The Resistance


aviators_icon.gif bosede_icon.gif candy_icon.gif claire3_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif

gabriel_icon.gif huruma_icon.gif sanderson_icon.gif tau_icon.gif usutu_icon.gif

Scene Title The Resistance
Synopsis Team Bravo is led by an undercover member of the Madagascar Liberation Front to the ruins of Mandritsara to meet the Resistance.
Date December 3, 2009


"Th's place, it is my 'ome. But it is a broken one."

Were it not for the patrol they saw on the road just a day ago, it might be easy for Bravo Team to write off the island of Madagascar as the new Roanoke colony. On the day-long drive down to Mandritsara, however, they begin to find out why.

"It's hard t'imagine this country was relatively peaceful jus' two years ago…"

His name is Bosede, a member of the Madagascar Liberation Front, and a mole within General Edmund Rasoul's conscripted militia. Driving the beat up truck that team Bravo managed to secure, the injured militiaman was quick to explain his predicament with them, and that he has been looking for them since a member of the organization found a survivor from their crash days ago. Unfortunately, Corporal Dixon died of his injuries a day later.

"Two years ago, when America announced to t'world tha' there were people w'powers among us, the government went into a panic. At'a time, nobody knew why, but the military was brought down to bear on one commune, one town…"

Driving along this dirt highway, it isn't villages or town that dot the countryside, it is long and dark trenches that at first glance seem like overly large draining for the rainwater from the road. The truth could not be any more further from the truth.

"Every single man, woman an' child in Mandritsara was killed in a single night. 'Dey say tha' th' villagers came out to speak of their pow'as in public, a sign of solidarity…"

The stench of death on these roads is old, distant now but clinging like the smell of wet soil after a rainstorm. The trenches are filled, some to bursting, other only halfway, with bodies in various stages of decomposition. Most of them are skeletal through and through, some of the bone piles have fresher remains heaped atop them. It is the greeting of the true Madagascar, the only Madagascar that has survived.

"T'was jus' th' start. Th' General was rebuked by th' Prime Minister, made t'make a public apology for the tragedy. Th' Prime Minister — Pascal — was friendly t'our kind. Secretly, e' was one, we're fairly sure. E' was gon' t'make a national day of mourning of that massacre in Mandritsara… then th' dark times came."

Riding between these trenches, buildings nearby aren't even abandoned anymore, they're just gone. The demolished remains of shanties, huts, and even brick buildings are leveled flat to the ground. Trees are pulverized by what had to be a massive battle here on the outskirts of the commune. Here, in the dim light of a cloudy morning and the dense fog, they look even more haunting.

"General Rasoul's revolt took a single night. He rounded up all'a the people that 'ad come outta' hiding when Pascal made the announcement of the day a'mourning. Supporters, gifted, all'a dem were drug out in'a the street an' shot. The people stood up, an anyone who resisted was kill'd."

As the ruins become more dense, the remains of Mandritsars look almost reminiscent of Midtown in New York. Replacing demolished skyscrapers are bombed out two and three story brick buildings. The shattered remains of what was once a hospital seems to dominate the skyline.

"The Gen'ral rules this whole country with an iron fist now…"

The roar of the engine quiets as the truck begins to slow down, headlights barely cutting through the fog.

"…what is left of it."

Clothes fairly tattered, the blonde regenerator sits in the cab of the truck, one combat booted foot propped up on the dash. An arm resting on the sill of the rolled down window. The wind caused by their travel whips her hair around her face, making her have to brush it away in annoyance. Her clothing has definitely seen better days. Her camo pants filled with bullet holes and stained with blood. Over this she still wears the combat jacket Eileen let her borrow since her black tank top was pretty toast, since everyone seems to aim for the chest.

Claire's been quiet for the most part on the trip, watching the scenery and barely listening to any of the conversation. Blue eyes, watch the trenches go by, knowing what lies within. It's humbling to know that while things are bad in the states, this was worse. Her head slowly shakes, "My god…. " Is all she can really say about it, totally at a loss of words.

Now that the river is behind them, Madagascar has taken a more visible turn towards what Huruma remembers being stretched over not only the island- but the continent next door as well. Rolling highways, bared reddish earth, sparse trees over seasonally green hilltops, the mountains almost always in the distance- far on the horizon. In this case, it is less of a scale, but the effect it has on the sick and otherwise irritable empath is genuine. On the last stretch of river Huruma had been getting very snappish, and very hard to be around for any length of time. Now, she has been spending nearly the whole trip over road laid out in the back of the truck.

