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Scene Title Inconclusive
Synopsis Abby fixes something, Cat thinks and gives a report.
Date April 9, 2009

Old Lucy's, Back Room

This backroom looks more like a living room than just a plain old back room. There are a few armchairs placed about the room and a black rug is in the middle of the room, on top of the rug is a big table with a few chairs around it as well. In a corner of the room is a flat screen TV on the wall.

She'd been relieved to see her communications gear still working and able to contact Wireless with it, to make contact and put word out to some of the people involved in the raid. Transportation was arranged from the region Cat chose to dub West Prairieland, CO/KS/NE in her mind to New York City, and she was in town by late afternoon on the eighth.

Her bullet wound still needed attention, but the bleeding was stopped when the teenaged road racer gave assistance at that triple border point and she knows enough to keep it bandaged and change them periodically. Consideration was then given to making contact with Abby and others on the ground in New York, but delayed. She took time to observe and learn whether or not it appeared raids had been conducted or surveillance established. It simply wouldn't do to just walk into a trap if DHS had decided to look for her. She can't, after all, know if Matt Parkman was informed of the raid and given people up as potential contacts to watch.

It's only shortly after dark on the ninth that she feels sure enough of safety to approach. Old Lucy's is entered at a time before people start to fill the place, she comes through the back where deliveries are made and heads for the back room.

Cat has excellent timing because the redhead had gotten in not long before her, shuffling things from her locker into her bag and vice versa, getting her clean apron out and putting hair up in anticipation of working. So her back is to the door when Cat enters the back room. The cross tattoo is partly obscured by the black tank top she's wearing. "Just five more minutes Brenda then I'll be out to help you, I promise. I know that I wasn't supposed to come in, but I needed to squeeze a fe.." She turns, working the elastic into her hair but stops when instead of Brenda, she has Cat. "Oh holy lord, Catherine…"

She's armed, but not in a ski mask as she was during the raid. There aren't any images of her face on any camera at Moab, nor fingerprints because she wore gloves. She does have some concern over identified DNA since she bled at the prison, and there might be some on the ground at the place she found herself, but it is what it is. The weapons she's carrying aren't on display, though: Cat has employed her customary concealment method. They're in the guitar case carried over her right shoulder, packed with newspaper to make sure noise isn't made inside it and give her away. The body armor is likewise concealed. Her clothing is a hooded sweatshirt and jeans with athletic shoes.

She's a bit pale and something seems a bit off about her. She sets the guitar case down and settles into a chair, saying first "Stout, please." Then she slips the hooded sweatshirt off over her head slowly, wincing and seeming to have trouble making her left arm cooperate. Once she has it off, she removes the plain t-shirt under it in the same fashion and is at last down to the sports bra. The bandage also becomes visible.

"Yes," she comments dryly. "I'm here. Close the door."

"Stout." Abby dips out, off to get the glass, fill it up, dip back in by the time Cat's working the clothing off. Brenda's been told that hell or high water, no one's coming in here. sorry. "Can you get upstairs? Isabelle's place is upstairs. Be safer, in case she has to come back for stuff. How bad is it?" Blue eyes are wide, heart rate kicked up. Finally, something, even if it wasn't a phone call. "Who else should I be expecting?"

That's not yet known," Cat tells her with a wince. "We're regrouping. It's best you not know yet anyway, more than is needed. I've been around and watching a while. It doesn't seem anyone's been raiding or watching places of interest. Hopefully that'll stay true, but there aren't any guarantees." She closes her eyes and takes a drink of the stout, enjoying the taste. The creamy head is often the best part of that dark brew. "Damn," she murmurs shortly after. "Upstairs, right. Soon. Drinking first."

Silent again, she replays the moment of her getting shot mentally and tells herself not to assume people sparking electricity don't also control magnetic fields.

"Okay, I'll just look then. Gunshot?" Because of course there'd be guns going off. "Not a peep from anyone good or bad. Elisabeth hung around the first night, and then Cardinal's stuck with me, in case someone might have tried to make a move. I hung out in Chinatown, with someone from the Flying Dragons. Cardinal figured it was the safest place to be if someone thought to try and take me to keep me from healing you guys." She lets the woman enjoy her alcohol as she carefully peels back the bandages. "Gunshot." Murmured. "No exit.. Is the bullet still in there, Cat?"

"Yes," she answers, taking a second and longer drink. It applies to both of Abby's questions. "I've tended it myself, taken some antibiotics to make sure infection didn't happen, but now it's time to fix things more properly. Have you got some instruments, Abby?" Cat perhaps intends to dig it out herself. Grey's Anatomy is being called up in her head to visualize the structure of a human shoulder.

