You'd Best Be Moving Along Now


abby_icon.gif bao-wei2_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif smedley_icon.gif

Scene Title You'd Best Be Moving Along
Synopsis In the bowels of an abandoned hospital, a stalemate of many kinds happens when everyone comes sniffing around.
Date August 3, 2010

Abandoned Hospital, Staten Island

Scavengers on Staten Island can have a hard time if they do not know where to look. Only the confident venture into places that were once locked up- such as a hospital. You never know what other sort of people thought themselves similarly confident. One of a few abandoned complexes, this hospital somewhat central on southern Staten Island boasts many halls and nooks that have yet to be properly rifled through. As such, it comes as no susprise when the most untouched stores are in the basement levels, behind rusty, easily broken locks.

Now, while the morgue has very little, there are storage spaces that the hospital had not put into circulation- one room was easily cracked open. The perishable substances and items are largely gone, some saved by the coolness of the basement. Non-perishables have had much more luck in surviving the seasons.

"I mean, is it just him? Amato couldn't even bring himself to look at me. Is it because of what I used to do, is that I healed his hand, that the lord blessed me to heal, when I could, or was it just because I'm a female. Can't be because I'm female, because I had Kasha and he was okay to look at Kasha. Or my floor" Browns pulled down, Abigail's wedging a crowbar into the space between the door and it's frame of a medicinal cabinet. Possibly overlooked by others if - yes - they don't know what they're looking for. Not everything is marked, makes it harder for thieves when all was said and done when the place actually worked.

"You find anything else yet?" The hiking pack on her back has some things in it already, working with the other woman to help stock supplies that didn't involve calling up her boyfriend and asking him if he knew where to get them. Don't want to abuse that avenue again.

Eileen hasn't found anything yet, but this might be because she isn't looking. A large bird with a heart-shaped face, soulful drops of ink for eyes and ghost-pale feathers sits perched on her shoulder, talons affixed to the lightweight wool coat she wears over dark clothes paired with lambskin gloves and a scarf that covers her hair. That is to say: the barn owl does the looking for her, and its focus is currently on the hall at Abigail's back rather than the room's shadowy interior. In one hand, she holds one of the Dispensary's gas lanterns. The other wields the plain white cane she takes with her on excursions to the mainland — Kazimir's might make her feel safer, but it's also heavy and somewhat cumbersome, exactly the wrong choice for an after-dark scavenging expedition.

"Amato is complicated," is all she says at first, straining to listen.

There's a clamor in the hallway which, from the sound of it, might consist of bedpans or some other manner of metal hospital equipment toppling over. It's punctuated by the grunts and curses of a man with a nack for colorful oaths that are rarely heard east of the Mississippi. The layout of the basement creates and echo, repeating the percussion solo in layers.

'He is a strange bird. Cares for you dearly. I'll have to pray for him, he's conflic-" Her words never find an end, as there's the clamor from outside. Her weapon of choice - the taser re-purchased despite it's illegality, thank you Ferry know it alls - is turned towards the doorway, the blonde quieting down, crowbar flipped up in her other hand as if she might actually hit someone with it. A glance toward the other woman with her, blonde brows turned down in worry.

Eileen is the fox that eludes hounds by splashing through a shallow creek to throw the hunting party off her trail — she relies most on agility and wits, but her teeth are also very sharp, and the only way out of the basement is the same way she and Abigail came in.

Although her instincts are telling her to flee — quietly — flight isn't an option. Hackles up, she darts a glance in the direction of the sound and makes a low noise at the back of her throat that communicates to Abigail a desire for silence regardless of the fact the other woman already has the right idea.

The hall is relatively quiet for several long moments, save for the clatter of a single bedpan as it skitters across the hall and past the doorway of the room Eileen and Abigail occupy. Then, …a tune?

A few whistled measured of "Don't Fence Me In" make their way across the echo to Abigail and Eileen. As the song progresses, the echo fades, replaced by the original source. Framed by the door is none other than Wes Smedley, not dressed darkly for raiding, but in his usual rugged mud-colored clothes. He carries a haversack which looks to be pretty full already. He stops and stares back at the women, the tune fading from his lips. "Ladies," he says after a moment, squinting slightly as he looks from Eileen's owl to Abby's crowbar. "Fancy seein' you here."

The girls take their time in searching, it seems, while something else does not.

The far wall of the storage room seems to suddenly be exuding chilled air; at first unnoticeable by the two women, the bird, on the other hand, has a much easier time of noticing it wafting over to overtake the warmer air. By proxy, Eileen will know sooner rather than later, that there is something odd happening to the parallel wall.