Though she of course has had her share of tossing and turning due to the parasitic infection, the worse symptoms seem to have not yet kicked in; this tells the others that either she is not much affected- or that she is used to the parasite, much like one gains immunity to other illnesses. Her long arms are folded on the edge of the truck bed, with her chin and face positioned there in the crook of an elbow. Lain out, she does take up some space- but at this point if there are still people on Bravo team remaining conscientious about personal space- there is something else wrong. Huruma has been silent, choosing to listen to what Bosede has to say over the last length of the trip. Whatever reactions that come from the others are not quite ignored, but she does not share them either.

When you see this sort of thing all the time, it is an understatement to say that it makes one jaded upon seeing it again.

Sequestered into the back of the truck, Gabriel leans his head against one engine-vibrated wall until it makes his eyeballs feel like they're going to buzz out of his skull. But it's better than trusting his neck to support his head right now, weariness plaguing him as hard as their shared illness. Now that he isn't alert - beneath the heavy hoods of his eyelids, he settles an astral projection of himself in Claire's skull to get a first person review of all that's being said. An invasive touch, but one she won't know about if told.

Unnecessary, as words carry back to the rear of the truck anyway, but there's something to be said about being detached from his body.

Once the truck is stopped and the engine turned off, Bosede climbs out, favoring his injured shoulder. The makeshift bandage of a torn shirt that he wears is little comfort and is soaked with blood. Eileen may be a handy field medic, but she is — like all physicians — limited to the supplies at hand which were at that time meager.

"We go by foot the rest'a th' way in. The roads in'a ruins are trapped w' land mines left over from th' first days a'the purge. It keeps patrols out, but forces us t'keep trucks away." Offering a nervous stare to the fog, the scruffy man looks to be distantly staring at the shattered roof of a nearby building, looking at a pile of debris on one corner with scrutiny. "It's been six days since a patrol came through…" he says as if somehow divining that answer from the pile of rubble, "We should b'safe."

The outskirts of Mandritsara are as much of a ghost town as the ruins of Midtown are. Tomb-silent streets whistle with the faint sound of wind through blown out windows and demolished buildings pulverized by some immense conflict. Everything looks to have been burned down long ago, but the jungle seems to have reclaimed some of the commune. Stick-thin saplings of trees, vines and grass grow up in empty cellar holes and by single walls that once were a part of houses.

The handful of major buildings are hardly in any semblance of intact, some have three walls and no roof, others don't even have walls, just low burms of collapsed brick and wood where a house once was.

Climbing out of the back of the truck with a wheezing exhalation, Lieutenant Sanderson looks worse for wear. She had stayed hidden on the boat during the ambush and silent for the entire ride down. Dark circles around her eyes are slicked with sweat, her face is pale in most places and flushed red at the cheeks and ears. As she eases out of the truck, she's (of all things) leaning on Candy as the pair help each other out.

Far worse for wear, Candy still is sluggish from her pain medication and the fever accompanying her malaria. The exertion of the battle at the river yesterday was simply too much, and now she can barely keep her hands from shaking and legs from wobbling. She hasn't thrown up in a whole hour — that's a milestone.

Feet sliding off the dash as the truck stops, Claire sets a shoulder to the door of the truck and while giving the handle a yank, shoves the door open. The petite girl, slides out of the truck, landing with a thump on he packed earth, before reaching in to drag out her backpack from the floorboard. Shrugging the pack on, she also takes a moment to reach into the truck and grab her rifle, only then does she move around to the front of the truck. "Yeah well…" Her voice scratchy from lack or water and inhaling road dust, "Our lucks been slim."

Turning to look down towards the back of the truck, she watches the others pile out. Seeing Sanderson and Candy struggling, she sets the strap of the rifle on her shoulder and moves to help the pair.

Using a town as picked apart as this one is one thing- but using it as a meeting place? Right now that seems absolutely absurd, as they all get out of the truck and onto the ground below. Huruma, despite her fussiness with seemingly everyone, will try to lend a hand to Sanderson and Candy both should they accept it, but she is not going to be having anyone lean on her. Nobody here. She is also one of the few left that can carry a heavier load; and in that regard she has a bit more on her back.

If there is one thing that makes Huruma look as cautious as she does, it would have to be that there are landmines throughout the town. No stranger to that concept either- and frankly, having to get a limb blown off is not something that she wishes to run into right now. "D'you'ave a safe path, or is this a guessing game?" This comes out decidedly more venomous than she may mean it to.

Candy manages to look somewhat grateful at Sanderson as they help each other out, though as Claire and Huruma approach, Candy begins to lean on Claire. No offesne to the military person, but Candy doesn't trust her. "Thanks," she manages to croak out to Claire and Huruma both as she shivers while leaning on Claire.

