Lambskin - Lifter


colette_icon.gif doyle2_icon.gif jericho_icon.gif

Scene Title Lambskin - Lifter
Synopsis Two more Ferrymen rise to the challenge.
Date September 23, 2010

Staten Island — The Lighthouse

From the outside, the Lighthouse looks as if it has had better days. The massive tower rising out of the house has fallen from its former glory. It is no longer a shining beacon, guiding wayward ships in from the lost harbor — though some may argue its purpose now is even more admirable. In its current state, the lighthouse seems to be in disrepair. Though upon closer inspection it all seems to be in the details. The paint has chipped away, leaving a discolored patterns of grays, whites, off-whites, and more grays. The occasional graffitti tag is here or there along the large building. One would notice that the doors, the windows, and the integrity of the building are all quite sound and newly repaired. The lighthouse has just been left with the look of abandonement.

Inside is a completely different story. Upon entering the main door, one will find a completely furnished and cozy arrangement. A spacious living room lined with two large blue sofa's, facing each other, a coffee table between them and several large bean bag chairs have been planted in the room. Shelves have been hung on the wall to display various different pictures of the occupants. A large bookcase is against the wall, holding a large variety of books from Dr.Seuss to the Bible, and even a copy of the Qur'an. The living room is focused on the fireplace a small black fence encloses it, the wood stocked on the bricks in front of it.

Connected to the living room is a kitchen, complete with a large rectangular table capable of seating around four on each long side and two on each end. A sink, a stove, an oven, a microwave and two refrigerators complete the look. Several low and overhead cabinets line the kitchen. At the edge of the kitchen are a pair of doors, one leading to a bedroom and the other, which has a padlock on it, leads to the basement.

At the back of the living room a glass sliding door leads out into the backyard of the Lighthouse, but just before it a staircase leads to the upper levels of the structure.

There's a huge, burly gorilla of a man who's doing the half of the unloading that takes place inside the truck itself, heaving roped boxes out onto the tiny moving platform, the one with the wheels. It's Jericho who cuts them apart and open with his knife, takes out the smaller packages, wrapped in paper or else sniffs inquisitively at new tupperware, fresh ceramic, double-layered row of boxed lightbulbs kept like precious eggs. There's food, of course, canned and dried and a handful of perishables in a firetruck-colored cooler that could probably fit Colette's whole person in it.

It was the perfect excuse for the Sweat Lodge boy to show up. Certainly, there's more strength in Jericho's rangy frame than meets the eye, and Doyle remembers there was always that odd reverberating energy jittering in his fidgety fingers around lighters, between arguments,whenever he was left to his own devices.

He is reasonably competent around the supplies, almost restrained with his verbiage around the children, and unmistakably pleased to see the puppeteer though as ever, too much with the spitting cat's hauteur to actually give him a hug. Got the older man a couple rolls of felt and sewing shit, though, like maybe Doyle could, whatever, make something with them, fucked if he knows; kids are always breaking shit, if he remembers right. He complimented Colette's 'dyke hair.'

Jericho has also been staring at the road a lot, between takes. In theory, not something the two or Brian should be concerned with. It's wide and free and open out here, like very few places even on post-Bomb Staten Island remain: so what if he takes his poignant stares in the opposite direction of the brilliant harbor sunset?

The presence of the jittery pyro is something that Doyle was pleased to see as well; there were times that he missed hiding out in the Sweat Lodge, and despite the violence of their initial meeting, he'd come to consider Jericho as something of a friend. The lack of a hug wasn't missed. There's plenty of kids to hug him if he needs one of those.

Oddly enough, most of Eric's close relationships started in violence anyway. Just look at the weird… thing… he has with Odessa, after all.

The rolls of felt seemed to spark something of a creative spirit in the puppeteer, and they were set carefully aside for later use, perhaps to appear later in the form of some terrifying puppet or googly-eyed slippers. Not being the strongest man in the world, he gestures about to direct where things go for the most part and spends a lot of time herding the kids to keep them out from underfoot, curious as they are about the various boxes and supplies.

Being underfoot and being involved is something Colette has thrown herself back into since she's returned from her harrowing journey at the behest of Hiro Nakamura. Still sore from her recovery at the hospital, she's perhaps pushing herself a little too hard with helping today, though in the afternoon sun on a surprisingly warm day for September, she seems to be enjoying the fresh air outside of the confines of her apartment that she'd been sequestered in.

