One Of Us, One Of Us


amadeus_icon.gif doyle2_icon.gif elle4_icon.gif howard_icon.gif

Scene Title One Of Us, One Of Us
Synopsis On the shores of Queens, under the shelter of the Dome, enemy territory is invaded in a battle of the freaks.
Date February 4, 2011

The Dome: Queens, outside the Brick House

The sunset is becoming redder, every night that it falls. From within the Dome, it seems to bleed out from the conventional shape that sunsets create; a strange, oily kind of spill that washes over and appears more brilliant than it is through the increasingly dirtying walls of the dome. The higher up, the filthier it is, a kind of grainy glaze that doesn't obscure, just distorts and shades, minorly. Soon it will be night time, and it's never really very quiet — the sounds of shouts, of bangs in the night, Queens becoming something of a wild place in contrast to the sleepy sliver of island yonder.

If there are stars emerging in the dusk, it can't be seen through the murkiness of the Dome's rooftop, smog from the inside and snow from the outside in reverse snowglobe effect. The Brick House, with its sealed off entrances and clandestine underground tunnel, is a stalwart, historic figure on the coast of Queens, not so far from the centre of the dome itself. Out on the river, there are a couple of lights — two boats in total, one of the rescue vessels hauled across Roosevelt Island to navigate the waters between it and Queens, and the other renegade vessel that had carried away Malcolm, Claire, and the other injured not so long ago.

Not so long ago. It's going on a week, now, since the Dome went up.

Moving down the main road that edges along the coast of the river, passes by the Brick House to duck under the Queensboro Bridge, a pack of men are moving. Mostly men, anyway, eight in total, and one has an arm around the solitary woman in the group who mostly just seems tired and frightened in contrast to the determined march of the pack. Near jovial banter is audible down the mostly abandoned street, save for the two or three who seem to direct the group onwards.

The latest batch of supplies that've been scavenged was being carried to the hidden entrance in the ruined lot behind the Brick House when the sounds of banter and conversation were heard; wary of revealing the cellar doors hidden beneath brambles and weeds, the supplies have been stashed in a similar copse of overgrowth until they're past.

Eric Doyle crouches a bit behind a crumbled bit of wall, fingers resting atop it, that plaid newsboy cap perched atop his head and the faux glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. Suspicious — some might say paranoid — he watches from his little hiding spot, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

One goes wild when they're in a dome of lawlessness, apparently. Amadeus has been doing his best to survive, wearing a pair of black Chucks, blue jeans, and an expensive leather coat with red AC/DC letters painted on. Around his neck is a heap of jewelry to rival Mister T, and strapped to his back is a black yankees bat bag along with a brown backpack full of food.

His face also has some red paint, three red marks on each side of his cheeks like claw scratches, and a machete in his right hand. He started stalking Doyle about a block ago. Best to befriend the fat man for when the food runs out and they have to resort to cannibalism.

And in turn, Elle Bishop has been stalking Amadeus for about a block. She was rummaging around somewhere, for something, when she saw the machete-wielding youth start following the companion who, while she'd love to fry his brains (quite literally), has been useful during this time. Maybe even tolerable, after he stopped doing his puppet thing on her.

She isn't armed; in fact, she looks rather paltry. A bit dirty, she stole clothes after wearing the same outfit for two days straight. It wasn't too difficult to find clothing in her size; after the stores were looted, she went in and took her own wardrobe home. It's a cute one, too! Lots of skimpy clothing. Why she needs such skimpy clothing is anyone's guess. Probably because it's more comfortable on the girl who runs much hotter than most humans, and thus has less trouble with the cold.

Currently, she's wearing a low-cut v-neck top, a pair of jeans, and a cute pair of fuzzy boots. At least she's dressing in style while she's trapped here. Quietly, she follows behind Amadeus, thoughtfully watching the strangely dressed young man as she all but hunts him.

It becomes clear to Doyle, and anyone else watching this pack of youths, that rather than continuing on down the road, they're headed for the Brick House. They aren't unarmed, either, in a sort of zombie apocolypse assortment of tools — a couple of crowbars dangle from gloved fists, someone else wielding a long handled mallet, the thick blunt end spun around in rhythm. A fire axe is resting light against a burly shoulder, and someone else—

Well. Someone else just picks up a rock.