Out in the hall, it is already ten degrees cooler- and the brunette man will have zero difficulty in noting that much of a change. And it keeps plunging, to boot. It won't be long until the chill begins to permeate the basement.

"You had best be moving along sir, we are armed, and I will not hesitate to fire this weapon right into your masculine parts and make you unable to bear children" That's a scary enough threat, right? Somewhere in a fancy apartment, Caliban's palm is likely meeting his forehead at Abigail's threat. The crowbar brandished up in the air and for the moment, a little unaware of the dipping temperature. "Do we have an understanding or do I need to follow through? Because You sir, do not want a… you know.." There's a gesture to his groin. "Pain, in that area" Smoooooth Abby.

"Mister Smedley," Eileen says, her words adopting an airy quality that only has partly to do with the tone she uses around him. Her breath leaks from her nose and mouth in the form of a fine silver mist. On her shoulder, the barn owl ruffles its feathers against the chill, instinctively flexing its talons around its perch — for many reasons, the Englishwoman is fortunate that she's wearing multiple layers of clothing.

A pause, then— "Do you feel that?"

All it takes is a subtle opening of his coat, and Smedley reveals the holster around his hips that holds not one, but two revolvers. "It'd hurt, missy, but I'll reckon my wits'd be clear enough I could squeeze one off." But he's never been tasered there and isn't keen to try it out. "Miss Eileen," he adds with a respectful nod toward the owl, dropping his coat so as to pantomime touching the brim of a hat.

As if Abby weren't enough, the sudden drop in temperature is…foreboding. Smedley frowns at Eileen's note, and nods again. "I ain't no trouble to you," he says primarily to Abby, "but somethin' here is. T'all of us. My advice?" He makes a motion toward the cabinet near Abby. "Grab what you need and quick, unless you want to meet it. I sure as hell don't."

The creaking of metal shudders out in the hallway. Five seconds of groaning, abrupt and loud. The moan- followed by an ominious clunking of pipe inside of the brick wall in the storage room.

When it sounds as if such ambiance is gone- there is a deafening burst of screeching metal. One of the large pipes inside of the wall splits apart, ripping a long, horizontal gash that gives lease to a pit of black behind it. As the cold air hits the warmth of the basement, it begins to immediately freeze the moisture in the air; a sudden, rolling fog spills out of the gash, amidst it glittering white flecks of snow, blowing into their cloudy plumes of exhaled breath.

A bit late for that, Wes.

They know each other, and he has guns. But could he draw it in the time for her to pull her trigger. Maybe, possibly. They won't find out though as Abby's looking up and around, the crowbar dropped, taser stuffed into her backpack. "You have got to be kidding me. We're not gonna be grabbing anything"

One hand dives down her top, grasping something that isn't seen by others but does give with a rip of velco and she's pulling up a little black triangle of technology, stuffing it in the bag too and throwing it to Smedley. "You even think of running off with that I will have Eileen's friends hunt you down and castrate you"

She's counterpoint to the cold, heat starting to come off her but not alarmingly so yet. At least, not for her. Maybe for others. Eileen has an idea of what might happen. Next comes the long sleeved sweater, tossed to the floor.

Snow gathers in the space between Eileen's lashes and the stray curls of dark hair at her temples and nape that her headscarf doesn't cover. When she raises her lantern in an attempt to ward off the fog, the light diffuses through the crystals and her eyes twinkle with false tears. She takes a step back, one foot planted firmly behind the other, and feels her shoulder come into contact with the door frame where Smedley is standing.

"Upstairs," isn't a command, but it's spoken with the terseness of one.

Smedley catches the bag just before the fog and snow begin to severely hamper his visibility. He quickly slings it over the same shoulder as his own before he draws one of his pistols with the opposite hand. Eileen has the right idea, but when he friend lingers to start removing clothing, Smedley pauses.

"Let's go, Hot stuff!" he shouts, "If you wanna get naked, do it on the move!" Not willing to wait, Smedley turns down the hall and heads for the stairs, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the women are on their way.

The sound of stone cracking is distinctive- thudding, chipping, bursting sounds. They can see chunks of wall tumbling to the floor through the cloud of cold, crumbling into chunks as it goes. Something is back there- and it's coming through. The only thing on the other side of the wall, per common sense- is the Staten Island sewer system. Perhaps there is even a hint of- stale aftertaste- in the air.

A suction of air can be heard through the din; the hollow rattle is a sound that is not a far cry from something only truly heard in the horror genre.

