Participants:
| Scene Title | Smart People Know Bullets Are Faster |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | They just wanted drinks, but Devon had to go be a hero…. or something. |
| Date | July 19, 2011 |
Bodega in Queens
Although she prefers to venture farther afield, Queens is the closest area to the safe house and Elisabeth was dying for a soda. They haven't had anything like that at the house in a while. Devon was present in the safe house, so Elisabeth took him with her. As they walk along toward a bodega the blonde is keeping a close watch on everything around them, but nothing untoward is really happening in the warm summer morning. Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, she slants a glance at the teen and then grins. "You know, I forget sometimes… how easy it can be to blend in."
More than willing to go on an outing beyond the walls of the safehouse, Devon was willing and happy to tag along. In his usual way, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, he walks alongside the woman, enjoying the fineness of the morning. "It's like people only see what they want to see," he replies. In example of his statement, he seems to paying minimal attention to their surroundings. Though like Elisabeth, he's wary, watchful, the tip of his head allowing for eyes to wander and observe without being out of place.
She holds the door to the bodega open and chuckles mildly. "Well, I rely on that every time I'm out. But … it seems like I haven't really been out lately," Elisabeth admits softly. She's been something of a recluse in the safe house lately. The aisles of the bodega are full, as usual, and Liz nods toward the older man at the counter briefly. It's the fact that he looks sort of off-kilter that draws her attention. "Afternoon," she murmurs, a warning hand on Dev's elbow.
Devon catches the door with a hand to keep it from closing on Liz. "I've noticed," he returns with a grin. "Honestly, you haven't missed much." The state of the city hasn't gotten better, and the decline is steady enough the passing of it can go, does go, unnoticed by most. He draws a casual glance through the small shop, then a second more thoughtful at the hand on his elbow. When his eyes touch on the man at the counter, he slants a look back to Elisabeth, acknowledging without speaking.
Elisabeth meets his eyes and looks wary. A faint nod to Devon as she sees him understand something's up, and she releases his arm. She forces a smile for the proprietor and says, "I'm going to grab a couple of sodas. You want to see if you can find some of those pizza Combos things?" she asks, attempting a casual tone. The proprietor looks alarmed now, eyes flickering back toward the cooler aisle.
"Sure," Devon says. A look ticks toward the man at the counter then away again, so quickly it could be argued that it happened at all. The glance turns into a full survey, taking in the displays and racks of wares meant to locate the snack foods. He glances again toward Liz as his feet turn him toward the appropriate aisle, vaguely warning in its own right simply by the lack of any expression. But it's brief enough to not go amiss before he's appearing to turn his attention to finding the salty munchies.
The blonde heads for the coolers to get her soda, and well…. you know, sometimes people should just take a hint and walk on out. As she rounds the corner, Liz comes face to face with a handgun pointed at her face. Well, fuck, she has a moment to think before pure terror shoots adrenaline through her system. Blue eyes go wide — ex-cop or not, anyone facing a weapon should be frightened.
"Get back," the masked man warns in a gutteral tone, forcing the blonde back toward the counter. "Don't play hero and no one'll get hurt." He raises his voice and barks, "Hey, you. Kid. You come on back to the front and don't fuck around. Soon as my business is done, this'll all be over. I got a gun on your sugar mama, so no funny business."
Well that certainly explains the strange attitude from the shop owner. The gunman's very first words have Devon's attention, drawing him toward confronting the sound. "Just here for some snacks," he returns in tones meant to insure he's not planning anything. Except how to improvise getting out of a bad situation. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to watch the man guide Elisabeth back with the gun, then turns to follow without haste. As he gets closer, the boy looks past the aggressor to the woman to see if she's okay. He won't try anything. Just yet.
Elisabeth's heart is beating in her ears. All she can hear at this moment is that thundering sound. Years of training does kick in and she slowly puts her hands out to show the gunman there's nothing in them. She backs up toward the front counter, doing exactly as she's told. The gentle buzz that starts around her, though, could become a problem if it gets any worse. Right now it simply sounds like one of the fluorescent lights is getting ready to go out. "~No one has to get hurt. Just… take what you want and go,~" she offers the man with the weapon, lacing her voice with calm.
