Participants:
| Scene Title | There Will Come Soft Rains |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An intersection of Midtown becomes the sight of a terrible accident, and a discovery. |
| Date | May 23, 2011 |
Standing in the ruins of Midtown, it's hard to believe New York is still a living city.
There's life enough around the fringes — the stubborn, who refused to rebuild somewhere else; the hopeful, who believe the radiation is gone, or that they somehow won't be affected. Businesses, apartment complexes, taxis and bicycles and subways going to and fro — life goes on. Perhaps more quietly than in other parts of the city, shadowed by the reminder that even a city can die, but it does go on.
Then there is the waste. The empty core for which the living city is only a distant memory. Though a few major thoroughfares wind through the ruins, arteries linking the surviving halves, and the forms of some truly desperate souls can occasionally be glimpsed skulking in the shadows, the loudest noise here is of the wind whistling through the mangled remnants of buildings. Twisted cords of rebar reach out from shattered concrete; piles of masonry and warped metal huddle on the ground, broken and forlorn. Short stretches of road peek out from under rubble and dust only to disappear again shortly afterwards, dotted with the mangled and contorted forms of rusting cars, their windows long since shattered into glittering dust.
There are no bodies — not even pieces, not anymore. Just the bits and pieces of destroyed lives: ragged streamers fluttering from the handlebar which juts out of a pile of debris; a flowerbox turned on its side, coated by brick dust, dry sticks still clinging to the packed dirt inside; a lawn chair, its aluminum frame twisted but still recognizable, leaning against a flight of stairs climbing to nowhere.
At the center of this broken wasteland lies nothing at all. A hollow scooped out of the earth, just over half a mile across, coated in a thick layer of dust and ash. Nothing lives here. Not a bird; not a plant. Nothing stands here. Not one concrete block atop another. There is only a scar in the earth, cauterized by atomic fire. This is Death's ground.
It's misting on the fringes of Midtown, where Clinton and Hell's Kitchen crumble into cloying damp and lightless architecture moldered all to grime and decay. Lightless posts still lean at obscene angles between downed cables that stir slow in the humidity, sulfer orange on the last corner with electricity reaching just far enough to smudge shadow in thick across shattered bricking and broken concrete.
Fog stirs like smoke in the gutters, waterflow strangled down to a wan dribble and drabble that isn't quite
loud
enough
to mask the sound of something scuffling noisome around the first alley in the first bend into the forbidden zone. Claws on cardboard or — canvas. Rumpling plastic. Shaky breath and a bottle rattling uneven to the curb.
Moisture hanging thick in the air forces sound to carry further than it should, and certainly further than the source would like.
Small, shadowy, one figure creeps along that both is and isn't the norm here in the ruins. She's neither a fugitive nor one of the homeless denizens who have fallen through the cracks of New York City's society to call this blackened scar her home — at least not every night. On her way from Grand Central Terminal, leaving the chores she's done for the day at the safehouse, Tasha makes her way for what one might arguably call civilization — still lit by street lamps, still powered by electricity.
She moves carefully, small feet in Converse sneakers almost silent as she darts from shadow to shadow, a gun held in a loose grip of her hand tucked in her courier bag at her side. Dark eyes are alert, and her ears are free of the iPod buds that often dampen out the sounds of the rest of the world when she's feeling antisocial.
Now Monica is fugitive, but that doesn't stop her from sneaking around every now and then. A solid case of cabin fever has driven her through the city and to the sight where it all started. Or, well, close enough.
She travels by rooftop, which leads her to a bird's eye few of the alley where the sounds are coming from. She does have a weapon or two on her, but not out. This is just inspection, for the moment.
That, and some people might consider Monica herself a fairly effective weapon. Which might be why she has a wee bit of an invincibility complex going on.
Tasha isn't the only one making her way out and away from Grand Central Station, away from Midtown and hopefully home before curfew, one can never be too sure, particularly since Robyn Quinn has a horrible tendency of getting lost when she's out in Midtown.
Neither fugitive nor homeless either, Quinn might seem out of place among teh dreariness of Midtown. But it's the place she always comes, at least when she feels itself, for any kind of self improvement of a more physical - or evolved - nature. Ever since Colette had first brought her out here to practice the limits and applications of her ability, the Irishwoman had deemed it a better place to practice than, well… her own home. This is doubly true when it involves borrowing the handgun she kept at GCT (left for her by Raith, and of a heavier, stronger make than her personal pistol) to practice shooting outside of teh cushy confines of a target range.
