In Exile


barbara_icon.gif benji_icon.gif brian_icon.gif delia_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif hannah_icon.gif howard_icon.gif huruma3_icon.gif

jaiden_icon.gif kaylee2_icon.gif lucille2_icon.gif lynette2_icon.gif megan_icon.gif nelly_icon.gif nick_icon.gif quinn2_icon.gif raith_icon.gif

ryans3_icon.gif sable_icon.gif samara_icon.gif shannon_icon.gif smedley_icon.gif vincent_icon.gif ygraine_icon.gif

Scene Title In Exile
Synopsis On the 12th of November, three days into the aftermath of the events of the 8th, the remains of the Ferrymen council hold a meeting at the heart of Pollepel Island to address the disaster's survivors and discuss, as a whole, the tragic losses suffered by the network and what steps it intends to take next.
Date November 12, 2010

Pollepel Island

Torchlight casts alien shadows across rough stone walls and reflects off thick glass windows looking out across the choppy black waters of the Hudson River. Darkness blankets Pollepel Island, making it dangerous to navigate its forested terrain, which is why those who have sought shelter here are inside instead of out. Downstairs in the kitchen, volunteers are soaping dirty dishes and scrubbing them clean, washing out pans in deep metal sinks. Mothers and fathers put their children to bed in wooden cots dressed in cotton linens and heavy wool blankets for warmth, press kisses to noses and eyelids and promise that they'll be back soon.

There are fewer places more important to be than with one's family, but rumours of a meeting led by the Ferrymen's council — or what's left of it — attracts refugees in thin throngs to one of the larger rooms on the ground floor with a vaulted ceiling. At its height, the network was more than two hundred operatives strong. Of the seventy-odd people who successfully fled New York City, there are less than thirty among them. The rest are wards of the network and those who have recently come under its protection, either invited or dragged aboard boats against the better judgment of those already aboard.

It is the first official gathering since their world ended.

This isn't remotely where Sable intended to be. The hope was to regroup with Quinn and Elaine back at the Verb, to hunker down and wait for the smoke to settle. Involved though she is in matters Ferry, Sable trusted that no battalions would be dispatched on her account. The 8th was to be a great trial, but one over quickly, at least for her. That was going to be fine by Sable, honestly. Year of vagrancy have taught her that the best way to avoid power is to be overlooked by it.

But power had other plans, and when Gun Hill fell, Sable was swept along with the other, more legitimately engaged Ferrymen, out to the boats and helicopters that stole them away across the watery expanse of the Hudson, out to Pollepel Island and its bucolic castle. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Sable stuck with the others, carrying her canine ward and keeping her safe and sound while danger pressed in on all sides.

And so now she's here, and has been for days. Reunions had and news both grim and bright related, Sable has settled in, if not without some agitation (her instruments are back on the mainland, and to be without them is like being without limbs). She and Misty have been inseparable (much to their mutual chagrin, by now), and the puppy is right now curled in Sable's lap, snoozing softly on legs crossed Indian-style as the yellow eyed girl sits, leaned back, arms propping her up from behind.

Sable's wearing her usual cargo pants, as well as an oversized BU hoodie that renders her torso shapeless but cozy. Her headphones hand around her neck, ebbing with the sounds of some band or other, close enough to be heard clearly by her and just loud enough to be made out by anyone immediately nearby. Strapped high on her forehead are a pair of swimming goggles with holographic lizard eyes inscribed on the lenses, staring with senseless, cold-blooded fixity at some point on the vaulted ceiling above. She got here pretty early, looking for any excuse to avoid having to participate in the many chores that have sprung up, just waiting for a ne'erdowell like herself to snare and put to good use. There is a certain contention to the set of her mouth, though it's hard to tell if this attitude is more than just attitude for it's own sake.

Standing to one side, hands tucked into the pockets of his jean, Benjamin Ryans watches as people settle in. At least he found the time to find a clean shirt, even if it is a long sleeved black shirt that looks like it's seen the wash enough to be faded to a dark gray. Despite the blood on the duster, it's too chilly to go without and so people will just have to deal with it for now. Under that is a hint of the firearms he's carrying, a precaution really.

As always, his face is devoid of any true expressions , blue eyes peer through the lenghts of hair that he keeps swearing he should get cut, but never has the time. With the events earlier in the week, he's still not sleeping well, so there are dark smudges under his eyes.

Towards the back of the group, hunches Kaylee Thatcher, sitting on a bench. An arm curled around her stomach, to rest her hand at her side, and still somewhat pale. Wearing a turtleneck and jeans, it's hard to see the bandages under it from where a throwing knife had to be removed, or the patched up necklace that rests around her neck along with her own. There was no way she was going to miss this meeting.

There was protesting involved, but Kaylee is there.

Having just returned to chaos after an extended stay in Victorian New York, it's all a little overwhelming for her, though she's pretty happy to be out of the corset. Kaylee's eyes are squinted a little against the onslaught of murmuring voices around her, left hand with it's gold band still planted there, rubs lightly at a temple.

After five years, Kaylee has forgotten how insane it can be in these meetings, or time took the edge off the memories.

The kitchen has been where Shannon has spent almost all of her time since arriving on the island. True she prefers cooking to cleaning, but she's helped with both, speaking little to othes when she could avoid it. This time though, she's left it to others and found herself a bit of wall to lean against, glancing around and watching the others gathered around.

Although not officially part of the network, Wes Smedley is here all the same. It wouldn't be wise to head back to the city yet, anyway. If he were caught by a patrol, he wouldn't have a good story to feed them, and the chance that he might inadvertently lead the government (or worse) back to Pollepel Island isn't one he'd care to risk.

Dressed in the same oilskin coat, turtleneck sweater, and jeans that he came over in, Smedley has seated himself on a bench, trying to stay as out of the way as he can while still keeping his ears trained for the meeting to begin. After all, if he's going to be supplying these people, it's not a bad idea to get to know them a little. And after four days of doing just that, some discussion from the higher-ups in this motley crew would be nice.

Carson lies at his feet, his ears perked and his tail wagging slowly, sweeping against the dusty stone floor. Smedley adds his own rhythm ot the movement as he methodically strips the bark from what looks to be the beginnings of a walking stick with the smaller of his knives. He's making good progress from the amount of shavings that lie between his boots.

The redheaded nurse who is by now known to everyone who resides on the island continues to wear the paramilitary look that she arrived in. Long-sleeved black tops, urban camo BDU pants, combat boots. Her winter weather gear is lined and suitable for arctic wear as necessary. Megan Young came to this island prepared to stay a long time if necessary. She too walks around strapped with a pistol holster on her thigh, her copper hair confined. It's a look she wears with the familiar ease of a soldier. Standing near Ryans, her arms are crossed over her chest and Meg studies the assemblage quietly, her mouth pursed into a slight moue of displeasure. There's been not enough news — it was expected, but it doesn't mean she has to like it. She's hoping perhaps there's more tonight.

At Ferry meetings, it was common to see Jensen Raith just off to Eileen Ruskin's side, a subtle but constant reminder that the Ferrymen still had teeth, if they needed them. But those days, like so many other days, are over. Presently, Raith in mixed in with the small but still gathering crowd, penciling out records of who he finds in attendance- just names, gender, and then a reference number to correspond to the photos he quickly snaps with a cheap digital camera- not only because he is paranoid, but because he is responsible for all of these people now, and will be for the foreseeable future. He needs to get to know them.