Taking the buzzing as a sign that she isn't quite as okay as she could be, Devon pushes past a stand of pre-packaged cupcakes and Twinkies, spilling goods onto the floor. It's enough to draw the gunman's attention toward him and off the audiokinetic, just in time for a look of surprise and shock as the weapon swings around to bear on the teen … just before a shoulder is dropped into the gunman's sternum. The force is enough to take both him and Devon into the counter beside Elisabeth with twin grunts.
The blonde starts to say something and then bites her tongue because Devon's already in physical contact. The gun goes off. Elisabeth can't see if Devon's hit, and the owner of the bodega is ducking under the counter and comes up with a baseball bat. "Shit!" Liz cries, and she flinches when the older man literally smashes that bat down on the head of the masked man. She's not sure Devon didn't take a glancing blow there too, though the thief himself drops like a dead weight.
An almost violent jerk that begins at his shoulder and ends near his waist reacts to the sharp crack of gunfire, joined shortly by a telling and slowly spreading dark wetness in his shirt. Which is all the response Devon gets before catching the scathing end of that bat. More abrasion than bludgeon, thankfully, though stunning all the same. Both he and the man drop to the ground and it's a moment before the boy thinks to try moving, knees and hands trying to find purchase to lift himself upright.
Well, that was not the outcome she'd wanted, assuredly, but Elisabeth will take it. At least, until she sees the spreading blood. "Fuck!" the blonde swears, yanking off the T-shirt she's wearing over a spaghetti-strapped shelf tank. She squats next to the boy and puts the shirt on the spot to put pressure. "Devon, talk to me." She helps him upright, checking his back only to see an exit wound there. Pure terror hits her. She is not equipped for this. She looks up at the proprietor, the fear clear in her expression and blossoming into full-bore vibrations as she sees him pick up the phone. "No, wait. Please!"
He looks up, startled. "For what?" he demands. And then he realizes that everything's shaking. "Aw shit, lady… you're one of those?" He grimaces, apparently seeming to debate the matter. Illegal Evos running loose in his bodega, for Christ's sake. But they might have just save his sorry life. He sighs. "Go," she tells her. "Get the hell outta here. I'll give you five minutes and I'll make sure the tape's gone when the cops get here, but there's nothing I can do about the blood." Because Devon's dripping on the floor some. "I'll tell 'em everything, but a description of you two'll be… not great." He sounds grudging.
"I'm okay," Devon says, tightness in his voice putting a lie to his words. His teeth grind together as he's pulled upright, breath held until the movement is over, then followed by brief panting. He lifts a hand to press against the entry point of the wound, fingers tangling in the shirt already being used as a compress. His shoulders hunch to wrap around the pain protectively, and he leans partially against the counter to stay upright. The teen glances from Elisabeth to the bodega owner, offering just a nod for thanks.
There's much she could say — Elisabeth simply grits out, "Thank you." So much for a friggin' soda. She wraps an arm around Devon's waist and hauls him out of the bodega, dcking for an alley. "Shit, shit, shit," she swears in a litany. "Devon, you need fucking stitches." She swallows. "The only person I know who can do it is Brennan." He's the only medical person that she's ever been in contact with besides Odessa Price, and no. Just no.
For the most part, Devon just stays quiet and focused on moving his feet to keep Liz from totally manhandling him. He can't come up with any response, but to nod with the epithet of the situation. "Doctor B," he agrees, partially lurching away from Elisabeth in order to lean against the wall likely belonging to the store they'd just left. "Trust him first, just be careful."
It's not a phone number she has ever called, to her recollection, but Elisabeth's had his contact information for a long while. She pulls out the cell phone and skims through her list, seeking the phone number she had. Holding him up against the wall as she hits the dial button, Elisabeth's also counting the moments — he said he'd give them five minutes. Please, God, don't let him have lied.
His gaze lifts first to Elisabeth, then angles off to watch the mouth of the alley. Lot of good he'd do at the moment, if trouble showed up. With a pained noise, he half slides down the wall, sinking to sit on the ground. "Sorry," he offers, "I'll replace your shirt. And bring some Cokes when I get back to the house."