"More hotter than you think" Is Abigail's snarky comment back, as she works to ensure that Eileen and the barn owl are already heading in Smedley's wake. One lone bird will do Eileen crap down here, but Abby's got her own trick up her sleeve if needed. "You just get moving and make sure Eileen gets up and out, don't you worry about my pretty little head there"

"Don't be stupid, Abigail." Teeth flashing, Eileen's upper lip curls around a snarl. There's a pistol in the holster under her coat in case of an emergency, and although this situation is rapidly heading toward that classification, she doesn't want to surrender her cane or her lantern unless she absolutely has to.

She doesn't want to leave her friend behind, either. "Run!"

Gritting his teeth, Smedley retraces those few steps back to Eileen when she pauses to shout at Abigail. With one hand full of pistol, he latches the other down on the blind girl's shoulder with the other, curling his fingers into her coat. "She'll be fine," he lies, shouting about the noise at the same time he pulls her toward the stairs. He has no idea if the Daring Stripper will survive her endeavor, or even what that endeavor is.

But no one is making her do it, and Smedley'd rather not stick around to see what exactly is coming out of that wall.

Lots of noise, lots of clatter. A scraping sounds out above the rest, squealing rough like two rocks being forced over one another. The grating gets more clear as whatever it is back there- moves closer. Crunching concrete as supposed limbs plant hard to the ground, more scraping of nails-on-chalkboard.

One, two, three, four, five seconds of a new sound. A rumble. A growl. An unmediated threat.

And a single beacon lit and piercing through the fog- a coin-shaped golden disc, marred by an inkspot of black.

"I'm going! I'm go-" Which is about all she gets to say before there's the warning smell of clothes smoldering, burning,irises taking a distinct warning shade of orange. She stops where she is, so that they can at least get some space between themselves and the astounding imploding woman, as clothes go up, skin burns off and five feet around her, there is fire and intense heat.

Can't say Abigail didn't warn them, and she's down another set of clothes. Vision changes, no way to speak, but she can easily see the oranges and reds in the sea of varying shades of blue and near purple that has become her vision. Behind them, if they dare to look - or if the bird dares to look - There's Abigail's firey form. She'll move again, when she gets her bearings.

One powerful thrust of the barn owl's wings launches it off Eileen's shoulder and floats it out into the hall ahead of Smedley to guide the way. Beneath his hand, her arm is tense, muscles like wire, but her feet are moving and she has the sense not to struggle or protest when pulls her out of the storage room. The air displaced by Abigail's sudden combustion whips through her clothes and exposed hair, melting what flakes of snow still cling to the fabric — while she might not be able to see what Abigail has become, she can certainly feel it.

"Upstairs," she tells Smedley again. "Outside. I can't do anything unless I'm outside."

Smedley doesn't even think to stop and argue. He practically hauls Eileen along after the owl in order to keep his long stride, moving up the stairs and toward the abandoned hospital's entrance. Outside. Outside where there is neither infernal heat or blistering cold. He could offer some word of encouragement to Eileen, sure, but what would be the point when she's the one barking orders at him. So upward and outward they go.

When Abby's heat meets the cold, the steam is nearly blinding, moisture literally exploding into the battling temperatures between fire- and the coldness exuding off of the sentient thing rambling his way through the wall.

The golden eye gleams off of the firelight, peering intently forward from the other side of the storage room; orange sheens but for a moment off of craggy, chitinous armor, only to be blocked out by the massive amount of steaming water now billowing in the room. Abby's light now only reflects off of it- but as steam, it is also water. Water that appears as endless as the cold, creeping iciness it comes from. Down here, where the earth is most sodden, she may well not be as useful as hoped.

Really dark over there. The change in the temperature, the outline presented for however long she stands there, getting her thoughts about her, facing off against… whatever ice behemoth is staring back at her, Abigail's chin lifts a fraction, the surface of her self roiling, little bits flaring off. Whatever it is, she's melting the ice and the air is becoming uncomfortable in the cramped confines.

A palm, or general shape of one lifts, shooing motions made, little eddies of flame in the wake of her hand movements. Shoo. Get on with you. This is no place for you to play. She doesn't stick around to see if it leaves, or what have you, turning to follow where her friend and her acquaintance left. If he follows, maybe she'll be forced to defend herself and see how face fire melts ice.

Good thing Bao-Wei Cong does not have to breathe.

This flaming nymph, on the other hand…

He does not follow her. He stays, silent, stony, staring, splintery ice crawling greedily over the ground around what limbs he calls feet, with that one eye shining in the increasing dark as Abby takes flight.

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