It's plain that he's had better days, the ex-spy looking tired and physically drained and yet still carrying himself like nothing was the matter. He has to: What leadership there is on Pollepel must look strong for the sake of everyone. He must look strong for the sake of his division, because as soon as he can pull Ryans aside, they need to have a very serious discussion regarding security. Talking about defending the island is easy. Actually having to do it….

Under the illumination of flickering torchlight in the high-ceiling of the main chamber, one of the many un-affiliated individuals rescued by the Ferrymen from the riots waits with a frustrated expression where he leans up against one of the stone walls. A tattered and old olive-drab army jacket with its nametag torn off decorated his athletic frame, no shirt worn beneath exposing a toned body that should be freezing cold due to the low temperatures in the drafty old castle.

He's a youthful looking man, ditrty blonde hair toussled, jaw square, blue eyes keen beneath furrowed brows as he stares out across the gathering with a sullen expression. He hasn't given his name to anyone, hasn't barely said a word since being brought here four days ago. He eats, he sleeps, and he avoids communication or contact with others.

For all that this frustrated looking young man doesn't look to want to be here, he has insisted on attenting the meeting with his early presence in the meeting hall, one booted foot tapping its toe on the dusty floor, arms folded over his chest and the metal of his necklace, which seems to be a torn-off A/V jack port from a computer dangling on a chain at his collar glints in the torchlight.

Another of those who had not intended to evacuate, but who got swept along by the course of events, Ygraine is clad in the reinforced black leathers she wore while carrying a certain knife-skewered telepath to the boat four days ago. Fortunately, she's been able to shower since then, but the black garb is now liberally streaked with the after-effects of clambering about in the island's wilder sections.

As she enters the chamber, the Briton's half-preoccupied, fiddling with a pair of night-vision goggles. Coming to a halt amidst the throng, she slightly dazedly peers around - either searching for friendly faces, or one of her customary elevated vantage points.

One lanky figure that's unfamiliar to most and has been aloof and rarely seen — sometimes up on the ramparts with a gun, watching the river; sometimes off in a corner, staring off into space; but always apart and clearly not there with or for anyone else — belongs to Nick York, aka Ruskin. Though the few people here familiar with that name wouldn't recognize the man at a glance; his thick black hair is closely shaven and his jaw and cheekbones are more pronounced in a thinner face.

He appears in borrowed and ill-fitting clothing — a cream thermal top that's just a touch too tight, and black and green plaid flannel pants that are a touch too baggy — his feet, comically, in a pair of teal and black DC skater sneakers borrowed from a teenager "shoe hound" with a backpack full of them. His mother had made him give up one pair for the poor young man with none.

Nick enters the large room and leans against a wall, still standing separate from the rest of the party, as if he's unsure whether he can or should take a seat among the others. Blue eyes dart here and there before falling on Raith and then … he stands a little straighter, darting a glance behind him. Should he leave? And go where exactly?

Squish squish squish

Brian enters, sopping wet. Though he's taking all the care in the world to pretend like he's not sopping wet. And if anyone looks at him just for making extra noises for being wet, he just gives a staredown. Go ahead, say I peed myself. I dare you. The throng of people though gives pause. Pursing his lips closed, he looks down at the object in his hand.

Bringing up the pink Disney Princess hand mirror, Brian peers into it for the reflection of his companion. Completely invisible and intangible, Samara walks at Brian's side though few would actually be able to tell. Glancing at her in the reflection of his hand mirror every once in a while, Brian gives an arched brow to the rest of the room. "I don't see Rue. Maybe she's sleeping or something." He murmurs to his companion. He tries to shuffle to one wall, though Samara would ffind it much easier to move around in the crowd. "I feel like someone's going to thrill us with a rousing speech then we're all going to gather our pitchforks and butcher knives and attack a monster." He notes to his invisible friend, noting the torchlight and the castle setting. Then he gasps to himself. "I hope we get to sing 'kill the beast'."

For as many missing faces, there are new ones. One of the nameless refugees swept along with the debris of Ferry operatives and rescued victims alike seems incredibly on edge for being there, currently seated on cold floor and postured as if to attract as little attention as possible, is a young man in borrowed clothing and a certain hungriness in the stare that scopes around the room with clear blue eyes. Jet black hair damp from either rain or washing and plastered to his pale forehead until he itches it away with a sleeve of oversized sweater, his posture a little poor.

A shadow of another falls over him from where the only other person he has talked to is standing, but he doesn't engage in conversation. There's interest in the people here, as curious as those might want to explore the castle they find themselves in. He links his hands together, arms circled around his knees. The sight of someone has him rock forward an inch to see better, but he's not getting to his feet or approaching anyone. Not yet.

His complaints range for cold to hungry to scared, but not injury. Unlike many.

Samara strolls next to Brian, only seeable within the frame of that Disney Princess mirror. She shoots him a quick smile and a shrug of her shoulders, and while she may be able to move through people within the room, she sticks close to the mirror, the evidence of her existence. Her smile grows at the notion of singing kill the beast. Reflexively, her fingers are raised to either side of her head in her growingly infamous (if you can't be famous — which you can't when you're invisible — you may as well be infamous) shoulder devil horns.

Her hands are lowered moments later as her nose wrinkles and eyes narrow with mild suspicion; she better not be the beast.

Like a great many others here, Huruma has been lumped into the group with little choice; first corralled into security, then helping them escape- it's a given that she's told herself to stay here, even if it may be potentially awkward. She's not an unfamiliar face, but when it comes to meetings such as this? Those that know of her are probably wondering why in the world she is around. Having been on several 'opposing' fronts for the years she has been in the periphery, maybe it was only a matter of time before she was vacuumed up. Still with her various pistols and knives, and that disturbingly large gun across her back, Huruma has only found herself able to help Raith and Ryans manage security. Kitchen? Fat chance, they'd kick her ass out in a second. Babysitting? Hells to the no. She is good at standing around looking threatening- and killing things. Which may come in handy soon, when they need to be foraging. Survival skills come in handy, in this setting. But really, that is all she can offer them.

The tall, dark woman can usually be found skulking around or milling somewhere with the other makeshift guards, and this is no exception, as for this meeting she has taken a place along the side with ex-agent Ryans, providing a rather stark contrast among the heavily Caucasian ferry-crew.

Really, Lynette should probably still be in the infirmary. But she's quite stubbornly hobbled her way to this meeting, and without a cane to help her injured leg, too. But at least she finds a place to sit down for the meeting. But she's quiet for now, possibly a little grumpy from the pain. But that's life. Later, she'll be of more help around the place, but so far, the woman's been convalescing.

Nelly is likely an unfamiliar face to most, if not everyone, in the room and as such she's off in her own corner. She stands with her back to the wall and arms crossed over her stomach, glancing around at the gathering crowd as they filter into the room. She shifts on her feet every now and then, fiddling with her glasses too, looking a bit uncomfortable with this crowd of strangers. She does give a particularly curious look to the wet guy with the disney princess mirror though, but doesn't stare for more than a moment. Really.

Being fairly new to the Ferrymen she wasn't really sure what to expect ouf of this meeting, but she didn't want to miss it all the same. Stuck on an island with no clue as to what's going on? No thanks. After scouting enough to spot Lynette in the crowd she pushes off her wall and makes her way around people to where the injured woman sits, giving a silent nod to her in greeting as she stuffs her hands into her pockets and resumes room-searching.