"Hey!" barks harsh through the relative peace of the immediate setting, and a wicked overarm sends the rock hurling for where one of the windows is sheeted over with plastic, the roadside face of the Brick House ever made to look abandoned. The rock disappears through the gap, taking a tear of plastic sheeting with it, and rattling around upstairs. "We know you're in there! Come out and play, or we'll burn the place the fuck down!"

Hyena cackles from the group, tickled by this comment. "You got any beer?" is called out in frat boy dopey affect. None of these men look below thirty, dressed in an assortment of winter layers for all that the Dome blocks both snow and wind chill.

Doyle's eyes narrow as the small group approaches the faux-abandoned structure. "Damn," he murmurs, "Guess I haven't been as quiet as I thought." It's easy to get overconfident with the streets so quiet as they are, after all. He judges the threat they post for a few more moments, chewing on his lower lip as he takes in the crowbars, the sledgehammer, the axe. He raises a hand…

…then lowers it. No, he can't just resort to his ability like that. He has to try the other way first.

"H-hey! You kids!" A shout as he straightens from behind that bit of wall, "Get away from there! That— " Thinkthinkthink, "— that place is haunted!"

Amadeus grips his machete tightly when the mob shows up, a bit oblivious to Elle trailing him. He has to befriend the fat one, so it's best to turn around and face the group. "Hey, we ain't got nothin' you need in there, but I got everything you need right here."

He lowers the machete and turns around, slipping his backpack off to sit it on the ground. And when he turns back to the group, standing up straight, he holds up a bag full of pot. "I grow my own supplies in hidden places all over the city, you leave this place alone and come see me, and I'll hook you up." He tosses the bag to the group, then grabs his backpack and machete again.

Elle frowns, first at the group of people, then at Doyle telling them that the place is haunted, then at the crazy stoner kid who is throwing marijuana at the kids. Note to self, steal his drugs. She didn't bring enough pot, and has been out for the past few days. And quite irritable, as well— poor Doyle has been 'accidentally' kicked in the shin or 'accidentally' had his toes stomped on more than a few times. Payback for the fact that she had to use a shirt to clean up her bloody forehead and it's probably going to heal a bit on the ugly side after he split her stitches.

Quietly, Elle moves closer to the Brick House, making sure she is well hidden in the bushes, where she can't see them.

For a moment, Elle just takes a deep breath, and hopes that the group isn't armed. Then, she promptly lets out the eeriest ghost-shriek that she can manage, promptly sending a few of her particle beams up into the sky where everyone can see them. Ghosts shooting beams of light into the sky, oh my! "OOooooOOOOOOooOOOOooooo~!"

The one that threw the rock reaches back and takes fire axe from his companion as Doyle calls out, the group turning from the face of the house to squint towards the wall. There's a snicker of cynicism from a few of the pack, rippling through them. "I'll take ghosts with my food, guy. You better come out here before we try to find you, okay?" is all he gets out, axe raised aloft like he might bring it down on something, before negotiations are opened up, and a bag of dope is thrown their way.

Well then.

"Hey, uh. Maybe we should think about— "

"Yeah, and what's gonna happen when you get the munchies? What're you gonna eat, melted snow, dumb fuck? Hey." Axe-wielder jerks his chin up, taking a few long steps towards Amadeus. He eyes the machete, less intimidated than he is satisfied. "If you want to roll with us, that's cool, but we— " And then there's a banchee.

One of them glances towards where that ghostly howl winds up through the silence, squinting towards the particle beams with his crowbar held loosely in both hands, head tilted as negotiations come to a halt. He thwak-thwaks the bar against open palm until the howl dies down, and glances back towards the more leader-like head of the pack. At the sight of the glimmering light in the air, the group's mood seems to change. It's not fear. Just hostility. Because—


"You think you mutants can scare us off with your Evo bullshit, you fuckin' freaks?" is growled out from crowbar number one, as he and a friend break off from the group as they stomp through long-melted snow, turned to so much muddy slush under their feet. "I'll take off your head and see if you grow a new one, bitch, get out here!" A hand reaches out, intending to grab arm, hair, clothing — whatever it finds in the brush to drag her out and into the open.

