Participants:
| Scene Title | Milk And Eggs |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two ambushes are rudely interrupted, a.k.a what happens on the bridge. |
| Date | January 31, 2011 |
The snow is coming down in light, inoffensive flutters from a bruise-coloured sky, with the occasional sharp breezes whisking them into flurries, pinwheeling merrily and making the road just that little bit more trecherous to navigate. The Queensboro Bridge is an immense structure, with two levels of traffic streaming back and forth, blithely disconnected from Roosevelt Island directly below it and serving as the connectivity between Manhattan and Queens, an important artery of New York City transit. Neither snow nor the cage-like structures that enclose the six-lane street on the upper most level can be seen, where Ethan Holden is being kept.
It will be there soon, ambling as it is currently through Queens and headed for the bridge, tracked by eyes in the sky. The clasp of handcuffs on his wrists are warm by now, a link of silver between wrists, a long chain dragging down towards where his ankles are held in the same. The back is caged, windowless, and two armed men mutter together without engaging with the prisoner they're guarding. That Ethan remains in his own clothes probably doesn't portend anything good.
Or especially lawful.
The nondescript van noses up the Queens-side incline, melting into the vehicular traffic of the Queensboro Bridge, a slight jostle that Ethan can at least feel. It's a black rectangle, from a bird's eye view, amongst the colourful shapes of other vehicles that accompany.
"Golden brown, texture like sun~"
Ethan has never been a good singer. Nor has he ever actively publically exercised his right to sing. Seldolm a flexing of the golden pipes. Only on few occasions has Ethan perused his ability or inability to hold a tune. Those occasions usually involved annoying someone. Right now is one of those occasions.
"Lays me down, with my mind she runs~"
A light smirk pulls up his lips as he sizes up the two guards. One at a time. His voice carrying up a little louder, a little more obnoxiously. His lips pulling up into a broader grin. His eyes dance over the guard on the left. Facial features, little feet…
"No need to fight…"
Ethan is also rarely captured. Though in the last few years it's becoming a little more of a trend. And now Ethan is ever ready to escape. Or if not escape, make his companions very upset.
"Never a frown, with Golden Brown."
On the Manhattan-side of the Queensboro, hidden in the shadow of its tall stone support structure, stand two figures, only one of them dressed for the weather in a dense wool coat of darkest charcoal, lambskin gloves and flat leather boots. She is the shorter of the pair with hair twisted back into a functional knot at the nape of her pale neck, which is the only part of her body apart from the full white moon of her face that she's left exposed to the weather. The snow sticks to her lashes but does not melt when she blinks, and she blinks only because instinct demands it. This does not obscure Eileen's vision because Eileen views the world around them through the eyes of her gyrfalcon, camouflaged against slate clouds and indistinguishable from the other flecks of white floating in the sky.
"It's coming across on the second level," she informs her companion in a voice that sounds further off than she really is, because he can hear the rasp of her breath accompanying the fog curling from her nose and mouth and feel the warmth of her body next to his, small though it is. Beneath the bridge itself, anxiety ripples through the assembled flock of large, fat gulls made round by the trash and scraps of rotting fish that give the city's most unkempt stretches of waterfront a reek that the birds themselves carry with them.
They're big. Aggressive. The avian telepath does not have to push them as hard as other species to get them to do what she wants. "Be careful," she says, and she reaches out to take his hand in hers, thumb pressed into the center of his palm in a firm squeeze, something she does not do very much outside of certain situations, of which this is not one. "I'll buy you both as much time as I can."
The sound of a hundred gulls leaping into flight sounds like a small explosion from where they're standing, but thanks to the rumble of traffic, the driver of the truck won't hear anything until it's too late.
Like a dog set off a leash, Gabriel doesn't look back to Eileen by the time he's moving in the wake of the powerful flock. Can't say anything, either, because he's already converting into something that can't talk, a swatch of high energy blackness that leaps and spiders its way up the immense concrete pillars that support the cantilever bridge, disappearing along its underside as it climbs and clings with spidery, tentactle-like tendrils. The Queensboro is a mass of handholds and beams, making his job so much simpler in his swift, agile climbing.