Though not far from either of her close friends who happen to be at the meeting tonight, Robyn Quinn doesn't sit with either of them. Instead, she paces back and forth through the crowd with a beleaguered mix of relief and worry on her face with each new face she sees. Truth is, she didn't even have to be here. Despite her foul up in managing to still caught up in the mess that was the 8th, she had come out of it mostly unscathed, save for her still bandaged hand and long since destroyed violin, and she could have just stayed at the Verb with Elaine and Schrodinger.

But the truth was that she couldn't just leave people behind like that, much less numerous people she considered friends. That is what brings her out here now, in a leather jacket not unlike the one Ygraine wears, barely worn blue jeans and a button up black shirt worn underneath. She shivers a little, but the jacket does a good job of keeping her warm, for now.

Up near the front, Barbara Zimmerman sits on the ground with her legs crossed, awiting for the meeting proper to begin. She had spent most of the last few days checking on people both from her boat and other evacuees, seeing whatever she could do to help people be comfortable. You can take the safehouse away form it's keeper, but you can't kill the keeper's instincts, it seems.

Still, something seems to have her feeling rather uncomfortable as she sits and waits, looking around the crowd. Many familiar faces, and yet she had been so far unable to get in contact with a few of the people she had really wanted to - particularly Niki.

Once upon a time, there were twelve seats on the council.

Of those twelve, four of the men who occupied them fell under gunfire at St. Joseph's church on Staten Island, two languish in government custody. The remainder, with the exception of the dark-haired woman weaving her way through the crowd, are unaccounted for or elsewhere, including Susan Ball who has more blood on her hands than almost anyone. The wolf's head cane Eileen carries isn't just for show or to help her navigate her surroundings; it also supports her weight, and she moves with a slight limp as she makes her way to the front of the room, receiving only a few passing glances from those who do not know her while deliberately avoiding eye contact with those who do, and not because she's blind.

Another woman stands behind the nameless young man seated on the floor, her brown hair worn long and loose, dark eyes wary, cautious but not unkind. Like so many of the refugees here, she's alive because of the network's compassion and intimately aware of this fact. Although she has not yet introduced herself to anyone, her name is Hannah Kirby, and she sets her mouth into a thin, troubled line.

Eileen arrives at the front of the room, and from the ceiling's rafters swoops a handsome little bird with glossy black feathers that shine violet and bronze in the firelight, its eyes like beads of amber. The grackle alight's on the Englishwoman's wrist, and she shifts it her collar before turning to address the assembly.

"Friends and fellow Ferrymen." For someone so small and like glass, she speaks with a very hard voice that fills the room without dominating or overpowering it. She does not demand silence, but rather firmly requests it.

Spotting a familiar shade of red dye amidst the crowd, Ygraine looks somewhat relieved and moves through the throng towards Quinn. En route, she stows the expensive goggles back in their pouch on her belt, freeing her hands to reach out and lightly touch the Irishwoman on the arm. "Hi there", she murmurs. "Want to move to a good vantage point? Or would you prefer to pace?"

When Eileen speaks up, Ygraine looks sharply over towards her, then drifts a little to one side to get a better view… and to put her back closer to a wall.

Nick's entrance goes noticed by Shannon, who watches him for a moment until Eileen begins to speak. Her gaze slides over to the small woman, her head tilting as she listens in silence. She's never met most of the people here, though she doesn't seem to be bothered by that fact.

After the thrilling escape from the docks and the resulting exhaustion from having to push an overloaded boat fifty miles to the island using his power, sleep for almost a full day was the order of things. Even now, the man looks exhausted as he slips into the gathering, trying to remain innocuous but, considering he comes in just after Eileen, it's a difficult thing. Still, when Eileen speaks, Jaiden is lucky to slip into obscurity again, taking a seat, glancing at everything and everyone, giving the few he recognizes a small nod.

"Bunch'a bullshit, you think?" The voice nearby to Nelly Leeson comes from that sparsely-dressed blonde man not far away. He leans off of the wall, following its brick surface towards where the brunette is likewise leaning, clearing the distance between them. "Bunch'a fuckin' morons with their tails tucked between their legs, got nearly everyone killed because they didn't have the balls about Ball."

Blue eyes track back towards Nelly, narrowing. "Present company excluded, sweetheart." His voice is coarse, like a man who has smoked for much of his natural life, having a gravelly consistency that makes him sound older than he really is. "Thanks for saving my ass back there," is offered as some sort of consolation, one brow raised in query to Nelly.

"Name's Howard," the young man offers with a look back to Eileen, lips downturning into a frown. "What's your take on this? Running. Hiding. Fuck."

Nelly glances up at Howard as he moves to her side, quirking a brow before giving a shake of her head. "I've only been with the Ferrymen for I dunno, maybe a week? And haven't done anything much until the evac, so I can't say much about what happened. I imagine they did whatever they could though." She shrugs before lifting a hand, giving a dismissive wave. "And no need for thanks, only doing what I hope others would do for me if they were in my place."

"Oh, Nelly. I guess we didn't really get the chance to introduce ourselves before. An' after what we went through at the pier? I think a safe place to rest is what a lot of people need right now. " She turns her attention back towards the head of the crowd then, though she does glance sidelong towards Howard after a moment. "Oh, and you owe me a sweater."

When Eileen speaks up, the young man seated mostly cross legged on the floor decides he desires a better vantage point — there are a lot of people who have no idea what their next week is going to look like, let alone the future after that, and the refugees probably have this in common. Levering himself to his feet, Benji Foster smooths down his sweater and though he lingers at least a foot from Hannah's position in the ground, he doesn't invade her space or allow himself to brush shoulders. Shies away, even, when someone beside him shifts to get a better view, mouth twisting.

He is not an overly tall being. Rocking up onto his toes brings him a little beyond the 5'10" mark.

Ygraine's voice causes Quinn to turn back and blink, a weary smile on her face as she spots Ygraine. "Hey there. I was wondering where you were." An arm encircles around the Brits, and she looks up to where Eileen stands, the voice grabbing her attention rather well. "I think this is just fine, for now." Despite this claim, she takes a few steps forward, focused on Eileen as she speaks up, arms crossed. If this wasn't such a solomn occasion, she'd probably wave. But for the moment, she'd rather not get smacked by someone.

At the front of teh crowd, Barbara rises to her feet when she see Eileen, eyes cast off to the side for a moment before she looks ahead at the woman. A griamce is worn on her face, an unsure expression as she wants to see what the councilwoman has to say.

Much like Megan in height and stature, another redheaded nurse who made it to the island slips into the room and sidles along the wall, leaning heavily against it. Delia's been too busy in the infirmary to do any sort of acclamating or socializing with all of the people who actually managed to get to Pollopel. It's just as well, considering she's been somewhat cranky at the loss of her winter clothing to whoever bagged her in the city. She's been freezing almost the entire time and what she wouldn't give for more heat.

Having slipped in at the tail end of Eileen's bid to start the meeting, she doesn't scan the crowd, she simply gives the petite brunette her full and undivided attention. Arms crossed over her chest, she shivers a little, even under three layers of borrowed shirts and a sweater.

With a grimace of pain, Kaylee attempts to shift herself carefully on the bench, one arm still against her stomach. Her head turns to the side angling an ear Eileen's way, as if to hear her better, if anything over all the noise in her head. Settling slowly, she sighs out softly, fingers moving to brush at the pair of crosses around her neck that belong to Joseph Sumter.