Sigh. Doyle tried. That's enough, right? He tried, but they had to keep waving around their weapons and then spitting out racist rhetoric on top of everything else. After so long reclusive with the kids, and on the island, he'd forgotten how much that sort of thing actually sticks.

Sticks and stones, though, as he taught one of the younger children at the Lighthouse to say after Lance said something mean to them. Sticks and stones.

And crowbars.

As the one man reaches towards the brush where Elle's hiding, his hand sweeps back— and he reaches out with his ability to take control of his companion's arm, to sweep the crowbar back through the air. And then bring it down towards that outstretched arm. No touch the blonde. She's his blonde. Even if she has some atrocious hair dye in right now.

"Yeah, see, I hang around with you guys and when the food runs out, I'm like the first one who gets eaten. And you guys ain't got moanin' chicks. So I'm just gonna show, like, a fuckin' grand stand, to show that I ain't fuckin' around." Amadeus then swings the machete up, trying to clean cut the axe wielder's arm off from the armpit up. "Don't fuck with a collections guy. IRS, internal rippin' your fuckin' arm off service."

As they reach in, Elle is thankful that her parents gave her such a tiny stature— it's easy for her to shrink down and away from their groping hands. And all of this— it just makes her angry. Really, really angry. Which is probably why there's a smell like clothes in a dryer coming from the bush that they're groping around in to try and find Elle.

It's also probably why she's aiming both hands at their feet which are so easy to spot beneath the brush. And probably why the bush is beginning to glow. "Get the fuck away from me, or I will burn you and give you fucking cancer." The voice that comes from the bush is pleasant, charming almost, carried with that facetious little smile she wears when she's in fight mode.

She's bluffing about the cancer, but they don't know that.

While Doyle is helping her out with Crowbar guy, she's aiming one of those glowy bits right at the grabby fellow's crotch. "Have some TESTICULAR CANCER." If that region survives at all.

She'll have to avoid 'accidentally' stepping on Doyle's toes for a day or two after tonight.

And violence is breaking loose.

The crowbar cracks across limb, companion giving an augh as he staggers off, gripping fractured forearm to his chest, shocked whitening the weapon holder's face when he realises that his arm is no longer in control of his own self. Frozen— literally and metaphorically, arm locked in the sweep of its momentum— he gives a startled yell at searing heat coming blistering from the bushes towards the crotch of the man already suffering a broken arm. "No! Fuck!" he rages, as the other man falls back, a scream piercing through the coming night as flame licks up over scorched black denim.

The machete whips through the air, giving the axe wielder a split second to respond. He jerks back, only for the machete to clip his jaw and send his head reeling back on his neck, blood bright. He reacts fast, though — you don't get to be the leader of a post-apocolyptic group without some balls of your own, and the axe cuts through the air in a lethal arc aimed straight for Amadeus' head. No fucking around, as implied. A friend joins in, straight charging to Amadeus to take him down, hands empty.

With a stagger, the solitary woman of the group staggers back as the man who'd been holding her around the waist is moving straight for Doyle's hiding place, maybe the remotely smarter of the pack— he, after all, has the girl— and figuring that Evos only got one power, and machete dude is a bit distracted—

The mallet is held aloft as he charges, swinging sledgehammer hard enough to crack skulls.

The three hanging back jitter, stepping forward, rocking back on their heels, like dogs waiting to see an opening to lunge. This has escalated from rabble-rousing to murder about as fast as anyone could have estimated, and blood in the air is somewhat intoxicating to certain personality types. That he's ashamed to see familiar faces among the lot, Howard Phillips is more ashamed that he's on the wrong side of this altercation.

Free food, a warm bed to sleep in and security of not being on the receiving end of a fire-axe mugging made this make good sense. It made a lot more sense than getting himself stuck in here. Right up until he started recognizing people the gang was harassing. Amongst the three hanging back, Howard's skinyn frame is draped in a too-large hooded sweatshirt stolen from the last group of unfortunates this gang had sorted out. Hood up and sleeves down over his hands, Howard practically swims in the gray sweater.