But today, that's all said and done, jeans and hands dirty as she pulls hood over head and makes her way home, largely unaware of anyone else who may be headed on a similar path. She knwos about the robots that come out here after night, and so she's even avoiding using her own ability, instead relying on natural light, and if necessary,a flashlight.
There are very few reasons for Odessa Price to tempt fate and wander so close to Midtown. But those precious few reasons qualify as Enough for her to take the risk. Even if she knows the chances of reward are slim to none. It's because of the risk that she's chosen to eschew the generally bright colours she's so fond of in favour of black skinny jeans and a black tanktop that hugs her too-thin frame. She isn't used to dressing for stealth, or she might have taken into account the stark contrast created by her pale skin and her snow-white hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head.
Being in possession of her ability wouldn't really help her find what she's looking for anyway. Or rather, who. She needs to be spotted for this to work. Searching behind every burnt out husk of a sedan or inside of every blown out storefront isn't exceptionally practical. Something Odessa counted on when she used to squat in the ruins herself. Now she has a lovely home in the slums. Never mind that she in her squatting days, she used to occupy a home a couple blocks down from where she lives now. But at least she has her harpsichord.
Much like Tasha, Monica or Quinn, Odessa is armed. But not with a gun. She'll say she's never been terribly fond of them, but the fact is that she's just not a terribly good shot when she doesn't have all the time in the world to line up and aim. And even then, who needs a gun if you have all the time in the world? The young Doctor Price knows her way around a scalpel, however, which have always made knives her weapon of choice. Splitting flesh does nothing to make her squeamish. Them or Me situations only help. Her fingers aren't wrapped around the hilt of a knife, but there is a fold-out in her pocket. It makes her feel safer, even if it isn't the most practical.
Unlike Tasha, Monica or Quinn, she isn't terribly adept at sticking to shadows, though she doesn't quite walk out in the open either. Sound and rolling refuse catch the woman's attention, snapping her head up to look about like a prey animal in search of the predator stalking them. Her black booted feet crunch on debris as she comes to a halt, flattening herself against the side of a building whose walls she'd been hugging already.
While some stick to the alleyways, and others stick to the rooftops, some opt to travel in style. A style that is definitely out of place here on the edges of the Midtown crater. The black limo is easily tracked by the mindful watcher, a spot of gleam and chrome on one of the arterial thoroughfares tracing through the ruinous area; cutting across where delivery drivers fear to tread at times.
Whatever possessed Christopher to cut through the disaster zone isn't quite clear, but Moriarti seems almost morbidly interested in the surrounding wreckage, as he rides in the back of the out of place limo. Having finally taken Yana up on her invitation to discuss a future Opera outing, the pair have spent a nice dinner discussing the merits of this years opera season versus last year's; not the type of pair to be near the destruction zone so close to curfew.
However the discussion on this year's Tenor soloist trails off as Moriarti notices the skeletal remains of skyscapers in the rearview; having settled himself in the seat behind the driver to remain courteously mindful of Yana's personal space. This puts him in a position to reach a hand back and wrap his knuckles on the privacy glass.
As the glass rolls down, Moriarti speaks to Christopher in the driver's seat, "…could you take the next sidestreed off this road?" Then the glass slides back up, Moriarti turns his attention to Yana in the seat opposite, his head dipping in a slight bow, "I don't mean to order your driver around, but this is Midtown…" he says by way of apology "…and I haven't been here since before the Bomb…" he explains, motioning towards the destroyed structures to either side of the thoroughfare.
Who would want to take an interest in a place like this is beyond Yana's understanding. Unless it is to dispose of a body or something, or have some kind of sketchy meeting in dark places to discuss or act out shady deals. Though it seems, of all things, her escort for a pleasant dinner this evening, is one such person. How.. estranged.. But be that as it may, her curiosity about the man affords him the liberty of inquiring about the area, and even the act of giving her attendant an order. This does rile her just a small bit, though for the sake of appearances, it is something that Yana has to take on the chin so to speak, smiling at his apology and offering him a single nod of her acceptance to his request,
"Of course." she agrees, "Obviously, you have memories, and at times it helps to revisit them, and the places they have been laid to rest. I would of course advise a bit of caution.." the woman states, "This isn't exactly a friendly side of town. A shimmering jewel amidst the various trash in the area is bound to draw some unwanted attention."