Benjamin doesn't direct his attention on Eileen, he keeps his full attention on the crowd itself. No comments yet from the older man, arms folding across his chest. Faces are studies and watched, looking for any signs of something being wrong. He only recognizes a handful of people at most, so he's a bit on edge.

Entering the meeting late after taking a walk around the island, a woman with short, inky black hair walks slowly as she looks for and then finds a spot in the back of the room, leaning against a wall. Dressed in a pair of dark jeans along with a dark red tank top and a thick dark long sleeve shirt underneath, an old dark leather jacket keeps her warm. She leans forward a bit and crosses her booted feet at the ankles. The silver locket around her neck, swinging out from under her shirt.

Lucille Ryan's light grey eyes wander upwards towards the ceiling and she sighs softly. Her gloved hands dangle over her knees as she leans forward to listen to what these people are talking about. She's not apart of the Ferrymen but her sister and father seem to be all gung ho for em, and they did take her in. So if she can help them, she'll do it.

One hand goes up to rub at the bandage covering the gash on her forehead, most of her injuries are hidden by her clothes but she's pretty bruised up. Her eyes lock onto her dad's figure and she raises an eyebrow at him. He looks like shit. But then, so does she.

Sable gets it - it's time to shut up and listen. She goes so far as to dial the volume on her music down to zilch, so that not even a whisper escapes her dangling headphones. Where before Sable might be rolling her eyes and otherwise making a punk and/or ass of herself, some experience with Eileen (along with a nickname) has bolstered her confidence in the whole Ferry notion. This doesn't mean she doesn't still consider herself a bit of a watchdog, but her first warning growl of the evening is not directed at the frail avian telepath.

"Mind yer fuckin' manners," Sable tosses at Howard, along with a very hairy yellow eyeball, "'n' close yer yap 'til th' gal says her piece. Jesus."

Smedley stops the action of his knife when Eileen address the crowd. While watching her petite form from across the room, he returns the small blade to the sheath on his belt, leaning back against the wall where he's seating on the bench and letting the staff he's been working on fall against his shoulder, his arm curling around it, his hand near his ear. His boots scrape on the stone floor as he extends his legs, and his gray blue eyes squint as he finds a good view through the shifting bodies that stand between the back wall and the woman who 'hired' him.

When Eileen speaks to get everyone's attention, Raith stops taking the island census and quickly slides towards the end of the crowd. She's got center stage now, and he won't be interrupting her.

Grinning at the image in the reffection, he tucks himself next to the wall. "I know like three people here."Once Eileen goes up ffront, Brian makes whispered commentary to his Princess mirror. "That's Eileen. She talks to birds. And she's british."Glancing at Howard not too far away. "His name's Howard. He thinks we should be running, hiding, and fucking." Brian tries to make this last part a whisper so he doesn't get any undesired attention. He ffalls quiet for a moment. "I think something very important is about to be discussed." A few quiet moments, then in a very quiet voice so hopeffully only ghosts can hear. "kiill the beast."

Huruma was never not silent, while waiting for things to begin. She stays still, too, arms crossed over the bottom of her ribs and her posture unerringly taut. Though there are no dark circles under her eyes, or patches on her body, she does ache, and it feels like all over. Too much adrenaline in too short a time can do that to anyone. Huruma may be used to events and situations not terribly unlike the ones the Ferry is experiencing- but she is still human.

Her pale eyes rest on Eileen as the small girl steps to the front, where everyone should be able to see her best. The change from when she first met the avian telepath can almost be described as alchemical; there is a certain, tempered respect that she has for Eileen now, and with this- experience tells her that it will only grow.

The grackle on Eileen's shoulder studies the crowd with what looks like ophidian disinterest, but its sleek body is tense and upright, much the same as the woman it has chosen as its perch. Her colours match the bird's: all dark and in varying shades that range from black lambskin gloves and boots to a navy coat with two rows of brass buttons, charcoal sweater and long wool stockings paired with a long skirt to protect her legs from the chill. She wears her hair in a tight knot at the nape of her much paler neck, some mottled purple bruising visible where the torches lap light across it.

"You have questions," she says before anything else. "On behalf of the council, I open the floor to them."

With Quinn holding her arm, Ygraine is for once drawn forward at a grand meeting. Rather than lurking on high, close by one of her favoured unconventional exits, she finds herself arm in arm with the Irishwoman and near the front. Brian, seemingly whispering to his own reflection in a startlingly girly mirror, earns a surprised glance… then she determinedly refocuses her attention upon the young woman with the cane.

Raising her free hand, Ygraine speaks up - her crisp accent that of an educated Briton. "An obvious one would be whether we should all bury ourselves as deep as we can go, or if it's believed that we managed to make a clean break from pursuit. I've got… legal efforts on hold at the moment. People who aren't part of all this waiting to hear from me. Should we be looking to cut our ties and get the heck away, or are we in a position to look to get back to work?"
"Have any of our safehouses not been compromised? In case we do get back to work, is there anywhere that we know is safe?" Jaiden stands slowly, nodding respectfully, dressed in a dirty pair of jeans and a shirt, wrapped in a heavy jacket scavenged from somewhere. What he wouldn't give for a change to get back to his apartment to load up on things. He looks around to the gathered group, catching sight of Lucille and Delia, noting her position before moving over to take a seat next to the exhausted-looking Delia.

One brow arches on Howard's head as he regards Nelly's request fr a sweater, but whatever smartass remark he had is cut off by Sable. When his blue eyes settle on the younger brunette, there's a look of something more hurt when he hears that tone. For whatever reason, Sable's sharp tones and ol' hairy eye look makes his shoulders hunch forward, lips hang down into a frown and eyes avert to his feet.

"Right," is Howard's murmured sentiments before he eases back towards the wall again, crossing his arms over his chest, "sorry…" Leave it to Sable to be able to put a man in his place.

Nelly blinks as Howard is reprimanded and just looks glad she didn't get included. She follows him back over towards the wall after a moment, slumping back against it and stuffing her hands into her pockets. She leans over to whisper to the sulking man briefly before turning her attention back towards Eileen and those asking the questions.

"What happens to us?"

This from Benji, and from several feet from where he'd been standing to shift through the crowd without much direction in his path — or much obvious direction. He doesn't come forward or shrink back, just covers some ground to shift through Ferry operators and refugees alike. His voice is soft and shy, carrying none of the authority and projection that Eileen speaks with, and could well even be lost in the welling up of queries that could occur when Ferry councilmember opens the floor.

Barbara perks up a bit as the call for questions goes out, listening as several are call forth from behind her, waiting until there's a break before she adds one of her own. "What's the most imporant thing we can do to help at this point?" she inquires, looking hopefully at the woman adressing the crowed. She is hoping there's some sort of definitve answer, but something tells her it may still be a bit too early for that. "Particularly once we begin to leave the island, if that's been determined, yet."

Still focused on Eileen, Delia starts when she feels a body seating down next to her. The little gasp of surprise melts into a small smile when she recognizes Jaiden and her hand slips into his. "Hey.." she whispers, hopefully not loud enough to be a distraction.

When the call for questions comes up, the redhead raises her free hand tentatively, the twitch of her fingertips indicative of the fact she's really not so sure if she should be speaking out or not. "W-we're getting supplies, right? Is it possible for someone to go along? We need cough medicine… lots of the kids are getting colds.

