The Hyena Child of Azazel


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Scene Title The Hyena Child of Azazel
Synopsis The rumors of a HAZMAT suit are greatly exaggerated.
Date May 15, 2011

Studio K — Kristen's Office

Rumors of the Producer's illness passed through many lips before Kincaid finally heard it— busy the last week or so on a project of importance, he hadn't had much chance to see his boss other than passings of emails and messages to let her know of progress, so by the time he finally heard it it had transformed into such stories as 'She's actually wearing a Hazmat suit!' and 'She's Evo like Russo, I bet'. But it one thing had been completely clear.

Kristen Reynolds is sick.

With Dirk asleep at his desk, Kincaid stops for a moment to look him over and shake his head, before he moves on. Sleeping on the job— But he's not too worried about Dirk beyond the fact that he's going to need to enter unannounced.

A solid knock can be heard on the as he opens it, coffee black eyes looking inside the room, his forehead showing worry, based on the wrinkles and the expression of the eyebrows. "Kristen?"

The office is almost pitch dark, Kincaid's internal temperature control will come in very handy as it's about as hot as a furnace in there. At the desk, there's a dim light and a figure wrapped in multiple layers huddled in a chair. She doesn't answer right away, at least not verbally. There's a raspy grunt that Kristen's heard him and the chair turns, showing off the high back to the man at the door.

"K-too, you shou— " whatever she was about to say is interrupted by a fit of wet coughing that isn't caught by a tissue but by the window and then when she wheels around for a handkerchief more sprays across the desk.

The dim yellow light turns it dark, like the inside of a blood orange. Hurriedly, the woman's thin arm stretches out to begin blotting up the mucus. "— shouldn't be here… You might.. heh.." The rattle of a sardonic laugh erupts from her weakened frame and she leans back in her chair, out of the radius of the light. "You might catch my cold."

"You're the one who shouldn't be here," Kincaid says firmly, closing the door most of the way behind him. He's less focused on the door, so a sliver of it remains open, letting in light and fresh air, and letting out some of the sounds of coughing.

"You should be in the hospital, or at least at home resting and on medications— I heard you were sick and still working, but I had hoped you wouldn't be…" Looks how much his hopes gave him. How much his hopes ever seem to give him, really.

There's always something.

"How bad is it? Have you gotten any antivirals?"

"Som— someone has to keep this place running," Kristen wheezes, pulling herself closer to the lamp, only to switch it off. "Dirk's out on sick leave… Can't trust anyone to stick around… Dunno where Russo's gone."

It's hard to tell exactly what condition she's in aside from the sound of singing lungs every time she takes a breath in. The ones out are either whispered or upset by a croupie cough. "Close the door, don't need anyone thinking I'm not at peak performance. Might scare the interns." The chair twists again and she pushes herself up. The shadow of her figure against the thin spread of light that isn't caught by the blind defines her shape as one that's definitely not wearing a HAZMAT suit.

"Don't go to Staten Island…" she offers as advice, quickly changing topics to suit the conversation that must be happening internally rather than out loud. "I hear it's murder…"

Though he's trying to take doctor's orders and remain off the radar, certain things have to get done. Devon's been careful to keep his visits brief since reporting his findings, taking extra precautions to keep from contaminating himself, and likely coming off as a bit of a germaphobe. It's one of the few times he's glad he's not getting paid, no employer sick or healthy would have kept him on the payroll with his comings and goings since Friday.

As it is, the intern took initiative to track down any kind of over-the-counter flu 'remedies' that he could find before stopping in today. And by every kind, he has fizzies and syrups and tablets all touting to be the flu relief hauled in a little brown sack. A few questions here or there as he walks the halls of the studio eventually points him to Kristen's office. A double take over Dirk earns a small scoff from Devon. But he edges past the man asleep at his desk to knock hesitantly on the producer's door.

Amazingly, Devon doesn't follow it up with entering right away. He waits. The gift of non-prescription drugs will be left outside the door if there's no answer and he'll slip back out of the studio.

"Kristen…" Kincaid says outloud, once again saying her full name rather than the nickname that she might demand, or even something more respectful. "Working yourself to death won't do anyone a favor either," he says firmly, looking back toward the door and instead moving to try and find a light switch, or a desk lamp to turn on.