The roar of the traffic shudders through the structure, almost making the ground rumble beneath Eileen's feet. Above that, she can faintly here the clip of helicopter blades of air cover.
«We're getting in reports about some kind of explosion in Queens, north of Hunter's Point. What's your position?»
Inside the van, the driver picks up his radio, shaking his head to no one. "We're a minute and a half until Manhattan, I don't see anything. But we'll take the backup route as a precaut— " And he stops, when he sees what appears to be a storm of seabirds come spilling out over the edges of the bridge in kamikaze determination, creating wind in their wings and screeches. "What the fuck!"
They slaughter themselves for the cause. Delicate bodies crushed under powering wheels, explode in white feathers and red insides against the windshield, a spidering break of glass cracking percussive even as gore obscures where he's going. The van rocks and shudders as he grips the wheel and serves to pull over, the cry of a horn from the car behind him piercing by as a crash is only just missed. "Jesus!" growls one of the men in the back, bracing himself in the sudden serve. He had been about to say: I don't like the way he's staring at me.
Ethan is slammed to the left, near tipped forward as the van halts, sharply.
When something happens outside, something huge, it's difficult to tell when your walls are four, though Ethan knows it as a slight pop of pressure in his skull, uncomfortable but not painful. Eileen knows it as a sudden cut of empathic link, and a sudden darkness when she's thrown into blindness, deaf and numb to the birds she was just inspiring. Above her head, there's the sound of a car impacting something hard, the slam of metal and the breaking of glass. And again. And again.
Ethan's eyes raise up the birds crashing into the windshield. A respectful nod is given to the windshield, thanking the birds for their sacrifice. His feet plant firmly along the ground to brace himself. As Ethan's shoulder rams into the wall, he is using the sudden momentum to propel himself forward. A grunt is let out before his shoulder presses against the van wall and flings himself at the furthest guard.
Shiny bald head first, the dome goes to connect with the man's face. In the same moment Ethan is doing an odd little hop. The hop is in unison of bringing his ankles up and his wrists going skyward. It is then that they come back down quickly. The chain ensnaring the second guard around the neck. Securing his head between the chain and Ethan's abdomen. Squeezing tightly, Holden presses his full body weight on the first guard, aiming to keep him from doing much damage until Ethan is ready to deal with him.
Glass rains down with the snow, and Eileen protects herself by putting her back to the bridge's support. Like blinking, she draws into herself without thinking, chin tucked against the collar of her coat and gloved hands clutching its front, elbows drawn in to make herself less of a target for debris — or bullets. She's not sure which to expect.
In the air, her gyrfalcon spins a sharp right, intending to double-back to her as it's been trained to do, only to glance against something unseen and plummet out of the sky. It strikes the hood of the van in a crumpled mess of broken bones and bloodied feathers around the same time the gulls are lifting off it, still screaming in hoarse, angry voices.
Eileen might be too, if she wasn't in shock. She can't feel her birds anymore.
Can't feel Gabriel. That usually means one of only two things, and there's no taste of negation gas in the air.
Above her, upon two levels of bridge, cars crush accordion against something unseen that paints a thin, slightly glowing blue line across the bridge beyond its supports she ducks against. Cars slam together bumper to bumper, cries of shock drowned out by the squeal of brakes, of horns and complaining machinery. From the underside of the bridge, Eileen can see a fine falling of dust waterfalling from where she sees that the bridge has split in some way, skidding down as if against a pane of unbreakable glass by a foot and a half before sticking out of friction and maybe mercy. There's a massive, echoing creak that seems to reverberate all the way to the ground.
Gabriel is barely noticing, moving with the determination of a shark as he skims along the edge of the bridge and pulls himself up to where the van is halted. He can tell which one's the right one by the bird mess plastering it. There's a thud as solid feet land on the cab, a dark shape as he leaps to land on the drivers side.
There's a metal squeal as the door is simply wrenched away, tossed aside, and then driver inside grabbed by his gun arm, a bullet blasting just clear of his shoulder. With a guttural growl, Gabriel yanks him out of the van and, feeding off the growing fear, throws him to plummet over the edge of the bridge. That the ground is rumbling, shaking beneath his feet, Gabriel only detects when he turns to look at the crush of traffic jam smashed up just north of him.
