7/31/07 - Rogue, Rahne, Xavier / Hank, Illyana

[xmm_rossi]

First half of the log here.

Helpless and disabled upon the floor, there is very little that she Rahne do as Rogue-wolf advances on her. She watches, watery green eyes widening as she tries to force motion into muscles that ache with unnatural exhaustion from her taste of being on the recieving end of Rogue's powers. She does, at least, manage a pitiful little attempt at crawling away.

The form of the white-streaked wolf stalks forward across the width of the visitor's hallway. Rogue's clothes, a pitiful, blood-stained, scattered pile, are left behind as her target is advanced on. She is silent, shoulder blades rolling as she lopes towards the crawling girl. Suddenly with a growl ripped loud in her throat Rogue lunges at Rahne, teeth flashing.

The noise of the altercation has not gone unheard. Even in Xavier House, where disaster and calamity is more common than rainfall, the dispute has inspired at least one empathically sensitive child running for an adult. In the school, it is often a crapshoot what the shape of the help might take: laser bolts; telekinesis; immaterialism. In this instance, it comes in the form of sheer and unadulterated humanity, a lean figure who rounds the corner and takes in the situation with a startled glance and a cracked oath. Mr. Humanity launches himself at the pair, aiming to cover the downed girl rather than tackle the leaping animal above.

Det. Rossi to the rescue.

Rahne is /so lucky/.

There is a gasp of fear from the girl downed in the hall as the animal comes flying at her. Even without access to her powers, she has enough experience to know exactly what the sound coming out of the white-streaked wolf is. Rahne is busy cowering and trying to tuck herself into a fetal position to protect herself from Rogue when Rossi comes leaping in between them so literally. She is probably not going to be happy to be rescued by the tree-borne detective of two nights before.

Rogue crashes into Rossi, teeth barely sinking into his back before the unexpected height of the pounce is altered and she rolls off, limbs flailing as the wolf attempts to snag her claws into the runner rug. A furious yap lifts into the air as Rogue finds her feet-- er, paws. She backs up, hackles raised, eyeing this new danger.

Rossi's balance, already overset by the headlong leap, is diverted and overset. The heavy body crashes down onto Rahne; the scent of him, tainted with the scrape of flesh blood, mingles dizzyingly with his own body's odor and the tang of perspiration. Another swear word, this one tipped higher on an edge of pain. The detective rolls, scrambling for his feet, breath coming quick, eyes wild and dilated with adrenaline's swift kick.

Unnecessarily.

Outside, bodies bustle out of the front doors to meet the sedan pulling up in front. Professor Xavier is home, and the babble of voices raised in hasty and urgent explanation does not require full articulation: it suffices that they are there at all. Inside the car, the old telepath raises his head, and casts his net of power out in a wide sweep to see what is amiss. Chaos. Animal savagery. Rahne. Rossi. And /Rogue/. A trifecta of disaster.

<< /ENOUGH/. >> The crack of the voice inside the minds of all three blanks out the world in a fuzz of white noise, erasing sight, sound, taste, and will in a single, jagged lance of imperative. << /BE STILL/. >>

To her credit, at the moment in which Xavier arrives, Rahne is not so much being chaotic as pitiful and pinned beneath Rossi. Her senses are muted, the usual whisper of instinct dulled to nothing. Those are Rogue's to deal with for now. Instead, she is left winded by Rossi having landed on her, his weight having knocked the wind out of her in a slightly less terrifying way than Rogue's power had before. She is caught trying to pull herself up to her feet via the hallway's wall when the Professor's imperative locks her in place, knocking everything else aside. She looks good and rumpled and terrified.

The wolf looks ready to run. Rogue's paws tip, nails digging into the floor as she lets out a warning growl, not unlike the one that started this mess in the first place. Her head lowers, bodying winding up in preparation to spring away and down the hall. The wash of nothing stills the wolf, a stifled, muted howl of displeasure fading away as the wolf sinks low to the ground and tucks her nose under a paw.