"Izzy's got a well stocked first aid kit upstairs, I can try and get it out, maybe see if I can't work the bullet out with the gift." If she can force the wound to stay open down to the bullet then it might force the bullet out as it heals behind it. Or she could dig it and heal it up. She'd seen Sonny dig a bullet out before. "Just come up the stairs, I'll get the couch ready." She's in damage control mode, rubbing her palms on her thighs before the redhead takes the steps up to Izzy's place two at a time.

She stands and gathers her clothing, then slides the guitar case over her right shoulder and heads for the stairs, snagging the pint of stout along the way. Cat's left arm hangs a bit limply, the hole visible with bandages gone now. She'll have to collect those later and burn them somewhere. Up the stairs she goes, but in the standard one at a time way.

She didn't need to bring the guitar case up. Mind you Abigail doesn't know what's actually IN the guitar case, so… Towels are out, the big ass first aid box, with its red cross on a background of white. Rubbing alcohol and peroxide. A floor lamp's been dragged over, two of them and near the couch so that there's light. "Lay down. Izzy has some vicodin, and I found some percocet, if you want something for the pain that is probably going to happen. Once I get it out though, you should be fine, Cat."

And she won't be told. Potential arguments about bringing arms into Abby's makeshift hospital avoidance at work. She sets down the gear and clothing, then takes a longer drink of the stout. Consideration is given to remaining seated as opposed to lying down, as is the possibility of digging it out herself. But she relents on that later score. "Can you work if I'm sitting, rather than stretched out? I won't need the drugs." Women face worse pain than that undrugged all the time when giving birth, she perhaps believes. More stout is imbibed.

"Sitting actually, probably better, so my head doesn't get in the light." Cat's the brains obviously. From somewhere, Abby's produced latex gloves, getting them on, making sure they fit and wetting down gauze pads with the alcohol. "Well, you can look at it this way. You're helping me with impromptu EMT training?" Silver lining. HAS to be a silver lining always. Somewhere. "I could use a mouthful of that probably," the stout that is. "Just tell me when you're ready."

The pint is set down, part of the rim Cat didn't place to her mouth facing Abby. It's thus there for her to drink out of if she chooses. "This is true," Cat confirms with a chuckle. The sitting part, however, and the refusal of drugs, well, that may be brains in play or it could be simple pride, the determination to make herself seem and be tough. She'll do that, but mostly she wants an undamaged and working left arm again.

The right hand takes hold of something she can squeeze, and a nod is given. Proceed.

It's Abigail, whatever damage is made, can be repaired. The stout grabbed to quickly take a mouthful of liquid courage despite her underage factor and she's kneeling. It's just getting the bullet out that's priority. The lamps where the need to be to give her maximum light and some long tweezer, the redhead sets in to working them into the wound, careful with her touch to try and reach the bullet, with minimal damage to Cat and as little pain as possible.

Her eyes close and teeth grit, but she resists screaming at least for now. Cat turns her head to watch the work happen as best she can, breath quickening some with her sensations. It isn't pleasant, that much is clear. She's also keeping that page of Grey's in her mental sight, comparing what she sees against the injured limb.

Abby's been studying Grey's Anatomy, but she's not the panmnesiac that Cat is. It's slow going more out of fear of doing more harm than out of uncertainty. It's steady hands though that work and she's rewarded soon enough with a change in the texture of what the tweezers hit. "Sorry, I'm really sorry," as she lets the tweezers widen, stretch the wound and then dig forward so she can get a grip on the bullet and tease it out. Her blue eyes flicker back and forth between wound and woman, careful to stop and give it a rest if it's a little too much. "No fainting on me, Cat. You're stronger than that!" Whispered encouragement.

There's no sign of fainting, nor has she screamed yet, but there are signs of pain and stress noticeable. Her right hand is gripping the object tightly, sweat has broken on her forehead, breath comes in short pants, and one foot is kicking at something a little. "Fainting? Me? Please." Bravado? Maybe.

The bullet slides out with a wet pop, tossed into a cereal bowl. Rubbing alcohol soaked gauze pressed to the wound real quick while Abby uses her teeth to work the glove off her hand. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." On through the Lord's Prayer she goes. When her ungloved hand replaces the rubbing alcohol it's warm relief, though likely cool to the inflamed flesh. Cat will be right as rain in about two minutes.

She relaxes after the bullet emerges and there's no more digging around in an open wound, though there's a bit of hitching breath when the rubbing alcohol is applied. Her hand's grip loosens, breath becomes more normal and the sweat stops beading on Cat's forehead. Eyes remain open, and she concentrates on the sensation of flesh being repaired while watching and listening to the praying healer.

This, to her, is interesting. Something never really discussed between them.

