Spilled Milk


bebe_icon.gif fedor_icon.gif sonny_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Also with the NPCs by—

Scene Title Spilled Milk
Synopsis Sonny and Teo somehow have marital problems about Sylar. Sonny goes out to get a breath of fresh air. Ten minutes later, he's mixing pints of his own blood out on the sidewalk with spilled milk and gummi bears. Yikes.
Date May 4, 2009

Digs In Chinatown — Connor and Teo's

A shag pad furnished with remarkable humility, if you know anything about Connor Kinney at all.

The lovebirds are fidgeting and flitting back and forth inside the boxy confines of their cage, their dark faces turning neurotically to and fro to track the ensuing argument as spectators would a tennis match. This is far more pertinent to their lives than a tennis match. The masters, responsible for their feeding, training, cage cleaning, and condition of general happiness, are fighting.

It's yet to escalate to shouting yet. A bare-footed Sicilian kid is by the sink, tapwater sluicing down his sinewy wrists and filling clouded onto the dirty plates stacked empty below his fingertips. He could stick it all in the washer, but there's something therapeutic about cleaning things with your own two hands which is why he's here, doing that, even as the sharp words of his ill temper seem to spin themselves out of empty air.

"—magine the size of the conspiracy that's put an Evolved in office, got his nuclear weapon of a baby brother out of death row, and blamed it on Gabriel Gray?"

It's the most awkward love triangle one could think of, but in the simplest terms, that's precisely what's happening. Somehow, and through no malicious intent or dark design of his own, the erstwhile serial killer has managed to come between Doctor Salvatore Bianco and his scowly-faced hooligan love. "How would fair trial and due process even fucking start on that one? I don't like it either, but he's saved Phoenix by being at Moab. He saved me."

"He's still a killer, Teo! That all might be all a good reason not to turn him over to the government, but that's not a good reason to associate with him." Sonny is drying, irritatedly. Good thing he bought the kind of dishes that don't break or chip easily.

Angry dish-scrubbing. A murderer coming into the middle of their love life. Oh, the drama. "I don't know what you want from me. He saved you, and I saved him. I may not have come in with superpowers a-blazing but you know as well as I do that he would have died without me. You're even. You don't owe him anything."

Dishes drop into their correct spot one by one. "I won't turn him in. I'll help him if you ask me to, but that doesn't mean I have to like him. Especially when he's sniffing at me like some kind of fucking lion, looking for my weak spots so he can sink his teeth in or play mindgames with me."

The younger man's eyebrows seize downward sharply, bristling at the unkind insinuation as to Gabriel Gray's character. Yes; he's bristling at the unkind insinuations as to Gabriel Gray's character. "He doesn't— he doesn't sniff like that. He's the one who—

"You're the one who's looking for something to sink your teeth into," Teo says, turning his head to focus on what he's doing. Greased crumbs come loose under the abrasion of blunt fingertips. "His ability was the compulsion that was driving him to murder without cause. Frankly, that's a lot more fucking innocuous than whatever the fuck it is this asstastically self-righteous interpretation of decency that has me slaying HomeSec agents on Phoenix's field trips. Just—

"Would you give him a chance?" Its surface now squeaky smooth, the plate is handed over to Sonny's post over the dish rack. "When you see him— just— hear him out. If he reached out, that's meaningful."

"He did not fucking reach out, Teo!" Sonny drops a plate down. It doesn't crack, but it sure makes a sound. The birds squak. "He was playing games with me. Let it drop that he knows about us, that he was eavesdropping on the plane. So he'd have power over me. He doesn't want to be my friend. He'd like to take me out of the goddamn picture, or he looks at me like a curiosity. Someone to poke at and to rile up. Why the hell should I 'give him a chance?' The way I see it, the ball's in his court to show me that he's not a monster if he what, if you want him to come over for dinner? Out for beers?"

Sonny huffs and stalks out to grab more dirty dishes off the table. "If you think you're worse than Sylar, Tay, then your self image is a lot worse than I thought it was."