Footsteps.
Yes. Definitely, there are footsteps.
A can crumples weakly when the figure rummaging in the alley shifts his weight mid-freeze, breath fogged thin between his teeth where he is half-crouched on the lip of a dumpster overflowing with decay. A rusty lawn chair and a car door have been arranged into a kind of make-shift ladder up to the edge that has existed long enough to collect flags of rotting plastic bag and soggy paper.
So for a precarious moment, the alley is quiet. Save maybe for the flutter and strip of fresh tarp rolling obnoxious blue in the dim and the dark. Footsteps up high — his eyes roll skywards, panicky through the whites. And oh my goodness footsteps down low, scuffing soft, like the pads of wolves or cougars or bears.
Flash light clicked firmly off, he hesitates there on the cusp — and then abruptly sets to shambling. Down the side of the dumpster, one wingtip catching hard enough on his chair ladder that he cracks a knee to pavement on his way to sprinting tak-tak-tak-tak-tak for the alley mouth and the street and freedom and
HEADLIGHTS
whud
a figure in an aqua-marine suit goes rolling up over the hood of Yana's limousine.
For all her stealth in the shadows, Tasha is still but a teenage girl, and not a criminal one (minus the terrorist activity) at that - - she isn't hardened to violence and trauma, despite seeing much too much of it for the past year. When the man is suddenly hit by the limo — or is it vice versa? — she screams, alerting anyone and everyone to her presence not far from the alley mouth.
She dashes out from the shadow, giving the shriek's voice a face as she assess the damage with wide and worried eyes, calling, "Are you all right?" in spite of herself. After all, she's part of the Ferry, and Ferry helps people. He could be someone who needs her help. She takes a few steps closer, though her fingers still curl around the gun in her courier bag, and another around the cell phone in her pocket. "I can call an ambulance…" she adds, voice tremulous.
Monica crouches when the lights point down the alley, peeking out as the blue-clad body goes rolling up the hood. And there's screaming. Oh boy. But as the girl goes running to his aid, it saves Monica from having to do likewise. And she just slinks her way along the roof toward the action. But she's not leaving the shadows just yet, especially if authorities are going to be called.
Quinn's almost out an ally the other way when she hears the wha-whump of a car (a car? In midtown? Someone's lost their mind.) hitting something, followed by a scream. Okay, that's not good, and two + two = oh fuck, aomw poor woman jsut got hit by a car! Quinn's no paramedic, but she's not about to turn tail and run, even if it means getting in trouble for being in midtown. Well, unkess some government jeep just ran over a wayward homless person. Then she might have to let it pass, unfortunately.
Stepping back and looking tentiatively, she sees the limo, the man, and the woman she thought was the one who got hurt. Hands slip into her pockts and- well, against her better judgement she slips out, making an approach. "What in the world? Is evryone alright?"
Someone darts from the alley and into the path of the — Why the fuck is there a limousine on the outskirts of Midtown? — For whatever asinine reason, it's there, and it's just struck the fleeing figure in aqua. And then there's Tasha screaming, and Odessa recognises her face. She's one of the Ferry from Gun Hill. And she's joined in short order by another.
The white-haired woman makes her way swiftly over to the injured person and the well-meaning terrorist. "Christ," she mutters under her breath. "You don't want to be here when the first responders arrive," Odessa tells Tasha and Quinn sharply. I know what you are. She drops to her knees on the pavement and begins to check for obvious signs of injury. "What hurts?" she asks the man who's just gone bouncing off the black limo.
A strange man indeed. Government agent, consumate gentleman, a bit of an opera buff, and drawn towards the heart of destruction when most would head in the other direction. Moriarti dips his head again with a quiet "..thanks.." as Yana agrees to this little detour. Christopher must have been listening in for Yana's approval of the idea, as it is not until her assent is voiced that the limo starts to slow and pull off towards one of the side streets.