"Give us this day bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is power, the kingdom and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen." It all flared to life a few moments after the words started and by the time she's finished, the wound isn't quite but nearly. She doesn't pull her hand away to inspect though until there's the telltale drop in the flow and seems satisfied with the smooth skin beneath. Back she leans to park her ass on the coffee table and look up at Cat.

She rubs the arm when Abby moves away, then moves the repaired limb, testing its function and range of motion. While doing so, a calm question is asked of the healer. "Does your gift not work if you don't pray, Abby?" Her expression is speculative. Not hostile or dismissive as some might be. "Thank you." The pint is reached for next with her left hand and raised to drink from.

When the glass lowers she deadpans "It's no fun to be shot."

"Doesn't. It's why it's called Faith Healing and no. No it's not. I've been shot… three times now. First time was easier, second time… " Second time not. Abby sets about to cleaning up anything with Cat's blood on it, putting it in a plastic ziploc bag for Cat to take with her. She's no stranger to the woman's paranoia. "I don't have to pray out loud though."

Interesting. Cat has to wonder if it's a mental process, that her belief makes it not work if she doesn't follow the ritual. And there's more speculation. Would Abby buy into some people being given genetic advantages and the free will to use them in whatever way they choose, herself included? To her, the concepts of faith and Evolved ability don't have to mutually exclude. One could, even, reason the very laws of physics are divine creations, and when the parent senses the children are advanced enough to believe they've mastered them all, more toys are created. Subtle changes made to those laws, to wit, keeping the process of discovery and exploration going. So, humans, you think the sun and everything else revolves around your planet? Here's some evidence to confound your theories. Knock yourselves out writing new ones.

The musing goes on a bit longer. You think you've solved diseases? Have some new ones to battle with. Or some old ones that resist your drugs. It all comes down to a scientific point; logic says anything created has to have a creator, but there remains the conundrum. Who created that creator? Discover the answer, and the question remains because that creator. Eventually practicality takes hold for most. Stop pondering the infinite question, pick a story to accept and get on with life.

None of that is expressed in words, although given the extended silence and the pensive expression something was reflected upon. And it wasn't the same distant eyed stare at the wall look she gets when traveling the path of memories.

Abigail is not a mind reader and therefore can't figure out what's passing through Cat's prolific mind. She can only clean up and hand the woman the rest of the stout with a quiet look. "Did you succeed?"

She chooses not to debate Abby on the question of faith. Like that eternal conundrum of creators and creation, it'd be infinite. Abby's done the practical thing. Pick a story and get on with life. The question draws her out of thoughtscape, prompting Cat to reply with a question. "How much do you want to know?"

It wasn't so much pick a story and stick with it. It has a great deal to do with how you're raised. Cat was raised to believe in science, and that her gift is genetic, that perfect memory. Abigail was raised to believe it was God in his infinite wisdom that saw fit to bless the teenager with a precious and vital gift. It was her upbringing that instilled that mental block that keeps her from just doing it. She's also long since learned that fuck whatever anyone else thinks, it's what she thinks that counts because it's what she does that lets it work. As with all things in her life, God must get his due. "Just tell me if you succeeded or not. I don't need to know more than that."

"Inconclusive," Cat tells her. "We raided, we saw people leaving the prison, then we were… scattered." Weirdly and suddenly. "So I'm regrouping, collecting information and locating people as I did at the end of January. Moab is a mess, that much is very certain."

Abby nods, licking her lips and casting a glance around. "You're the first that's surfaced. I've been worrying myself sick, I was about to start calling. If anyone needs me have them just…" Call? show up at work? "Send them to the Ferrymen and have someone find me and follow the protocols. If I don't know where you guys are, I can't bring them to you and I can't be arrested for knowing where you are and not turning you in."

"We'll be in touch," Cat assures her. Her eyes close again for a moment, and there's that sign again, the markings on the road. She lets out a quiet chuckle. "Would you believe I've been in three places at once, Abby?"

"I can believe a lot of things, Cat." Abby answers back, reaching over to touch the woman's hand. Voluntarily. "You going to be okay?" The last is spoken softly, worry tinging her voice, coloring her eyes.

The touch isn't avoided. "I'm all good, Abby," Cat answers. "You know, it's true. The plains states are mostly prairie grass, flat and green at this time of year, visibility for miles and miles and miles. There's a spot in Colorado, Kansas, and Nebraska where the three states meet." Just what this has to do with the Moab operation she isn't saying. The guitar case is slipped over her left shoulder and carried there now, just because she can. Her right hand collects the baggie with the bandages and bloodied materials, the bullet too; she stuffs them into the front of her pants. Then she picks up the pint of stout and resumes drinking it. When it's done she sets the empty glass down.

"Thank you again, Abby. Have some protein, treat yourself to a nice thick steak on the house after work. Or during work." Then she exits. People to find, places to be, mysterious scattering to figure out.

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