Gabriel's step out from the truck could be more graceful than it is. He's hungry, sick, tired— just like everyone else, but hey. The serial killer has always been a city boy. However, his backpack is full in the same way Huruma's is, grudgingly shouldering some of Sanderson's load which pulls and nags at the straps of his pack. Running the back of his hand against his forehead, a doggish shake of his head is arguably done to wake him up once more as he steps towards the group.

If he had any defenses against hidden bombs, he doesn't vocalise them - so presumably, he has none, save for his own myriad of forms he can travel in. As tempting as it is to slip into smoky shadows, Gabriel remains solid for now. The question is noted, and the answer anticipated with a hawk-like gaze matched upon the militiaman.

Eileen is right behind Claire, cargo jacket hanging off her slim frame, its dusty green fabric ridden with bullet holes. Finding fresh clothes — intact clothes — is high on her priority list, but not as high as the medication she needs to treat Team Bravo's malaria. Although she hasn't yet begun to display symptoms herself, she can see that Sanderson is worse off than she was last night, and last night was worse than the day before. She studies the back of their commanding officer's head as she adjusts the straps of her rucksack, its metal buckles tinkling cheerlessly together and catching the light in sporadic flashes like a signal lamp.

She survived in the Malagasy jungle alone by salvaging what she could find from abandoned villages. Mandritsara won't be any different. "We need doxycycline," she tells Bosede. "Quinine. Is— was there a hospital here?"

"'Dere was, b'fore the attacks. We took what we could from th' ruins, an' make raids on the surviving hospital— " hospital, singular, "in th' Capital. We have malaria medicine, not much, but enough… I hope. There would be more in th' capital, but that place…" Bosede steels himself and shakes his head, "that place is death."

After taking a moment to check his surroundings, Bosede looks over to Huruma. "I know th' way…" He answers quietly as he scratches at a scab on his cheek, looking up and around the buildings. "It is fortunate tha' you found me when y'did. If you'd come in'a this town without knowing, you'd all prob'ly be dead…" Then, looking to Claire he adds, "well, most'a ya." Waving his good hand over his shoulder, Bosede trapses off of the dirt road leading into the town through the doorway of one of the demolished buildings, now just a single brick wall with four blown out windows and a doorway, that leads to a pile of rubble that was once someone's home.

Trodding across the bricks and broken planks, he adds back. "Rusty nails might be'a worse fate than th' mines. There be no medicine for tetanus out here, so watch y'steps." Dark eyes shoot back to the ruins, and Bosede proves to be a competent guide, leading the way through buildings and narrow swaths of clean ground amid light undergrowth and rubble. Along the way, however, there is something strange amidst the ruins of Mandritsara.

On one of the crumbling brick walls, there is graffiti. Some depicting the letters MLF and a raised fist of blood red, others simple spray paintings of X's over the national flag. But on the side of one mostly intact wall there is a more artful spray-painting. It is a picture of a short blonde woman in a black tanktop and camouflage pants wielding a bent pipe in one hand, and bringing it down to bear on the skull of a screaming asian woman who is crawling on her stomach away from her.

Nearby to this, there is graffiti of a man's silhouette with bloody hands, and his hands are covered with squirming worms. Beneath that picture, there is a starkly painted image of a man with thick, dark eyebrows smiling wickedly.

Bosede pays them no heed at all.

Pulling one of Candy's arms across her shoulders, Claire supports the asian woman. "Yeah… well. Just don't puke on me and we'll be good." The ex-cheerleader grumbles some, as she pulls Candy along with her after their guide. Pausing near Eileen, Claire let's the rifle slide off her arm and she hands it over, since she'll be half carrying Candy. Someone should be armed.

She follows quietly after the injured man, watching to make sure Candy doesn't step wrong, since Claire doesn't have to worry about herself. Her boots crunch loudly over the gravel of demolished buildings. With her eyes on the ground, it's easy for her to miss the paintings on the wall.

There is something to be said for Huruma and graffiti- she does stop to look at things sprayed on walls, even while in New York. In this case it is no different, though she only slows down instead of leaving the group as they walk. It keeps her relatively amidst them, and also gives her a better timeframe to look at her surroundings and make an array of mental notations on it. When they come around to the more artistic depictions, Huruma makes no effort to keep her pale eyes from darting first up to Claire and Candy as they pass the first. Her eyes draw over the second without much pause. The third, however, Huruma's legs seem to want to stride onward, but her eyes lock onto the medium-sized painting on the wall beside them.

While it's not like she jumps at him, standing beside Gabriel proves useful when Huruma lifts both of her hands to take him by the face and pull him in for inspection. Now she's stopped, of course. A small smile is on her lips, despite her air of soreness.