"Don't worry, Doctor Blite, I'm sure I'm enough protection for you…" he replies with a smile; it sounds like a humble deflection of her compliment, but Moriarti has no doubt in the back of his mind that Yana was not talking about him. She seems to have taken to her teachings like a duck to water. But he continues with his own show, the humble, kind government agent; the man has committed himself to taking whatever dance steps are needed to keep this going.
He leans against the side wall of the car, peering out at the twisted hulks of once-tall office buildings, as he continues, "..and I know it is rather.. foolish…" he says after a moment's thought on the appropriate word, "..but it's just something I need to see for m-"
whud
Moriarti's explanation is cut off as the car bucks from the passing of a body in a tacky suit over the hood and into the windshield, brakes squealing as Christopher smoothly slams the car out of gear. Rubbing his chin; the bounce swept his hand from the armrest, momentum keeping his jaw in motion to rebound off the edge of the side window.
"That was a nasty speedbump…" he muses as he straightens up, turning back towards Yana with a questioning look on his features.
Under normal conditions, Christopher is a very good driver. He is careful of deer that might jump out in the road when taking a long trip through some countryside of some such, but the elusive Midtown aqua-marine buck is something he did not account for. Plus, he is driving a limo, which only has so much swerving mobility. Christopher actually doesn't swerve at all when it happens, though he does put on the brakes after a moment to get out of the car and do what he should do in these situations. Move around to assess the damage… to the car. The tall man eyes the vehicle and the sizable dent that has been caused, knowing his bosses insurance will more than cover it.
Yana, for her part gets her shock, the woman gasping and bringing a hand to clutch at her breast bone from the slight jolt, to 'be still her beating heart'. "Jesus Christ!" Yana shouts, as close to swearing as she will get, peering beyond the window to see if she can see anything at all. "Speedbump indeed.." the woman remarks dryly, seeming less concerned than she needs to be, and more annoyed. "This is just fantastic. I just know 15 people witnessed this, and I'll soon be having urchins, delinquents and slack jawed yokles surround the vehicle in seconds." she reaches for her phone, giving a vexed sigh through her nostrils, and squinting her eyes to a narrow. "With my luck, it's probably some ambulance chaser, looking to make a buck. If it is, I'll insist that Christopher get back in here and finish the job." she scoots over across the seat to reach for the door to open in and get out.
Ba-bomp bomp.
The stricken man rolls up into the windshield without cracking it and then down to the pavement on the other side, where he lies half on his back, too bewildered to panic immediately.
He's not a tall man, decent-looking but unremarkable from the start of a recession at his hairline to the scuffs laid fresh into his shoes, eyes middling between light and dark in their rapid search over faces looming down at him out of the humidity like rogue moons. Brown hair fallen lank across his brow is damp with cold sweat and his sideburns are a little long.
And for anyone here who's turned a television on before 9:00 AM: he is familiar. Gradually at first and then moreso as eyes adjust, it becomes clear that Yana and Moriarti have hit and run Channel 4's morning weather man.
Who is saying, "No," a lot, by the way. "No, no, no," while he tries to scuff up to his feet, reaching automatically to grasp a paint-smudged hand at Odessa's shoulder to use on his way up. "Please — don't. I'm fine, really. N-nothing hurts," he is having a hard time standing up, Tasha and Quinn and another Quinn? blinked at owlishly on his way to sort of. Making vertical progress. "Sorry. I should have looked both ways. Just — um." It's Midtown. As in. They're in — Midtown. So. His brow knits. He swallows. And twists to look down at blood seeping through the knee of his suit where he banged it at some point. "Oh." He coughs. Oh. Okay. He looks a little pale, now, which doesn't stop him passing off an I'll just be going now gesture as good enough to glance uneasily after the alley and hobble away backwards without pursuit.
Back in the alley in question, a flicker of unnatural green light might just — catch Monica's eye. If she happens to be looking in that direction. Namely: down.
"Ho-shit," Tasha manages when she recognizes first Odessa — sort of, maybe, as the woman looks rather different than the last time Tasha had seen her, and she takes a step back, closer to Quinn who she looks at uneasily, before glancing back at the man who is insisting he is fine. "You're that weather guy," she manages a bit stupidly. "Are you all right? You're bleeding…"
The petite teen turns to regard those exiting the limousine, then turns back to the flamboyantly suited weathercaster. "It's not your fault — it's not like anyone drives around here," she adds, placing tacit blame on the vehicle rather than the pedestrian. Her phone is slipped back into her pocket, abandoning the threat to call emergency services.
