"Ordinary" Heroes


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Scene Title "Ordinary" Heroes
Synopsis An accident caused by ordinary means on the Brooklyn Bridge brings an ecclectic group of people together to act as both heroes and victims.
Date March 13, 2010

Brooklyn Bridge

Everything happened in what seemed like an instant. At least for everyone except one who can see the world in a single instant.

In the white-noise of stretched out time, a sound of bell chiming and wheels spinning can be heard between the two layers of traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge. The pedestrian path lays directly between them, mostly empty in this foul weather, leaving little for her to have to dodge. Colorful streamers trail out behind her as the bike pedals forward. The sun's frozen in place in the western edge of the sky, showing itself for only an instant as it peeks under the cloud cover and casts the last rays of cold sunlight along the bridge, catching light in the glistening ice that layers the metal railings all around. A sheen of ice has already begun to form, as the rain, both frozen and frozen falls down, hitting her face Odessa on the face as she moves outside of it all.

In the faint light, something else becomes readily apparent as she pedals on. Not everyone has had quite as easy a time in their travelling…

The bridge slick with fresh ice to add to the cold weather that's kept the concrete chilled for well over a week, has become a hazard. A city bus sits perpendicular to the traffic, a silver car having rammed into the door, the the driver frozen in place as he reaches to try and free his leg. A second car, a small blue one, is turned around, having spun in the street, leaving the driver smashed against the window, unconscious and bleeding, leaving the passanger without a means of transportation, or control…

A cab piles up behind it, slammed into the front, twisted slightly on the side, the cab driver face protected by an airbag, but his two passangers slammed hitting against the divider. A third private car, black, has hit the railing on the side, just between the numbers 41 and 43, airbag deployed to protect from the impact. Past the bus are more vehicles… A food truck has flipped onto it's side, a second cab, twisted around the glistening rails, the passanger door open, with a bleeding dark haired woman half hanging out of it.

The Manhattan bound lane appears to be at a standstill, even when time catches up, and the noises begin. Crying from the bus, pleas for help from the various vehicles… and the icy rain that masks the trinkling of gas onto the bridge.

Though Melissa's sharing a cab with Luke, she's been fairly quiet through the ride. That changes when her cab crashes, and she cries out as she goes SPLAT against the divider. She tried to bring her arms up to lessen the impact, but didn't get her hands up quite quickly enough. Her face is definitely going to be hurting for a while.

After the impact she slumps down, dazed, or perhaps unconscious for a moment, and she moans a moment later, trying to pull herself back up into the seat, not yet noticing the blood on her face from the smack against the divider. Instead she looks towards her companion. "Hey…you okay?" she asks, wincing a little as she moves to check him over for obvious injuries. "Remind me to avoid cabs during the winter…okay?"

It was a freak accident, ironically, that found Meredith on a bus bound for Brooklyn. Ferry business, of course, which she felt uniquely suited for for one reason or another. Picking one of the singular seats flush against the side of the bus near the front, the blonde was all but daydreaming when the impact of the car against the door rocked the bus and then another collision from behind. The impact smashed her entire right side against the wall and the glass and then toppled her along with multiple other passengers onto the floor.

Having hit her head against the glass, the blonde pyro lies prone along with the others. Though she's not exactly unconscious, her there's a large bruise already forming on the side of her head. Slowly, she groans and she tries to move one of her arms. That hurts too much and she gives a soft cry at the sudden sharp pain she feels. The other arm, however, is relatively uninjured and she gingerly brings it up to her head, as if to protect it from more impacts.
Luke was also being quiet, there not being much of a conversation going on between him and Melissa. Actually, he's got thos whole brooding silence thing going on, which changes to a shout of alarm as the cab smashes into something. He manages not to faceplant into the divider like Melissa did, but that just means he lets out a stream of obscenities colorful enough to make even your average New Yorker look impressed and/or blanch. "…camel cunt!" he finishes, then shoves at the door to try and get out. "I'm fine, you?" he growls at Melissa in annoyance.

It's just not fair. It's not fair, but Eric Doyle is used to life not being fair for him. The driver of the blue car wasn't under his own control at all, having been ensnared by the puppeteer's strings in an attempt to escape this city - the memories, the friends he doesn't think he deserves, the enemies he probably does. Maybe he could get a start at a better life somewhere far away, somewhere that nobody knows him.

Because that worked out so well the last time.

"D-damn it," Eric mutters as the vehicle finally comes to a halt, shaken and tossed about in his seatbelt harness, reaching down with fumbling fingers to unclasp it. The driver doesn't get much of a second glance, bleeding as he is against the dashboard, even as the portly puppeteer tries to open the side door, seemingly having trouble squeezing his girth between seat and door's edge.

Supposedly, this is what Logan gets for leaving work early. His silver car crinkling its nose up and into the door of a bus, and blearily, he can see through his windshield where ice and broken glass both has gathered at the juncture between it and hood, the movement of people in the larger vehicle his much more diminutive European machine has rammed into it, folding in doors like they were cardboard. "Je— zhuz," the former pimp groans as he settles his head back, hands clawing at the airbag that had puffed out on impact, about as uncomfortable as a sledgehammer and finally crumpling.

A windshield wiper curves up, and sprays rain, ice and glass off to the side, something Logan watches with a sort of quizzical surreality before— obligingly turning off his windshield wiper. It seems an easier task to solve than the pounding pain coming up from his right leg, and moves on to try and crack the door open.

The cab driver, extricating himself from the air bag, yells back at Melissa, "Not my fault, lady! I'm not one of those E-vo people with reactions like Spiderman or something!" he declares, rubbing his sore face from the rapid assault of the airbag. The cab is filled with the smell of the chemical propellants, and the man sneezes from the chalky dust as he pushes the bags out of his way.

Up toward the front, the door of the truck opens, and a couple of men climb up and tumble out, all in various states of injury.

"What happened?" shouts one to the other, and the other shakes his head tersely.

"I don't fuckin' know… is … Oh, God… Call 9-1-1!" This last is shouted at a nearby driver staring at the scene, ear to the cell phone.

