OOC: Log! Natalie on a sidewalk.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, October 28, 2007, 8:42 PM
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=NYC= Financial District - Manhattan
The Financial District is the economic heart of New York City. Here is the New York Stock Exchange, with that massive American flag pulled taut against its Grecian pillars, that trading floor which determines bull and bear markets, rises and falls in the stock game, with the indifferent flicker of numbers. Of course, the Financial District is known for more than the stock exchange, and Wall Street -- but Wall Street and stocks set the tone. High stakes, high rewards, sudden dives.
[Exits : [C]hina[t]own, [L]ower [E]ast [S]ide, [S]tark [P]laza, [T]he [M]cClintock [C]enter, and [T]he [D]ocks]
The bright flare of emergency worklights, the milling bustle of SAR crews... the stray interrupting flashes of news cameras whenever it looks like something photogenic is being attempted. There are police cordons keeping the curious back from the rubble of the once and former bodega, and the concerned are mixed in with them as well. Dr. Jean Grey, member of the 'concerned' faction, with a side order of 'worried frustration', has at least gotten permission to go and get the SAR teams some coffee, if nothing else. Thus, with the look of one who's decided sleep can happen when her lost chicks are back in the nest, here is Jean Grey, wrapped up against the fall chill and angling her way towards the nearest open-late coffee shop.
Natalie, like a true New Yorker, is a member of the 'irritated' faction. She's currently attempting to navigate her way through (or over, under, around!) the mess of publicity and workers and whatever else is blocking her path from here to there. "What on earth--" she mutters as she sidesteps a gawking pedistrian in her struggle.
"It's the bodega collapse," answers Jean, tone clipped as she likewise squeezes past the same pedestrian, and manfully (womanfully?) resists the urge to cause mischief to the camera phone being angled around like the scene is a beautiful tropical paradise. But a moment after that, a sidelong glance turns into a longer one, and then a questioning "Natalie?"
"It's the what-- what?" Natalie pauses, spins, nearly falls over, catches her balance, and then blinks owlishly at Jean. "Oh!" she says, flustered. "Oh, hi. "
"It was on the news," Jean answers, still with that clipped brevity to her tone, although she tries for lightness in her expression. It doesn't quite work, and lightness comes off as brittle worry instead. "Although I guess you'd be pretty busy," she admits. "I wouldn't notice either, except that--" But what's about to be said is cut off with a mild shake of her head, as someone nearby perks up with the sort of mental vibes that send 'reporter' prickles down her neck. "How are your preparations for the conference going?"
"Haven't turned on a tv in two days," Natalie answers with a wave of her hand, head turning toward the circus with a /touch/ more curiosity. "The conference? Oh, haven't heard back yet, but I'm plugging away. It'll have to get published anyway, sooner or later, at least I /hope/ so, so I'm busy writing, but there's a ton of other stuff on my plate first anyway, you know--" she rambles.
"Oh, do I ever," says Jean, with just a touch of dark humour brushing her lips and eyes as she continues slowly down the street towards the coffee, albeit with frequent glances back behind in the hopes that four missing students and additional alumni might be standing there where she can forget about the coffee and go fuss over. "But by this time next week, it will all be wrapped up one way or another. Time limit to insanity, at least, right?"
"This time next-- what?" Natalie frowns, brows drawing down as she blinks over at Jean again. "Oh! Oh, you meant the committee meeting? Sorry, you said conference-- yeah, no, that'll be-- that'll be okay, I'm sure. Bahir and I have talked about it."
"Oh." Jean grimaces, but then merely waves a hand with a vague "Sorry. Things on my mind. You have a conference?" she queries, academic small talk an oddly soothing bit of refuge.
"End of November," Natalie answers, shifting her bag a bit as she shuffles sideways to let someone by. "Hopefully, anyway. Ought to know by the end of the week."
"Exciting times," Jean murmurs, before something crackles in her purse. Small talk and pleasantry disappear like mist before the sun, as she pounces on a small two-way radio, and asks a driven "Is there news? I could probably contact them mentally -- they're my students, they'd be used to it--" But the radio does not bear news of that sort. It says that there are reporters, instead.
Natalie frowns slightly, studying Jean before she lifts a hand, fingers wiggling in a vague farewell as she dismisses herself with a murmured, "I'll see you next week, for sure."
Jean's answer is a vague wave. She turns on her heel and wanders back into the crowds, the opposite direction from the coffee shop.
Jean, waiting for news on her lost lambs trapped students, wishes she could say the same.