Too much time indoors wasn't the answer to how to deal with the psychological trauma caused by her trip, and unsurprisingly being around friends and co-workers in the Ferrymen has been just the answer that she's needed, just the relief she's been looking for. Gloved hands with little rubber strips on the fingers ensure Colette's grip on the box she's carrying doesn't slip, offering a lopsided smile over to Doyle as she walks past, bracing the small package on her hip, one brow kicked up in study of the puppetmaster.

"S'been a while, ain't it?" Sure, this box is supposed to go inside, but a little socializing between manual labor is often what the doctor ordered. Perhaps not doing any manual labor is what Colette's doctor ordered, but that is neither here nor there. Leaning forward with a wince to set her box down on the ground, Colette straightens up and tugs off her gloves, offering a weary smile to Eric.

"I heard you're takin' charge've this place full time, now that's Gillian's not comin' back…" mismatched eyes peer past Doyle to Jericho for a moment, then angle back to the puppeteer, angling her chin up in a motion to direct attention following her stare. "He alright? Sparky's more twitchy than usual t'day."

"I'm right fucking here, you know," Jericho says, rather closer than Colette had perhaps initially supposed. He turns his curly head around and then raises his arms, then, suddenly, elbows bent outward like a cormorant drying off its wings, probably because he's drying his pits: classy fellow, Peyton's boy-on-the-side. Sweat has gathered in two dark patches under the sleeves of his T-shirt. "'Sparky?'

"I might be fetching and carrying, but I'm not a fuckin' dog, thanks. This is me, not peeing on shit or getitng holes in your kiddies with my teeth." He creases his nose at the girl, but his dusky face splits into a wide grin, his teeth out in startlingly clear, white relief against his features, eyes gone crescent-shaped, brief before it fades. "Yeah.

"How's it been around here? New kids coming in, other kids going out? Back in the day, I heard this place wasn't as anal-retentive about tracking the trolls as the Sweat Lodge is. Figured it's because they're orphans and runaways. Nobody gets to tell them what to do other than the state, and they come here because the state's said 'fuck you' to Staten Island."

"Hey." Eric uncurls one finger from his hand, pointing it at the pyrokinetic with an unamused expression, "Watch it with the dog cracks, Jerry." That's one joke that brought a bad taste to his mouth, apparently. Fortunately none of the kids were immediately underfoot to hear it and remember the fate of poor Denisa.

The puppeteer's scowl only last for so long, though, before he drops that hand back down to his side, his head shaking slowly like an elephant's lumbering head. "Things've been quiet, thank god," he admits, expression painted more rueful now, "And yeah, it's just me and Brian now… we actually got a baby if you can believe that, I mean, this big black amazon of a woman came stalking in with her, along with that Abigail girl. She's named Box. Er. Kasha."

Mismatched eyes narrow at Jericho for a moment, likely for the same reason that Doyle had said. Closing her eyes, Colette exhales a small sigh, lifting up one hand to brush hair over her shoulder now that it's long enough to — mostly — and then brush her bangs behind one ear. Tucking her gloves into the back pocket of her jeans, she treads closer to Doyle and Jericho, brows furrowed and head shaking from side to side slowly.

"Honestly, I'm glad that Brian's been around more an' that you're here," she directs that to Eric squarely. "I saw that Chinese chick around her too, the one who had the baby recently? I dunno if she was just visiting or words here though, 'forget her name too…" Colette's half-blinded stare angles downwards as she tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth, then looks back up to the two.

"With all that— with the— " Colette's throat tightens and her nose wrinkles, not in a cute way either, but as if she smelled something offensive. "The rumors you know? I mean— if someone touched one of these kids I— " her voice has already lowered, but it still has an edge. "I swear t'God."

Colette doesn't elaborate further, truth be told she really doesn't need to.

Still cormoranting, Jericho's attention nevertheless undergoes a tangible shift as the subject rotates from chastising Jerichos to murderlizing dogs to the subject of certain rumors. He doesn't have the best poker-face ever, much as a jackal— however unreadable and cagey to human interpretation, and eloquent in posture to its pack, doesn't falsefy whimpers or snarls or slavering interest in a hunk of meat. "Yeah?" he asks, brows levelling out with a twitch of conscious effort. Finally, his arms fall, only to winch upward briefly, grimacing irritation at the clammy sensation that goes with.