Moving in absolute darkness used to be on of the many perks of his ability… but it doesn't work very well these days— and he won't admit it usually worked best if he was naked…

"Dirk's actually here. Asleep at his desk." And he's assuming, now, that sick might have something to do with it… Which isn't a good sign at all. "That might be him now…" he says, moving to pull open the door now and let in more light. "…Devon," he says with surprise.

The desk lamp that Kincaid finds is not the one Kristen just had turned on. The flicker of the cylindrical fluorescent bulb is harsh and the producer recoils from the harsh white light. The brief glimpse that he gets from her right away is her blood red eyes before an arm comes up to shield her face. Like a stereotypical B movie vampire shying away from the daylight.

"Turn it off," the harsh words are nothing more than a hiss punctuated by yet more coughing and a spray of blood that washes over her elbow. "I'm not going to die… I can't die… It's not in my five year plan. I need to get this story out— they're kidnapping people… probably shooting them and using their bodies to shield the— the— thing they need to shield… to get away from the thing…"

The bag is offered to Kincaid when the door opens, the teenager literally toeing the line that marks hallway from office. "Hey, Mister August," he greets, offering a half attempt at a half grin. His eyes shift past the assistant producer to where the producer sits then back again. "This are for Ms. Reynolds. Um… I… If there's nothing else, I'll just…"

A thumb indicates he'll go, followed by a full step away from the door. It's known in some circles that Devon can face down guns and walk through blood and gray matter without a second thought, but the sickness is giving him the creeps. "Doctor Brennan was suppose to make calls. And…" He glances toward Kristen again. "She and Dirk visited that prison, out on Staten Island."

To turn off the lamp he just turned on, Kincaid has to walk back over, and for a long moment he's distracted by Devon's presence, and the words he has to say. "Why would…" he shakes his head, grimacing a bit at the realization. There's a unconscious mutter under his breath as he turns around, and only Devon is really close enough to make it out.

"This wasn't the way things were supposed to go."

Once he makes it back to the desk, he turns the extra light back off, and looks over Kristen, gesturing Devon in further without looking back. "Let's get some medicine in here— you're evolved, so if this virus is how I understand, both of us are immune." But not Dirk, and not more than half the studio… "K you really need to go to a hospital, if you have what they're talking about. You have Assistant Producers for this very reason."

"You're fired." Is a whisper directed toward Devon, "and call my lawyer." Also directed toward Devon, who might have taken the place of Dirk in her mind, who knows. "That's slander— Prison's under quarantine and we didn't go there."

The long breath out is tripled and harmonic in sound. She collapses into one of her visitor chair, her breath coming in shallow pants. "No, not going to the hospital, they'll make me disappear like the Hewitt woman. Don't want to be a statistic. I'm too rich to be a statistic… too important." Once again a bleary and bloodshot eye is turned toward Devon, "Dirk, make sure security locks down the building, no one gets in without a pass. Shoot to kill and all that. Got it?"

Devon frowns faintly over Kincaid's muttered words. "What. Wait. Is this from— " The rest of that thought is bit off, the teenager pressing his lips together into a thin line. His eyes shift past to Kristen again and his head shakes, storing the thought away for later. Reluctantly, he follows the assistant producer into the office, holding the bag out so he can place it on the desk without getting too near.

"You can't fire me," the intern says quietly, straightening after leaving the brown sack on the desk. "It's not slander. Slander would be with malicious intent." Devon turns to Kincaid, arms folding over his chest. "I tried to call an ambulance the other day, when she said she'd visited the jail. Told me I'd be fired then, too. And she wouldn't listen when I tried to tell her to go home. She and Dirk both laughed it off."

"Kay— damnit," Kincaid says, rubbing his forehead in frustration. This is not how things were supposed to happen. And he knows why this particular thing is happening, too, which makes it no better, in the end.

"Locking down the building is a good start, and— I'll agree against going to the hospital. I don't trust them either, though I don't know who all they've been making disappear this time…" Or who the person she mentioned is. But he said 'this time'. The way he'd been about Coyote Sands one might imagine his particular fears involving situations like this himself.

"I'll try to get you some anti-virals, but please, Kay, you have to take it easy." With the brown stack on the desk, he looks back at Devon with a worried expression before he opens it and starts to pick out medicine to force down the poor Producer's throat.

"I. never. visited. the. jail." Lifting one index finger to point at Devon, she looks at Kincaid and parts her lips in an unpleasant sneer. "Didn't go to the jail, I had a sto— " Her lips clamp shut and she tries to suppress a cough but the hand clapped over her mouth doesn't do much to stop the blood from spurting between her fingers and spraying over the front of Kincaid's suit.