"Hmm. This one looks right." A small jerk tilts Gabriel's head on its axis slightly, bringing his face more parallel to where Huruma also looks at the painting. With her hands on his face, it also makes it easier for her thumbs to draw up as her chin lifts thoughtfully, the pads of both digits smoothing over those very distinguishing caterpillars on Gabriel's forehead. Make no mistake, she is petting the Sybrows.

Candy's attention is not on the grafetti, and as they pass it her, her mind can't really process the images that her eyes are reporting, or her eyes can't process them. Regardless, she asks Claire, "What are those?" Her voice is thick and slurry from her rapid descent into sickness after they managed to get a car last night. The small asian is almost a pathetic sight to see, not a single hint of the sociopath really left in her. Pathetic, really.

Plod plod plod. Like a lanky pony, Gabriel's monotonous trudging along with the group is weary, determined, automatic. His center of gravity, as a result, is not entirely reinforced by the time Huruma is reeling him in, brown eyes blinking owlish up at her and a protest dying on his tongue. The hell—

Hey that feels nice. Regardless, Gabriel's hands wrap firm around Huruma's wrists, and he jerks his head out from her clasp, smoothed eyebrows now furrowing as he shows her a glint of teeth in a scowl in a predator's language of back up, lady, twisting around to try and see what her pallid eyes were comparing his regal features to.

And staring, pacing away from her as he draws on towards the images spread over rock. "Bosede," is quiet, but his voice carries all the same. A hand lifts, fingers click once, sharply, as if calling a dog to him. "What is this?"

Eileen's hand closes around the rifle's middle when Claire offers it to her. Rather than hoist it over her shoulder opposite her pack, leather strap tight across her front, she swings it up to train the barrel on the derelict road and crumbling buildings that flank either side. Tension winds through her shoulders and stands out as tendons in her neck and the backs of her hands when she glimpses Huruma's hands on Gabriel's face, but she does not act on it. Neither does she turn to look at the graffiti when Gabriel attempts to call Bosede's attention to it.

Instead, she moves to catch up with Sanderson, offering the injured woman a shoulder to lean on in case she needs it. Candy is in good hands, the images splashed across disintegrating brick aside. One arm loops around her commanding officer's waist, steadying her.

There's a look from the group's erstwhile guide as he turns at the questioning, then alights dark eyes up to the pictures. "Graffiti?" Bosede offers up helpfully with a shrug of his good shoulder. The guide stops at a pile of rubble and looks back to the team he's leading again, though this time his eyes fall on Gabriel first, then Huruma, then up to the image the bears his likeness with furrowed brows. "I… do see d'resemblance," he admits with reluctance, "but this graffiti 'as been 'ere since b'fore the uprising. It is years old." There's another look over to the picture that seemingly shows Candy and Claire locked in some sort of struggle, and frowns decidedly. There's a narrowing of his eyes, as if recalling something, but he pushes it out of his mind.

Moving deeper into the ruins, Bosede brings the group to a clearing that must have at one time been a lot behind the hospital. Some grass has grown up in the dirt here, sparse but vibrant and green. Now at the heart of what was once Mandritsara, Bosede comes to a stop by a pile of twisted metal rubble that was once a shanty.

"We're 'ere…" He states quietly, moving to crouch down on the dirt near the grass, hand sweeping away some sand and dirt as he revealing a large piece of corrugated steel. "A long time a'go, the French occupied this country. They built this 'ospital, but also built shelters beneath it back durin' th' secon' world war. When Mandritsara was destroyed the firs' time, th' MLF's founded turned th' place in'ta a safehouse for those 'oo opposed what 'appened. When things go' worse, more people came, an when th' MLFs founder died, Dajan took over, an' e' used 'is pow'a t'expand…"

Hesitating, Bosede looks up and over his shoulder with furrowed brows, like he heard something. Bereft of a gun, it's all Bosede can do to call out, "Who'se there?"

"An excellent question, my friend. Would you know the answer, were you asked it yourself?"

The shadow of a man spills across the clearing as cast by the sun as it briefly shows itself between a cancer of clouds and fog that enshroud this place like the restless spirits of the dead. The silhouette is a classical one, a man whose arms are upraised onto a long shaft of wood, though a gaze following it to its origin will find no nails. A dark-skinned African man approaches, a long staff with a triangular-carved head braced against his shoulders, both arms wrapped over it to give them rest; the wind flutters a scarf coiled about his neck, the shirt it rests over a faded orange, sturdy brown pants and boots showing signs of wear and - curiously - spattered bits and splotches of other color. His goatee is grizzled, unshaved bits and shorter growth here and there, his expression rather serious as he turns his gaze upon each in turn with a certain subtle weight to it.