There is probably some modicum of truth to that lattermost observation, which is why Teo doesn't retort immediately, however irritating or incorrect he finds the rest of it. The faucet continues to run, hissing its column of bubbling white water down over the cookware in his hands. "Even if he was trying, you wouldn't know it. You don't see him clearly and you don't even want to try. Christ.

"He loses his powers, backs me up in Moab. Bleeds out all over my fucking jacket after giving me water and defending me from poachers in the Kalahari desert— tells you he knows you're not who you say you are instead of prying into it behind your back.

"And you're worried about a fucking power play." A bowl skids across the counter-top on scudded tracks of transparent tapwater. Teo's shoulders find a rigidly rectangular tilt, and he drags the abrasive green side of the sponge over the spent skillet. "You don't have to invite him anywhere. Just listen to him if he fucking tries to talk to you, and maybe you'll fucking understand."

His lips bite inward, going white where they're usually sanguine. The second bowl judders along after the first, skittering pursuit that ends with a click of contact. "Please?"

"He didn't try to talk to me, Teo. You weren't there when I was pulling out his stitches. All he did was look at me like he was fucking laughing at me on the inside. Like I was a curiosity that he wanted to figure out. You're guessing at what he said to me instead of listening to what I'm telling you." Sonny tosses the next set of dishes into the sink and pauses by the Italian.

"He obviously doesn't talk to me the same way he talks to you, for whatever reason. He wasn't trying to make nice, or make conversation. I felt like I was some fucking mouse he was batting between his paws."

"And yes, I am judging him. Because I look at that man and I see a smirking face threatening to rip my power out of my head and use it better than I could. Threatening to take everything from me. His power didn't make him say that." He grabs open the fridge door, stares into it for a moment, then slams it shut. "We're out of milk."

He turns from Teo and moves into the front hall. The closet is thrown open and he grabs hold of his jacket.

The sink turns off with a rubbery noise of damp fingers on handle and the hiss of falling water cuts short. Teo dries his hands on the towel hanging off the edge of the counter, comes padding after the way his lover went at the tucked-tail trot of a scolded mutt, despite that the expression etched into his features hasn't resolved entirely into ignoble surrender.

There's a faint thud of impact where his shoulder meets the wall, leaning there as he watches Sonny extricate his garment from the closet. "You're not." He lifts his eyes; has trouble holding them up, so they fall again, helplessly dispirited. "You're not a mouse. His power did make him say that horrible shit once— I believe it— but now he…" A rough-palmed hand passes irritably over Teo's face, winds up splaying his raisined fingers through his bristly hair.

"Thank you," he finishes unevenly. "For helping him anyway."

"I didn't see any change, Teo. The man who confronted me in the morgue felt very much the same as the man I pulled stitches out of. If he has some…interest in proving that to me, let him try. But he hasn't yet. Trust me on that. Or if that was his way of making friends? He has some seriously fucked up social skills."

Despite the fact that Sonny's irritation has calmed somewhat, he's still doing up his jacket. They do need milk, and he needs some air. To think about just why his lover seems so adamant on defending Sylar, why Teo cares if he likes him. It's all a bit strange. "You don't need to thank me, Tay. I did it for you." A beat, then he murmurs, "Do anything for you." He pulls open the door.

Chinatown — Somewhere


Other times, little study and few weapons are required to score a blow where it counts. Sticks and stones, love. Teo is left to seesaw querulously on his bare piggies, peering forlornly after the sweep of Sonny's jacket and long strides to freedom. His fingertips grate the surface of the wall, and his cheek slumps down against it, harsh velvet flattening on the curve of his skull. He doesn't know if it's worse to think he couldn't explain if he tried, or that he could if he could just try harder.

Weather's kind of shit, tonight. Lace of drizzle coming loose from the thunderheads above, beading Sonny's — Connor's? — hair where it can reach, a cold laving over his cheeks and breath of chill into his lungs.

Its sharp-edged eddy may be refreshing, but not clean of scent. Chinatown tends to smell like soy sauce for half-block stretches at a time, and the street on which their apartment complex resides is little different. There's a Cantonese restaurant across the street, walled in tiny green tiles, a belligerent kitchen god inside; the Oriental version of a cheap wafflehouse. The scent of Peking duck wafts near on the gusting slipstream of a bike messenger.