That guy, Howard that was speaking out just a moment ago earns a look from Lucille. Okay, he's hot. But he seems like an ass. And she wonders if he'-. Oh there goes her sister and Jaiden.. Lucille's gaze snaps to her sister and she smiles softly at seeing her sister okay.

Well.. might as well ask the head huncho here, "And.. excuse me?" Lucille waves her hand in the air. Though she mentally kicks herself for even speaking, she doesn't belong here. "Um, how long do you think we're be.. staying here?" Because it hasn't even been a full week and Lucille is itching.. not that she says that's her reason for asking. The former model takes a gloved hand to ruffle her dark hair a bit. "I'm assuming, since things are just peachy over that way," she nods her head in the direction of outside towards the city. "That.. it'll be awhile, no?"

Howard's contrition was unexpected, and Sable makes a face that is half discomfited, half regretful. She gives a small shrug that maybe is kind of like an apology, but she doesn't say anything, a.) because she barked at him for talking when he shouldn't and b.) because she's sort of embarrassed. This embarrassment is only further compounded when Eileen doesn't deliver a stirring speech, but rather opens the floor for questions, including (presumably) ones like Howard's. Whoops.

Sable fiddles with her goggles, pulling them further down her forehead, finding it too uncomfortable, and sliding them back into the dark thicket of her hair. Does she have a question? She supposes so. "How much d' y' figure th' Man knows 'bout us all, now? Raidin' our digs and siftin' through our stuff, with fuckin' traitors in tow with, like, Christ only knows what sorta powers 'n' all… figure they know who we all are now? 'cause, like, I got a career I ain't quite started yet 'n', well… yeah. We all gotta live underground now, or what?"

The red-head asking about medical supplies isn't too far from Smedley, and so he actually turns to look at her when she asks her question rather than just shift his eyes as he has for all the others before her. By now, Carson is sitting rather than lying down, responding to the tension in the air. "Psst," the smuggler says, studying the girl's hair and trying to remember where he's seen her before. But she's with the hydro-man who was on his boat that must make her… Dee-something. Names have been a bitch these last few days.

"You let me know what you need, and I'll make sure you get it," he whispers once he has her attention, giving her a firm nod. It'll be hard negotiating a price with Eileen after this is all over - after he's been here for so long and seen what exactly is going on.

But regardless of the unnecessary and unfair pain and suffering that has occurred, a man's still got to make a living.

Samara giggles openly, although entirely inaudibly, within the Disney Princess mirror. She nods at Brian's random introductions, glancing at each of the introduced in turn. There's another wince at the phrase, 'Kill the beast,' followed by a good natured snicker. She's quieted by the questions of others, drawn into attention as her gaze follows the words around the room. Her lips twitch to one side into a small half-smile before she pretends to hold an invisible pitchfork to presumably 'Kill the beast.'

Megan has been listening to all the questions, and most of them are about what comes next. Which does need tobe addressed. But the redhead speaks up now and asks, "What news do we have of the evacuation of the other areas, Eileen? I know we're not going to have a head count of how many we lost anytime soon — at least not a complete one — but have we had word from some of the others?"

The lean man in the doorway, still half in and half out, apparently makes his mind to stay and moves to take a seat on a bench against a wall — mostly cast in shadow. His steps are ginger, as if his feet hurt him, but evenly so — there is no favoring of one over the other. The knee injury of a few weeks' past is gone, thanks to a certain Frenchman, but the soles of his feet are newly cut up, thanks to a Japanese time traveler, Chinese gangsters, and a Irish smuggler.

Nick leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, weary blue eyes darting from those asking questions back to Eileen. He crooks a brow at Delia, gives a nod to Wes, quirks his mouth in a slight smile at Shannon, and returns his attention to Eileen, his forehead furrowing in worry. But he doesn't say a word.

'Take what you want but the beast is miiine.' He mouths into the mirror, making his best scowl and Gaston face. He is then snapping back into attention. Eyes flitting around all the questions and statements in the room. He holds up to one finger to the mirror as if to say, 'hold a sec.' His hand slowly goes up as if a student in the class. "Excuse me!" He calls out, a bit loudly. "This isn't so much a question as a statement. I'm Brian, owner of the Lighthouse.. Well I guess I have a question too. Sorry, okay. I would like to say that I would like to join the Ferrymen in a more official capacity. I would also like to know where I should take my kids. We're in New Jersey right now. Should we bring them here? What do.. What do you think?"

"Also. Some of you might be wondering why I'm holding a Disney Princess mirror and talking to it. I have a friend who is.. incorpor— incorpr.. intangible. She is invisible and can phase. She can be seen only in refflective surfaces and would like everyone to know she prefers to be called Sam-Eye. If you see a girl in the mirrors or windows walking around, don't think it's a ghost. Because it's not." Brian says a little pointedly to his mirror.

"I have to echo Ygraine. And the others," Lynette says, her attention on Eileen. "It may be an entirely selfish query, but those of us who were raided… is it better to just dig deep and not come out again?" After all, she owns her safehouse building. That wouldn't be difficult to figure out. "Please don't tell me we all have to change our looks, I'm quite fond of mine," she adds with a touch of humor in her tone. The news from Brian about their very own Princess Ozma gets a lift of her eyebrow, but no comment.

The chorus of voices starts as a susurrus and ends as a low rumble, some questions overlapping with others as discontented murmurs ripple through the crowd. Eileen waits for it to reach its climax before she raises her gloved hand, imploring. "Radio transmissions we've received from operatives who weren't able to evacuate the city indicate that all our safehouses in the greater metropolitan area have been compromised with the possible exceptions of the Garden, the Sweat Lodge and Hotel California in Midtown. Grand Central Terminal, while not safehouse, is still operational and presumed secure. As soon as this can be confirmed, Neil and Robin Milburn will reopen supply lines and provide us a headcount so we know how many of our people were able to reach that fallback position."

The grackle darts glances between the speakers, and Eileen recognizes most of the faces belonging to those who pose questions, most of them anticipated if the quiet confidence with which she answers them is any indication, but its eyes hook on Nick, and there's a moment where she lapses into an uncomfortable silence. It's broken, however, by a crackle of movement at her collar, the grackle's wings flicking briefly into motion as it readjusts and flexes the fishhooks it has for feet.

"When the resources are available," she continues, "the network will provide safe passage out of New York for anyone who wants to leave the county. We have coyotes prowling both the Canadian and Mexican borders, and allies in Europe willing to open their doors to American refugees, but it will be at least two weeks before we can start making those arrangements. Those who choose to stay are advised not to return home unless they're in possession of their registration cards and the accompanying paperwork.

"I understand that many of you are afraid, that you've lost mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Some of you have even lost your children, but I promise you that we're doing everything we can to account for the missing. After the meeting, there will be a list of names posted that include those who we know have been arrested. Councilmembers Joseph Sumter and Scott Harkness are among them. Grace Matheson, Abigail Beauchamp and David McRae are alive but were unable to reach the rendezvous point before the evacuation."

This is possibly the most Eileen has said to anyone in weeks, and the dark circles under her eyes and faintly sallow complexion make it clear that she's operating on less sleep than is probably healthy, but her second pause has little to do with her physical state. "Yuan Tien, Damon Serrato and Patrick Hale were executed by the military in the early hours of the eighth, and Noah Bennet critically wounded," she says, then. "That leaves Dr. Catherine Chesterfield and myself, and because her whereabouts are presently unknown, I'm electing operatives Barbara Simms and Lynette Rowan to take two of the council seats vacated by our dead, and appointing Benjamin Ryans the co-head of our Special Activities division."