"— story. I had a story… someone had to run the story. They're getting away with murder… Covering it all up…" Her eyelids droop down halfway and her head bobs a few times before it jerks back up again. "Get Russo, get Russo he needs to go on the air and break the story. If he's not on in five …" She pauses, her index finger wavering a little uncertainly, "… five… five… Yes, put five of them on the panel."

Devon cringes following Kincaid's look, akin to a child facing some unwanted task. He sighs in his reluctance and steps further into the office, giving his hands a slight shake. The coughing, wet and frothed with blood nearly turns him around all over again, but a glance toward Kincaid decides it. He's not the one covered in someone else's bloody bile.

"Easier to ask forgiveness than permission," the intern says, like that's going to help the situation any. Pushing the sleeves of his long sleeved tee up to his elbows, Devon sidles behind Kristen's chair. With every intent to hold her still so some form of medication can be applied. "Sorry, Ms. Reynolds," he says, reaching over the chair to place his hands on her shoulders.

The blood doesn't just spray his shirt, but also splatters his face in a few spots. Kincaid winces, and looks down at the sight, unable to shake the impression that he's been in this situation before… Far more than he'd like to admit.

"I'll talk to… to Brad. Make sure this story gets on the air, but you have to rest. Give me the paperwork and…" he trails off, grabbing a tissue to dab at his face, forgetting the shirt for the moment. "…not supposed to die like this…" he mutters under his breath in those soft tones, tension in his face, and a hint of sickness upon his skin. He looks like he might be about to throw up, but not from any virus.

It's the cough medicine that he pulls out first, though, unwinding the cap to pour the dosage into the cup that it comes with. "K, try to drink this." he says as he makes himself get closer, looking past her to Devon for a moment, before looking back down at her while he attempts to try and make her drink.

Kristen still has her hand over her mouth and her bloodshot eyes narrow suspiciously at Kincaid as he tries to force the medicine on her. She tries to wrench one shoulder free from Devon's grip but not having eaten in days has left her just a little weak. As the little cup closes in on her, her eyelids flare wide open and she thrashes violently away from it, finally letting her hand fly free to knock the measure out of the assistant producer's hand.

"//SECURI— //"

She can't even get the word out before she's coughing again, bloody sputum once again washing over Kincaid as the uncontrollable fit takes over. "DIRK!!" She fights against Devon's grip on her shoulders, "trying to— poison— .."

Sinking a little lower, mostly to accommodate the height of the chair versus his own height, Devon draws one arm around Kristen's upper body once she begins flailing. His elbow clamps over her chest and a hand poises to pry the woman's mouth open. His other arm snakes up to grab hold of her forehead and pin it against the back of the chair. He looks past the producer as he moves, eyes going to Kincaid.

"Kristen, god damnit," Kincaid says, though it's not at the coughing of the blood that's getting on him. He actually pulls the cup away to shield it some, and doesn't care so much about the state of his clothes. He may have to send Devon to get him an extra shirt out of his office— Maybe one of the ones with coffee stains. It beats the blood stains at least.

"Listen to me for one fucking minute. You are sick. You need to take something. Stop acting like a fucking brat and act like a woman who is in charge of one of the best Studios in the city. I didn't come all this way to let you die of a cold, do you fucking hear me."

He rarely curses— seems she's bringing it out in him right now. "Now will you try to drink this?"

Although her face is already smeared with the vermillion stain of blood, a new trickle begins when Devon wrestles her head back and pins it back. A single drip from one nostril turns to a tiny rivulet that snakes down, following the line of her lips down to her chin. The staccato pattern of the droplets goes unheard against the yelling going on inside the office.

It's Sunday and the studio isn't as crowded as it normally is but one person out in the hallway is alerted. Bypassing the sleeping Dirk, one lone security guard armed with a taser crashes into the room, expecting to find armed assassins or something of the like. Instead he sees a battered producer, his boss, being accosted by a trusted employee and one of the interns. But he only has one taser.

Leveling his aim at Kincaid, the guard's hand trembles, unsure of what to do. "Put down your weapon and back away from Miss Reynolds!" The order is given before the man sees that the weapon is actually a tiny plastic cup filled with liquid.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Devon says, not exactly yelling in all his exasperation. His grip tightens on Kristen's head and chest, with singular intention to restrain but not hurt. "You stupid hyena child of Azazel shut up!" That's directed at Kristen roughly the same time as Kincaid's tirade runs forth. The teen's eyes slant toward the door when light from the hall crawls in and he literally rolls his eyes.