"Rumors are just rumors," he says. "And you're just a little girl." He twists one long, raw-boned arm up to aim a faint dig of his elbow into the teenager's ribs, but there's no mirth in it, nothing facetious. Wry humor at best, a vague figment of something else, but his eyes cut toward the puppeteer and stay on Doyle's face for a moment. "A girl named 'Box?'" he repeats. "Sounds like something I'd do to a kid, if the condom ever broke, or whatever." Doyle might well suspect different; he lived with the young man long enough to know he was at the Lodge almost every night, and working with the Ferry almost every day, but it's an easy boast, casual.

"Quiet like— you haven't seen anyone around, or they just didn't seem like they were doing much?"

The momentary emotion that stirs in the girl's throat guides Eric's hand over towards her, falling down to rest upon her shoulder heavily— fingers with a surprising strength and deftness in comparison to the heftiness of his frame squeezing reassuringly. "I know," he says in quiet tones, "Me too."

The puppet master's gaze drifts back over to consider Jericho for a moment, exhaling a bit of a snort of humor at his claim about the broken condoms. "We don't get many people out this way," he admits, "I've heard some rumors too… been keeping the kids inside. Got Brian doing double duty on watch." A twitch of humor, "Literally. And…"

"Iiiiiii've got it!" The enormous red cooler filled with perishables rises up into the air as if it were levitating, but— no, no it's not levitating, it's being picked up by Mala's tiny form, her slender arms hefting it effortlessly over her head. "Where does— where does it go?"

"Mala, no, wait— " Eric breaks off from the conversation with Jericho and Colette for a moment to hustle over in that direction, because strength doesn't equal leverage and the cooler's already tilting haphazardly to one side.

Whatever ire that Jericho's comment elicited in Colette melts away when Mala tries carrying that enormous cooler all on her own. There's a crack of a smile and an awkward laugh as Colette covers her mouth with one hand, shaking her head and furrowing her brows, managing not to snap at someone who — more often than not — doesn't deserve it. It's not that Jericho isn't entirely guilty, but Colette's become used to his acerbic nature, accepts it for what it is.

"Look," Colette offers with a hushed breath and a shake of her head, moving in to close some distance between herself and Jericho. "I care about these kids just as much as you do," she says with her voice kept low, "if there's some sick fucking pervert-club out there, it ain't gonna' fly for very long. I hadn't heard shit about it until— "

Colette hesitates on saying until I got back from the past because that is crazytalk. "Until recently," sounds better. "I figured the old man might've been all over it though, I mean, Staten's pretty much McRae's back yard. I can't much figure Mister Clean's lettin' anyone dirty up his neighborhood, y'know?"

One of Colette's black brow raises speculatively, as if uncertain now of just how omnipotent David McRae actually is. He may be old and wise, but he is still just a man after all.

Jericho's eyebrows venture hhhhup, buckle into asymmetry, and then even out again above a blink of dark eyes. He used to feel that way, too. About David McRae. Enough months praying, then the Phoenix descending upon Moab like the burning wings of God, champions of Evolved justice— he'dve had to have been a crazy not to believe.

And then Carolina died, the punchline to someone else's story.

His eyes hood. He turns his head, his long neck and thin shoulders gone hangdog, slouchy, and he refrains, albeit barely, from setting an arm to rest on top of Colette's adorable dyke-hair like he had the tiny Mexican girl, once. He looks at Mala, and Doyle scrabbling over to her, and somehow the combination is more to draw from than the reassuringly empty stretch of asphalt that separates the Lighthouse's glass-spattered sand from the rubble-specked hillside beyond it. "It's happening," he says, suddenly. "Pey tracked a guy. Some tiny, yellow-belly slum lord on Manhatta, who kept losing business out to Staten Island, decided to supplement with new meat.

"But she can't get anything useful out of him. He's letting everybody else do the dirty work because he doesn't want to get it on his hands. Does damn near everything on the phone, couple E-mails, more intermediaries than there are turds New York City floats out to fucking sea. Almost isn't surprising, the Feds haven't done shit about it."

"No, I've got it! I've… oops…" The cooler tilts further to one side, and Mala stumbles… but there's Eric to catch the edge with a low 'nnf' of breath, working with the girl to set it down upon the grass cautiously. "I keep telling you, Mala, you've got to be careful with big stuff… go on inside and help Juniper put things away, alright?"