Sonny is himself. Not because he's overconfident or couldn't be bothered, but because being in another shape still tingles a bit. Whether that's psychological worry projected from his loss of control via Sylar's switched ability or an actual physiological response is up for debate. Whatever it is, he can't be in much danger just walking to the corner store, right?

He's got his hood up and his hands shoved into his pocket. Most people around here might recognize him as familiar, but few pay close enough attention to high society to recognize the mayor's kid when they see him. He moves down the streets, past familiar restaurants, heading for the red neon of the Fat Choy Market.

He's not angry at Teo so much as he's perplexed. It just doesn't make sense/ in his mind that his lover would want to be that man's friend. And seems so adamant that //he try to be the man's friend as well. It just doesn't add up.

For a long time now, Teo's choice in friends has left something to be desired. Some of Sonny's choices may be suspect as a function of that, but those things aside: the brisk air and steady clip do his skin well, and the warmth of the Market steeps in, cuts short the needling rain, without turning the filtered moisture into anything unpleasant. It smells of vegetables in here, bak choi, ung choi, dou dou, clean green fronds, residual soil and tofu by the brick, as well as that tang of that odd plastic that the rice bags are woven out of.

Not that there aren't also the usual staple of American corner store stuff. The spectacle is far from exotic, in the end. Candy bars show labels in primary colors and there is a cardboard Easter bunny still glued to the window.

A clerk chatters into the stippled mouthpiece of a candy-pink cellphone, and a snarl of gangsters sniggers over the rows of Tsingtao beer and sakes in the fridge, gel in their hair and leather across their shoulders, perhaps a switchblade here or there, of no consequence to anybody who can't see through clothes. For the ordinary habitants of Chinatown's corner stores, today was progressing at a mediocre pace—

Until Salvatore Bianco does, indeed walk in. The youngest Triad kid looks up. Murmurs: "Taitai, gwailo laila. Koi hai…" Dark eyebrows peak high.

"Dude, is that the fucking Mayor's kid?"

Sonny is a born and bred New Yorker. He knows how to keep his head down, how to neither avoid nor seek eye contact, how to walk in a way as to not seem like a victim. All those things allow him to blend in.

Well, usually. It works a lot better, granted, when he's not moving around with his own face.

He moves back to the dairy cooler, pulls out a carton of milk. A tube of Pringles is selected, and to the Chinese confectionary section for a bag of White Rabbits. His little cluster of goodies is brought up to the counter and deposited. A pack of gum and a bag of gummi bears is added to the pile, then he fishes into his leather-bound wallet for the appropriate cash.

Although he's all too aware of potentially dangerous men in the store, he pretends to pay them no mind.

The potentially dangerous men in the store are sort of gawking at him like he's a unicorn that wandered across the road in front of their safari bus. It's very odd. As far as anybody knows, the tabloid's fare of celebs doesn't live around here. Solstice Condominiums, maybe. The Upper East.

General theory has it that the mutant doctor is keeping either a mistress or a laboratory for his experiments down here. Gummi bears imply the former. Choppily syllabic whispers of Cantonese and interspersed English are matched by the flash-in and -out of the whites of the thugs' eyes. The ragtag pack split into two. Half of them loiter amid raucous laughter about— something that is probably no less asshat than Gabriel Gray used to be and maybe still is; the other half scatter out the door.

"Fucking whitewashed boys," the clerk murmurs at Sonny, though she's careful not to look up at him as she does so. She accepts his money, rips loose a receipt. "Should be doing homework or finding a job, but all they care about is getting into the Flying Dragons these days. Take care." She means: Be careful.

Flying Dragons? Yeeah. Sonny'd be wary even if he was Kinney at the moment. He's hoping they didn't recognize them. "Thanks," he says to the clerk. Both for the change and for the warning. He stuffs the gummi bears into his pocket and hefts up the bag with the chips and milk. His wallet is tucked into his coat and he starts for the door.

Once outside, he points a beeline towards home and starts to walk briskly. If he can find a dark alleyway, he'll shift. Just in case they try to follow him home.