Similar sounds of more of the same can be heard Queens-side too, but it's barely the sounds he's trying to listen for, but something less defined — a missing link. Similarly, he hasn't noticed, yet, that it has stopped snowing.
The roar of the helicopter seems less intense to some of the people ont he bridge, now, muffled as if by distance or obstruction. As it sweeps back into view, the NYPD police chopper is making a beeline for the accidents on the bridge, and a figure clad in dark, winter gear and face obscured by a cloth mask leans out of the door. There's shouting from inside the helicopter, a struggle, and from such great heights the other man in the back of the helicopter is visibly thrown from the vehicle, arms windmilling as he sails through the air, passing by the bridge's deck and disappearing from sight over the side.
The man who threw him out leans out the door, shouting to the pilot through the cloth of his mask. He raises a rifle, braces himself in the door, and trains his vision down his scope towards a medium range target. In clear view of the helicopter, backed up against the bridge support, the willowy frame of Eileen Ruskin appears in the crosshairs. Her dark hair whips around in the breeze, even as the bridge itself seems to buckle and shudder.
Squeezing the trigger, the rifleman takes his shot, crosshairs lined up on the center of her chest. At a forty-foot distance from the divide that has sliced through the Queensboro bridge, Eileen can't hear the gunshot from the helicopter, but she can see the sudden blossom of blue-white light explode in the air as the round from a high-powered rifle strikes the barrier on a direct course from her. The sound of the ricochet is muffled but audible on her side, and the ripple shimmers like the surface of a disturbed pond from the round's impact.
Up in the helicopter, the sniper's breath is stolen by what he's seen. More unfortunately is that the helicopter is going in the same direction as the gunshot did. "Stop! Turn around! Stop— " the warning comes too late, and the sniper can tell. A gun falls out of the helicopter, followed soon after by a man dressed in black, leaping from the chopper seconds before it impacts with the barrier. The invisible wall suddenly flares to life as rotor blades strike one by one, the front of the police helicopter collides with the barrier and crumples like an accordion. Fire roars from front fo back as the fuel tank ruptures and the helicopter explodes in a shower of glass, metal and flames, descending down towards the bridge below.
Free-falling from the helicopter, the sniper swings one thrashing arm out just a few feet from his descent, one gloved hand snagging the railing of one of the observational perches at the top of the bridge. No one below can hear the snap and pop of his shoulder, or his scream. But bystanders below can see his legs kicking in the air, free arm thrashing around as he drags himself up, over the railing and throws himself down onto his back atop the metal catwalk at the top of the bridge's support strut.
Staring up at the sky, Feng Daiyu breathes in short and labored breaths, his heart racing a mile a minute and pain lancing through his arm.
What the hell was that?
Pressing the chain in against the man's neck, his head tilts back some as the guard makes choked off, gurgling noises. Wriggling and writhing to ensure that the second guard doesn't get to make a move on him. If Ethan hears the crashing and madness outside, it goes unrecognized for now. The task at hand is more important. The first guard takes his last few breaths, before the chain goes forward. Plowing his elbow into the man behind him, Holden whirls around, ramming his palms in unison at the other man's nose.
One. Two. Three.
Bringing his hands back, Ethan puts his whole body into the strike. Blood squirting around his hands as the man's bone is shoved up into his brain. Hopping back, Holden looks to the front of the van. "That you, Gabe? The door." He lets out as casually as a knife wound victim can say… after killing two people.
It's a good thing that Edgar wasn't going full speed when the invisible barrier came up. It's quite likely that the carnie would look very much like one of those fat gulls that laid down its life for the cause. Only his splut would be without purpose. Nevertheless, after spending a few moments lying somewhere on the sidewalk elsewhere on the island. He slowly picks himself up and rolls one shoulder, then the other, glaring at… absolutely nothing.
Reaching out one hand, he tests it against the invisible wall. Then he pushes with all of his strength. It doesn't budge. Twin puffs of steam rush through the speedster's nose, looking akin to an angry bull as he holds one hand against the wall and begins to jog along it. No one can be sure when he disappeared but moments later a few bystanders can swear they saw a gray-blue blur and a rush of wind whip by them. Over and over again the phenomenon happens until that gray-blue blur is actually an electric blue streak that whips around the surface of the dome. It circles higher and higher as the carnie defies gravity by running along its surface at a steep angle, held against it only by his own velocity.