Rachel looks across the ice and snow that her face is laying in, the Frontline operative in shock over what has happened to the cab that she was taking in. Pain lances through her body as she watches the pure dirty snow in front of her face take on the colour red as blood seeps from her body. She lets out a groan as she tries to move her right arm, but only manages to have another lance of pain shoot through her body. She struggles to remember what happened, her mind swimming as she can only remember a sudden need to teleport but everything just happened too quickly. Her left hand scrapes at the snow a little, as she struggles to crawl from the wreck.
ORDER: It is now your pose.

Pushing at the airbag that blew up in his face, Ryans lets out a huffs of air, his heart hammering in his chest with the adrenaline that came along with crash. A hand lifts to rub at his nose, which being that it isn't exactly small, smarts a little. His hand comes away bloody, he swipes the back of his hand across his nose, until he hears a quiet tinny voice, coming from around his feet, it some how can be heard over the hiss of air from the radiator.

"Daddy? You still there?"

He remembered now he was on the phone with his youngest, bending down with a bit of a groan,scar laced fingers, feel around for the phone until the tips bump into it. Picking it up, he squints at it, before putting it to his ear. "Honey? I'll call you back. No no. Just a little fender bender." Ryans' blue eyes squint out of the front of the car and the throughly crunched front end. "No, don't call Lucille. You know how she worries. Love you.. I will call you when I get home." The phone is then, shut on the high pitched yelling. He is certain he will hear all about it later.

The old company agent, tucks the cellphone in his inner jacket pocket while he glances around at the situation. He tries the door, but finds it jammed with the impact, which forces him to shove his shoulder into it until it gives way, about spilling him out, with a protesting squeal of metal.

He stumbles out of the black SUV with a grunt, his whole body sore from the impact. Ryans will be feeling that for a few days. He shambles forward to the first car he finds that needs assistance.

Fingers squeeze around hand brakes, even as high heeled boots dig into snow and ice to slow Odessa's bicycle to a stop. Slowly, she surveys the chaos around her, with parted lips and the kind of curiosity-without-panic that only someone as damaged as Doctor Knutson is can manage.

Dark D&G sunglasses are brought up into a perch on top of a blonde head as Odessa lets out a low whistle. With a wave of her hand, she allows the natural progression of time - and this cluster of an accident - to resume. Though that was a lovely snapshot. She watches people attempt to pry themselves from their cars and for a moment, she considers simply holding it all in place again and continuing on her merry way across the bridge unhindered.

Until she sees him.

Odessa climbs off her sunny yellow bicycle. If Eric Doyle is here, then this is truly fate. First, Odessa climbs the barrier between her and the rest of traffic. Then, she firmly plants one heeled boot in the snow on a support beam. Once she's sure her weight is supported and her foot isn't going to go slipping out from under her, she shifts her balance and digs her other boot into the snow. It's this way that she carefully climbs out like a performer on a high wire (though this wire has considerably more substance), until she can jump down onto the roof of the crashed bus.


Odessa winces as she hits, landing in a bit wider stance than she originally intended, and certainly finding the sudden stop to be more jarring than she might have imagined. Man, being a hero is for chumps.

The sleet continues to fall slowly, hitting the damp and slushy road witha noise that drowns out at least some of the worst sounds. On the bus, there's the biggest consentration of people, all trapped with a car smashed into the easy exit. People cough and groan, forgetting about the emergency exit in the back, though even that's blocked by the railing, as it's twisted sideways blocking almost the whole side of the bridge.

A squeal of tires can be heard, followed by another crash further back, as traffic catches up with the stand-still, and not everyone is as aware. Some people do drive while on the phone, after all.

Luke's attempts to shove the door seem to be worthless. The metal seems to have scrunched inward, making the door stuck against the frame. Ice lines form on the window.

"Is everyone okay?" the bus driver asks, bloody hand against his forehead. "…Stupid question." He reaches for the radio, unaware of the smell of leaking petrol, as he starts to call in, eyes wide, mind still probably in shock.

"Oh, I've been better," Melissa says to Luke dryly before she starts to work on opening her door so she can climb out. "And not blamin' you, dude. Just sayin'. You okay? Or should I…" She trails off, glancing towards the man who's freaking a little, and she frowns. But not much she can do from inside the cab. Then she glances at Luke and his door, then to hers, and rolls down the window. If she can't get out through the door, she'll slide out the window!

If Meredith were truly feeling like herself, she would definitely snap at the bus driver that it certainly was a stupid question. As it is, the very though of moving makes her want to throw up. And so, she remains where she is, eyes tightly closed so that the sounds of all the crying and the crashing of more cars in the distance are enhanced. While there may be heroes out there, she certainly isn't one of them today. All she wants to do is lie where she is and have someone else rescue her.

However, with her eyes closed, the smells are also enhanced just a bit. And she thinks she smells gasoline. Oh God, is it…with sudden realization, the blonde woman snaps her eyes open. Her luck can't be that bad, can it? At least there's nothing on fire nearby…is there? She can't smell smoke, but that doesn't mean anything for the moment. Painfully, she pushes herself off of the floor into a sitting position, leaning most of her weight onto her good arm. The motion makes stars spin in front of her eyes and almost makes her lose her lunch.

"Can…" Her voice is very soft and almost unable to be heard over the commotion. She swallows and then says, louder, though still not exactly booming, "Hey…can…can anybody else smell that?"

Luke is really annoyed. The damn door isn't opening! Muttering under his breath, he punches the window as hard as he can. Maybe he can break it? …or maybe just bruise his fist, juuuuuust kidding. He examines the door, then tries melting it to try and free it. He wants OUT. And he's trying to be subtle and hoping the taxi driver is preoccupied with his crushed leg rather than his patrons.

It's a damn good thing that Doyle lost some weight during his convalescence from the gunshot wound, because otherwise… well, he might still be stuck in the car. A deep inhalation's taken, and he manages to squeeze his barrel-shaped torso out past the leaned-back chair, landing palms first on the frozen concrete, traction lost as he slips forward and tumbles completely out of the car with a muffled grunt to the pavement. "Nnf…"

If he's somehow inspired his former tormenter and victim, it'd certainly be a surprise to him. Right now, he feels about as inspiring as a beached whale - and probably looks the part, too.