When he sees the man next to him about to run in when it looks like they might have the advantage of numbers on Amadeus, things take a turn. The only other person with a crowbar here, aside from the one that Doyle is manhandling remotely, starts to move, only to be intercepted by Howard. The thug skids to a stop, eyes wild and confused when Howard interposes himself, more confused when Howard grabs a hold of the crowbar. Not to jerk it out of his hands, mind, but to—

"Augh!" Electricity snaps down the metal crowbar from Howard's hand, and beneath the shadows of his hood his irises glow a faint blue, like sapphire rings. The thug jerks back, dropping the crowbar with a metallic clang on the asphalt, smoke coming from his burned hands. Howard's jaw is set tight, tears well up in his eyes. It hurts.

Snorting back and away from the pain, Howard watches as that thug scrambles back and away from Howard, his hands shaking, skin bubbling as blisters begin to form. Howard turns to the last of the stragglers, electricity snapping between his fingers like miniature Jacob's ladders. The young man drops his hammer with a clatter and breaks off into a run. Howard's hand closes tightly, snuffing out the electricity and blue glow from his palm before he turns to look back over his shoulder to the others.

Why of everyone in the city, did the gang have to rob this group? It's just his goddamned luck.

It's the same situation that, last time Doyle was a in a serious fight, resulted in him near-eviscerated; his focus on one enemy while the other moved at a blurring speed to slice a blade through his stomach. He tends to be a bit focused of a man, and that's one of his man weaknesses.

Unfortunately for the man with the sledgehammer, he doesn't have the speed his last adversary had. And Eric isn't so angry that he's seeing red this time.

A sweep of his hand leaves the man that he was wielding like a remote weapon standing still like a puppet on stilled strings, his other hand dancing up with a puppet master's art to seize control of the malletman's arms… and keep them swinging back. Feet moving forward, heavy sledgehammer back, well— inertia should take care of the rest.

"A freak am I?" A laugh, cold, rings out in the night, lips curving in a mirthless smile, "We'll see who the freak is…"

With Crowbar guy frozen under her chubby companion's spell, and other guy fairly incapacitated with a burning irradiated crotch and a broken arm, Elle feels safe to emerge from her spot in the bushes, crawling out; one hand still glows with that unearthly light, even as she's making a grab for the crowbar. Her heavy iron stick, now. She'll at least look a little intimidating with one.

Then, she's aiming a strike from the crowbar at its former owner's knee, a scowl on her face. "I am not a freak!" Another strike is aimed at his side. "I am a person just like you, so you can go fuck yourself with some broken ribs and a broken leg."

Then, the tiny radioactive woman is scurrying away from the man she just assaulted. While she still has her glowy beam thing active, she might as well shoot it off; indeed, once she's certain that she's got a good shot, she's aiming that burning beam right at Axe-man's chest, once Amadeus is on the ground.

Then, she just kind of stops as she notices…Howard. He's one of the thugs? Really?! The guy who saved her life is palling around with a bunch of thugs? Ohhh, she's going to have to slap him for this. If Doyle or stoner boy doesn't kill him first. At least he seems to have switched sides.

A street fight takes a turn for the Evo, and the woman that was with the ones on team homo sapien finds herself backing away, holding no allegiance to any of these people. Not the mutant freaks attacking the men she was with, nor the men that herded her along for goodness knows how long. That she looks starved, a little weak, a little injured, probably speaks volumes — but she's turning to run, anyway, to disappear into the thick of Queens, and she does not follow the direction of the others who are fleeing either.

Screams bark up into the sky as Elle strikes the man suffering terrible burns and arm injury with the crowbar, the young man cowering up into a ball of pain. His friend, locked at he is, has his eyes squeezed shut, cursing behind his teeth. He'd love to be running too.

There's a clang as the sledgehammer bounces off the ground from where the man who'd been charging Doyle is knocked back with the momentum of his own attack, giving a groan. His hand remains stiff around the long handle, though, and with a cry, he makes one last desperate swing to fling the weapon towards the large puppeteer.

The smell of burning flesh fills the air, the axe man staggering back where the machete bit some few inches into his arm, saturating his sleeve instantly with crimson. He gives a strangled yell at his shirt catches alight under the extreme heat, rolling on the ground and dragging his uninjured arm around to gathering melting snow to his chest.