The helicopter hits one side as his feet hit the other and it doesn't register until he's quite a few paces away that he just narrowly avoided being zinged by rotor blades like a meatball in a food processor. He can feel the rumble as the cars fold against his running surface, but only as long as he's there. It's the van covered in blood and feathers that garners his attention. A fight. His boots smoke as he skids to a stop near it, just in time to hear someone casually asking for the door to be opened.
Okay.
Just as casually, Edgar pulls the handle on the back of the van and peers inside at the carnage. His eyebrows shoot up, not in horror but as though he's genuinely impressed with the handiwork. "Y'needed out?"
Eileen's boots crunch through gravel and snow, shards of broken glass popping beneath them. That she can suddenly see again confirms her worst fears: something terrible has just happened to the bridge, and potentially everyone and everything on it. Gabriel. Her birds. The van. Ethan. Pigeons startled from their roosts by the noise supply her with a map she can navigate, a gloved hand hooking around the metal banister attached to the concrete steps leading down to the river that she and Gabriel descended a few minutes ago.
Their tracks are still fresh.
Her heart jackhammers in her chest, pumping blood and adrenaline through her system, and the ankle injury she received during her flight from the Dispensary does not hurt as much as it probably should. The rhythm of her feet on the stairs is a few beats off, but it's her mental process that's moving the fastest.
A helicopter just crashed into something that wasn't there. There's a crack in the bridge where there shouldn't be one. What's most important is getting out from under it before it collapses. Then she can figure out why. How. Or would if she wasn't overwhelmed by an onsalught of other thoughts like:
Why did I tell him to be careful when I really meant 'I love you'?
What was the last thing I even said to my father?
Is that a fucking motorbike?
Gabriel whips his attention back around when someone else answers Ethan's call for help, pacing that several feet around to angle an accusatory stare at Edgar, both eyebrows aligned as if to ask, on their owner's behalf: who the fuck are you? He appears, then, behind Edgar's shoulder, peering into the interior of the van with a mild satisfaction. Reaching hands in, he doesn't so much as go to help Ethan out as he does snap the metal chains linking limbs together as if it were made of ceramic.
A lot of fear is in the air. Back up several paces, he stares, now, towards where the wreckage of the helicopter lets up smoke that billows against what could well be a pane of glass. Eileen sees it too, only more surreal from her angle of things — a flat stain of black, hovering in the sky, and the more it rises, the more it begins to curve back around.
The massive bridge suddenly shudders, causing Gabriel to throw out his arms to brace himself, a murmur of shock welling up from those that are uninjured enough to climb out of their cars, the van juddering. Up higher, closer to the edge of the deep break in the bridge, Feng feels it even more emphasised.
High up at the top of the bridge, the darkly dressed man who fell from the helicopter pulls himself to his feet, faltering and taking a knee when the bridge shakes and quakes. He rises again, up and hand braced on the railing, hustling towards one of the ladders that descends down the side of the elevated support strut. Metal groans, cabling recoils and snaps under tension and the deck of the bridge buckles like wet cardboard in the middle.
When the bridge shudders again, Feng grabs a hold of the railing, swinging down with a one-armed grip, the other cradled to his side. Feet brace on the outside of the rails, and he slides down, right up until the bridge shakes and quakes again.
His grip falters, and Feng cartwheels off of the ladder, landing flat on his back on the next walkway down with a metallic clang. His body trembles, air is evacuated from his lungs, and as he rolls onto his side, he can see through the grating down to the lower part of the bridge below. It's a long way down, it's a long way out. But as Feng pulls himself to his feet again, he begins hobbling across the catwalk.
He won't die here, not now.
Glancing at the back of the van as it opens, Holden arches his brow. A light smirk climbs up his lips. "Why thank you, sah." The Brit murmurs with gratitude. While his daughter is down there probably getting squished. His arch nemesis is hanging by a broken arm or something. A helicopter crashed into an invisible barrier. The bridge is breaking. But Ethan is hopping blissfully ignorant out of the back of the van. And then Gabriel is joining Edgar like an angry little elf. When he snaps the chains, Holden gives a grateful nod.