Down is really the only way to look when you're up. And the action is all… down. So Monica's eye does catch the strange green light. She looks from it to the group of people standing around Midtown and back to the light again with a bit of a sigh. And then she starts making her way down into the alley, her own footfalls land on brick and window sills before she lands on the ground somewhere between the light and the group. Now, if people weren't screaming and panicking and chatting, her descent would probably have been heard by all, but as it is, she's pretty able to slip under the ambient noise.
Quinn, on the otehr hand, doesn't really recognise Odessa. She briefly met the woman what feels like an Eternity ago, and she looks markedly different though. Instead, her attention is down on the man insisdting he's okay, which isn't really something Quinn believes at all, her eyes narrowed at him as she loks around at the grown clrowd and people getting ready to emerge from the limo.
"You're feckin' kiddin', right?" A look is offered up to Odessa, a grimace on her face. "I don't plan on stickin' around, but I mean - we should at least get you outta Midtown, for Christ's sake, an' then call someone."
Odessa, as it happens, does watch Channel 4 in the morning before heading off to another soul crushing day of work at Fort Hero. She recognises the meteorologist (presumably - they all are that, aren't they?) right off and blinks several times in surprise. "Wha-" She stands up and follows his worried glance back toward the alley.
Then she straightens up to her full height, which is still only liked 5'4" in these boots, and stares at the green light for several seconds before glancing back to her reluctant patient. Odessa coughs heavily into the crook of her arm several times, and then glances between Teasdale and the light in the alley. "What is that?" she asks unsteadily, taking a step back herself.
Moriarti turns from Yana as she hypothesizes as to the source of the car stoppage, trying for a moment to look at the front of the car through the privacy glass that Christopher left rolled up. Of course, being privacy glass, it does a very good job of making sure that anyone in the front seat cannot peer back at the passengers, and those riding do not have to stare at the back of their driver's head.
To his credit, however, Moriarti is quick to slide across the seats and reach a hand out for the handle, his hand closing over Yana's to keep her from tugging up on it and opening the door. In his haste to be a gentleman; or the first target; he blows right through the personal boundaries he was so careful to respect all throughout dinner.
"Ambulance chasers, or worse…" he says, drawing his hand back once he has her attention, "..so please, let me, Doctor Blite…" he adds, crouched on the floor of the limo's passenger compartant. Not that he gives her much choice in the matter, slipping forwards anyway once his companion has drawn back, rising up out of the limo with a murmured "…please lock the other door.." as he slides past Yana.
Like most everyone else at this little impromptu gather, Moriarti has worn black for the occaision. But where others have donned black jeans or jackets (or jean jackets, who knows!), his choice of darkness is a business suit. It's only last season's style, but that's still enough to stand out in the middle of Midtown.
"..did we run over someone's dog or something?" he calls out as he stands, one foot on the sidewalk and the other still in the car. After all, Yana said this Christopher fellow was a _driver_, and Moriarti looks like the kind of guy that would give humanity the benefit of the doubt, that someone didn't just try to tackle a ton of moving steel. And then he notices the rather run-down looking fellow trying to back pedal from the front of the car, and the gathering of people around the bumper. Proven wrong on that count, he is.
The man in the nice-enough suit ducks his head back down towards the inside of the car, "..looks like someone jumped, or something…." Moriarti explains, offering a hand towards Yana in case she still wants to get out.
She cannot discredit Moriarti in his actions to be a gentleman and a bit on the chivalrous side of going to check on the distress just in case things aren't quite what they seem, and something funny happens. Quite honestly, if she had gotten out of the vehicle to deal with it, and they were an ambulance chase, she planed to infect them with H5N10 once she got close enough, to make any court case they might bring up against her very short lived. Provided they non-Evolved, that is. And if they are Evolved. That's one more carrier amidst the flock, and she'll have her lawyers deal with this little fender to horribly colored suit incident as they will. Yana still has the same lawyers from when she was married to Gregori, so there is no doubting their skill.