Finally, Usutu speaks again, offering in a mild, thoughtful tone of voice as his feet come to a halt in a stirring of dust and dry earth about them, "It is good that you are here. It will not be long before winter comes."

Finally, when Candy asks the question, Claire finally lets her attention wander to the images. The sight of them, makes her slow to a stop and stare. She's seen prophetic paintings before, her mouth opens and then closes. A chills slides through her body despite the heat, making her skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I… don't know." Claire murmurs, lying through her teeth as she stares at the image of what she can only assume is her and Candy. The words of her boss flitting through her mind that she should kill them all if she has too.

Licking dry lips Claire glances over at the others, trying not to look at the images again. "See.. just old graffiti." the ex-cheerleader reassures the hydrokinetic as she starts to follow their guide again. "Come on.. the sooner we get there the sooner you can rest." Tugging the other to start moving again. Of course, this is when a new person joins, Claire stops yet again, brows lifting a bit as she meets the strangers gaze.

Huruma's long fingers offer one of Gabriel's cheeks a pinch as he pries them away from his head, hand by hand. She watches as he beckons Bosede's attention taking a pace back at first to wait and see what the man knows. Not much, apparently. When the group follows him the rest of the way only to stop again, Huruma is at the rearmost place. Before their guide turns his attention, her own features crease in interest, a mild glance moving off to her left somewhere. Bosede finally beckons the presence forward, and the tall woman turns herself to meet whoever it is with her eyes.

In some ways, the 'old man with stick' image grates on her. In other ways, it is one of the most familiar things. As her eyes take in the newcomer, there is something else familiar that looks to be bothering her already. Something she knows she cannot place- but she will keep silently brooding over it until it occurs to her. Hands perched on her hips, Huruma peers virtually down her nose at Usutu; not a prideful gesture, as her eyes shade under her eyelids the entire time. Brooding made to look like thorough observation.

"Old graffiti," Candy murmers in acknowledgement of Claire's words as she leans on the regenerator. She stumbles a bit as her feet don't quite do what she wants them to do. Her eyes still peering in front of her as she looks at Usuntu, she blinks a couple of times, unable to bring him into focus. Finally, she asks of the person supporting her, "That's not Jesus is it? If so, can you tell him he's wasting his time. No God would forgive me."

Gabriel doesn't need to be physically dragged from the paintings to move it when the group does, but he does linger on the brink of needing to be called back. However, Bosede's explanations are minimal, and staring at the images won't yield more results. He moves with them, tagging along at the group's heels by the time they reach the center of the gutted town. Reassurance that the paintings are old— is not reassurance at all.

By the time they've stopped, and by the time the group is joined by another, Gabriel is prowling around the periphery of Team Bravo. "Look around you," he sneers, with his own glance beyond to twisted metal and broken brick. "I think we're all pretty much damned already."The matte black of his pistol weighs heavy in a casual grip as he returns is regard to the newcomer.

"Tha's no'Jesus…" Bosede admits with a shake of his head. "He is Dajan's spiritual advisor, Usutu." Dark eyes address the older man with a wary smile, then his hands pull aside that hseet of corrugated metal to reveal a crumbling cellar hole and concrete stairs. Swinging his legs down to the steps, Bosede looks up to Usutu and arches one brow, as if silently wondering if he's coming along. But since he's here and now the MLF guide assumes that there's no other place Usutu would rather be.

Moving down the stairs, Bosede calls up to the others. "Come on! Don' worry about the metal, someone will be headed out behin' us." Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, Bosede arrives at a large iron door marked with a white spray-paint cross. One hand reaches out, making an arrhythmic knock. Waiting for only a moment, there's a scraping clank of a bar over the door sliding away, and then the creak of hinges.

"God, I just want to sleep…" Sanderson murmurs from where she leans against Eileen's sleight frame. There's a thankful look offered to the raven-haired young woman, a silent offer of appreciation for all the effort she's taken since they arrived to make sure she'll survive to this part of the journey.

Down at the door, an enormous man greets Bosede, a giant figure with richly dark skin and short, coarse hair kept close to his head, He glowers down from seven feet of height at the injured man, then up to where Usutu is visible at the top of the stairs. Light glints dully off the metal cross on the giant man's bare chest, flanked on either side by the threadbare sleeveless shirt he wears. "Get inside." The enormous man bellows, patting Bosede on the back lightly.