Dropping out of the van, Holden smirks a bit. "Don't worry Gabe, you're still my favorite." The Wolf assures him coolly. Putting his hand out, he gives a light nod to Edgar. "Holden. This is Gray." He takes a breath, eyes taking in the surroundings. Smoking helicopter, people screaming.
"Anyone 'ave a smoke?"
And then the bridge is shuddering. One foot goes forward to stabilize himself. His hand flings back to grab the back of the van. he frowns lightly. He looks to Gabriel as if to say what did you do?
Holy eyebrows.
Perhaps helped along by the buckling of the bridge, Edgar stumbles back a pace when Gabriel's finely chiseled visage looms into view. Christ he's tall. Bastard. He probably doesn't look as good in a dress though. There's a talent to that. A small blur happens where Edgar's face is supposed to be when he's forced to split his attention between that guy with the eyebrows and the one who made the strawberry jam and two bodies in the back of the van.
"Smythe," Edgar replies to the introduction, taking the offered hand and giving a firm shake. It's a manly shake. "Sorreh, don' smoke. Wife'd prob'ly 'ave my knackers wi' milk if I picked up the 'abit." Ethan's attempt to stabilize himself on the bridge is accompanied by a sharp whistle of high velocity as the speedster disappears. Then one by one the bystanders begin disappearing too, only to reappear on solid ground. Children first, then women, then innocent men… Then finally Ethan is hefted into a fireman carry for a split second before being put down again. "Sorry 'bout tha'… 'ang on." And back for Gabriel.
Under the weight of cars, trucks, and at least one van, the length of bridge that extends from Roosevelt Island's supports to Manhattan begins to sage, sliding with a scream of metal and crumbling concrete its sheared edge down the surface of the forcefield. The air is quick to thicken with dust, obscuring smoke, people climbing out of their cars and stampeding back for the Queens side, screams piping up through the cacophony. The braver of the citizens try to haul the injured out from their cars crumpled up near the forcefield, at least, until Super Edgar blurs into their lives
The collapse is gradual, too giant and too much to happen quickly — just inevitable. The entire length of road begins to list left, tipping as it descends.
Unperturbed in contrast to the rush of people just prior, Gabriel turns his back where Edgar made a blur with Ethan off into the sunset safety, moving to step up onto the hood of a car to watch the destruction happen, the subtle glow of where the bridge is intersected with the forcefield, despite being in the middle of it.
"Well y'ought to punch your wife in the mouth." Ethan says ever so eloquently. And then Edgar is blurring off. Holden pivots slightly to Gabriel, his mouth sagging open as he gets ready to speak and then…
"'e seems friendly…" But when it's said Ethan is somewhere else. Gabriel is not visible and he has the distinct feeling that he was just manhandled. Ethan frowns deeply bringing a finger up as if to argue something. But there's no one there. Except for random weirdos… Who are all staring at him just because he has chains hanging from his wrist. Holden purses his lips ffor a moment. "I…" Holden tilts his head somewhat. It is now that he starts to realize what's going on. His eyes searching the surrounding chaos. A light frown pulls down on his lips.
He might have a suggestion for Gabriel and Edgar if they were around. But instead the escaped convict is turning to face the saved crowd. "Smoke, anyone?"
Edgar's never too far away from Ethan's words, if only because he's dropping off people around the other Brit every other one. There's too many people and not enough time and it might catch Gabriel by surprise when he's barrelled into at the waist as the carnie hefts him over one shoulder. Rather than cup a cheek with his other hand to balance the man he's carrying, Edgar opts for the back of the man's knees as he begins to run…
He's tempted fate one too many times as gravity wins the chicken race and the speedster (with Gabriel over one shoulder) begins leaping from car to car, gaining momentum until he reaches the barrier itself and explodes to full velocity. Gabriel's so lucky that his escape to safety is sideways… along the invisible wall itself and marked by a streak of blue as Edgar's footprints fade a little too slowly to be completely invisible.