The only person left fighting is the one rolling on the ground with Amadeus, the sound of body blows, soft impact of fists on cloth and sides, and then a harsh grunt of pain as a thumb drives into his eye socket, Amadeus suffering a hard punch to the jaw as the man he brawls with fights to get away.

Converse hightops tread across wet asphalt, runoff from snow beginning to melt splashing beneath each footfall. Reaching up hands covered by fingerless winter gloves, Howard draws back his hood as a crackling snap of electricity arcs across his temple and fizzles into his hair. One iris glows softly and then fades, the muscles in his cheek twitching.

Those sneakered feet tread right past where Amadeus and the last man fighting in the gang are brawling, the sounds of fists slapping bare skin, grunts and curses getting louder and then softer as Howard passes by the tangle of people. Steam wafts up off of Howard's hands, more so out of his nostrils and mouth as his purposeful and steady pace has him marching across the wet street towards Elle and Doyle. "What are you doing in here!?" Howard accusingly shouts at Elle, raising both his hands up in a helpless gesture.

"You're not supposed to— " The young man arrests his rapid forward movement, fingers curling into fists and brows furrowing. His tongue rolls against the inside of his bottom lip, words swallowed down bitterly. "Let's go," Howard snaps his fingers, jerking his head away from the direction of the Brick House, heedless of the fact that Amadeus is still kicking the shit out of someone behind him that— up until about five minutes ago was Howard's buddy.

Then there's also Doyle.


The puppeteer's hand closes upon the air firmly — keeping the desperately flailing gangbanger that's trying to throw a sledgehammer at him from letting go which should effectively limit quite how far he gets. Whether or not the momentum ends up breaking the man's arm isn't exactly Eric's worry at the moment. Sure, he could just have left the man effectively paralysed.

It's just more fun when they thrash around.

A frown purses his lips as he notices the girl escaping, then, leaving the one man with legs and hand not working to struggle against his own defiant muscles as he brings a hand up as if catching her in a butterfly net. The unseen strings are more gentle as he brings her to a halt and starts walking her back towards him, smirking unpleasantly as he does so.

Howard's chattering it up with Elle, so he assumes they know each other. Besides. He has toys to play with.

Amadeus is quite sick of taking blows, starting to kick the man away so he can run as desired, and scrambles up with his machete to start rushing over to Doyle. "Hey, I'm an evo dude too, I just can't use my ability 'cause of the flu last year. I got my card and all. I got pot and some food in my backpack."

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Snow boots lined with fake fur stomp through the slush and the snow, carrying Elle to meet Howard halfway, her hands clenched at her side as she gets closer to him. Closer, closer— until she comes to a stop only a foot or so away from the taller blonde man with electric abilities seemingly not unlike the ones that she has. She stands there for a moment, scowling up at the man.

Then, she aims a light punch that is definitely not intended to hurt at Howard's chest. "You asshole! I asked you to wait for me and you just disappeared?!" She digs into her oversized purse, pulling out the jacket he left with her. "That was totally not cool." She's still hugging that jacket to her chest, frowning up at Howard.

"What do you mean, I'm not supposed to? What? Be here? Be out? What?" She frowns. "Where are we going?" She doesn't seem to mind that Doyle is distracted, though that poor lady…but that's totally not her problem. She doesn't much like her companion, and her posturing states that she will quite happily follow Howard away from here.

There's a scrabble of boots against the street as the man fighting Amadeus realises that he's the last man there and doesn't care enough to make a stand. He's taking off, short of Doyle's puppet strings snaring him as it it snares the girl. She's immediately screaming, hysterical fear as her body moves against her own will, reversing as dictated. "No no no! Let me go! Help! SOMEONE!" screeches banchee, more wrenchingly terrifying than Elle could ever hope to fake if only because it's genuine.

Mallet bounces off a shin. The man who'd been trying to throw it gives a near animal yelp of pain. Three in total ensnared by the puppet master, variably screaming, groaning in pain, or hissing curses.

No one comes to help. All the police are across the river and beyond the border.