That seems a somewhat more complicated and intellectually challenging an endeavor than the hooligans are willing to invest. The market for information on the Mayor's son's physical circumstances is niche at best, and beyond any currency they would recognize, certainly. Taking on a known mutant, though?

Glass shatters on the concrete at Sonny's heel: a thrown bottle. Spits green sparks of refracted lamplight flashing under the hollow dubbing of rain. One stray fragment bounces off the calf of his pant leg, but mostly it was just a warning, if not one inspired by sweetness of spirit, and the other pieces go skittering off into the humid moisture of the alley's narrow throat and nick the walls.

"Gwaiiii loooo," the salutation comes up from behind him, stretched out over the herky-jerky catch of suppressed laughter. "You're in the wrong part of town."

Three men, one of whom is speaking; one boy following behind. He, the youngest, is the same lookout who'd caught sight and recognized the Mayor's golden boy inside. The hang of his reedy shoulders and garb are just like his companions' in reduced miniature.

Sonny steps away as quickly as he can manage from the bottle when he feels it shatter. Suddenly his pulse is pounding and he gets a sickening feeling in his stomach. He may be a city boy, but he's never been a direct target of attack before. Not by gang members, anyway. A mugging here or there, but those exchanges involved him losing a bit of cash. Something tells him there's more to this than a simple robbery.

He turns and stands straight, doing his best not to show the fear that he feels. "Ey, come on boys. I'm just here to buy some milk, all right? I'm leaving now. I don't want any trouble." Meanwhile, he's got one hand in his pocket, feeling around for his…shit. The cell phone that's plugged in at home.

Just walk away calmly, Sonny. Don't let them see fear. That's what he tries to do, but the wary glances backwards reveal his apprehension.

It's the climate in this demographic around Chinatown, these days. A race to get all the biggest and brightest feathers into one's cap. It coincides, nicely, with a run of shitty luck for Salvatore tonight.

The shout of Cantonese hailed into his back means something like Don't turn your fucking back on me, but since he doesn't speak or understand Cantonese, Sonny has no way of knowing that. Instead, he's left to translate the raw aggression gruffed into the syllables, the sudden onslaught of running feet against concrete and the blunt force of hands into his back. Driving him forward even as a rough-shod foot comes careening into the side of his knee.

No knives yet. That's something. Not much.

The boy among them is a furtive wraith in all of their peripherals. Light on his feet, twisting to look out into the street, tense, teeth bared white, ears straining through the susurration of rain for sirens or patrols. He turns back with a flinch when he glimpses a blur, the vicious arc of a fist hurtling down toward Sonny's mouth to snap off a cry for help he isn't allowed to receive.

Sonny realizes that he's made a bad move too late. He starts to move at the sound of running feet, but it's too late to avoid the shove that sends him stumbling forward. The plastic bag drops from his hand. Pringles shake, carton of milk opens with a wet splat, sending rivers of white along the Chinatown sidewalk. He stumbles, hands jutting out, scratching along pavement, drips of milk and rainwater dampening his palms. He scrambles back to his feet and tries, desperately, to remember his aikido training.

He's too slow to avoid the first swing of heavy fist that smashes across his jaw, ringing his ears and surging pain. Fuck. What a week.. He's disoriented for a moment, then drops to a crouch and aims a fist out towards the one who attacked him. It's not likely to be effective. Though he's spent countless hours practicing Aikido, very few punches have ever been thrown with the actual intent to hurt, and fewer still with the goal of protecting himself. Sure, a few bar brawls here or there, but none of those had the same malicious intent of the gang members. And never has he been faced with multiple attackers.

There is something else. His power. But his head is ringing too much to make use of that ability.

There's a rippling splash of feet through rainwater and dirty milk, a harsh cry going up ragged. Hounds baying for blood, harpies swooping in, the threshing of shark fins in foaming, bloodied sea. Sonny's being cursed out. Brutal rubber soles stomp into his hands, some effort to waylay any use of Evolved abilities based on a remarkably crude but reasonably effective understanding of the way they work.