His luck only lasts for a few seconds though, before he's deposited next to Ethan (who is currently asking for a cigarette) and a pack is thrust into his hand by the juggler who just didn't happen to pay for them on his way by.
Hrrgh.
That isn't something Gabriel ever wants to do again.
Not unless he's doing the running.
The survivors gather Queens-side, and Gabriel is the last, staggering back from Edgar with legs like jelly beneath him, a hand out just in time to catch himself before he can completely faceplant. Black, silver-streaked hair mussed windblown if not quite enough to obscure his identity, but— Abraham Lincoln, Justin Beiber, Edward Cullen and all five Spice Girls could be here in attendance and no one would notice, never mind the Midtown Man fighting back the urge to puke.
They are watching the final collapse of the Manhattan-side bridge, vehicles sliding into the water and blooming white waves that swallow them whole, people trapped inside, some falling independent as both levels crumple and break off, plummeting into shallow and deep river alike. It's loud and makes the ground quake from here, but it's nothing compared to the level of noise and destruction from Eileen's point of view, even behind the safety of the glass wall.
Dust obscures her view in a thick wall of grey and brown, mixing to mud where the water laps up against the forcefield, higher and choppier than the more sedate currents of the river on her side.
"Oh ello." Ethan greets as Edgar and Gabriel return. The pack that was very kindly slapped into his palm is opened up. Holden gives a light smirk over at Edgar as he slips a cigarette out. "Nice little trick y'ave there." He lets his voice be affected by admiration slightly. Glancing over his shoulder he gives a light shrug. "I don't s'ppose you could find a lighter." The cigarette is placed on his lips, the pack tucked into his jacket.
Glancing at the collapsing bridge, a low whistle is let out. "Where is she?" Holden asks of Gabriel. It's not very hard to figure out who she is.
Somewhere in the wreck of twisted metal and concrete, amidst bodies with the resilience of wet tissue paper when pitted against several thousand tons of steel and crumbling rock, Eileen imagines Gabriel and Ethan must be, and while Gabriel's superhuman durability gives him an edge, he has no defense against drowning, and this time she sees no boats to fish him out of the water and exchange his memories for a new name and lease on life.
It's difficult to be optimistic. Harder, though, to abandon the destruction, knowing that there's always a chance no matter how slight, even though she can't feel him anymore, even though she knows there's no way either of them could have moved fast enough to escape the collapse or the churning waters below.
She moves through the crowd of bystanders watching by the river's edge, using the press of other people the same way her falcon had used the gray sky and blustering snow as camouflage. The military will respond soon. Eileen needs not to be out in the open when they do.
Patting down his pockets, Edgar finally just shakes his head and is gone for just a blink of an eye before a packet of matches lands in Ethan's outstretched hand. Of all the people that could be here without being noticed (including the Midtown Man), Edgar wouldn't have a clue and would probably still turn to watch the descent of the bridge while his breath stops along with the screams of the people still trapped. His head lowers for a full minute while the air rushes up through the water in a boil of white foamy bubbles, a final resting place for everyone he couldn't save.
Clearing his throat, he glances down the street and sniffs in a long breath. He wasn't being sentimental and womanly, honest. "I best be gettin' 'ome… You two live 'round 'ere then? You'll be good or you needin' a place outta…" He clears his throat as his eyes follow the blink of emergency lights across the river. "…y'can come wi' me if yeh like. My wife… she's a good sort." Finally, the speedster gives Gabriel a good long look and snaps his fingers. "Tha's it! She's go' a cat tha' looks like you… well least 'round the eyes, eh?"
"She…"
Cat, what? Blink. Gabriel is on his feet by the time the collapse is over, greyed hair smoothed back and standing a little still and wary as the clustered group of people begin to around, disperse into the thick of Queens. Those who would recognise him probably don't think of cats, but he's fortunate. They are more or less too shell shocked to give a shit. "We were standing next to the pillars when we left," he gravels out to Ethan, squinting. "It don't think— it— happened that far. The bridge stops over the water— "
The explosion that happens far south-west of them halts his report, turning to glance towards where an explosion, almost exactly the same as the one they'd witnessed with the aircraft, transpires roughly above where the Suresh Centre lies on the southern end of Roosevelt Island. It creates a smear of smoke and soot that hovers not unlike the dust cloud, and a murmur of unease ripples through the crowd around them.