After a few moments of slipping and sliding on his hands and knees, he manages to grab the edge of the door and haul himself to his feet, panting, looking around himself with slightly wild eyes to try and figure out the best way out of this godawful mess of metal and shouting and ice and stinging, frozen rain pattering against his bald pate. As the sound of another crash fills the air, he flinches, looking up as if expecting to see another car barrelling down at him. But no… not yet at least. No, instead he sees a bus. And he smells gas.

Oh, shit.

Soon enough, the puppeteer's awkwardly running towards the bus and slipping and sliding every few steps, thick arms waving through the air like meaty semaphor flags as he shouts, "Gas! There's gas! Get out of the bus! Out!"

He hasn't noticed the familiar woman on top yet… and he isn't bothering to help the man bleeding all over the driver's wheel and dashboard that he'd hijacked to get on the bridge in first place. But, hey, nobody's perfect, right?

Somewhere in the distance the sound of sirens wailing gets the attention of the first of the two men who had tumbled from the overturned truck. He scrambles on slippery ice toward the back of his vehicle, pulling it open and grabbing boxes. It's full of food, which for some of those on the bus might be temptation in and of itself. With about three boxes loaded up, he turns to look at his friend. "Move it, Jake! Grab as much as you can and let's bail.!"

Jake, however, is lying atop the side of the car, arms reaching in to the open door. "Johnny, Johnny, come on, Johnny, open your eyes, Johnny, come on, brother …" shaking the unconscious and bloody driver to no avail. His hands come away, red with blood, leaving streaks on the van's side panels, before he drops to the ground, knees in the snow, burying his face in his bloody hands.

Rachel continues to drag herself from the ruined wreck of the taxi cab that she had been in, right hand dragging at an awkward angle behind her as she manages to get out into the snow. Her face still pressed into the frozen street as its quite obvious to anyone looking at her that the young woman may not be walking for quite a while after her ride. Coughing, she struggles to get her throat to work for a couple of moments, before the Frontline operative manages to say just over what a speaking tone, "Help!"

There's someone yelling about people getting into the bus Logan's car is in mid-rape, and he is really only taking in so many words as he struggles with the door, which, like much of the rest of the front of his classic silver car, is crushed up inside itself and not inclined to budge. Uselessly jostling the door handle a bit, Logan vents by ramming his palm into the glass and smoothing the back of that hand over his brow gone slick as he slumps back.

He's only spurred back into action when he notes the handle that operates the window, body jolting as he goes to grip onto it. Thank goodness for that and expensive taste in vehicles. With jerking movements, the glass of Logan's window descends down, slush and wind sapping out the heat of his car's cab.

Steps are take with care, as the ice surfaces can be rather treacherous, bringing Ryans to the silver vehicle crunched into the bus. A hand rests on the roof of Logan's car as support as the old man, peers into the car, eyes narrowing. Swiping his other hand under his nose again, blood smeared from there and a line of it dripping from his temple, which is also turning a bit black and blue, he's alive at least.

The sound of some one landing on the roof of the bus only gets a quick glance a small frown, as he tries to figure out if she's insane or not. But.. the sound from the silver car drags his attention back.

"Hey, can you move?" The question rumbles calmly, even if Ryans leans over to get a good look at Logan's position in the car. He can make out a hint of gasoline, through the thick coppery smell of blood. He can hear the shouting about gas on the other side of the bus from him, but he keeps his focus on the peacock of a man. His hand moves to help force the window on the car down, putting his weight on it as needed. Only then does he offer a hand to help him out of it. "Let's get you out of there." He may be in his late 50's, but the old Company agent isn't weak.

So far, Agent Ryans hasn't noticed certain people.

It may come as somewhat of a wonder as to how the woman who was standing atop the bus is somehow now standing behind the portly man making a mad dash for the vehicle to warn them all of impending fiery doom. But such is the perk of being a Temporal Manipulator. People don't need to know the semantics of things like how one dismounts from a bus without twisting an ankle in the snow or something equally terrible.

Doyle can feel the curve of Odessa's lips and the warm wash of her breath against his ear as she muses, "I didn't think you were the altruistic type, Eric." Before he can turn around and react, the blonde is a few yards away, reaching up to slap her palm flat against the window by Meredith's seat. "Hey! HEY! You need to break out the glass," she shouts. "The exits are both blocked!"

The setting sun, no longer frozen in the sky, falls behind the clouds again, darkening the bridge and cutting off the dazzling effect of sunlight hitting the ice covered metal overhangs and braces of the bridge. Only the colored sirens approaching catch on, and even that has a completely different effect, as the traffic continues to sit at a standstill. Further back, the honking begins, people who can't see what the hold up is, who want to get home, and out of the freezing rain. The Brooklyn bound lane slows, as the spectator effect begins to take hold. At least none of them are crashing into the sides— yet.

The first thing the approaching ambulance will see is the delivery truck, flipped over onto it's side, windshield broken, driver visibly dead, with major head trauma. The radio plays white noise, and the lights flicker as the trucks electronics continue to function. The nearby taxi's door finally opens, the driver stumbling out to kneel next to the bleeding Rachel. "The ambulances are on the way, lady…" And he probably needs it too, from the way his arm sags a bit. Just not as much

The bus, wedging across the lanes, blocking the ambulance from most of the people, gets some renewed activity at the mention of 'does anyone smell that'.

"Is that gas!? Oh god, we're going to blow up," some panicking woman starts to yelp as she moves to the emergency exit and tries to open it, to no avail. Once it was pointed out, they definitely could smell it.

Melissa hears mention of gas, and the color drains from her face. "Oh shit. Luke, get out of here now and run. You don't and I'll kick your ass harder than it's ever been kicked," she tells the younger evo in what is clearly an order. She starts to reach for her phone to call for help, until she sees the flashing of the ambulance lights, and she breathes a small sigh of relief. All she allows herself time for.