But it isn't to be. Yana can find that she cannot argue with Moriarti in this matter, and somehow.. that bothers her more than she will allow herself to show. This man seems to be able to deal with her in a way that puts her in a situation to where she has to comply with what he says, or look foolish otherwise. She allows him to take the lead, waiting in the car for the moment, until he explains the situation. "Someone what?" she frowns, and then naturally she gets out of the vehicle, stepping around to take a look at the scene, and the man starting to back away. "Is he alright?" Pfft. Like she really cares.
"Sir, do you need someone to—" she is distracted by the presence of Odessa, brow arching and abandoning her sentence, "Dr. Price, what luck. I was going to contact you tomorrow, but I run into you here. Well.. not you but you understand what I mean. We must do lunch soon, much to discuss." The woman does seem a bit unconcerned for the man at this point.
In the alley Monica's landed in, plastic tarping billows wave-like across a set of broad rectangular parcels that have been forced haphazardly down into the mix of long-rotted detritus that had previously occupied the dumpster there. Two of them look to have been there for a while.
The third and outermost package — some three feet across and at least four tall — is fresh.
Also in the alley is the source of the green light, which distinguishes itself into two little green lights upon closer inspection. Like eyes.
Eyes fixed into a two-foot pod shaped vaguely like a chubby lima bean is advancing towards the alley mouth after the weatherman on stumpily jointed legs, lurching progress made on sticky rubber ball feet with a vent at the fore that bears some vague resemblance to a twee mouth. Servos whir beneath its pale shell. Gears click. It is as robot! And it either hasn't noticed or doesn't care that Monica is there, although — a single camera flash goes off as it nears her post, painting her out lightning quick for the others to see in the process.
"Yes. I mean — no, I'm not," Trev is stammering to Tasha outside, meanwhile, a laugh forced nervous through a grin that lasts only until it's clear people are paying attention to the alley way he came flailing out of. "That isn't me. Common mistake. YES. I'M FINE," the latter is to Moriarti, independently of sense or attempting to make any, "I guess it's the — the hair. It's hard to tell on camera but he's actually — a lot taller…" His voice falters off into another nervous swallow and another step back. They are looking at the eyes. Or at least, Odessa is — he tips his brows up at her, still breathing hard, sweat sheened light across the flex of his neck. Still unsettled. Maybe more unsettled than he should be. "You can see it too?"
It has already been a very long night for Trev Teasdale.
And then Yana gets out of the limo and like, knows?? the lady with the white hair. Trev goes from looking confused at Odessa to looking confused at Yana. "Okay, well — it was so nice. To meet all of you." Polite attempt to vanish himself #2. He points vaguely over his shoulder, brow wrinkled. He has somewhere to be. Over —-> there.
Unaware of paintings, but aware her services don't seem to be needed nor wanted, Tasha holds up her hands (the one slipping out of her courier bag and off the gun) in placating gesture. "Sorry, right, hope you feel better, mister" she tells the could-be-weatherman, but Yana talking to Odessa has Tasha's eyes widening in that direction.
She takes another step closer to Quinn, and tips her head in the direction that will take them out of the ruins, away from Midtown — this is not a group of people they need following them to any Ferry locales. "Buddy system?" she mutters under her breath, words meant only for Quinn's ears. "You can crash with me if it's too close to curfew."
Light is the true enemy of any ninja, sadly. So when that flash goes off and the others get a nice silhouette of Monica crouching there in the alley, well, that gets a sigh from her. Plus, her picture just got taken and probably funneled to the government or something and that's never good news. Especially for someone on a public list of wanted fugitives.
But she is already on the list and maybe those people hanging out in Midtown behind her aren't and she's just enough of a freedom fighter for that to kick her into action. And that action is to give that little pod a swift kick, and hopefully knocking it into a wall of the alley.
Okay, now Quinn is frowning, a look angled over towards the retreating man, then up Yana nd Odessa. "Hey, wait!" she starts as he begins to move away, and starts to take a half step forward, but Tasha moving closer and tipping her head away has her gritting her teeth and ceasing giving chase. She recognises Yana, though, how can she not, so her gaze focuses on her, eyes narrowed as she motions after the man. "Shouldn't you be helping him?" Because it's not hard to tell who's limo this is. And then her looks over towards-
Doctor Price. Well, that gets that rusty gear turning and she just kinda blinks, because by and large the last she'd heard about Odessa was that she was dead but maybe kinda not? Rumours mostly. "Oh. Um…" She rolls her shoulders a bit, moving alongside Tasha. Buddy system sounds good. "You really should let us help you!" she remarks one last time after the weatherman, the look on her face saying that, well, she would, but…
"Yeah," Odessa confirms for Trev, "I see it." She watches the — fuckin' robot in the alley warily, contemplating flight herself. Then the vehicle's doors open.