The conversation is short and to the point. She tells Brennan simply that Devon is hurt and they're on their way. It's difficult to keep a low profile with a boy who has a bullet hole in his side that is leaking blood out the front and back. As she wraps her arm around Devon and they slip down the alleys, Elisabeth manages to snag a couple of extra shirts off people's clotheslines and back fences. Theft is the least of her worries right now. And she takes Devon as fast as she possibly can to Harve Brennan.
***
As difficult as it was at times for Devon to continue moving, he kept his feet moving. The desire to sit or lay down came and went strongly at various points during the trip. The numb chill of the initial impact had worn off, replaced by pain and shock that made the boy lean more heavily against Elisabeth or come to a dragging pause against a wall before moving again. But the trip was uneventful, the proprietor good to his word. And soon Liz and Devon find themselves facing the door to Brennan's downstairs office.
By the time they get there, Elisabeth is more than half carrying the boy, and he's not exactly light. She's got his injuries tied up with as much pressure as she dares put on them, but she herself is a little pale over the matter. She's well aware that if Brennan cannot help enough, Devon will go to the hospital. And yes… she'll send him to the hospital and be possibly detained before she'll let the boy die. So when she knocks on Brennan's office door, her expression is grim.
Lights are on below, and at the sound of feet coming down the steps, Brennan is at the door before Liz's hands can brush against the door. Eyes a fraction wider than they should be at seeing the woman on the other side of the door that last he'd met, they were on Roosevelt and helping fend off brainwashed hundred.
Now she's a highly wanted fugitive terrorist and standing on the landing with an injured Devon. "Get in, I'd suggest getting in now, before you are seen and get me into trouble. More trouble than you are likely worth Ms. Harrison." He's tired looking, it's broad daylight and the door is opened wide enough to permit the two of them entry into the comfortable home office with it's leather sofa, desk, large screen TV and medical texts. His physicians bag on said desk, towels and other things that he has around his house. "Devon."
She doesn't take offense at his rebuke. Elisabeth's tone is weary and she murmurs, "If I'd had any other options, I'd have taken them. I'm sorry…." She trails off and gets Devon settled on the desk and backs away, not touching anything. Her hands are semi-clean but she's been keeping Dev from bleeding so there's drying blood in places. And her own tanktop is black, which is a lucky thing because it too has blood on it.
"My fault," Devon manages as he's brought inside. He leans against the desk, half sitting and more curled in on himself than when he and Liz had first left the shop. "Don't turn her in…" He trails off, as though he might have more to say. Instead his jaw clenches, chin sinking toward his chest. He takes a breath in then slowly lets it out before beginning more quietly. "Please, Doctor B. We'll leave and no one'll know…"
"I have an obligation to state that I saw her. I don't have an obligation to say that she came with you and that you were in here. I'd highly suggest that you leave through the back MS. Harrison" And with that, his attention diverts to Devon. "What trouble did you get yourself into now that was worth tearing myself away from Marlena" Not meant to guilt, just words, spilling forth as Brennan grabs a pair of gloves to start looking. So he can figure out whether it is indeed something he can handle or something that he will need to shuttle him off to the hospital to.
"You do what you need to, Dr. Brennan," Elisabeth murmurs. She'll stay long enough to find out if Devon will be able to leave with her or if he'll be going to the hospital, though. As to what Devon did…. well, the woman with him grimaces. "Somewhere along the way he seems to have picked up a penchant for throwing himself in front of bullets instead of using the brains God gave a goldfish and just shutting his mouth and letting a thief flee the scene," she growls, frowning at the boy.
There's a chance that Devon might have looked repentant for his actions, certainly being shot and not so much grazed or glanced with a projectile is enough to make him reconsider his actions. "He had a gun pointed at Liz," he fills in, as though that alone would explain everything. He straightens as best he can and fumbles at dragging his shirt clear to let the doctor examine the entry and exit points. It isn't much, the boy unwilling to do much in manipulating. The damage, once exposed, is really just a deep, grazing cut from the round that was fired, a line that almost parallels the lowermost ribs on that side.