Then she's pulling herself out of the now open window backwards and half falling onto the road outside. She motions to Luke before she moves to the front door, trying to pull it open so she can get the cabbie out. Her own injuries are ignored for now, though she's gonna be SORE come tomorrow. Or whenever the adrenaline wears off. "C'mon dude, push. Someone smells gas, so we gotta get the fuck outta here," she tells the driver.

Meredith can't tell if she's relieved or not to know she wasn't mis-smelling the gas. That could be a whole other set of problems for the woman. However, now that she knows it's not just her addled brain that's making up dangers, she has a bigger issue - getting out of the bus. "Oh shush," she tells the panicking woman harshly. "You ain't gonna help anybody with that." By now, it's obvious they can't get out the emergency exit and they're not going to be able to open the door with the car in front of it.

Still sitting on the floor, the pyro pulls her wounded arm close to her chest and cradles it there. The worried faces, the panic, she has to think through it, though she's just as worried and she isn't thinking quite straight, herself. "Smash the windows," she finally comes up with. "We can get out that way." How they're going to get through the windows to the ground - which is a sizable distance - is a problem they'll have to worry about should they be able to get through those windows. But, she's not thinking about that right now. Put a bunch of panicked people in a bus and give them something to smash. What could go wrong with that plan?

Luke wasn't able to get the door open, so he scoots over after Melissa, pausing only to give the offending door a nice, solid kick out of pique. Then he's out the window, and sniffs the air as people claim there's gas in the air. "Holy shit!" sorry, Melissa, he does not run away like ordered. "People need help!" People would pay attention to him if he saves their lives, right? Since Melissa is busy with the driver, Luke goes over to the bus. Hmm… what can he do, though? Oh, he has an idea! There's plenty of smashed up car parts here and there, so he grabs something long and kinda heavy, and proceeds to…. hit the bus. The windows, actually. WHOO vandalism! He'll help them get out!

"Get out! Get ou— " As the time manipulator appears behind the puppeteer to breathe those words against his ear, Doyle promptly slips on the ice in a startled twist and lands hard down on one knee. Crack! He grimaces — it's not broken, but man, will that bruise form later. Pushing himself up with a pained grunt, he looks towards the bus, brow furrowing as he tries to figure out what to do. Strong, he's not. And what the hell is Odessa doing?

The cab of the silver car smells like blood, fumes and cologne, almost masking the pungent scent of a gas leak close by if you lean in. Almost. If Logan registers the threat, it's on a distant level that isn't as important as he is. "'s my fucking leg— it's caught up— " Logan figured he had it together pretty good up until he can hear his own voice coming out reedy and thick, face moon-pale and eyes a little spacey. One of those moments where working his ability on himself, and understanding it enough to do so, would be ideal.

Not the case, although endorphins are already doing their own thing. Ryan's hand and arm are instantly caught in Logan's demanding grip when the older man offers it through the window, pale fingers around his wrist and in the sleeve of his jacket, gone white-knuckled. Claws sunk in, and the grin that gets shined up at Ryans is a little feral in turn. He's not allowed to go anyfuckingwhere without rescuing him.

"Do hope you've got a back on you," Logan grits out.

"Jake! Move your ass! The police will be right behind —" but the man with all the boxes decides to take off, running on the shoulder past all the now-backed up cars, many of whose drivers blare their horns at him. Jake is now dragging the driver out of the car, despite spectators shouting at him to stop, that he'll cause a neck injury — not like a fractured neck matters much when the body is a corpse. He kneels, hands folding one on top of the other on the broken body's chest, trying to pump air into deflated lungs, ignoring the gash across his brother's head that no mortal could survive. Tears stream down his face; he is oblivious to the rest of the chaos around him.

A few spectators jump out of traffic jammed cars and buses, to begin to pillage the back of the delivery truck, grabbing the boxes of food and other supplies — likewise ignoring the tragedy and peril unfolding around them, but for different reasons — poverty and hunger.

The flashing red lights approaching the wrong way up the Brooklyn bridge belong to the classic red and white colorings of an ambulance. The vehicle drives cautiously up the blocked off lane of traffic congested by the bus spun side to side across the lanes. As the vehicle comes creeping to a stop on the icy bridge, the drivers and passenger's side door swing open, from the former a young blonde woman in a navy blue jacket steps out and onto the frozen bridge, and from the passenger's seat an only slightly taller but older man in a matching color paramedics jacket with an emblazoned shield badge on his chest comes out carrying a courier bag.

"Abby, you check up that side I'll get this one!" Peter Petrelli's voice cuts through the sound of sirens, blaring horns and confused voices as he runs across the ice, skids, slips, and then vaults the short concrete median to the other side and where the accident happened. Standing still long enough to take the chaos in, looking back to Abby with dark eyes wide. It's the first terrible accident he'd been involved in, and his mind is assailed by pings of pressure behind his eyes from the presence of Evolved scattered across the bridge. It's dizzying.

"Abby!" Peter shouts out, having seen the carnage better, "Jesus Christ," he whispers, "I've gotta get people out of that bus!" Slinging his bag over his shoulder and running towards the smashed bus, Peter bounds up onto the hood of a car that plowed into the vehicle's side, one foot braced on the hood and the other by one of the smashed windows. He rolls a shoulder, sending his medical bag clunking down on the hood as he offers arms out to the people trying to climb out through the windows. "Come on out! Come on I've got you! One at a time, I'll get you out of there!"

Selfish, Richard Cardinal had called him. To each their own poison.

"On it Peter!" Abby calls out, barreling with her own red bag tossed over shoulder, jacket and stethoscope, heading for the side that her partner indicated. There will be other ambulances coming and right now it seems it's a matter of getting people away from vehicle sthat might cause more damage than there already is. Her hand skims along the hoods of vehicles, boots sliding and gripping ice and working to maintain her balance till she's close enough to rachel and is down on a knee. "Ma'am" Looking to see if the woman can look up at her, the ABC's going through her mind. "Ma'am, can you move? Does anything hurt?" Besides the obviousness that is the womans arm.