Rossi's muscles lock into place: a ridiculous, undignified pose. It little matters; he can do nothing about it. Blind-eyed, breathless, he waits frozen for his body to return command to his own will--

How long it takes for Xavier to reach the Visitor's wing is not for them to know. Time stretches in an eternity (or in a heartbeat). Between the initial ruthless grasp on minds and its release, there is perhaps a span of minutes. Oblivion retreats. Professor Xavier sits straight-backed and coldly silent in the hall, elegant in a three-piece suit of grey silk, his hands curled gracefully around the arms of his wheelchair. And, oh dear. He is /unhappy/. "/What/," he asks, the word as diamond-edged as an ice chip, "is the meaning of /this/?"

When that iron grip upon her mind is released, Rahne slumps against the wall once more, managing to prop one leg beneath herself to keep her balance there. She looks, wide eyed, between Xavier, Rossi, and the lupine shape of Rogue. "We were having a discussion," Rahne says, her accented voice fallen quiet. "We got a tad touchy feely and the soul-sucker didn't much fancy what happened." Nevermind that the nails of her right hand are crusted with blood.

Rogue's ears are frozen in their slicked back position, the half curl of her body almost peaceful if not for the blood smeared along the light fur of her stomach. The wolf lets out a pained whine.

"A /discussion/," repeats Professor Xavier, his gaze cutting down to the blood-stained pile of clothes on the floor, then to the stains of gore on Rogue's stomach. His baritone curdles across the word; the sense of his displeasure plucks the air in the corridor, stretching it thinner, pulling it tighter, until it almost hums just beneath the skin. By comparison, the deep voice is ominously deliberate, almost pedantic in its cadence. "Are you capable of turning back, Rogue?"

Rahne lifts a hand to rub at the side of her head, where Rogue's first punch landed. She may not be bloody, but she'll have a wonderful little bruise to show off. She's frowning darkly, her hand roaming from her head to the tip of her nose. "Bloody terrible sensation. Felt like she was going to cut my guts out through my nose," she mutters, still mostly supported by the wall and trying not to look as guilt as she feels. This is not much of a winning strategy before an angered Xavier.

Rogue attempts to hide her face even more under the paw. She makes a noise low in her chest, confusion and feral instincts taking away much of what Rogue could actually answer with. Even her thoughts float out mingled and instead have to vaguely form an image of her pile of clothes along with the yell of << NEED. >>.

Nor before a bleeding -- yet again, bleeding! Always, with the bleeding! -- Rossi. The man, released from geas, loses that knife's edge of tension as well and drops back against the wall to lean into it with a shoulder. Blood glistens damply in the small tears of his shirt; his pale gaze, still dominated by black, cuts down to Rahne and marks the evidence: bloody hand; injured head. And he remains silent, save for the rasping rise and fall of breath. Miracles do happen.

"Thank you," Xavier tells Rahne, the words like a slash of icicles. "I believe we can dispense with superfluous commentary for the moment, young lady. I would like an explanation." << Go into the yellow room, >> he directs towards Rogue, over a murmur in the background: the thread of another telepathic conversation, held elsewhere. On his wall, Rossi casts the old man a resentful glare, but stoops to gather up the battered clothing. << Change back, if you can. Detective Rossi will carry your clothes. >>

The ice in Xavier's words brings Rahne down several notches. "We got in a fight. Sex came up. She didn't like that I was uncomfortable with her and her girlfriend. I growled. She called me a bitch. I called her a sinner. She punched me in the head." She is looking down at the floor of the hallway as she rattles off the rough version of what took place. "The rest is pretty well obvious." With a little energy returning to her, she manages to cross her arms over her chest. Just enough gesture to fill the role of sulking teenager nicely.

Rogue staggers up, paws still unstable as she lets out a pant of pain, claws dragging in her own blood as she starts towards the closed door of her room. The wolf sways, attempting to hurry as powers slowly begin to fade and a more human mind starts to take hold. Her head bends down, the flat area of her skull between triangle ears pressing against the wooden door as she makes small noises for assistance.

