joseph_icon.gif lola_icon.gif mortimer_icon.gif

Scene Title Watertight
Synopsis Neighbours helping neighbours!
Date May 31, 2010

Grand Central Terminal: Subbasements

The lowest levels of the Grand Central Terminal is the stuff of legends and urban myth - turns out, it didn't disappoint. A mess of platforms, of tunnels, of steam pipes, and storage areas, there's been no real effort made to restore power to this place - be prepared to wield a torch or a glow stick (both of which are provided readily, unless you're an intruder…) or enjoy stumbling around in the oppressive darkness. Or at least, such is the case for most of this area.

Renovations are ongoing, but have progressed to this level as well. Platforms and their unused tracks are used for storage - where trains might have marked their gigantic metal forms, there are now boxes of supplies of many kinds, labeled and ordered for a time when they are needed. Minimal light systems have been set up for when work down here is required.

In addition to wider spaces being utilized, the smaller storage rooms have been converted for other purposes - residential spaces. These are basic but not uncomfortable, though chill sets in quickly if a space heater isn't handy. Some are private, some have space for two or three, some are merely rows of cots. Bathroom facilities have been installed, and some even have running water, but it's definitely a work in progress in comparison to the upper level.

One can call Jack crazy, a murderer, and maybe someday a devourer of worlds, but they can't call him dumb. If the tunnels are going to flood, he's going to be ready, and if someone has a better idea for stopping or lessoning the flooding, he wants to know.

He's given Lola two glocks and a rifle, and he himself is wearing his long green trenchcoat with a sword and two of his own glocks under it, with black biker boots and blue jeans on, as well as his black leather gloves. Behind them are five Locos, all carrying assault rifles, wearing all black with their biker helmets and large red numbers on the front of them.

Doors get banged repeatedly for quite a few minutes, until they finally get to one of the sweet spot doors. At each door he yelled something like, "Knock knock! It's your neighbors! We have lots of guns and we want some sugar, and to share anti-tunnel flooding plans! Alternatively, we want your women and plutonium!" When he mentions women, he looks to Lola with a wide grin and politely adds, "For them, of course." nodding to the henchmen.

Lola seems less enthused. She did not plan to be stuck down underground with Mortimer's people for months. She certainly wants nothing more than to get the hell out of the underground and never come back. "As long as I'm getting paid for this…." she murmers, and adds her own voice to the throng. "Oi! Hurry up an' open it, ya'll, Ah'm dyin ta get outta here." And she fires a shot from one of the glocks into the concrete wall before tucking it, like the other, out of sight. The rifle hangs idly in her hand. The bullet buries itself harmlessly into the material, after spitting and spouting little bits of rock and stone for it's troubles. And is Lola….smiling? Giggling, even? Yeah, she may have forgotten to mention that her shrink put her on aderol….

By now, Mortimer has the affect of kicking at an ant hill — the Grand Central Terminal is now alive with awareness, echoing steps reaching the ears of those behind the door they come across next. Indicating they've made headway in their search for signs of life, and voices just out of range that they can't pick up actual words echo beyond the concrete and metal. There's a shout of surprise when the sound of Lola's pistol cracks through the air, and then silence.

Then, a bang of something against the door in response. "We'll open the door if you— lower your weapons!" comes a very uncertain kind of shout right back. Where's Hana Gitelman when they need her?

"Mister Jack! You can call me Jack. And this is my Southern Belle, Lola, I'll shoot you if you touch her. And those are five of forty henchmen I have." Jack does motion for them all to lower their weapons, smiling with a casual yet slightly creepy look that says he may be willing to stab someone. "So, the flooding! What are we doing about it? We're neighbors down here, after all, so I suppose we can share. I have my own utilities off the grid, and loads of manpower and tactical prowess. What do you have to offer?"

Lola just gives a sweet smile to the rifle. She tosses hers aside - well it's not her good one, anyway - and then just looks back to the rifle. "He's actually kind of stupid sometimes, as well as crazy. My name's Mary-Lou." Stupid Mortimer and his stupid unwillinness to remember fake names. "And I'm just…paid to be here so…" she shrugs, giggling again, and moves to light a cigarette. The funny thing about her smiles and giggles - where they are usually mischevious or begrudging, these are just honest and very open. Amazing what drugs can do, isn't it?

There's a minor hesitation, and beyond the door, more foot steps have echoed up and then settled, a small group gathering beyond. The gun wavers, then tilts down, cycloptic black eye now aimed somewhere that is not Jack's chest. There's a harsh whisper, somewhere, and then a little louder:

"Neil, just shut the fucking door— "

But Neil Milburn does not. The gun retracts, and the door pulls open, revealing the brickwork tunnel beyond and the short staircase he stands atop of. Orange light illuminates the tunnel, shows off the gathering of perhaps four or five Ferryworkers, Milburn included, decked mostly just in denim and sweater cloth as his breath strikes the chillingly cold air as steam, peering at Lola, Mortimer and beyond with serious and dark eyes. He holds the shotgun two handledly, and away.

Others beyond him are armed, save for one, but no one particularly threatening. "We're shifting everything we can to higher ground, up in the concourse levels," Milburn states. "So we have space. We worked out routes for where the water can go. Do you have a spare flood pump?"

"Or six," mutters a woman from the group, the pistol in her hand pointed at the concrete floor.