"It goes around," Gabriel mutters absently, turning, his eyes only seeing sky and space instead of Eileen — or more accurately, the invisible thing that now seals them on this patch of land. "Look." He nods towards where smoke, another fire, kicks up vaguely north, along yet another invisible, glass-like surface that extends up and up into the sky.
A small match lights up and is brough to the cigarette. Catching flame the match is shaken and tossed down. A light glance is tossed over to Edgar in thanks. "We're not from around 'ere." Holden mumbles. Cat? That gets a doubletake from Ethan as well. Wha. But then Gabriel is talking about how his daughter was here.
The man manages to keep enough composure so that the cigarette does not fall out of his mouth.
Ethan takes a step forward as if it will help his eyes catch sight of Eileen. Bringing his hand up he holds the cigarette firmly, bringing it out of his mouth. Smoke floods out through his nostrils. "Can y'get through it?" Whatever it is. Holden stares at the it that poses the problem. If anyone could get through it, it would probably be the Midtown Man. Or Harry Potter. But he's not available.
"Sh'better be alright." He growls, looking up over his shoulder to the fire. To the explosions. To all this crazy shit. "Y'know anyone this strong?"
The word strong has Edgar instinctively flexing his biceps. Thankfully his hands are tucked low into the pockets of his worn down cordouroy pants, so he's not acting the part of a man of Muscle Beach. Instead it just looks like his pecs are dancing up and down, up and down, in counter time with each other. All the while, he's absently watching fires and explosions rock the tiny island he's been calling home. There's a scowl on his face and more than just the ominous dome is standing his fauxhawk up on end.
"'oo's she?" He idly asks the other Briton and the too tall guy with the eyebrows. To Gabriel's observation of the dome, Edgar nods. "Yeh, s'a full sphere 'round the place… I could take'yeh on a run eff yeh like." Judging by how well he took the last run, the guy that looks like Gabriel (the cat) probably won't take him up on his generous offer. "I best be goin' 'ome, make sure Lydia's a'righ'… I don' like 'er bein' alone when there's thin's goin' on tha' could 'urt 'er." And it happens all too often in their lifetime together.
"No," Gabriel says in a tone that is not definite enough to imply that no one could be this strong — he just doesn't know them personally. Having harnessed the power that destroyed New York City, even if he didn't actually get around to the deed itself, he has little inclination to make assumptions. Some people have the power to make flowers smell like cookies. Others end civilisations and break the backs of functional countries. "I have a phasing ability. Wu-Long's power. Liette's power. That is, if something doesn't give first."
Either the power being generated to cause this thing, or the people inside it. One or the other. He looks towards Edgar, a contemplative glance up and down, and then a small smile of realisation before he glances back to Ethan. "I'll find you." And then, he's off to go check things out—
In a blur of superspeed that Edgar is used to being his own, kicking up wind in his wake as he zooms off for where the nearest smoke smears the underside of the barrier.
"That's m'boy." Ethan lets out giving a jut of his chin after Gabriel. He half turns to face Edgar. "'E's fuckin' my daughter." He smiles lightly over at the other man. Pulling the cigarette out again he lets out another puff through his nose. As Gabriel runs off, Ethan starts to think about his power envy again. "Everyone I'm fuckin' related to is evolved. Why can't I shoot lightning from me cock?" Holden groans turning his back to the dome. "Where are y'put up, Smythe?"
"Ichi'ara books, m'wife's shop. Ain't much fer bus'ness these days, bu' no'one's comin' teh this island no mores 'cause'a the checkpoint. Ev'n m'wife's employees, eh? They don' show up anymores." Edgar's still staring after the blur that disappeared. "'E's an empath then?" He says to Ethan, assuming something of Gabriel that may or may not be true but he does recognize that his own ability has been adopted by the stranger.
He curses suddenly, looking at his own empty hands for a moment before glancing at Ethan. "You goin'teh walk then, or you wan'teh lif'? 'Cause I fergo' I's s'pose'teh go ge' milk n' eggs…"