She does not give them the opportunity to decline the position or, perhaps more importantly, someone else to object. Susan Ball had many supports and in spite of what happened, chances are that she still does even if the woman herself isn't here to call into question Eileen's choices. "I can't say how long it will be before it's safe for us to return to the city," she concedes, "but I strongly advise that no one leave Pollepel until the nineteenth at the very earliest. The entire state of New York is now under martial law, there are fires still burning and the dead number in the thousands. Those who wish to stay here are welcome for as long as we can accommodate them.

"Ball took issue with this network's leadership. As far as I know, she only revealed the identities of the council and the locations of our safehouses, but if she knew you by name and your views align with either mine or McRae's, you're better off here than you are scouring the rubble. What we need most are people willing to help here. Effective tomorrow, Special Activities will be sending scouting parties into the forest to patrol for signs of a military presence. If you know how to use a gun and want to do your part, I encourage you to speak with Raith and Ryans after tonight's meeting. Lastly, as far as those left behind are concerned, and this includes the orphans in New Jersey— if they can secure safe passage upriver, we'll take them, but this is something that will have to be coordinated over the radio, and with help from the Terminal."

Frowning sharply at mention of the litany of losses - especially Joseph - Ygraine glances to Quinn, giving her hand a squeeze meant to reassure herself as much as the Irishwoman. "Should we aim to keep… radio silence, so to speak?", she asks Eileen, pitching her voice to carry to the whole room. "No external contacts? I'm worried about what might happen to the 'face' for the legal campaign I've put together if she goes ahead, but she might well be safer off without hearing from me - and I certainly don't want to breach the security of this place."

Some of the names mentioned, Jaiden doesn't know. Being as compartmentalized as he was, working his way into the ranks of the Ferrymen - well, let's just say that some of the more senior members were still unknown to him. Sure, he had inklings, and might have been given a name in a month or two, and now….well, it really doesn't matter now, does it. His place was left unmentioned, and at that he gives Delia's hand a light squeeze. "Sounds like we might have a home to go back to." There's that bit of good news, apparently, amidst the sea of bad.

With big groups like this Shannon likes to keep herself and remain silent. She's an observer, not a participater. She listens to Eileen as she glances around, giving Nick a bit of a return smile, but it's distracted. After a few minutes though she sighs and looks back to Eileen. "I'm shit with a gun, barely know which end to aim at the bad guy, but I can make sure that if there is a military presence in the woods, that they don't find us. Well, us the scouts, not the castle."

She pauses a moment, head cocking as she seems to be doing some quick calculations or something. "Depending. If they come at us from one direction. Or I could keep boats back and forth from being found." And here she gives Nick a pointed look. He knows. "Basically, you need something or someone hidden, I'm your girl. You need something cooked, I'm your girl. But the guns?" She shakes her head. "Don't worry, boys, I won't intrude on your territory."

It's all said with a reluctant tone, as though she's regreting the necessity of saying them.

A look is afforded to Nelly, one that belies a certain amount of gruff disaffection from Howard before he turns his attention back to the meeting taking place. Then, after a moment, he pushes away from the wall, waving one hand towards Nelly in a half-hearted farewell that seems a little embarrassed. Tracking his way aroun the room, weaving through the crowd gathered, Howard seems to know where he's going, rather than wandering.

A long, lazy path has him working his way over to the dark-haired young woman in the crowd, Hannah Kirby, and clams his hand down on her shoulder and gives her a subtle tug backwards as he leans forward, his audio jack necklace bumping up against her back.

"You look a little tongue tied sweetheart," it's entirely sarcastic, and for all that Howard seems to be smiling, there's a severe line of distrust and displeasure hidden behind his eyes, but shared to Hannah alone. "We should'a stayed in the city."

A frown crosses Quinn's face at the news of Susan Ball's betrayal - she had only met the woman once, briefly, but yet she still can't help but feel rather worried, and at the same time all the more glad she's moved out out of Gun Hill last month. Maybe in doing that she had escaped any sort of suspicion.

Of course, then she'd moved right into Cat's building, and the fact she's MIA doesn't do anything to assuage the uneasiness that Quinn feels in the pit of her stomach, prompting her to squeeze Ygraine's hand tight as she continues to pose questions.

In the front of the crowd, Barbara is struck both speechless and motionless by her nomination to replace the fallen on the Ferry council. It couldn't be too hard for those in the immediate vicinity around her to hear her swallowing rather loudly as she considers her too options. In truth, there is little considering to be done.

"I-I'm honoured," she replies up the Eileen when there's a moment of silence for her to speak, or as much of one that can be managed amongst the mummer of voices. "I-I will have to speak with someone, after the meeting, if it can be arranged." Because, though she doesn't say it out loud, there is something she has to share before she fully accepts any sort of nomination. With that she falls back into stunned silence, taking another moment to process this surprising turn of events.

Only after she asked her question does Delia finally take the time to scan the crowd and realize exactly how many of her acquaintaces are there. Peyton Whitney's dog walker, the priest, the guy that doesn't like her yodelling… Each of them gets a rather small and shy smile before she nods in answer to the dog walker. A dog walker of many talents, apparently, since he's a smuggler too.

"Thanks, would it be okay if I made a list?" Her whisper is a little subdued in comparison to the other voices in the room and easily lost only a few feet away. Leaning back, she rests her hand against Jaiden's arm and gives him a bright smile at the prospect of having a home again. Even if it's a little far off. Turning her head toward him, she murmurs just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe we'll be there for Thanksgiving… Maybe Christmas." Whichever the case, she's just hoping for more heat.

There is a pained look on Kaylee's face that has nothing to do with the injury she's recovering from, at the mention of Joseph, fingers tightening around the necklace she's wearing. There is a sheen of sweat starting on her forehead and she looks about ready to lay down already, but she's determined to hear it all out.

At the appointment, Ryans arm slowly unfold and falls to his side slowly, that is his surprised reaction to the news, even if it doesn't show on his face. The old man studies Eileen for a moment, before a glance is flicked towards Raith, brows furrowing a little. "I'll do my best." The words rumble out in acceptance, rather then denial. But then his gaze falls on Lynette as she's named one of the new council, there is a small nod of approval at that.

Benjamin will be a touch stunned for a few moments, the man having gone from Company to Ferryman in no time. It's a humbling feeling.

The other Ryans daughter blinks and her head snaps to look towards her father. What the hell? Lucille straightens up a bit and she stares from Eileen to her father. Before shrugging slightly and digging her hands in her pockets. Just another reason for him to be to 'busy'.

She chuckles softly at the irony of it all and looks towards her father gain. "Congrats dad." Is what the woman says, barely audible.

After the smallest of smiles toward Delia (his eyes on her hair), Smedley lifts one booted foot to the bench and leans forward on the stick in order to help himself stand on the seat. It affords him the ability to see over the heads of those gathered, and also to make his voice heard. "'Less you need'er for anythin' special, I can take Jenny out to Jersey to pick up that load'uh kids," the westerner calls out across the room, nodding to Brian at the end. "Give yuh time to make sense'uh whatcha got and whatcha need, so when I do go back to the City, y'can send me with a list."