No hospital. he'd prefer to have been at his clinic, but here will have to do. He'll find a new shirt for Devon from his own, but for the next half hour, it's Devon reclining on the couch on his side and Brennan in his chair pulled up to said couch, hunched over the teen and working away at stitching him up with neat stitches, diligently working away fast as he can but carefully. Silently.
The boy is likewise quiet and still, as much as can be expected, eyes wandering from the doctor to the ceiling then slanting off toward where Elisabeth lurks. The work is made easier for Doctor Brennan after an administration of painkillers of some sort and stuff to numb the area to be sewn back together. The silence might be broken a time or two by a faint creak from the couch as Devon shifts a foot one way or the other. A shiver rattles through once, just a small movement that disrupts the teen more than the older man.
Elisabeth's been shot. As she watches him stitch, her expression is both sympathetic and angry. In response to Devon's assertion that the man was holding a gun on her, she holds her tongue. There will be some serious conversation later about this, though. She's pissed. Ultimately, though, she will leave that for not being in front of Harve Brennan. Instead, as he stitches, she asks quietly, "Marlena is one of your children, right?" There's a pause. "Is she okay?" She doesn't know the child's SLC status, so isn't sure whether it might be something simpler than the non-evo flu.
There's a few more stitches to go, stopping when Devon moves, carrying on when he's still again. "Oldest. She has a thing for Devon. She came down with the flu. Her mother is with her and when I'm done here, I'll be going back once I've dealt with the authorities regarding seeing at a coffee shop a few blocks over. Which is my way of suggesting that you go there, when we're done here, sit, have coffee and then when you see me, take off. Are we clear?"
They better be clear. "As for throwing yourself in front of bullets" This to Devon as Brennan snips the second to last stitch. "Try not to do so, so often. If it's a mugging, don't eb heroic. Heroics get you shot. You give them your wallet and you replace everything. hard to save the world and religious families if you're six feet under" But speaking of the family, Brennan purses his lips. "The father passed away. The mother and her two kids are at the hospital, getting treatment for the youngest. They're going to make it"
Devon's brows knit together over Elisabeth's expression, apologetic and touching toward worried, given time to think of just how bad an idea that really was. He lets the rest of the conversation wash over him, until the doctor's words touch on his actions. He can't refute the heroics, though he doesn't claim to be a hero himself. Instead of responding, he picks up on the following topic, the Martells. "Too bad about their dad," he says, and if he finds it surprising that Brennan's aware of the family he doesn't show it. "He was really bad when we got him out of the house."
There's a brief nod from Elisabeth. "I understand." She will cover the doctor's behind, because he's covering Devon's. And hers, really. "I hope she makes a full recovery," she tells him sincerely. "I'll keep her in my prayers." It's all she can do for the man's daughter, little as it is. She lapses into silence again, sorry to hear about the father who was saved from the fire but having nothing to add to it.
"From my understanding, yes. The youngest was pretty bad, but he'll pull through, with a little help" Last stitch is done, that leaves just the formalities of tidying it up, smearing topical ointments, gauze over it to protect it for now, tape it all in place and help Devon stand up before divying out a few painkillers for in the future, should he want some. "Anything else?"
"No sir," Devon answers after he's settled on his feet. The painkillers are accepted and pushed into a pocket, shirt pulled back into place. "Thanks," he offers, glancing toward Elisabeth. "For this. And giving us a chance to get scarce."
When the stitching is done, Elisabeth pushes off the other side of the desk where she was leaning. The only thing she's done down here is to wash her hands really well, cleaning blood off. She looks at Harve Brennan and meets his gaze. "Thank you," she adds to Devon's thanks, her expression simply tired. The aftermath of serious adrenaline spike wearing off finally. "C'mon, Devon…. I believe we were about to get a cup of coffee."
"Give me twenty minutes to clean up, then I'll go there. Get in line before me for a refill or something." After that, he'll call it in, the poor shop will likely bear the brunet of agents for a day, but this covers his butt, doens't make him feel too bad.