And the prettyboy's fist bounces off somebody's thigh, a glancing blow that elicits a shout of disproportional rancor. Hands seize on his head. Pinching and stinging his scalp, a grip like a vise, which is a metaphor that makes still more sense because apparently he's being held in place for a knee to come crashing into his face, this time. Thank the tabloids: they had made the most of three particular facets of Salvatore Bianco's public persona. His ability, his wealth, and his looks.

And sure enough— one of the men is shuffling through his pockets, cold, hewn-granite fingers prying at the wallet. Takes care of item number three.

There's an unsurprising bark of pain as the soles stamp down on surgeon's hands, cracking bone and swelling knuckles. He barely has time to think of that pain before the knee's hit his jaw, clacking lower to upper in a violent chain reaction. It knocks teeth loose and blood starts to usher from his mouth from where the edge of his tongue caught between his teeth and bit into his own flesh. He coughs once, a spray of blood mixing with milk. The dribble of liquid snakes in a red and white river towards a Chinatown drain.

If this had happened two days ago, he would have fallen helpless, laid there, unable to think clearly enough to defend himself. But his blood's hot, both from recent events and the fight he just walked out on with Teo. Anger starts to swell up, deep and hot from the pit of his stomach.

He can play the kicking game, too. He may be down on the ground, on his knees, but that gives him lots of leverage to kick like a stubborn mule, heel pointed out and aiming for the nearest set of kneecaps. The hand not crushed by the weight of a foot grabs blindly for the nearest leg, up under pantleg so he's got skin-on-skin contact.

Once he does, he unleashes the full brunt of his ability, beginning an uncontrolled and violent reaction. He wills every muscle in the gang member's body to displace, to skew just south of where it should be. The result is deformed, palsied muscle along his leg in such a configuration that it hurts to stand. If the gang member doesn't break contact, the deformity cuts a rippling path up his body, contorting muscle as it goes.

The sudden chill of bare skin on his own makes the gangster pause briefly, a spasmodic flinch of surprise going through the grip on Sonny's head. He's too slow on the uptake to realize something fucked up is going to happen before something fucked up already has. The leg goes first. The hip with it, the foot drooping and groaning in a mess of distorted ligaments and disrupted muscle strings inside the skin. He might have expected— fingernails or something. Would've cursed. Given Sonny another kick for his trouble.

Instead, there's a scream, blood-curdling, a register higher than most mature men are capable of. You don't have to know much about mutation or anatomy to know, just from feeling that, that that's wrong.

The next instant, empty air gusts in where Salvatore's lead attacker had stood. The man is stumble-hopping back, groaning like a coyote caught in the razor-toothed jaws of a hay-thresher, his arms windmilling, torso falling backward into the grasp of an astonished compatriot. The rain bears down harder still, rakes cold lines and hard-tipped fingers over flattened carton cardboard, mixing fluids, skin and already-sodden fabric.

Over the cacophony of gravity and barometry, Sonny can barely hear it. The click of an insurance card hitting pavement, keys jingling down, and then loose change, and then the exasperated query. "What the fuck?" A driver's license is wrenched out of its leather fold. His attackers fan out into a loose circle around him, their tread squelching audibly, warier now, the radius maintained just beyond the haphazard reach of his bloody fingers.

"Who the fuck is Connor Kinney?"

Oh. Oh shit. Wrong wallet. Wrong fucking wallet. His actual one, the one that belongs to his life as Sonny Bianco sits on his bedstand. That one's all shiny Italian leather. The one the thug has is sturdy yet unremarkable, a thirty-five dollar department store number. And it has Connor's ID.

It says something about his priorities that that panicks him more than the blood in his mouth or his crippled hand.

Somehow he finds a surge of adrenaline to propel him unsteadily on his feet, on a battering ram course towards the source of the voice that asked about his alternate identity. He gropes blindly for bare skin to distort if he can just get a grip.

Aaah! Aaaa, no thank you. Likely more caught up in terror Sonny's flesh-wracking hands and gorey, beleaguered visage than out of any real or immediate desire for mischief, the man haplessly clutching the wallet twists on a heel and begins to hoof it.