Rachel cocks her head to the side to look up at Abby while she lays there in the snow, eyes closing for a moment before she says in a weak voice, "I can move… just… can't really use my arm, and my legs feel like they might as well be so much dead weight." Her head still resting in the snow, while the Frontline member tries to collect herself, experimentally wiggling different bits and peices of herself. "Just about everything hurts, Ma'am," she answers truthfully while she lays there, the wrapped taxi evidence that she definitely could have had better luck.

The younger man's assessment of his own situation and his appearance gets a concerned look. The grip isn't a concern for the much older man. Ducking in ven as this fingers latch into his arm, Ryans leans in to have a look, hand carefully, sliding down Logan's leg — No that ain't him getting fresh, son — to see what has him caught. "I — believe we can get you free."

Straightening, he glances around and his whole body freezes at a familiar sight not far from him. He saw the face on the screen only recently. The only real reaction in the old man at the sight of Luke, is a tightening of his jaw, the arm Logan is holding tensing, and a sharp look. Not that Ryans can do anything about him at the moment as he has a British man clinging to his shooting arm. Of all the time. He lets out a small huff of frustration.

So instead, Ryan's eyes drop back to Logan and he forces the smallest ghost of a reassuring smile, before he bends down, feet spread apart to minimize slipping, and pries Logan's fingers from his arm, so he can sling the arm over his shoulder to take the young man's weight. A glance is slanted at Logan, "Do I look that old?" He muses softly, though the deepness of it loud in the Brit's ear. "I suppose I do, to some as young as you." Gently, he moves to straighten, to angle Logan out of the vehicle. Sliding his with arm around the young man's waist when he can.

Due to Odessa's unique vantage point - that is, the ability to pause and assess the situation around her without the distraction of sheer bloody panic about her - affords her the insight to realise the cause of this accident. And that he's getting away.

"Oh, no you don't." Odessa murmurs, weaving her way through frozen victims and saviours alike until she catches up with the fleeing man with the boxes of food in his arms. She slides on the ice until she coasts to a stop in front of him, carefully taking his plunder from him and setting it on the shoulder.

Less carefully, she resumes time with one hand around his ankle so that he goes crashing to the iced pavement, taking in a mouth full of slush. Before he can properly react, she's got one high heel stuck into the back of his neck, ready to leave him paralysed or just plain crush his brainstem. "Stay the fuck down!" she warns. Tossing her hair back and looking over her shoulder, she fixes her gaze on the puppeteer. "Doyle!" she calls shrilly, "Be a dear and help me out, would you?"

"Goddammit Luke!" Melissa yells when she sees Luke dart off towards the bus rather than away from it. But she can't exactly stop what she's doing to chase after him yet. And then there's another distraction when she hears a familiar voice, but she makes herself not look towards Peter. "Well fuck," she mutters, putting a foot on the taxi beside the door, using it as leverage to YANK at the door, putting every bit of muscle the smell woman has into it.

It takes a minute, and a lot of effort, and some grunting, and enough cursin gto make a sailor blush, but eventually the door gets pulled open and Melissa nearly falls on her butt. She regains her balance and leans into the cab, trying to pull the cab driver out. "Come on. You don't wanna be around when that thing blows!"

"Goddammit Luke!" Melissa yells when she sees Luke dart off towards the bus rather than away from it. But she can't exactly stop what she's doing to chase after him yet. And then there's another distraction when she hears a familiar voice, but she makes herself not look towards Peter. "Well fuck," she mutters, putting a foot on the taxi beside the door, using it as leverage to YANK at the door, putting every bit of muscle the smell woman has into it.

It takes a minute, and a lot of effort, and some grunting, and enough cursin gto make a sailor blush, but eventually the door gets pulled open and Melissa nearly falls on her butt. She regains her balance and leans into the cab, trying to pull the cab driver out. "Come on. You don't wanna be around when that thing blows!"

When Luke takes to attempting to smash the windows open toward the passengers, Meredith quickly covers her head and yells out in a rasped, but somehow still shrill voice, "What are you trying to do, kill us?!" Glass showering down on top of them is certainly a way to do that. With a shove, she pushes herself up off of the floor finally, using the seats as handles and then supports. Where her head hit the window there is no bruise quite yet, but it's red from the impact. Keeping her arm tucked as close to her body as she can, she wobbles as her good arm grips the plastic of the back of the bus seat.

Seeing that someone is actually helping people out of the bus, she starts to make her weaving way toward it around the strewn about luggage left behind and glass and random other debris. Waiting behind another woman, she reaches the broken through window and winces just at the thought of attempting to climb through a broken window with a hurt arm. "You're gonna have to lean a bit more forward. My arm's all messed up and I can't get through without the help," she tells Peter, making sure that the hand she holds out is the good one.

Some guy is helping people out of the windows Luke just smashed! "Maybe next time." he shouts back at Meredith, rolling his eyes. Just a bit disgruntled that someone else is sharing the presumed limelight, Luke drops the rebar or whatever it was he grabbed and starts helping too. He remains oblivious to the scrutiny of those around him for now, since he really is trying to help.

There's time to wonder about what the hell's going on later. Apparently, Doyle's having an altruistic evening - well, aside from the whole kidnapping a guy then leaving him to bleed all over the dashboard. He's a strange bird, after all. The fat man hustles his way across the nice, stopping near to the car that Peter's balanced on without even looking at the guy and reaching up to help people down as he pulls them out. "Go, go, there's a lot of gas, we need to get them out of…"

Wait, someone's calling his name. His real name. He winces, looking over in the middle of helping someone down.

"What do you want me to do— jesus christ do I have to do everything," he mutters, sweeping a hand through the air and flattening his fingers - his power uncoiling to grasp the man she's already pinned down, trying to force his arms and legs into a splayed position and leave him there, suspended, as the puppeteer turns back to helping with the bus evacuation, muttering, "Bitch."