"If you are Evolved," the intern calls over to the guard. "You might want to turn around and get out. Fast. And burn your clothes. She's got the flu and we're just trying to get her some medicine so she doesn't fucking die. Don't know about you, but I sure's hell don't want to have to find a new job if she kicks it."

"Actually you want to turn around either way— and keep this a fucking secret, consider it classified information," Kincaid says, though he knows the secret has already spread more than the boss would probably like. He holds up the bottle of cough syrup to show the man with the taser, since that's one thing he's not sure he can shrug off, before he adds, "I'm just trying to make her take some cough medicine, I swear."

With that said, he turns around, presenting the man with his back, as he looks at the woman, bleeding from her nose now—

This isn't at all like the Evo flu that he knew. "Damnit…" he mutters, then lowers his voice to try and sound more soothing. "Please, Kristen— just drink some cough syrup. Please." With Devon's hold, he could try more heavily to force it down— but there's only so much he can do if she starts screaming or coughing or sputtering. It works better if she actually tries to swallow.

Since he said please…

It isn't without a fight that the medicine goes down. Kincaid isn't exactly Mary Poppins in that regard but half of it is swallowed with a gurgle while the other half dribbled out one corner of her mouth and down her chin. The fight itself is exhausting and once the cup is empty, Kristen sinks in Devon's grip, defeated.

The guard just looks from one man to the other and then down to the producer before lifting another helpless look at Kincaid. Slowly, he lets the taser drop to his side and backs out of the room only to the threshold. There he pauses to watch the scene unfold. "The rumors are true? What about— " His head turns toward the exterior of the wall where Dirk is having a restless sleep of his own, possibly due to an overdose of cough syrup. "— him?"

As Kristen relaxes after taking her dose, Devon's hands slowly move away as though afraid she might still lash out and cause bodily harm. He inches around the desk, claiming a couple of clean tissues to wipe her nose-dribbled blood off his wrists with mild disgust. "He's probably got it, too," he states, eyes flicking toward the security guard. "Least he had the sense of a goat and drowned himself in Nyquil."

The tissues are flung into the trash can, Devon glancing to Kristen then up to Kincaid. "I'd say I'll have my desk cleaned out in fifteen," the kid informs the room, figuring at this point he's most likely out of a job, "but I don't exactly have one." Shoulders rise and fall and another look goes to Kristen, somewhere between worried and apologetic before he steps toward the door.

"I have some information to share with you," the teenager murmurs when he gets alongside Kincaid, "about this, you might find interesting." Then, with hands going into his pockets, he edges past the security guard saying something about knowing the way out.

"Devon you're not fired," Kincaid says looking over at the teenager who's making his way out already. "She's not exactly in the condition to make decisions like that right now— she could even be hallucinating. If this is anything like the 5-10, and she's coughing up blood already, she could very well be." Hallucinating, that is— except this isn't exactly the 5-10, is it?

Close enough. And enough of an excuse he can reasonably counter the firing that had been done.

"He's probably sick too," he admits to the security guard. "We need to lock down the place, make sure everyone takes showers and cleans up before leaving— but they need to be extra careful. And you shouldn't leave either, Devon. Not yet— you can go to my office and wait for me, if you want to tell me something and don't want to stay here."

After what just happened, he can't blame the kid— seeing the woman acting like that, and that sick. "K, can you hear me?"

Kristen's eyelids have slid down until all that remains are two crimson slits, she doesn't really acknowledge the question. The cough syrup doesn't work very quickly as she's trying to stifle another cough. It boils up from her chest, the liquid in her lungs sounding exponentially worse than when Devon was first summoned to the editing room. But she's calm now. Or maybe just too tired to fight anymore.

"'M not deaf…" The drawl that comes from her lips isn't her generic accent, the one perfected over time. It's a southern twang that's been buried and only comes to the surface in times of great stress. Only Tahir heard it on their trip to Coyote Sands. "K-too… tell Mama that 'm sorry fo' everythin' I done."

To this, the security guard raises his eyebrows and just shakes his head. "They don't pay me enough for this crap…" can be heard muttered as he walks away. But his radio is unclipped and Kincaid's orders are relayed… Studio K is now in lockdown.

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