A soft, warm chuckle clucks in the back of Usutu's throat, something about the sound of it tolerantly chiding like a parent to a child - or a favored uncle to his niece. "I do not know your God personally, Can-dace," he observes, twisting the wandering staff from his shoulders and letting it slide down the length of one arm until its base grounds in the earth with a soft thump and a puff of dusty earth about the contact, "But if the Brain Man can seek atonement and forgiveness, then perhaps you could learn something from his lesson, however he may deny the truth of it. His path has changed many times, and yet still he seeks the way."

That all-too-knowing gaze touches briefly on Gabriel at the man's bitter words, but he merely shakes his head rather than speak further as he starts forward again, stepping across the clear area in the wake of Bosede and the others. Feet clad in sturdy workboots clomp along the steps, his staff making it a three-note beat, asking casually of the team as they all head down into the hidden depths, "I do not suppose any of you have some spare double-as on you? It is very difficult to find batteries here."

"No… it's not." The comment is blandly given, even as Bosede says it as well, Claire eyes the newcomer cautiously, but she doesn't say anything more then that on the subject. The Asian woman, might not be all that heavy, but she weights enough that it gets uncomfortable, so she takes a moment to shift her grip. Blue eyes slide from the stranger to Gabriel when he speaks up. Her head tilts ever so slightly as she considers his words glancing about, she can't exactly fault his logic.

She gives Usutu a small nod, and a bit of a smile, before dragging Candy after their guide. She keeps one arm gripped tight around Candy's waist, while her other hand lets go of the arm over her shoulder, so that she can press it to the wall for balance as they take the steps one at a time.

A glance over her shoulder to stare at Usutu when he seems to know her charge's name, Claire offers a, "Sorry.. didn't think I'd be needing batteries out here." Her head twists a bit more, to cast an amused and even more curious look at Gabriel… atonement and forgiveness? The idea didn't seem possible with Gabriel.

The second name drop doesn't pass Huruma's ears- though at this point she appears to be blocking most everything out as she follows Bosede and the rest of her group. Nearly even Usutu asking for batteries, to which he gets a look from her not unlike a look someone on the other side of the zoo exhibit glass may get on a hot summertime field trip.

When they are down in the stairwell and met by the vision of a giant torso- no, wait, that's an actual person- Huruma gets more alert as the seconds pass. This is completely unfamiliar territory, and she cannot exactly hope to turn and leave without knocking somebody out of the way. Regardless, Huruma is prepared to follow the leader until the surroundings may open wider, or possibly lead somewhere much bigger as to squeeze them all in. If the jolly black giant in there can fit, however, she has hope yet.

Candy shakes her head a little as she says, "No… no… not Candace. Call me… Noriko." She nods her head a little while she moves along with Claire before her eyes turn to the blurry-not-Jesus-figure, "Batteries… did you ask God?" No, her brain isn't quite right anymore, or at least, worse than it was. Then again, she isn't going on killing spree, so, it could be an improvement. "Anybody have a rosary beads? And a priest… I think my final rites might be due. I'd like to have them," she mutters softly.

Then the big titan appears and blinks a couple of times, her half-collected train of thought suddenly disturbed as she says, "I was raised catholic, you know. And I…" She blinks a couple times more, leaning slightly forward and then asking, "Did the wall just move? I saw the wall move, didn't I?" She's staring at the large man's torso, since its about eye level with her.

Usutu is met only with a flat stare back, as unimpressed as the icy underside of a frozen over lake may be to the things beneath scrabbling for air. Still, the fact that the stare remains in place even when the lanky African turns his back and begins descent— and Gabriel's following is made reluctantly, but so far, Madagascar has been one big long inevitable path he's been dragged down.

If not one towards atonement, necessarily. He shadows Claire and Candy, sends a glance back towards Eileen and Sanderson. Was this— any of this— in the plan?

"You can sleep after you've had something to drink," Eileen tells Sanderson as she leads her down the steps, careful not to jostle her unduly or jab at her ribs with the butt of her rifle. "If they don't have beds, we'll lay out one of the rolls. Do you feel like you can keep some food down, or do you want to wait and see how your stomach is after you've had a chance to rest?" The marine's chances of survival aren't good if Team Bravo doesn't have an extraction plan, but Eileen doesn't want to think they're bad either.

With Copeland and Dixon gone, Sanderson remains their only link to the officials that promised them amnesty. Eileen would be lying if she said she hasn't laid awake at night wondering what their superiors will think if none of the soldiers assigned to the unit are brought back alive.

Still, her own self-preservation represents only a small fraction of her motivation for tending to Sanderson as far as pie charts go. It feels right — familiar in ways she can't explain but give extra weight to what Gabriel told her in the cabin. "I need to speak with you," she adds then in afterthought, her face turned away from Gabriel when he glances back in their direction, though her words are certainly audible. "There are some things I want to ask."