Clinging to Ryans, Logan's sound leg helps lever him out, and there's only a yowl when his right leg is pulled free of where crushing metal had attempt to grip onto it, though his sock-clad foot is bare of a shoe in the process. Through the open window we go, his very plain and pragmatic woolen black coat yawned open against the cold of the setting, three-piece pinstripe of gunmetal grey rumpled by now from all the activity. With an arm looped around Ryans' shoulders, he can probably hear the note of pain in the Brit's breathing, and in the dull light available to them on the nighttime bridge, half of one pantleg has gone black with blood.

To make matters worse, his eyes have gone a brilliant green, unknowing leaking adrenaline through Ryans' body, making his heart beat harder in his chest, anxiety winding around it as fight or flight instinct senselessly sets into the former agent for as long as they're getting all intimate.

"Piss it," is savagely hissed, Logan's better foot finding icy asphalt and promptly slipping. Perhaps for Ryans' sake or maybe just his own, Logan releases his saviour in time to try and catch himself, already shuddering in the sleety, ice-cold weather, tie free of its clip and the tuck of his waistcoat and whipping like an angry snake in the wind.

Speaking of anger— "Look at my fucking car!" the Brit promptly wails in despair when he twists to look back at it, silver painted metal all scrunched up as easy as a beer can and half jammed up into the bus doors. "How did this even happen? What wanker was on his cellphone?"

When Odessa pulls down the box juggler, he grunts. "Let go of me, you fuckin' bitch! I'm just grabbing food — it's not like it's gonna do them any good, that guy's dead!" His words are a bit muffled on the account of having his face smashed into the icy concrete. "Dammit, lemme go!" His friend, Jake, is still pumping at the dead body's chest, when an old woman, wobbling on arthritic ankles, moves to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. "Come, son. There is no more you can do for him. Come away to safety. Let him be," she says, her voice gravelly with age and screaming, but calm now in this moment.

Meanwhile, Melissa manages to pull the cab driver from the car. He mutters his thanks and moves in a stumbling run away from the bus that is threatening to explode. He's a bit stiff, but mostly uninjured beside some seat-belt bruising.

On either side of the bridge, as if working in tandem, police sirens make their keening wail; the scarlet and cyan of flashing lights can be seen. Motorcycle cops that can weave through the traffic begin to make their way to the scene, while squad cars park off the bridge and go by foot to begin to try to clear the traffic that is able to still move.

Looking to Meredith as she's standing on the other side of the broken glass, Peter's eyes just sort've stay wide. He hasn't seen Meredith Gorden since he worked as an associate of the Ferrymen over two years ago, and even then their meetings were mostly sandwitched between being chewed out by Bennet or trying to avoid Hanna throwing knives at him (entirely his own fanciful fears, of course). "Hey," Peter offers in a hushed tone of voice, taking Meredith's hand carefully and leaning towards the window, moving his gloved palm along the bottom to knock out more of the safety glass. "Use your good arm, hold on to the railing up there," Peter reaches in and slaps it once to show her, "and pull your legs up, come out legs first. I'll get you… don't worry."

Carefully helping Meredith up, Peter can feel a tingle run down his spine, a fiery hot sensation that courses up and down his vertibrae and burns behind his eyes; Pyrokinesis. Parting his lips, he breathes ous a distracted exhalation as he helps Meredith get her feet into the window, then once her legs start to slide out, he wraps an arm around her waist and eases her out of the window. "I've got you— you can let go— I've got you." Legs shoulder width apart and gently helping Meredith out and on to the icy bridge, and—

— into —

Doyle's arms.

"Er— Jason," Peter stares with furrowed brows, recalling the pseudonym he went by at McRae's, "Get everyone over to the other side of the concrete divier, everyone who can walk, we gotta get 'em away from te bus." Reconsidering those orders, Peter amends, "Normally." You know what he means, Eric. "Get them over there, try and help anyone you see moving over. Stay by our ambulance, there's more help on the way."

Straightening up, Peter looks over to Luke. "Hey, dude," trying to be hip, Peter, stop it, "see that blonde girl over there?" Peter makes a motion towards Abby, "see if you can help her with the woman she's with. I've got everything here…" After waving Luke over to Abby, Peter turns around and gets a look at the crowds, spotting the police cruisers, ambulances and fire trucks starting to roll up on the other side of the bridge. "Everyone just— move away from the bus, get over to the other side of the street by the ambulance!" His tone is loud, projected and authoratative, "If you can move out of the area of the accident please— do so!" After helping the next person out of the bus, Peter looks around, head ducking down, brow raised, trying to find where Abby's gone off to.

"Abby!" He shouts over the noise, rising up on his toes before finding her at Rachel's side, then once he's got her eye contact just lifts up a hand and gives her a thumbs up, so far nothing lift-threatening he can find, hopefully if there is someone worse off, Abby can direct Peter to them.

Not far down the bridge, more flashing lights are approaching, these ones blue, with more red flashing following from another pair of ambulances and a fire truck headed up the bridge. The loud wailing honk of the fire truck's horn issues traffic out of the way like some giant mechanical animal's roar scaring birds out of trees.

Another whudding noise comes from nearby, the white and green colors of a helicopter in the haze of sleet and blowing snow, with a large 6 on the side, Channel 6's Action Sky Camera now taking news footage of the accident.

"Don't move then" Abigail murmurs to Rachel, grabbing a tag off of her bag, tearing off a tag down to the yellow and attaching it to a button or zipper by it's elastic. "We're going to help you Ma'am" Abigail grabs a passing person who looks to be in charge of their full faculties before grabbing a collar and carefully working it around rachel's neck. "Just stay here. You're going to be safe here. Sir" This to the person she snagged. "I need you to stay by her, if she stops breathing, or anything you yell for that man over there" She gesture to Peter who's making motions and calling for her.

She returns the thumbs up, Rachel seeming fine for breathing and her pulse, just the arm really. "Ma'am" Abby grins. "I need to keep going and help others. You're going to be fine, please don't get up, please don't move. Just stay put and someone will be along or I'll be right back, my name is Abigail, my partner is Peter. I'll be back real soon okay?" Giving the frontline officer's good hand a squeeze before she's taking off to further in and on course to Ryans and Logan.