The little girl's hair is ruffled affectionately, and she grins a bright-toothed smile up towards the puppet master, impulsively giving him a hug before scampering off inside.

Shaking his head slowly, Eric returns to the pair just in time to hear the end of the conversation, his smile fading by inches. "Wait…" His brow lines deeply as he looks towards Jericho, a sharp flicker of something behind his eyes, "What exactly aren't the Feds doing anything about, Jerry?"

"Fucking pedophiles," Colette hisses out with all the venom of a corba in tall grass, both of her arms crossed over her chest and voice kept down to a whisper. She's slouching, reflexively, bangs having fallen down over one eye as she shoots a look back up to Jericho, that her blinded eye is covered isn't really a matter to fix. "I don't— I can't— " Colette huffs out a breath and turns away, rubbing one hand over her cheek and down the side of her face.

If it isn't one thing, it's another.

"Yeah, m'not surprised nobody's doin' nothing about it, s'fucking Staten Island," Colette murmurs as she keeps her back to Doyle and Jericho, lifting up one hand to brush a thumb beneath her good eye, drying it. "Which means it ain't going on in the south side," COlette says as she twists her waist to regard the pair of older man over her shoulder, turning back as she uses the heel of her palm to rub at her one visible eye.

"How much d'you know about this shit? I mean— I mean somebody's gotta do something about this. I can't— no, this— nobody's gonna' just let this shit happen. Not in my own fucking back yard." Terrible things happene every day, it's different when it hits close to home.

Maybe Jericho could guess how close to home it hits for the young woman, just by the curdled strength of that reaction. His mouth has gone flat, bleakly linear, his jaw squared around cords of sinew. He watches the shapes of children dwindle into the open maw of the Lighthouse. "Someone's doing business selling kids," he says, once there aren't any kids here to hear that unsavory. His features look harsher, backlit, limned by the orange of the sun scaling down the sky toward creased pewter sea. "I did a little legwork, checked out missing persons the other week— there were a lot of dead people turned up in Midtown during the searches after, but there were dozens who had kids who didn't fucking turn up anywhere.

"And every other place where the runaways go, apart from this one," he juts his long jaw at the Lighthouse. "Says they lost bodies. They've been telling each other their friends just chickened out and went straight-edge, or at least to Winters here, but I've done a couple circuits. They're just gone. We don't know a lot. Not enough. But we think we have the man who's in charge. Trouble is, he isn't leaving anything we can follow just by fucking watching. No addresses, no other names. It's—" Breath in, breath out again, and Jericho's breath seems to run a little hotter than a normal man's should.

He shakes his head, lapses into a silence that lasts as long as the other supply-runner coming out of the back of the truck, looping around toward the cab to steal a few minutes of AC alone. "Somebody's going to have to make the fucker talk."

"Kids. They're… selling kids."

Somewhere inside, that modicum of strength that an adorable little Indian girl is drawing from Eric Doyle's contentment and happiness being here at the Lighthouse is lost, although his smile curves wide all the same. It's not a very nice smile, his eyes going rather cold and hard, like the painted black eyes of one of his marionettes. The big man's fingers curl slowly by his side into a fist, then splay out again, wriggling against the air for a moment.

That fake smile remains wide, his head cocking sideways. "Well. Then you've come to the right place, Jerry…" His hand lifts, fingers coming together to open and close like someone's mouth, "…I can make anyone talk."

By this time all the color has drained out of Colette's face, because the situation has ultimately become far more grim than she'd imagined. Lifting up one hand to scratch at the back of her neck, her eyes flutter open as she looks up to the sky, then down and away, a hand coming up to dry at her eyes again as her face flushes red from anger from the sickly paleness.

"You're— you're right," and in that Colette is totally agreeing with Jericho. Blinking her eyes open and closed again to try and stave off another bout of soundless tears, Colette keeps her stare averted to the ground for a few moments, then looks up with a visibly emotional expression to Eric, then over to Jericho.

"Who— who else knows about this?" It's not a constructive question for a network that prides itself on teamwork, a sort of skulking, clandestine nature to the conspiratorial tones Colette affords this conversation. "I mean, who else knows about what— " Peyton? That name suddenly clicks with a memory and a face. "Who— who else knows what Peyton saw? Who else knows about this guy?"