"Good question. When we built the base down here, we stocked for emergencies, but I can't quite remember if we have flood pumps. It seems like something I would have…" Jack looks around at everyone, taking random mental notes. Who could overpower who if push came to shove with all their forces! That's one of his ruling thoughts. "We intended to build a few dams down here, to redirect the water and keep it from entering particularly vulnerable spots we have mapped out."

Lola inhales and exhales smoke - the healthiest thing, to be sure. She giggles again, giving Neil a cute little finger-wave. "Ya know," she says, not that anyone's listening to her opinion, but she forges on none the less. "Ya'll might just wanna get out from underground, ya know. Swear ta all that's holy for ya yanks, Ah'd kill ta spend some time in the sun. Seems like a logical move less ya'll wanna…what's the word?" She giggles again. "Swim with the fishes."

"Hey, great idea. Hear that guys?" This from the chick with the pistol, who goes to holster the weapon— in that she tucks it into the waist of her pants. "Let's just move out! Great plan. Why did we not think of that?" And with that, she's taking her leave — but at least no one is following her. Turning his back on the door he's opened, Milburn heads on downwards, a glance indicative that Jack can follow.

Orrr maybe just desiring to keep an eye on the guy. "At the very least, we should compare notes on what can flood and what can't," he says. "So we don't wind up fucking each other over. I'd say we could offer some manpower but, uh," he glances, again, "seems like you have some of that. We're just trying to get everything off the ground, right now."

"I can offer fifteen men for your getting things off the ground needs!" Jack moves a hand to slide across the back of Lola's neck, an affectionate gesture before he begins following Neil down the stairs. "My base won't flood, at the very least, it's just that if the flood waters rise that high around my base, no one can get out, and we only have a few months of supplies left."

Lola just rolls her eyes, even the aderol unable to keep her mood cheerful underground. "Swear Ah'm gonna get shot afore all this is over," she comments dryly, bending to pick up her rifle and prop it against the wall - somewhat hidden back between the door and the wall. You know. Just in case.

That gets a breath of a chuckle from Milburn, eyebrows knitting together as he comes to a halt. "You're not gonna be trapped underwater for months, but we can help reroute the flooding so you won't have to worry about it, if you can help with the supplies." And make sure that Mortimer's water problems don't become their water problems.

"Hey." That would be a different voice — the lone unarmed man of the group moves further out to where orange lights are lending clarity, peering towards Lola, now. "Don't I know you from someplace?" Tennessee-tinge to his words and all, Joseph Sumter is possibly just as familiar to Lola as she is to him, and a slight rise of colour to his face indicates he's just worked out someplace, and a drug anonymous group isn't particularly a classy hook up.

"If this isn't a few month long problem, then we've got supplies to spare." Jack agrees with a casual shrug, crazy as he may be, he is reasonable when it's practical. "So then we should stare comparing maps? And hey, you!" He points to Joseph. "Don't hit on my woman. You can talk to her though."

"He ain' hittin' on me," Lola snaps back, pushing Mortimer's hand away from her neck. "Swear…" she mutters, taking a step toward Joesph and tilting her head just so. "Yeah," she finally says, looking over him. "I 'member you, fellah weren' interested in gettin' his bust-up leg fixed. It was a legit offer, too," she promises. And then, yes we'll blame the aderol for this, she hauls up her own shirt, just below the bust. Scars. Bullet scars. "See? An fit as a fiddle too. Ya shoulda taken me up on that," and down it goes again, followed by a summerizing nod.

Joseph's hands splay, preemptive surrender or demonstration that he has no intention of horning in on anyone's territory — even glances at the curved ceiling when she flashes her stomach to the group. "I was healin' okay on my own," he assures her, unable to help the half-smile he shines her way. "But maybe I shoulda — thanks for the kindness in any case. Should I, uh," to get back on track, smile vanishing as he looks from Jack to Milburn, "I can give 'em somethin' like a tour."

There's reservation in his voice that translates that no, Joseph has no intention to show them anything they do not need to see. Milburn shrugs, uses the shotgun to gesture whatever fifteen if the Locos are available for heavy lifting to follow the pastor. "Come on," Milburn invites Mortimer directly, with a head tilt, "let's go compare notes."

Jack gives Joseph a bit of a look of warning, but otherwise follows the man. "So, we can discuss what you Ferry people do too, right?" he asks with a mischivious grin, not exactly a prying tone that says he'll care if the information is declined.

Lola follows too, although she does roll up her shirt again. "What?" She asks of Joseph, in reference to his looking away. She's not hitting on him, far from it - she sounds generally confused. "Ah know Ah'm scarred up but Ah ain' that bad…" she notes, but with a shrug, rolls it down, and goes back to work. And work?

Work is making sure she doesn't say something to get herself shot.

"Nothin'!" is about as much as Joseph is safe saying, in response to what — anything negative and positive can be taken badly, here! And he didn't bring a gun. The other Ferry present either ease up or disperse, long-shadowed figures moving off to slouch on walls or find their own corners to disappear out through as quietly as wolves withdrawing from the fire — Milburn and Joseph both remain to guide Jack and his clan down the tunnel.

There's a beady eyed glance over his shoulder as Milburn picks up on Jack's loaded question, though somehow the grin puts him at ease enough to not instantly balk. "Maybe we'll discuss first what you know we do," he proposes. Behind them, someone has the foresight to close the door with a slam that reverberates through the cement.

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