Rachel nods her head as much as she can with the collar that is around it, the woman still laying in the snow and ice as she looks at the taxi cab that she just came out. Her mind reeling at the massive amount of destruction and the fact that she is still alive for now to see it. Her eyes close slowly while she lays there, shock and blood loss finally getting to the woman as she passes out.

The need to get this guy out and away is strangely overwhelming for a man that usually, has a pretty good grip on his emotions. Worry actually creases the older gentleman's brow his body bracing when the British man slips some. "Whoa, I have you." Carefully he gets Logan adjusted, arm tightening around the man's waist before he starts moving away from the car, half dragging him if need be. If anything, he's knows where a lot of his own bruises are as they smart.

"I must agree." He rumbles softly, a not of panic in his voice. The hell? "It was a waste." His head twisting to look at the wreckage as he proceeds to get Logan away from the car moving towards the flash of paramedic lights, which might explain why he doesn't quite here the name 'Doyle' shouted. "However, at the moment I think it's best to think less about that and more about the fact you are bleeding badly."

About then Abby is spotted and there is relief, painted on the agent's features. Ryan's angles Logan towards her, not really know the two have a past. "Abigail!" One thing about his voice, it carries, booming when shouting, "You, young lady, are a sight for my old eyes."

"You complete me," Odessa hollers in return to Doyle, definitely sarcastically. It's almost like saying thank you for helping her put the man down. It isn't exactly how she wanted it done, but it will have to do. Where she found the leopard print fuzzy fabric-covered handcuffs that she's using to cuff the guy to the decorative concrete railing that keeps cars from careening off the bridge in situations such as these is anyone's guess.

With a stick of red lipliner, I CAUSED THIS CRASH is written across the looter's face. Recapping the cosmetic and tucking it into the pocket of her equally red coat, Odessa brings her hand to her lips and blows the man a kiss. "Next time you want to steal something, be smart! Don't cause an accident that gets people killed!" You know, like she does! Gosh!

Flouncing as she turns her back to the prisoner she's left for the NYPD, Odessa skids back through the snow to stand near where Peter and Doyle are unloading people from the bus. "Just get 'em down," she tells them. "I can give you all the time in the world to get them away."

There's a lot of sights for sore eyes. The diesel from the tank of the bus continues to leak onto the road, mostly pooling around where the bus crashed, but also rolling away toward the edges of the bridge, where the metal railings that protected cars from going over when they slid and collided, but also happens to be the place, where, as the sun continues to set and the sky darkens…

The electric lights lining the wires of the bridge all begin to light up…

Melissa watches the cabbie head off before she glances upward, looking at the lights with a horrified look. "Oh shit," she whispers, before she shouts towards those near the bus. "Get your asses someplace safe! If those lights set off the gas you're all toast! MOVE IT NOW!." Oh yes, she has her bossy moments. And this is definitely one of them. Of course, she's not too far from the bus herself, and so she darts towards the ambulance. And if there's anyone smaller than her between her spot and the ambulance? Well, they get scooped up. No more kids dying on HER watch!

At first, Meredith didn't recognize Peter. Her mind is a bit scrambled and she's in pain. And this is really the last place she would expect to see that kid again. When Peter greets her familiarly, she gives him a glare, thinking he's trying to be fresh with her. And then, she realizes who it is. Her expression moves from hostile to surprised to being in pain and finally in something like relief to see someone she knows here to help. Everyone else, in her humble opinion, is making a right mess of it all. "Hey," she replies tiredly. After that, she doesn't speak much other than hisses of pain and worry. As much as Peter may say he's got her he's got her, she doesn't really trust that she won't fall out the window and break something worse than her arm because he dropped her.

But, then, Peter does something worse. Much worse. She doesn't even realize it's happening until it is far too late. It's embarrassing to be in Peter's arms to be lifted from the bus. It's something far different to find herself in Eric Doyle's arms. What is he even doing here. That's it, Meredith revises her opinion of the whole situation, now everyone has messed it up royally. Peter perhaps worse than everyone else. She is going to find him and burn him. But, first, Doyle.

With a shriek of protest and anger, she attempts to fight being given to Doyle after the fact, but the sudden jerking movement does her little good. Her vision swims and she all but passes out, the pain in her arm is so bad. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Why does she have the worst luck in the world?

Luke gives the mandatory teenage eyeroll of contempt for the older guy trying to be hip, sneering at Peter. Then he takes a good look at the person Abby is helping, and he halts in place. She's the lady that was with the government, or something! Like hell is going to help her! "I don't know, dude, she looks like she's got things under control." Luke retorts, complete with attitude. And then…. he sees DOOM lurking imminently. So what does he do?

Runs the hell away.

Then he gets an idea, and turns around, aiming at the lights. Hey, he has this thing where he really messes up electronic devices, maybe he can make the lights die before they reach the gas? It's worth a try, and the thing is probably going to explode anyway. Up comes his hand, and from about 30 feet away he aims down the line, well before where it reaches the gas, and zaps it with the aim to disrupt it rather than make things go boom.

Peter? Eric Doyle's eyes get wide as saucers, a hint of panic stirring behind them as his features pale even beyond his usual hue at the sight of the man - but there's no aggression or tasering going on, no, so he just reaches up to help down the blonde he's being handed over to and nods curtly, muttering, "Right, right, over on the other side of the…"

That's about when he realizes that the blonde in question is Meredith Gordon.

The puppeteer freezes for about half a moment, which is long enough for her to shriek and twist to try and get out of his arms — and the pain that causes her is evident, causing his brow to furrow in long, deep lines. "Meredith— oh, no, oh, god, you're hurt, you're hurt, hold still, shh, shh…" His hand lifts, gently gesturing to coil his unseen strings about her, to keep her from jarring that broken arm any further and more importantly to lock off her pyrokinesis so he doesn't suddenly burst into flames.

He may be delusional about Meredith, but he's not stupid.