Fast. A yelp of surprise and flutter of cloth betrays his departure as he goes, ratty leather flapping in hand and slickened hair jumping out of its finger-sized furrows on the roof of his head. The force of the thug's passage blunders into the lanky teenager. He grabs the boy by the shoulder, shoves him out of his way; Hell, he shoves the kid into Sonny's way.

Bird-bones and sinewy limbs knot and twine and wheel in panic, a thin shoulder jarring into the doctor's ribs, a scream for help lancing up into Sonny's ear. "«Pleasedon'thurtmeohfuckohGod,»" in some inscrutable tongue while bony fists drub against his chest, feet kicking against the inevitable fall.

Their leader has already fallen. He would be the pathetic reduction of a man to Sonny's left, a crumpled heap of agony trying to crawl back into the upright using his bare fingers on the grimy brick of the wall. Breath guttering free in whimpers, the whites of his eyes in staring rings when he turns to stare at Salvatore.

The last man chooses also to take his leave, guided either by unexpected wisdom or ordinary inertia. Either way, taste requires a parting shot: a slender knife into the back of Sonny's shoulder, grinding down, twisted before the shove-off for retreat.

The doctor doesn't have the endurance nor the capacity for pain to chase the wallet-stealer for very far. He only gets a few steps before pain and dizziness stops him. His ears are still ringing from the knee to his jaw. He doesn't even dare to look down at his hand.

Once the boy stumbles into his arms, he stands ready to deform his attacker into a Quasimodo version of himself. But he catches sight of the boy's eyes, sees the fear and panic there. And the youth. Just a child. He squeezes firmly on the kid's shoulder, then shoves him purposefully away.

Just in time to feel the knifey bite of the dagger deep into his shoulder. He thinks he can hear metal grinding against bone as the twisted weapon severs sinew, blood vessels and flesh. There's a gory spurt of blood out of the hole the thug made, and he drops again to his knees. He can't reach the spot, can't put pressure on it to stop the tide of blood. The thug chose a good spot to stab. His ruined hand might be able to clench it, but the good one can't reach.

The child goes into the ground, overturning, shoulder over shoulder and splattering through milk like some mundane domestic accident except there's blood in the milk and men fleeing in all directions like fucking cowards: they are.

Sonny, in the meantime— is too busy falling. Asphalt lurches up to meet the side of his face, the cold flat of it pressing against the swelling ruin of his cheek with grain that feels like teeth, and cold dirt on his broken lips; the burning wound in his back seems to generalize, ache into the longer muscles of his back despite the original precision and pinpoint of its entry.

Pain spreads. Concussion in his head, blunt and stabbing trauma. Compounds, gains force and momentum, a dull, rolling, pounding, nauseating ache.

The noise of his attackers' retreat recedes into the distance. Feet pelting, shouts rending the air; the one, leading thug hitching, dragging himself away like a half-crushed crab from the roadside. There had been no gunfire. There's no way to tell how long it will be, in this weather, at this hour, before someone comes for him.

It's been a very, very bad evening for Sonny Bianco. A very bad few days, all told, but the last half hour has been so much worse.

There is the dark shape of a curly-haired man lying on a Chinatown street, the blinking neon of the storefronts reflecting the rain-soaked streets. Droplets pucker down and wash a mix of blood and milk into a nearby drain. A spilled carton lays nearby.

Now that his attackers have fled, Sonny feels the full weight of his injuries. Adrenaline seeps off like the blood from his shoulder. He can barely keep his eyes open, and what he does see is a hazy, wet, crippled world. His medical instincts cause him to try and hold his shoulder every now and again.

But he can't reach.

He cries out in pain and rolls over, face down. He can taste watered down milk and the iron tang of his own blood, see a crushed tube of potato chips.

There is a gaping stab wound in his back. His face is battered and bruised, mouth dribbling with thick blood. His left hand is broken and crippled and a dozen other, smaller wounds wreck his body. Bad, bad night.

Chinatown wasnt Fedor's sort've joint, but he really needed to see Xiu and well thats how things go. He was tall and slender, if a touch too pale. A crisp white dress shirt, buddy holly glasses and a raven colored funeral tie round out his wardrobe for the evening. He slips his Cobra to the curb, kills the ignition and climbs out with a lazy yawn. He's a touch out of it himself, you know broken rib and a good buzz from what vodka he was able to consume before Jake got wrapped up in his business.