There's a brief moment of relief when Odessa realises one of the occupants of the limo is Yana. (Followed by a moment of oh, duh, because it would of course be Yana Blite in a limousine in Midtown.) She reaches out to grab at the other doctor's arm, thoughts suddenly derailed with matters she considers if not more pressing, then at least equally pressing.
Her skin is warm and being as how Yana knows what Odessa should look like on a day to day basis, she's able to assess that the younger woman looks like hell. She opens her mouth to speak, but instead she gasps as the flash brings Monica to light. That gasp triggers another cough that shudders her frail frame and prevents her from barking orders at the (alleged) weatherman to stay.
Once Yana has emerged from the relative safety of the limo, Moriarti steps from the car as well. To the man's credit, both hands remain loose and at his sides; instead of one slipping under his jacket. Not that he's finished the paperwork for his New York State carry permit, but these people don't know that. He remains somewhat in motion as Yana moves around towards the front of the car; the man does not pace, but comes close to it as he moves around behind the doctor and up to the corner of the car, standing next to Christopher.
Since Yana seems to know at least one out of this odd gathering of gawkers, Moriarti seems to relax somewhat; becoming less of a bodyguard in a suit and more of something else, something undefined as of yet. Keeping one eye on the pair of doctor's, the other comes to rest on the dent in the hood. To Christopher, he asks "…so the guy just leapt out into the street and missed the jump?" to which Moriarti is answered by silence and a rather unamused look from Yana's driver.
With a vexed sigh of his own, Moriarti looks back towards the doctor's in time for one to be reaching out to grab the other, a move that brings Moriarti into a step towards Odessa. Had the grabbing be reversed, he probably wouldn't be saying anything, but while Yana seems to know the coughing Odessa, Moriarti does not, and on a dark alleyway this close to curfew, his training as a federal agent is starting to kick in.
That federally funded danger sense kicks in at the flash of light, enough to draw his attention away from the women towards the alleyway, "…the hell?" he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.
Tasha's a bit slow, her attention having been caught by Odessa more than the alley, and by the time she sees Monica's battle with the robot, it's re-enacting something out of Fahrenheit 451. "Oh, my God, there's someone…" she gasps, and once more stupidly she runs forward, pulling the firearm out her courier bag to shove into her hoodie pocket so she can fling the bag, heavy with her school books down either at the robot or down the alley and beyond it to hopefully redirect its path, to get it to give chase to the History of Dada and Graphic Art Concepts and a few sketchbooks of her own designs that she'll never see again.
"Run!" she cries to Monica, as if the young woman needs any such bidding.
Red lights, clicks, whirrs, crazy legs… these are all things that Monica accepts as normal robotic behavior. But slosh? Slosh is not what she was expecting. She doesn't know what to think about slosh. And, more importantly, slosh doesn't trigger any sort of urgency. Just confusion. Which is why she's still on the ground when the fire starts spurting out.
Time to go and hope the others decide to get out of Midtown as fast as they can, too. The shout of 'run' comes just as Monica lets adrenaline and instinct take over while she tries not to think about her arm being on fire. With a silent thanks for her stolen parkour skills, she takes off running to jump up on the dumpster and from there to the opposite wall and from there into a series of jumps and rebounds up the wall.
It's pretty much the opposite of stop, drop and roll, but she'll worry about putting herself out when she can roll up onto the roof. Provided she gets that far.
"H-Hey!" First the man is taking off, and now Tasha is as well? This is getting worse and worse. A angered look is shot towards Yana and Odessa, the musician pointing right at Doctor Blite. "This is so your fault," she says unhappily. No idea if it really, but she's kinda pissed and since she already hit a man and let him run off, she makes a convenient spot to place blame. She's going to be telling Magnes about this, certainly.
She turns after Tasha, trying (and failing) to catch the younger woman's arm, and move after her in response. "You are being a terrible buddy!" she chastises as she moves after her. Her own weapon is drawn. Just in case. She has no desire to actually shoot at anything. She's never shot at anything moving before.