"Rest— " Sanderson swallows noisily, "Rest first, then— then something else. I— I don't want to think about food. I'm so goddamned tired… so tired." She's completely out of it, barely able to walk and her skin is hot to the touch. Between the malaria, her wound, and the harsh Madagascar summers, it's a wonder Sanderson even made it this far.

When Eileen asks a favor of her though, about questions, all Sanderson can do is quietly nod her head in agreement. Anything as long as she can finally lay down and not have to worry about being shot immediately. That, to her, will be the satisfaction of reaching the rendezvous point.

Down at the bottom of the stairs, the mountain of a man steps inside the doorway and leads the way into a place that smells of wet concrete. Mold and mildew cling to these old walls like oily marks cling to wallpaper around where portraits used to hang. It's a pungent smell, but one that the people here must have become accustomed to. Eileen's not much fond of moldy basements, and that is exactly what this is, what with how they set off her asthma. This, coupled with the nicotine withdrawl from not having had a cigarette in nearly a week won't be going well together.

The bunker lives up to its name, a cramped and dark shelter that the giant door-man is forced to navigate with a sleight hunch to his posture, nervous about clipping his head on the exactly seven foot high ceilings. The approach passes by a curious and old mural painted on the concrete wall, faded and old, it depicts an abstractly painted cityscape with a looming and stylized tidal wave coming to crash down on it. "Bosede, go rest. I will come tend t'your wounds once our guests a'settled in." The giant of a man speaks gently, voice deep and strong but his tone gentle and good-natured.

Offering up a smile, Bosede looks back to the others, then nods his head and departs down one of the corridors. Down here in the bunker, it is recessed fishbowl style lighting that illuminates some of the concrete passages, giving a dirty jaundiced lighting to the place, leaving much dark and gloom in its damp corners. "Th' rest a'you must come w'me t'meet Dajan." Looking at Sanderson, however, the enormous man offers a frown when he sees her name stenciled on the front of her jacket. "Can someone speak for your commander if I 'ave 'er go lay down?"

"Gray," Sanderson hisses out, "Gray's in charge…" There's an affirmed nod of the huge man's head as his ark eyes drift unknowingly from one team member to the other, and then to Eileen last.

"Take her down tha' hall. The first door, there is a cot there, let her lay down then come to us. I will take care of her, do no'worry." A broad, white smile comes from the giant as he turns and begins headed down the corridor again, leading the group deeper into the bunker.

A click of Usutu's tongue answers the failure of batteries to manifest at his inquiry, though he doesn't seem too terribly put out about their lack in the general vicinity. The fatalistic murmurings of Candy draw to him another chuckle, the girl seeming to fill him with no end of dry mirth, and he steps to one side of the dark and cramped interior to allow the others within.

As Huruma prowls down with them all, he regards her thoughtfully, nodding slightly to himself as both hands wrap about his wandering staff, the thong coiled about one hand.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Claire heaves a heavy sigh. "Your not dead yet, just sick…. So hush. You'd think you've never been sick before." The words have a bit of a bite to them, even as she gently eases their way through the door. "I thought your a fighter.. Sounds like your giving up."

As they move into the shelter, her nose wrinkles a bit against the smell. Turning to stare at Sanderson as she declares Sylar in charge, Claire's jaw clenches tight, but she doesn't argue, pushing aside her feelings. Instead she looks to the mountain of a man, "Shouldn't Candy here, lay down as well?" She asks, shifting her grip on the Asian woman again, Claire's shoulder muscles would protest the treatment if her ability didn't ease it away the strain. "She's in pretty bad shape."

There is something about Usutu that makes Huruma want to keep him at least in the corners of her vision- as if he might do something and she'll miss it. Certainly one of those nagging feelings that she does not want to be having, and so she settles on tentatively feeling around men's auras nearby, including that of their newest guide- the giant man that apparently can be mistaken for a wall. For now, however, Huruma keeps silent and surprisingly says nothing when Sanderson leaves the role of leader to Gabriel- she prefers to see how that pans out beforehand.