Colette has an ulterior motive on this.

She's a woman. Of course she does. Not that Jericho says that out loud, naturally, but there's a sideswipe of a glance at her, and he fluffs at the edge of his shirt with a long-fingered grip. "Not many people," he answers, at length. Answers Colette, naturally, but his stare is level at the other man, something translucent but unmistakably out of place in the caustic dark of his eyes. He does remember. It was a long time ago, but they'd met on interesting terms, puppeteer and pyrokinetic. "Mr. Clean. John Logan— he actually helped us out.

"Don't fuckin' know why exactly. Worried this guy has dirt on him like Logan now has on him, I guess. Turns out crime in post-Bomb New York City is an incestous cesspit of carrion crawlers eating each others' waste and corpses." A shrug hitches through his bony shoulders, and he lets his hands fall, knuckles crackling down near the shabby pockets of his jeans. "I don't think Linderman himself knows jack shit about it.

"There's also the Remnant. Ruskin told Chuckles first, and Eileen said she'd be open to hearing updates." Why? It's unspoken, but not precisely unasked.

That makeshift hand puppet opens and closes its 'mouth' a few more times, looking around before dropping back down to Doyle's side, his thumb curling into a fabric loop of his belt as he listens to the conversation between the two. He doesn't know these people - Peyton's a name he thinks he remembers from a Ferry meeting or two, and Logan he doesn't know at all, but he listens anyway.

Quite possibly, Eric admits to himself, he's been a little too insular of late.

"Do you… do you think the kids are in any danger, Jerry?" A quiet, serious question before Colette answers the unspoken one from Jericho, his brow lining in open concern.

"Does it matter?" Colette snipes at Doyle, more agressively than he's used to either with a hooding of her eyes behind dark lashes. Mixmatched eyes are fired back to Jericho with a furrow of the teen's brows. "Mister logan's not that bad a guy, no matter what nobody says, he helped me out when I really needed it, and he's real nice t'my sister, alright? Mister Linderman ain't that bad either if y'ask me, nobody's nice all the time, but they ain't the monsters most people make'm out t'be." Lifting up one hand to scrub at her cheek, Colette shifts her weight from one foot to the other, then looks over to the truck and the burly man standing inside with his hands up on the raised end of the truck's back door. He's done, and he's wondering what the hold up is, presumably.

"Alright," Colette exhales a breathy sigh, "I was gonna' say we could ask Eileen for help, but if she ain't already got birds pecking these fuckers eyes out, she's maybe too busy?" One of Colette's dark brows lifts up, then mismatched eyes angle over to Doyle, both visible now as she shakes her bangs away from her face with a jerk of her head. "Can you really make this guy talk?"

She assumes puppetry will do it, what Colette doesn't quite understand is that the puppetry is only the intermediary between something that would likely be classified as self-mutilation in most courts.

Jericho shakes his head, sending coal-black curls whapping against his own cheeks. A circlet or three of thread clinging to his skin as he does so, and he has to peel them loose with an irritable raking of fingernails. The wind picks up precisely then, prologe to the coming darkness, stings a light chill into the residue of the warmer parts of the day. "Haven't given Eileen the updates yet," he admits, at length. "Didn't want to bring her so little, you know?" Pride? Pragmatism. Hard to say which, but time's essential for investigations, as it were.

"I guess it's about fucking time." There's a vague note of concession to that statement. "Congratulations: you get to tell her." The corners of Jericho's mouth tick downward, and agitation twitches through his fingers, a quicksilver impression of his lighter's slight contours flowing briefly through the joints of his fingers, the sinewy flick of his wrist, palms hungry for fire that he hasn't yet thrown. He glances at Doyle. "With you and Winters here?

"The worse thing they're in danger of is seeing some sick asshole's brains spattered across the window panes. Which is pretty bad, but you know." He sucks in the hollows of his narrow cheeks. "This place is defended better than any place that's lost kids."

The sharp aside from Colette shuts Eric up pretty efficiently, his lips pursing together in a tight line and gaze briefly dropping down towards his toes for a moment— ashamed, perhaps, of his momentary disregard of anything outside his own little sphere of influence. Then his lips part, a sigh whispered past them and one hand coming up to rub against his bald pate, large eyes rolling up to look back to the pair.