"Come on, everyone! Come on, over— over here, by the concrete barrier, get over it for cover, away from the bus! Go, go, go!" And so he goes, with Meredith in tow. Not that, you know, she has much choice in the matter, with one arm around her and her feet slaved to the movement of his… but she'd just hurt herself if he let her run off! This is a crisis situation.

Hop-hop-stumble-cling. A complicated description of walking because walking is not simply what Logan is doing, with one bleeding leg and one shoe to work with. He grits his teeth and trusts the older gentleman to know where the fuck they're going, which is away from a bus which is going to catch fire which— is a thing Logan knows intimately well. Hokay, time for British stiff upper lip, and he moves a little easier at Ryans' side, coarsely breathing steam into the air before blearily squinting in the direction that soothes Ryans' eyeballs or—

Oh no. Fuck, Logan is hallucinating. Abigail Beauchamp in an EMT uniforn is not really approaching them, is she? Above where he and Ryans prop each other up (yeah, sure), the lights spring on, casting ghoulish shadows on the two men. Around them, people are running. It's tiring to watch. "You know what, just leave me here. Where'mismokes," John mutters. He's only a quarter of the way serious.

Melissa? Peter's eyes snap over to the blonde running from the bus, and then her words resonate with him as he looks back towards the fuel leaking out of the bus. Pyrokinesis alone won't stop the shraplen from an exploding bus from injuring people, and he can't risk mishandling the power, it makes borrowing it from Merdith not an option. When he sees the pyrokinetic all but collapse into Doyle's arms, Peter slides down off the hood of the car, the bus now sufficiently cleared.

Popping up onto his heels, he sees Odessa headed in his direction, brows furrowed and lips downturned into a frown. He did hand her over to the Company didn't he? Oh, Company, never change.

"Odessa," Peter clips out, "I need you to freeze the gasoline, the bus, the whole goddamned thing!" That's a very big area Peter. "Now! Before this whole thing goes up!" As Peter's saying that, a horrible series of loud pop pop pop pop pop sounds come from over the side of the bridge, along with the noise of crackling sparks and white hot filiments erupting as Luke Campbell "helps" the situation.

"Oh sh— "

"Ryans!" Abigail's clambering over debris with her bag and it's ragtag c-collars hanging off of it. There's a slight pause in seeing who Ryans is escorting away from a vehicle and the sounds the bus is making cause her to look over towards it and Peter. "This way, move Logan this way and lay him down" She knows the guys name and once they're to a safe distance and behind objects that will act as a barrier between them and the bus, Abigail's digging through her bag and breaking out her scissors.

"You sue me for cutting your pants Logan, I will sic Robert on you, do you hear me?" Because those pants around the bleeding wound? They're being cut open swiftly by safety scissors and the blonde is clamping down packages of sterile gauze on his leg. The cold of the air should help and not long after and one quick look over, Logan's getting a yellow tag as well and stuff scribbled on it. "Mr. Ryans, put pressure on it, keep pressure on it. Someone will be by to take care of him. I can't stay I have to keep going." There's time enough to swipe some gauze across Ryan's head and tie some gauze around it to help hopefully stem the bleeding. Green tag for him. "Nice seeing you Logan" And she's off again.

"Yes ma'am." There is a hint of a laugh in his voice at her bossy nature, the old agent not about to argue. He has two other bossy young woman in his life, he knows when to just nod his head and do as he's told, even if she is the same as his own daughter. So he moves Logan as directed, easing the young man down carefully, "Here you go, young fellow."

As he's instructed to hold pressure, Ryans' lowers himself slowly to one knee and glances at Logan, "My apologies for this." And he clamps down on the gauze firmly with one hand, "Go on.." He offers to Abby even as she takes off, watching her go he gives a small shake of his head, while with his one free hand fishing out his cellphone. About damn time.

One thing he hasn't learned the art of was the art of texting with one hand, damn kids. There is quite the look of concentrating on his face as he painfully slow works on trying to you his new Company issue blackberry to send a call out for agents to come sweep the area for Luke. Finally with a soft, "Screw it…", which sounds odd coming from him. Agent Ryans dials an actual phone number. "Ayers… It's Ryans. Bad Accident on the Brooklyn Bridge. I need search help… Yes." He glances around, briefly, "Second guy on the slide show."

His blue eyes glance down at Logan, but doesn't really look at him. "Second. Right. Get Delgado on it if you can." The phone is snapped shut with out a goodbye and dropped into his pocket so he can press both hands on the leg.

The light bulbs start popping up and down the strings, the electricity shorting out. Unfortunately, this also cause a spray of hot filament flying into the air, as the bulbs burst. The sprays land on the concrete, catching the gasoline, the fire running threateningly toward the bus and the silver car nearby…

That poor car.

Just as the flame reaches the edge, while people run away, one moment they hear the first pop, feel the heat— and then everyone is suddenly shifted from where they were, to either behind the concrete divider, or many yards feet down the bridge, still moving in whatever direction they were headed. But it's like time gave them a little shove in the right direction. A cab driver trips and falls, blinking in confusion, while in the stopped cars, there's many people standing outside, gaping at the sight. Some do have their cellphones out as well. The roar of fire and explosion of glass and metal lights up the sky for a moment, sending tremors down the bridge and shaking the wires. It remains standing, strong and firm (the greatest erection of all time?) A sight which lights up the sky for a moment, with a roar that sends tremors down the bridge. It wasn't just the bus that exploded, but also the silver car, smashed into the bus. Explaining that to the insurance guys will be a bitch, but at least it's on the news, thanks to the helicopters sweeping.

Glass flies everywhere, a few cars on the eastbound lane, luckily already slowed to view what's going on, skid and slide and cause minor fender benders.

Chaos and confusion falls into the air.

Luke is suddenly away from everything, and winces slightly. But on the other hand, OH SHIT HE BLEW UP A BRIDGE. That's….. really badass. And he doesn't think this is the best place to be right now, so NOW he takes off running.

Odessa merely shakes out her blonde hair as the explosion rocks the bridge behind her, peering over her shoulder as she's walking her bike down the pedestrian bridge. Not the most badass way to make an exit, but no one died in the explosion.

And that's pretty badass.

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