs taste better dipped in espresso. Hmm.

Picking himself up off the ground, Francois makes his way back around the car once the pregnant woman and child are being seen to, crouching down and offering out an arm from the open passenger door to where the man is detangling himself. "You will have to go with her and find out, monsieur," he says, and doesn't say that trauma and impact have histories of triggering preterm births, because then he'd have to reassure that early births are not inherently terrible, just complicated, and—

And, merde, that's what nurses are for. He goes to help the man out of the car instead, with less manhandling required — just a hand up and steadying balance.

"I'm fine," Eileen assures the EMT, one gloved hand at the man's jaw to keep him with her, the other at his shoulder, though her attention now rests on the uniforms with the gurney. "He's having a heart attack," she says, short and to the point, but not without the earnestness of someone invested in the outcome. "He has a wife," she adds next, an afterthought that isn't particularly important for the EMT to know, but the chance it might provide their patient with some modicum of comfort is reason enough for her to waste breath on the words. "Her name is Jennifer. Someone's going to need to put in a call."

Isabella's food is where she left it, untouched, no one making off with a free meal of Kebabs now with added Caffeine! Left unmolested, no one tugging at her sleeve and screaming for help, the company agent can slip away to the rest of Staten Island.

One of the Suresh Center employee's is scribbling down what Eileen is telling them, the medical issues paid attention to buy the EMT's who set about to pulling out what they need to deal with cardiac issues, murmuring assurances to the man that he'll pull through and tell his wife all about this. Eileen is free to slip away, melt away into the gathering crowd of gawkers, security from Suresh acting in lieu of the police who have yet to arrive. There's a grateful ashen look on the mans face for the simple kindness afforded him by Eileen.

Which is more than Francois is getting, the familial united being united with one another, the toddler waking up and calling for his parents, crying and screaming but very much coherent as the father stumbles over to his wife and child, hands patting here, there, slipping to the side of the gurney to try and calm their son while his wife is whisked quickly towards the center in the wake of Francois's suggestion. He too can slip away, go with Eileen and carry on with their day though tainted by blood of others.

And everyone will sigh in relief that this time, it was an accident and not missile launchers, helicopters bearing Humanis first, protesters or who knows what. Just an accident and a handful of good Samaritans.

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