"She's right," he says in low, serious tones, "It doesn't matter. Can I help, Jericho? I— I, yeah, I can make him talk. Give me a little while and I can make anyone talk." An unpleasant smirk, then, "And if what you say's true about these assholes, I'll even enjoy it."

That has Colette worried, her mismatched eyes angled askance to Doyle in the moments before her brows furrow and shoulders hunch forwards. "Okay," is offered in a tiny voice, then only realizing how withdrawn she's being does Colette overcompensate by jutting her chin out and sharply looking up to Jericho with a furrow of her brows. "Yeah fine— fine I'll— " she isn't sure why she's giving him a little attitude, it isn't Jericho she's furious with, it isn't anyone here that made her this way.

"I know where Eileen and her people live," Colette offers as further reason, "I'll head out there today or t'morrow and let 'em know what you figured out. Should— " her stare flicks between Eric and Jericho, then back again. "Should I tell 'em that Eric's handling the uh, detail… gatherin' stuff? Or do you want one've them t'go with him? I might be able t'ask Raith or someone t'go along…"

Lifting up one hand to scratch at the back of her neck, Colette's next comment comes with sympathy and understanding, knowing even if in the tiniest of slivers where Doyle is coming from. "Unless you want that all t'yourself." She might plead the same case were it Emile Danko or Bella Sheridan.

The half-blind girl is too young for this shit, and Jericho knows it, but so had Carolina been. Hey: what the Shaman doesn't know, the Shaman can't get wrathful thunderstorms about, eh? "I've never abducted and interrogated a guy before," Jericho says, shrugging. "Chuckles might've, when he was running with the little Spick gang-bangers who taught him how to say 'mami' with that weird accent, but it's probably been awhile. If you could get that big guy Eileen's always with?

"He looks like he can handle himself, whenever he isn't coming off like a big gay bear to her little fruit fly." Despite the casual words, insults lightly dispensed as casting confetti into the dimming gradient of the sky, there's a blackness to his mood, the nature of the plans being laid out piece by piece by three hands that look nothing alike. You could call it perverse, that dissonance, but habituation happens as a consequence of dealing with too much shit.

This has been too much shit. There are gummy bears and juice boxes in the cooler, and secondhand blankets in the boxes. That shit shouldn't turn in the same universe as the business of these nebulous sex traders, but it does.

"I don't even know what the guy looks like," admits Eric with a slight shake of his head at Colette's later question, "And he's probably not alone, I mean, I'm powerful but…" A low and not entirely friendly chuckle, "…I'm not that powerful. I… you probably should skip out after we drag the guy off for a little puppet show, though." Hedging a little on the latter; chances are, he doesn't want the teenager to see what he's really capable of.

A breath's taken… and exhaled, and he turns back in the direction of the truck. "Alright. Why don't— why don't we get dinner ready for the kids, you guys stay, and we can get a troupe together for this." Is he smiling? Almost.

"Let's not— go— grabbing anyone for a— for a puppetshow yet," Colette explains with both hands lifted, brows furrowed in worry and anxiety quelling some — and only some — of the fire she has about this particular topic. "I'll go talk to Raith, Eileen an' all've them and see who wants t'help out," Colette explains as she furrows her brows. "We're pretty much done here anyway, an' I gotta head up through the greenbelt to the Garden with some stuff so, its not like it isn't— " on her way is what she should say, however that would imply where the Remnant hide themselves.

"Just hold up on grabbin' anyone until I talk to 'em, Eileen might wanna' help with her birds of somethin'." That Colette could — should — recommend Kaylee Thatcher's services here goes unstated. After what happened to Kaylee tuesday morning in her apartment, there's no way on God's green earth that Colette will ask a favor like that of her ever again. Too much in too short a time.

"Hey," Colette offers a faint smile to Doyle, "Don't worry about it, man. We— we'll figure it out." People have said it before, but Colette Nichols has a remarkable level of faith in her friends. While Jericho hasn't ever wormed himself into that spot, Eric Doyle certainly has.

"I'll let you guys know what they say," Colette explains as she turns around, lifting one hand into the air in a makeshift wave as she affords her back to Eric and Jericho as the sun continues dipping down around them and the day comes to a close. Colette may have wanted to throw herself back into work with the Ferrymen, but this isn't exactly what she had in mind.

It is work though, and it's for a good cause. Hopefully to that point, the ends she's hoping for, justify the means her friends will go through.

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