The cop lags behind her, as uneven in his progress as Rogue. The thin fabric of his T-shirt is already stained near black by the blood; the rents in the cloth bare pale skin beneath, likewise dyed. "This fucking place," Rossi says, hitching in a step. His fist closes around the doorknob and he bumps it open with his shoulder over wolf's head, the clothing tossed in a mangled puddle past the threshold.

Xavier's gaze tracks Rogue until the door is opened; then it swings to bear on Rahne, the deep-set eyes hard and frowning. "'Obvious,'" he says dryly. "Yes. I will grant you the 'obvious.' What I fail to see is how the situation should have come to this at all."

"She punched me and I defended myself," Rahne says. Her tone is sulky, but insistant that she was not in the wrong. "You know full well...." She looks nervously over at the lingering form of Rossi and she instead thinks at her mother's beau. << I lost it and changed. I should be better than that. And she... took it. And she has no idea how to control it. She would have probably killed me if the cop didn't jump on top of me. >> She does not seem happy to admitting any of this; her loss of control, how close Rogue came to likely mauling her, or that Rossi bailed her out.

Rogue is nothing more that a flash of a tail the moment the door is opened. The wolf is gone, replaced with the flat of the door and mind-grumblings that start to be less like growls and snarls and more like human words and pain.

<< I see that we will need to work on your control, >> Xavier answers, likewise, while Rossi glances immediate paranoia over his shoulder at the abrupt silence. The mental voice is less unforgiving than the vocal one: more eloquent, more expressive; the admission of fault unnotches some tight loop of displeasure, relaxing it, if only somewhat. Resignation and a clinical dispassion twine around the reply. << Both mutation and temper. There is more than one dangerous mutation roaming the halls here. I will not allow open battles in my house, or an environment that may prove unsafe to innocents unable to protect themselves. Is that understood? >> "As for you, detective--" he finishes aloud.

Rossi silently turns his back and limps off down the hallway. Medbay again. Fuck.

<< It would have been a fist-fight either way. She did throw the first punch, >> Rahne tries to claim, still trying to comeout, somehow, at least partly innocent in this. Her bloody fingernails make this shaky ground. "Control, aye, yeah..." she says outloud, frowning and looking toward the door Rogue vanished into. "Is she going to be all right?"

Rogue is, at the moment, already back to her human form, clothes getting pulled on slowly as she attempts to not let blood onto the carpet. She's just manages her stained and ripped shirt on when she sinks to the floor, arm curling around her middle to stop the flow of blood. << She can go to hell, >> Rogue snarls mentally.

Exasperation crosses Xavier's face -- but it comes with concern, too. A far-flung call summons medical aid, another imperative that brings staff running from the basement medbay. "She will need medical attention," Xavier says, his voice sharp. "What did you do to her before you changed back?" His wheelchair turns towards the closed door. << We can speak about this later, >> he sends through the door. << How badly are you hurt? >>

At the end of the hall, Rossi jerks in mid-step as though yanked on the end of a leash, and turns, irritation flaming brightly on the dark face. "Fucking-- stop /doing/ that, you shithead."

With her powers having slowly filtered back into her grasp, Rahne lifts her chin just slightly as she sniffs at the air. "I went for her belly. I didn't get in too deep." Her little triage is completey with a guilty sounding, "I just smell blood. Nothing else." She pushes up a little straighter against the wall, leaning against it still, but now standing more under her own power. Her eyes are drawn toward Rossi at his sudden cursing.

<< Been hurt worse before, >> Rogue growls in a wolfy remnant, pain spiking her mental voice a bit. << It'll be fine. Don't bother with me. Ah can lick my own wounds. >>

Language, language. Xavier spares Rossi only the barest flicker of reproving glances. He is already at the door, his hand on the handle. Telepathy pulses in a swift check for modesty's sake -- an impractical instinct, but entrenched nonetheless by an older generation's standards -- before he turns it. << Don't be ridiculous, >> he snaps. << I have absolutely no intention of-- >> "I believe some first aid is required. The nurse is on her way. Detective, if you would--?"