Now Fed actually crosses the street not far from Sonny, before he pauses at the other side and turning back to peer at the poor Sonny Bianco. "Goodness gracious, I do believe you might be experiencing worse luck than I this evening."He starts to cross back. Kneeling to gently roll Sonny onto his side, sliding his free hand around to check for a pulse. "Hey buddy, everything is gonna be alright."

The rain had long ago washed out any sort of attempt Bebe might have made at some not-so-subtle surveillance of that bar over in the Village and so, instead of biding her time as if defeated and pathetically occupying a puddle on some random street corner on the edge of the blast zone, she had decided to amble on down to Chinatown in search of good food and perhaps a few treats worth bringing back to a certain woman in white. She just so happens to turn the corner in time to conveniently miss catching sight of any of Sonny's assailants but she certainly can't miss the man sprawled on the soaked pavement.

While the sight of a body lying in a gutter might be considered commonplace in her neck of the woods, she was on the mainland now and that means Bebe is compelled to care — especially given that the body in question seems to belong to someone still breathing! Another onlooker beats her to the body but that's just as well since the hooker on holiday is busy fishing for her phone while juggling the hooked handle of her umbrella and a little cup of noodles. Bother! She chucks the styrofoam cup out into the street and scampers over in order to lend a sheltering stretch of waterproofed nylon over their hands. "Is he okay?!" she asks uncertainly.

Sonny hears footsteps approaching, but it seems to be from another place and time, somewhere outside of himself. When he feels himself being rolled, the doc lets out a groan of protest and paws at the person doing it. He can't speak, given the fact that his jaw's fractured. But the reason for him prefering to be on his stomach should be obvious. Someone took a knife and gouged a hole in his shoulder.

He's clearly in need of immediate medical attention. He's still bleeding quite heavily, though his pulse is not yet fading. Voices sound as distant as the footsteps, as if the whole of Chinatown were actually another world.

Fedor glances to Bebe as she nears, but at first he doesnt say a word. "He's been stabbed, you should call 9-11 immediately. I'll take care of him, if you make the call."Fedor's all the sudden clear and calm, as he delicately rolls Sonny back over onto his side into what first aid courses tell him is the "recovery position".

Meanwhile, Fed produces a pocket knife and neatly proceeds to enlarge the cut in Sonny's jacket/coat/shirt/whatever so he can get a good view of things. Immediately, he looks for pink blood, bubbles. Any sign the lung has been punctured, and of course shy of any apparant signs he leans in to listen for gurgling. "Just relax, They didnt get you real bad. Fuckers missed anything important, I'm gonna make sure your ok just stay with me. Whats your name, who did this to you?"

Deal. For as much as Bebe might be interested in playing the Good Samaritan, she has absolutely no interest in poking around at an injured man for fear of only making it worse. Unless he's dead. And she has adult supervision. Then she'll poke at whatever she pleases. But, uh, er— anyway

The emergency call is made in haste. Directions are given as clear as any unfamiliar bystander might be able to relay and soon sirens are heard as an ambulance is no doubt on its way. Against her better judgment, Bebe lingers on the scene only long enough to provide a brief respite from the rain. She peers down at poor Sonny from beneath the black canopy held overhead and tries to lend the man a reassuring smile should his eyes ever find focus on her face. "Don't worry," she says softly. Aw. That's sweet. Look who's at it playing angel to a stranger again…

Sonny can't speak. His jaw is broken, his tongue swollen and his mouth is full of blood. He can't even really hear Fedor, though he's aware someone is speaking to him, someone is standing above him. But the pain and the cold are edging him close to shock. He squeezes his eyes closed and a streak of moisture moves down his face.

Then the world fades out and he slips into unconsciousness.

Fedor glances up as the ambulance nears, theres no pause. No conflict he just melts away. Fedor eases to his shoes, and in a skip and a jog he vanishes behind a couple bystanders and he's gone. Like fog in the rain, nothing more than a memory.

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