"I'm always sick, one way or the other," Candace mumbles as she moves along before saying, "Fighter? I'm not a fighter, I don't fight. I kill, I'm a killer." She continues to walk along with Claire before saying, "I'm fine… just a… just a fleshwound. I'll bite ya. I've had worse, ya coward. None my pass…" She smiles, her head lolling a bit as it rests on Claire's shoulder. "You have very comfortable shoulders… you should get naked," because obviously those two things go together. Finally rousing herself from her haze she asks, "Does Jesus have a healer? Isn't there a story with Jesus and a healer…"

It's a bit like being pushed out onto a stage without a script, limelight in the form of an affirming nod. Gabriel manages to suppress a wide, dizzied smile at what is arguably a ridiculous notion, one of the government's leashed attack dogs suddenly rising in the ranks as de facto leader. It probably helps that Sanderson is probably delirious. Instead, he assumes a straighter posture as he roams his attention over the men they've come to meet, from prophet to brick wall.

"Are you staying with them?" is directed to Eileen, and them likely includes the babbling Candy. No question, as to whether or not she needs to lie down. More a question as to whether she'll stay there once she is.

A look to Bosede, now, jaw firming and Gabriel only gives a chin up of consent and affirmation as to Sanderson's words. Much like Huruma, he's willing to see how this pans out as well.

That Gabriel is in charge brings Eileen some measure of peace. And while we're using cliches: the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. After her confrontation with Huruma on the riverboat, it's been a struggle not to go to him and attempt to explain the necessity of taking charge; having Sanderson hand him authority over the group is a great deal easier than convincing him to take it by force. The last time she implored him to do something along those lines—

"Come on," she whispers, her breath warm in Sanderson's ear as she leads her down the hall and into the room the behemoth specified. "Just a little further." To Gabriel: "I'll catch up in a minute."

"Jesus does indeed 'ave a healer." The enormous man says with a broad smile as he tilts his head back to look at Candy, as if somehow he missed her all the way down there. "Ya, any of y'tha're that sick shoul'go lay down." Clearing his throat, the gigantic resistance operative motions to the same room he instructed Eileen to go towards. "A'least…" He searches for the name, eventually offering it out experimentally, "Gray should come w'me. Those a'you too sick to, wait for me in tha'room." Offering an uncertain smile to Gabriel, the massive guide turns down the hall and continues walking again.

Oookay… Claire is suddenly less thrilled to have the woman clinging to her. "Yeah…. no. No, I'm not getting naked. And no.. your not fine. Your freakin' out of your mind." She gives the large man and thankful look and moves to follow Eileen to deposit her bundle of crazy on a cot.

Candy crawls into the bed as Claire deposits her. "But you'd look so good… and be all comfortable," Candy murmers, before she passes out in the cot.

Once she's sure Candy isn't going to roll off the cot or anything, Claire is quick to join Gabriel again, curious about the meeting. Lucky her for being the least sick of them all, even if she does have the damn parasite, she's at least not babbling on quoting Monty Python. Claire hangs back slightly form Gabriel and lets him do any talking… She's pretty damn content to listen.

"Thank you…" Sanderson whispers to Eileen as the small young woman helps her towards inevitably being able to rest and recuperate. Right now she's too tired, too sick, too broken to worry about Emile never having met up with them, too delirious with pain and illness to worry.

Further down the corridor, the remainder of Team Bravo that doesn't go to lay down and retire — along with Usutu — is led away from the tidal wave mural and through an open commons area with bench tables and hanging lamps where a few grizzled looking men quietly eat, suspicious stares fired up towards Bravo as they're escorted through. Eventually, the group moves down another set of stairs to another open room. An old leather sofa is in tatters at one side, a salvaged desk that looks to have seen better days, and a long dinner table laid out with maps of the island and marked with black pins.

Standing at the table isn't any man that should ever go by the name Dajan Dunsinni — he's too white. Dressed in an live-drab flak jacket with a gray t-shirt underneath, a six foot tall white man with dark-lensed aviator sunglasses offers a lopsided smile up at Gabriel when the man comes through the doorway behind their new guide. Eyes narrow behind his sunglasses as he stands up from leaning over the map and folds his arms. "Hey there, sunshine."

"Wh— Where is Dajan?" The enormous man that had led them in bellows, looking around the room. Aviators cracks a smile and shrugs his shoulders, circling around the table as he tucks one hand in his pocket and motions the other towards an adjacent hall.

"Him and Kwasi took off an hour ago to look for…" Aviators lowers his glasses and looks over the top of them to Gabriel. "Well, these jokers. I don't take it that little bald son of a bitch is with them, Tau?" A look is given to their guide.

"No, no one that matched his description." Aviators nods at Tau's response, and then motions for Gabriel and those who followed him to come around the table.

"C'mon in then… we got a lot to talk about."

At the rear of the little group, Usutu leans in through the opened door; regarding Aviators with a bland expression, shaking his head before drawing back and away from it. Apparently deciding that what he's looking for isn't within… he continues down the corridor the other way.

Perhaps he's looking for batteries.

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