Howard's blue eyes tick down to Elle's hand at his chest, then up to the tiny blonde. "Here," Howard grates through clenched teeth. "Stop being such a fucking spaz, you're embarrassing." Turning to look back over at the screams there's a visible detachment from what's going on in Howard's features, in the way that someone in shock can stagger away from a car acident and not react to the twisted metal and fire around them. In times like this, Howard always has a certain sense of distance from the situation. A touch of long-term shock.

"We're leaving," doesn't seem to include anyone else when Howard forcibly grabs Elle's arm by the wrist and yanks her forward, his shoes treading back across the asphalt, brows furrowed and blue eyes looking back towards Elle as he goes about pulling her along. "Before anyone notices we're leaving, unless you wanna' be here when the ones that ran off come back with their friends."

Howard isn't entirely certain that they even have any more friends, but it's a bet he isn't willing to take. Always count on there being more to a pack of wild animals than you'd seen. He knows what being one is like first hand.

"Oh," Eric rolls his eyes, "Shush."

A snap of his hand like a gator's maw closes the girl's mouth, and he goes about cleaning up his mess; which is to say, getting everyone that's still here on their feet with broad sweeps of his hands like a conductor's baton. Amadeus gets an absent nod and a 'shut up, I'm working' sort of look as he rushes over to identify himself. "Now," he says with a broad smile, "About this little business of you trying to kill us all when we were just… minding our own business. It's not polite, it's…"

H-hey. Where are Elle and that guy going? "Hey! Bishop!"

On one hand, it's rather nice to have her companion's attention on someone other than herself. Doyle is a really creepy guy, Elle is the first person who will point out as much. But still…she can't help but cringe at that scream that the woman lets out, setting her teeth on edge. She turns, scowling at Doyle for a moment. Why's he gotta do this shit.

She almost says something to Doyle. Then, Howard is grabbing her and yanking her away. She glances back at the scene…and decides that she really would rather be hanging out with rude electric boy who seems to be her mysterious guardian angel who shows up when she needs him most, than with fat puppeteer and druggie boy. The company just seems so much more favorable, really.

She glances over at her shoulder, and smiles to Doyle. "I'll come back later! Just a bit of unfinished business!" This is said in a candy-sweet tone, with a little raise of her eyebrows to add an implication of something that really doesn't exist. She even manages to make it look like she's holding Howard's hand.

Aside to Howard in a hushed tone, Elle says, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"I'll get the hot chick back." Amadeus says when Doyle calls out to her, and he's carrying the bloody machete with him. "Hey, dick cheese! Let the hot chick go or I'm gonna start swingin'. Don't think I ain't chop happy, I know how to survive in this kinda thing."

High pitched whines still emit from behind the girl's closed mouth, casting wide eyed, terrified looks to the injured 'gentlemen' she came here with, who mostly stare mute and overtly disgusted at what's happening to them. It was supposed to be simple. Steal the food. Burn the place. Fuck some bitches.

Live to pillage another day.

Tension braces Howard's posture as he hesitates on departure, just long enough to consider the appearance of the young woman that Doyle is keeping locked in place, screaming behind a mouth that refuses to open. Blue eyes track to Amadeus, then up to the sky where the shadow of snow settled atop the dome looks like a dark, heavy cloud that refuses to move from the sky.

Worry crosses Howard's face, briefly, and as he looks back to the other two trying to recouperate, whatever it is he was reconsidering passes. Another tug is given to Elle's arm, ad Howard's fingers curl into the olive-drab sleeve of that jacket. "Follow me," he orders with a terse tone of voice, crossing over the wet street to the other side at a hurried pace. "Don't ask any fuckin' questions, don't ask me where we're going, an' don't fuckin' talk to anyone."

It's not kidnapping if they come willingly.

Right. They'll be right back. Of course they will. Eric's lips purse in a tight line as he regards Elle's departure, glancing to the Brick House, then back again after them. His lower lip's worried between his teeth, and then he lets out a frustrated sigh through his nose, looking back towards his captives.

A hand lifts, fingers opening as he releases the girl's jaw muscles. "You," he says bluntly, a brow lifting, "You with these guys willingly?" She looked kind of like she was being forcibly dragged along, after all. "Don't lie, either. I'm in your head. I'll know." //He/ can lie, though.