Odessa relinquishes her hold of Yana's arm easily enough, but throws her an accusing glower in return. "Yes. Yes, you can give me a ride somewhere." And she's about to tack something else on when the robot flares red and spews fire.
Then she doubles over coughing again and spits blood out onto the pavement. Again, she glares up at Yana, eyes as much ablaze as what the robot's putting out. "You said I wouldn't catch it," Odessa hisses out furiously between her teeth. Run? She gestures to the limo again, "Miss Oliver makes an excellent suggestion."
And the Ferrymen have guns. And Odessa has no ability. "Let's get out of here," she suggests urgently.
Odessa relinquishes her hold of Yana's arm easily enough, but throws her an accusing glower in return. "Yes. Yes you can give me a ride somewhere." And she's about to tack something else on when the robot flares red and spews fire.
Then she doubles over coughing again and spits blood out onto the pavement. Again, she glares up at Yana, eyes as much ablaze as what the robot's putting out. "You said I wouldn't catch it," Odessa hisses out furiously between her teeth. Run? She gestures to the limo again, "Miss Oliver makes an excellent suggestion."
And the Ferrymen have guns. And Odessa has no ability. "Let's get out of here," she suggests urgently.
As Yana begins marshalling her little group back into the limo, Christopher takes his cue to slide back over towards the driver's side of the limo. Moriarti turns as well, starting back towards the open passenger door. "I think I can agree to that…" Moriarti replies, splitting his attention once more between Yana and the alleyway. Which leaves him with half a glance towards the alleyway as it blossoms with bright orange flames. Giving him more than enough attention to know when the excrement has met the oscillating ventilation unit.
As fuel-fed flames leap up the walls of the alley, Moriarti doesn't quite toss decorum under the limo, but he definitely understands the need for speed. "Yana, get in the car." he says, his hand coming to her shoulder as he speaks in a tone that brooks no argument. He doesn't quite just place her into the passenger seat, though.
Grey eyes glance towards Odessa as she doubles over and coughs up blood onto the pavement. "Both of you, get in. Deal with it later.." Moriarti repeats, glancing towards the alleyway. Christopher has already slid into the driver's seat, and the engine is revved and running, waiting for the trio to climb into the back.
Well now. This is new. She heard of robots with negation gas, but fire now? While not directed at her, the recent development in the robot's behavior does hasten Yana's desire to leave. She starts to open her mouth to say something, when she has Quinn pointing accusations at her, and Odessa.. well.. coughing up a lung so to speak. Hm.. this is strange.. But then again— Wait a moment? Her fault?! "I beg your pardon?" she shoots Quinn a look, "I had nothing to do with the man jumping out in front of a vehicle that I was not behind the wheel of. This is a street, people drive in the stre—" Being further cut off by Odessa spewing up blood. This warrants some addressing on her part. She shouldn't have the most recent strain, perhaps she managed to get ahold of the in-between.. the one that infects both. That is a small mess she has to clean up now that the finish product is in the works.
She places a hand at Odessa's back to guide her towards the car, "No, actually, I said if you catch it, I can fix you. Likely you've caught the last strain which won't be a problem to vaccinate." Or just purge really. It's all the same for her either way. "You should have called me as soon as you started showing symptoms." Yana sounding a bit like a mother, chastising a child for eating too much that it made them sick.
As she ushers Odessa to the vehicle, Moriarti's order gets a look from the woman, though it isn't because he ordered her. Or rather, she isn't upset about it, it just seemed— No.. no time to worry about that now. Too much to deal with right now, and danger to get away from. Once Odessa is secure, Yana slips into the vehicle herself.
A bowed stream of liquid fire chases Monica's toes up the alley wall, flushing itself flat to wet bricking until she is out of reach and the littlest robot is left to stop and turn strut-strut-strut in place three hundred and sixty degrees. Strut strut strut.
Fire is quick to quash itself in the cold and wet and Teasdale's packages lie relatively unscathed in their tarps, singed plastic peeling slow back from one corner to reveal a swath of bright acrylic green.
As the last feeble firelight dies out, violent red toggles back to peaceable green and spider legs retract in upon themselves to toddle bumblingly back out into the street, likely long after the limo and its unholy occupants have gone.