The detective's stiff-legged stalk up the hallway has more than its share of indignant affront to its length and hard percussion of heels.

Rahne watches this from her lean against the wall. For the moment, the slender young woman is more than happy to allow the other two members of their triumvirate of hallway chaos to be Xavier's focus. She is still weak from Rogue's touch anyhow. She rests her hands on her knees, watching the detective stomp.

Modesty is ensured, a fully clothed Rogue on her knees in the middle of her room, arms still wrapped and putting pressure on the claw-gashes in her stomach. "Fu--" she begins, stopping herself and staring down at the reminder of choice words in front of Xavier. "Was Ah really just a dog?"

Xavier briefly fills the entrance with his chair, then reverses course at an angle to make room for Rossi's press through. "A wolf," says the former gentleman, his voice as arid as desert sand. "I believe the correct word is 'wolf.' If it is any consolation to you, you were a very handsome wolf. All things considered. We will have a discussion, you and I, about when it is and is /not/ appropriate to use our grown-up words instead of our fists. Now, however, does not seem to be the time."

"You bit me," Rossi says through gritted teeth, dropping to his haunches beside her. "Jesus Christ. I'm gonna have to get /rabies/ shots."

From her lean at the wall, Rahne's green eyes give Rogue one of those looks of an angered child from the opposite end of the principal's office. The little venomous look is broke up by her opening her mouth to correct the species as well, "Wol--" but she falls silent when Xavier handles it instead. She is not feeling bold enough to try talking over him. Instead, she loops an arm loosely over her skinny middle, guilt at seeing Rogue's bloodied stomach pushing down on her very firmly.

"You tell /her/ that," Rogue spits, staggering up without much care if it was a dog, wolf, or gerbil. "She insulted Jubilee in more 'en one sense. It's what..." The girl's voice gets caught up in a sob of pain. "S'what she did, Professor. Me an' Jubilee ain't nothin' but scum t'her an' she had it comin'!"

<< /Enough/, >> Xavier snaps, but it is a far cry from that initial command that stopped the world in its tracks. Now it is a matter of irritation and patience tried too far, beyond even the tolerance of that famously long fuse. "We can discuss this later. For now-- for pity's sake, Rogue. Don't stand up. You are hardly in any condition to--"

It is an afternoon of half-finished expostulations. Without preamble, Rossi sweeps Rogue up in his arms and heads for the door. "Shut up," he tells the top of her head. "You people all suck. You got that? The entire mother-loving lot of you."

The exhasperation coming out of Rahne is almost palpable. "I didn't say a bleeding word about anyone but you, you hypersensitive twat! And I didn't say a word about scum! I said I was /uncomfortable/." She pushes off of the wall, with temper trying to flare again. "Bloody damned..." Halfway through trying to stand up, she looks a bit dizzied and goes back to leaning on the wall. "I didn't say /anything/ like that," she implores Charles Xavier, "She's /lying!/"

Rogue hooks gloved hands around Rossi's neck, looking momentary unhappy with being carried. Xavier's suggestion that this is enough is ignored. "Put me down, Ah can wal-- /excuse me/?" she snaps at Rahne. "Y'might as well have said it! Callin' me a sinner. Say what you like 'bout me, but you /dare/ insult Jubilation..." Rogue struggles weakly, loss of blood preventing her from breaking away from Rossi to bolt at the other again. "Wasn't gonna use mah powers on you until you decided you'd be a good lil' 'Christian' an' send me t'hell early, huh?"

Rossi grips tighter, bruisingly: he has carried unwilling young women before. Imagine that. His inhalation warns of an outburst -- a violent one, if the vivid burn of his eyes is any indication.

He is superceded. << I said /enough/, >> Xavier sounds in all their minds. And this time, by the chill that wraps itself like a cold hand around them, he means it.