Frowning back at the scene for one brief moment as Howard has his moment of hesitation, Elle pondering over the options one last time. She should probably stay by the safehouse— Doyle is Ferry, after all…but she rather likes her chances with Howard a hell of a lot better. At least he doesn't have the ability to wrench control of her body and ability away from her.

A scowl is cast toward Amadeus. Hot chick? That's all she is? Not 'the girl who saved his life'?

Shaking her head, she follows along after Howard quite willingly. Nope, definitely not being kidnapped here. She even deigns to follow his orders, keeping her mouth shut for the time being. She'll ask her questions whenever they get to wherever it is he's taking her. His bossy orders chased Sylar off last time— maybe he'll keep her alive through all of this insanity with this huge dome ordeal, as well.

"I don't think that chick's gonna come back." Amadeus says as he thumbs over at Elle walking off, and starts heading back for Doyle. The woman gets a raised eyebrow, and he reaches into his pocket for a joint, holding it out to Doyle's new captive. "Smoke this, you'll feel better."

"No," flies out the girl's mouth even with the threat of telepathic lie detection, a relieved exhale that issues steam into the air, her muscles straining against where the puppetry otherwise holds her. "No, I'm not, they just said they'd help me but they w-wouldn't— they wouldn't— I wasn't allowed— " They are difficult words to get out of her mouth, especially with resentful stares cast towards her from the men she'd come here with her.

She flicks a glance to the joint, then, stuttered, near-hysterical words coming to a halt. Not exactly disgusted at the prospect of smoking a little pot, fingers twitching on the ends of stuck arms before she summons enough dignity to cast a scathing look towards the face-painted young man.

Eventually, Elle and Howard are just shadows between buildings, and the blonde vanishes through a cloud of steam venting up through a sewer grate into the dark of unlit spaces between buildings and the long shadows of afternoon. Clear skies may prevail at the moment, but more snow is on the way for the weekend. One storm after another, it's almost like a metaphor for New York City as a whole.

Night on Roosevelt Island is darker now, too. With the dome having severed power lines, the dark of night is a consuming thing, swallowing up all light within the dirty walls of the dome. Snow is melting across the sidewalks and tensions run so feverishly high. Blood on asphalt and snow is proof enough of that, and by the time the city goes dark when the sun sets, Howard Phillips will be a ghost in its concrete and brick embrace with Elle at his heels.

He's no stranger to these streets, living in them, being embraced by their cold and indifferent architecture. When Howard goes to ground, not even the rats can find him. Maybe if he stays there this time, he doesn't have to come back out.

Not for a while, anyway.

"I didn't think so." The fact that she was running a different way than the others was a bit of a clue, there. Doyle gives his hand a shake as if brushing something off it, and the girl's muscles are hers to command once more; tensed shoulders slumping back down, her stance melting back to something a little less stiff. "You're free to go. Or you can stay with us, I guess, but I'm guessing this is where you run from the 'evo freaks'…"

A roll of the man's eyes, and then he looks to the weapon-bearing racists with a smirk, "As for you— well. We can use some labour around here. If you're lucky, I'll remember to feed you. Come along."

He turns to march back along behind the building, bringing his toy soldiers with him. "Come on. You know the song. Left… left… left right left…" The girl - and Amadeus - are left to do as they will.

"I'm goin' with you, I'm gonna go get my van in the morning. You comin', chick?" Amadeus asks of the woman, following behind Doyle as he slips the joint into his own mouth, reaching into his pocket for a lighter. "I'm gonna take over this dome."

Thank you is whispered — and probably not to Doyle. God, maybe. Fate. The girl hugs herself tight and watches Amadeus and Doyle head away, clearly tempted towards maybe yet another power group to tag along with, and this time willingly — but fear gives in, and she turns with the intent to leave. "Good luck," is murmured in the wake of Amadeus's claim, or again, maybe not to him — maybe to the two gentlemen beneath Doyle's influence, enjoying for themselves what was, in some ways, done to her. She leaves at a brisk clipping pace, head down, direction nearly random.

The sun greases its light down the western most wall of the Dome, rendered into oily brindle patterns through the increasingly filthy lens. Another night descends, in preparation for yet another fishbowl morning.

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