His eyes got to the back of Lucille's head, knowing the girl's anxiety to get off the island, half-willing her not to speak up and latch herself to the mission. He has no idea how many kids there are, and he only wants to make one trip. He also looks to Delia and Jaiden before he adds, "Anythin' not fallin' int'uh the category of your run-uh the mill supplies, you just let me know. I can see what I can do for you, but I can't make any promises." His hand twists around the walking stick in progress, and he thumps it once against the floor. Another week here isn't what he'd planned. Getting away, if only to come back is probably the best thing he can do. With a sigh, he nods and starts to lower himself again, ceding the floor once more to Eileen. "Damnit, Pey," he mutters under his breath, but loud enough that should the clarivoyant happen to be listening, she'll hear him and the longing in his voice as plain as day.

Torchlight makes for middling brights and dark darks, shadow pitched in thick in the spaces between smears of yellow and orange.

It's in one such band of sooty blackness near the back that the shape of a man resolves where there wasn't one before. Straight across the shoulders of his suit jacket but not particularly tall, he'd be easily lost if not for the warm gloss of his balding skull in what little light there is over the matte coals of his eyes.

Even in a crowd of refugees as eclectic as this one, Vincent Lazzaro doesn't quite belong.

Ordinarily the perky auburn-haired Samara would be happy at the introduction, but thanks to Brian she knows she will forever be known as Sam-Eye, a silly nickname based on either a misunderstanding or good natured ribbing, but she hadn't the voice to press one way or the other. She shoots him a distinct scowl — she is a ghost — although it only lasts a moment. Soon enough she's just shaking her head in good humour. Sam-Eye, it's almost fitting for a girl that can see others and but can't be seen.

So now, Raith is no longer the sole head of Special Activities. In a lot of ways, this is a good thing, because now they can perhaps more effectively deal with what they need to do. Of course, this also means that grabbing Ryans after the meeting is all the more important. With the slightest sliver of a smile, Raith sends a knowing glance to the other Spec Act director. We're partners now, buddy.

When Smedley talks about getting supplies, Nick's eyes dart that way, and he looks like he might speak, might offer to help, but his time is not his own. Once it's safe enough to leave, he'll go to check in with work — if he still has a job. For now he'll do what he can to help patrol the island here, and earn his keep.

Huruma absorbs the following doses of news with varying degrees of acceptance. Some things she knew, some things she fully expected to hear mentioned, some things are brand new in terms of rumor and fact. She only half knows what she is meant to do here- after what Eileen says, it may happen to be that she is effectively a ward while she stays here. A ward of the council, in particular, and perhaps in parallel, Ryans is now equal to her handler. It's fitting that he be appointed, no less- and she can feel his surprise. Huruma is surprised that he is surprised, turning her head and ticking an eyebrow up. She leans over to mutter virtually in his ear when he pauses as he does, stunned by his sudden journey to council on the people he used to hunt.

"Don'be so shocked. You know deep down you were a shoe-in for th-" Huruma's words cut off abruptly, her air cutting sharp back into her windpipe. Her head swivels like a bird of prey towards the back of the room, the movement more prominent the closer people are to her. Once they follow her line of sight, there is a strange, bald man on the end of it. Huruma doesn't know him, she doesn't know if the rest do- but when someone coalesces right into her field, whose presence she thought may have been one of the crowd- and obviously isn't- it sets off way too many bells. In fact, she's now wading through the ferried towards Vincent at the back. Quite possibly on accident, several of the people she has to brush past skirt out of the way, fear bubbling as Huruma gets too near.

Well, the guard dog cat found something, now what? He's small, maybe she'll just swallow him whole. As a favor. Really.

At first, Lynette can only blink when her name is tossed in. It's a very genuine 'what, me?' moment. Even if there were opportunity to reply, she would have needed a moment to figure out just what to say. It is possible she's grateful that Eileen skipped that part altogether. But she does not seem unwilling to take up the position. She does glance to Ryans after a moment, a crooked, but pleased smile on her face as she lifts her hands for a silent clap for his assignment.

When Vincent makes his appearance, she looks, but it's just something else she doesn't have a comment on. Her gaze, instead, travels to Eileen, to watch.

Hannah shrugs the hand from her shoulder and steers a smouldering look in Howard's direction. "Don't call me that," she says, but there's no fight in her tone. Her eyes flick back to Benji, her expression softens, and she adds to both in a very low voice, "C'mon, Howie. Ben. I don't know about you, but I've heard all I need." She starts to move off, gently but firmly shouldering past those in her way, and while she might not be very tall she has a solid build that lends her more of a physical presence than the softer-spoken of her two companions despite the dramatic difference in their height.

There's a glimmer of gold at her throat, which she tucks down the front of the shirt she wears beneath a worn leather jacket, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and as she passes Kaylee her brow knits with concern for the younger woman who should be confined to her bed but isn't.

She misses Huruma carving a path through the crowd and those nearest to her shrinking away as she brushes past, but Eileen — or, more accurately, the grackle on Eileen's shoulder — does not. Whatever she might have been about to say, whatever concerns she might have attempted to allay, are put on hold while the bird's glittering yellow eyes track the giantess, then skip ahead of her in an attempt to project Huruma's final destination.

It's a good thing, she decides, that Tasha isn't here. Rather than cry out, her silence calls the room's attention to what Huruma is doing; she won't interfere until she's certain she knows what that is.

Glancing at Huruma when he words stop, Ryans' gaze follows her's and he goes still. Even as the dark woman starts parting the waters, blue eyes narrow at the one thing that totally does not belong there. The old man, doesn't hesistate to usethe wake she creates he follows her, until he reaches the suited man. He starts to reach for Vincent but comes up short.

Ryans hand curls into a fist, but his other hand rests on one of his glocks, but doesn't remove it yet "Lazzaro?" There is an edge of distrust there, but rather then acting first in this case, he growls out a question, "What are you doing out here? DoEA doesn't belong out here. Last I saw you… you were one of them."

First Huruma, then her own father, Delia's eyes follow the both of them until they settle just ahead of her father and only Mister Lazzaro. Her bright smile at the sight of him wanes and then turns to a grimace of confusion and then a little bit of stubborn anger.

Jumping out from her position, she speedwalks over to where the bald man is standing and gets between him and her father. "He's here because he brought me here. He got me to the boats and away from… those other guys… after I got caught." Her jaw clenches and she crosses her arms over her chest, pursing her lips into a thin line as she stares up at Benjamin. "He belongs here as much as you do, Dad. Maybe even more."

"Huruma.." Lucille says under breath and she inches forward until she's weaving in and out of people to, making her way over to her family. Moving faster as her sister and father get involved, she's not sure exactly what's going on, but she's gonna be right there if they need her. She watches intently her father as he goes for his glock, quickly looking to Delia as her younger sister speaks.

The older sibling comes to stand next to her sister. Supporting her silently, if she says this man saved her sister.. then he damn well does have a right to be here. She gives her father a level stare with a raised eyebrow, hands in her pockets. She whistles innocently.

Shannon arches a brow as she watches Ryans, then Smedley, and finally Huruma and, again, Ryans. The latter two make her sigh and shake her head. But she falls silent and folds her arms over her chest, waiting for the outcome of the mini-meeting.

"Agreed," Howard murmurs in quiet tone with a look askance to Vincent, brows furrowing. "Let's go, I think I need some fresh air anyway, s'too fuckin' hot in here." Rolling his shoulders to shift the position of his jacket on them. He waits for Hannah to move ahead of him, standing to the side to allow her to pass while giving Benji's narrow frame an askance look and a kick of one brow as eyes flick up and down him judgmentally.

"You shoulda' stayed at home, twitchy." Howard grumbles as he slaps his hand on the back of Benji's head when he too passes by, affording one last look over to Lynette this time before turning on his heels and following the other two away from the meeting.

Let's be totally honest - Sable allowed herself to zone out a little just as soon as Eileen answered her question. A sneaky thumb might just have turned the volume dial on her mp3 player up a tiny bit. Just, y'know, to take the edge off. She's a goddamn musician, okay?

And a musician who is facing a whole week without her instruments. She can't pay a freakin' smuggler. Sable's poor. It's part of being pre-rock star.

The appearance of Vincent or, rather, the reaction to it is what brings her out of Penny Lane and back to reality. 'What the fuck is going on?' is Sable's tacit question, posed to no one in particular, by expression alone. Befuddlement is the word. Shit is clearly going on that she does not fully understand. But bald guys tend to be nefarious.

That or basketball players.

A clear blue glance shifts Hannah's way, then towards Howard, blankly aloof. Benji hesitates but inevitably falls into step, teeth catching on thumbnail in gnaw as he goes to slink back through the crowd and doing his best to shoulder part no one — or get shouldered in return. One last lingering stare towards Eileen before the ringleader and her answers are left as they are. Though he's some distance from where Ryans is rounding on Lazzaro, that exchange gets noticed on the way out too, dark brows furrowing, but otherwise, he keeps step with Hannah.

"I guess we'll have time to kill," he suggests, again at that tone that scrapes just above a whisper— and whap goes Howard's hand upside his skull, a brief look of anger and hurt flaring as Benji hesitates a step, but he more or less just jaw-clenches and continues on their way.

What the fuck is going on? People who appear in shadows tend to do so with the intent of remaining out of sight and mind. Vincent has failed in this regard, so. The only thing left for him to do is to stand his ground against the approach of Messrs Murder and Glock. Boot black eyes unwavering from his (somewhat irritable and more vertically challenged) vantage point, he says nothing for himself, stubble collection, blood-tarred suit and squared hands all in dire need of a dry cleaning. He looks terrible for as long as he looks like anything.

Then Delia and Lucille make their presences known, and with a flat look for their respective efforts, he collapses into a lazy snarl of swarthy smoke. Which may be cause for more or less concern. The jury is obviously still out.

When the Ryans girls gang up for a cause, it must be pretty serious. Huruma does not slip out of her threatening mode, despite the interference, narrowing her eyes past the girls at Vincent. He looks like Napoleon behind his guards, frankly, when the girls put up dukes for him like this. Her examination of him goes far, far deeper than her stare, lips pursed and ears primed for whatever his explanation is. Benjamin knows him, and Huruma knows enough acronyms to know he could be bad news, if he wanted.

When he starts to turn again, Huruma's lips peel back a little, and she sends him a warning- a buzz of trepidation- enough fear to put the seed of warning there, but not enough as to scare the smoky piss out of him, of course. Delia seems to be truthful, but he's treated the same as others would be.

"I don'think she is being misleading." About Vince, not about Ben. Huruma finally turns her head to the elder Ryans, a small frown on her lips.

Although it scraped past Ryans' teeth like gravel, the acronym DoEA has more of an effect on those closest to Huruma, Ryans, his daughters and Vincent than the sphere of Huruma's influence. Stomachs are suddenly sinking to the floor, and not because of her.

"Did he say Department of Evolved Affairs?"

"Praeger's people?"

"What if they're the ones who—"

Eileen cuts this short with a terse, "It's getting late, and I know many of you have children you need to get back to." Or, in Ryans' case, children he needs to reign in. Where Vincent's is: a mystery. "If there are any other questions, they can be addressed in the morning."

It isn't the defiance of his girls — as admirable as it is in a certain way — that make him stand down, so much as the man being protected by them, as he goes poof. Ryans eyes narrow at the lingering swirls of smoke before giving his girls his full gaze. "I had to prove myself." He simply tells them in a soft voice, since Vincent hasn't proven a thing to him. "And I'm not the only one you or he has to convince."

He studies them both, before turning back to Eileen and inclining his head to her, Ryans offers a soft, "Sorry about the interruption, Ruskin." There is another glance to his girls, before he moves away from them again, still unreadable, except for Huruma. He's paranoid about loosing thier last hold out, especially with Vincent being there, but also even a little curious about it. It's something for the eldest of the Ryans to think about.

Narrowing her eyes at her father, Delia opens her mouth to say something and then just flicks her hand dismissively. A single curt nod is given to Lucille before Delia turns on her heel and stalks out of the room without another word.

Just outside the door, the redhead glances over her head and peers around for the cloud of smoke. "Sorry Mister Lazzaro… I'll uhm… I'll be in the infirmary if you'd like to get a change of dressing."

As her father walks away, Lucille rolls her eyes and scratches the back of her head. "Hope you're right about him Del." She says softly to her sister.

"Fuck me.." Lucille sighs, looking to her father with tilt of her head and then to Huruma before turning, following her sister out. She quickly passes Delia without a word and makes off to wherever she's hiding from everyone.

At least this time, it wasn't all her fault.

The murmuring from the crowd isn't exactly what Raith considers to be a 'good thing.' However, Eileen appears to have things mostly under control, and the ex-spy adds to this appearance by jotting down some notes with his pencil. These notes aren't anything useful: Their sole purpose is to present the illusion that Raith, at least to those who know his face, is immediately doing something about the perceived issue. Actually doing something will come later, when he figures out what to do.

It's not her place to interfere with whatever is going on between the crazy Irish people; Huruma sees her being in the middle of this as mostly Vincent's fault for showing up. While she has a duty, she takes it to heart. Looking out for the several dozen people that the Ferry has here on Pollepel is her main intent, now. Her eyes roam the air, presumably following the mind into the dark with her own. Mmm.

The mild unsettledness now in the crowd nearby touches on her, however, and now it is up to Huruma to issue a countermeasure of calm to those who feel affected. She does this as she turns her head towards Eileen, having been left alone at the scene of the crime by all of them. The dark woman puts her hands on her hips, a frown obvious, but the final look to Eileen before she goes to tail Benjamin is a vaguely apologetic one. Carry on, little bird.

With a nod to Eileen's dismissal, her own opinion on Vincent's arrival kept to herself. Likely, because Lynette just wants to wait and see what's going on. "I think a little rest would do us all good," she notes, including herself in that mix as she starts to pull her wounded self up onto her feet.

As the assembly disperses, following Hannah, Howard and Benji's lead out through the yawning doors that open into the stone corridor outside, Eileen remains at the head of the room, both her gloved hands folded over the top of her wolf's head cane. Her grackle watches as a bystander helps Kaylee to her feet and, as if sensing that her condition is worse than it looks (in the world they now live in, such perceptions are not impossible), guides her into the dark with a protective arm around her waist.

They all help each other, here.

The little black bird sends a pointed look in both Barbara and Lynette's direction. While it might late, there's still work for the network's council to do and other, graver subjects to discuss than the ones the Englishwoman broached in front of their flock. She's glad for it — if only because it will take her mind off the back of her brother's head, which is the last she sees of him as he disappears into the crowd.

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