The elevator dings at the far end of the hall, metal doors sliding open. Medical help is here. With preamble, Rossi stalks off in that direction, bearing his angry burden with him.

When the elevator dings, Rahne decides that this is the right time to tuck her tail and slink off to her temporary room. She seems to figure that if she gets out of sight, Xavier will not break out the rolled up newspaper.

Rogue's mind does not stop churning insults and complaints, but she does verbally allow obedience of Xavier's command. The woman slumps a little further down into Rossi's arms, instead aiming a wolfish glare at the nursing staff.

[Log ends]
Rossi gets bitten. By a girl. Who is a /wolf/. God, Xavier School SUCKS.

Later, the same day...

---
=NYC= Tompkins Square Park - East Village - Manhattan
You see nothing special.

All New York parks look anemic and pruned to within inches of their lives to Illyana, but she manages to keep her opinion from being obvious as she wanders the paths of the park in the oncoming dusk, ranging ahead of her escort to just wander for now, not looking or feeling after their purpose for being here just yet. Her sword is strapped at her hip, but her shoulder-kitten has been left behind for this particular trip.

Hank is well dressed and respectable in a navy suit, but still a threatening presence in the gathering dark. The warmth of the evening has forced him to forgo his usual muffling trenchcoat and trilby, so it is only the failing light that conceals the blue fur and claws. Being out in the city so openly has him on edge, and under expensive cloth his broad shoulders are taut. Although he hangs back and allows Illyana to range ahead, keeping to a sedate pace, eyes and ears carefully follow her progress.

Rossi is not wearing a sword. Times have changed, in his neck of the woods. They have moved on. They have had progress. He is wearing a /gun/. A Glock 22, .40 is strapped in a holster at his hip, and if it is not /strictly/ police issue in the absolute definition of the phrase, who cares? The badge strapped onto the belt certainly does not. Attired in the more customary cheap suit that is his usual uniform, a dark blue that blends a little too well with the gathering night, he prowls stiffly at the side of Big Blue, dwarfed in bulk and -- fur. "This," he says baldly, "is crap. What's the point of this again?"
Time to search properly. Illyana stops and closes her eyes, standing still long enough that the others are very likely to catch up to her. Her hand rests loosely on the pommel of her sword.

"The point of this excursion is for Illyana to observe the--, well we have been referring to it as a rift, the connection between our reality and that other, darker, reality," Hank explains patiently. He keeps his eyes on Illyana, not sparing a glance for the detecitive beside him. When she stops, he continues just a few feet further forward and stops also, leaving her space. "Charles and I have theorized that she could close this tear in much the way that she closes her 'portals' to her own world."

"She's carrying a /sword/," Rossi points out, with some gruff perplexity. It is a sore point that has occupied him for much of the trip. "What's she gonna do, tie some thread to it and stitch the damn thing shut?" He comes to a halt beside Beast, shoulders hunching up as he watches.

With the others coming close enough for her to hear their conversation, Illyana frowns, twitching her shoulders in discomfort. "I not need my sword in this world, but bear was in this world, I needed for that. Feels better to have." She turns to Hank. "What direction?"

In comfortable and nearly accentless Russian, he replies, "{I think it's over here, but it may be hard to find,}" One pointed claw indicates a path braching off to their right. For Rossi's benefit he repeats in English, "I believe the rift is in that direction, but it may prove difficult to detect by sight alone." He makes no move forward, allowing Illyana to again precede the two men.

Rossi's brow twitches; a shadow crosses the strong face. "You know where it is, mostly, right?" he mutters in an aside to Hank, his hands removing themselves from his pocket to tuck their thumbs in his belt instead. "Not that I got any complaints, exactly, but my kind -- from all I hear, my type don't last so long on the other side of that thing."

Illyana blinks. "{Your accent is very good.}" she compliments Hank. She waits a moment longer, eyes on Rossi for any further objections to her methods of defending herself, and then sets out in the indicated direction. Once she starts moving, she seems to have her own sense of direction, setting out across grass without noticing, rather than following the path.

"{Thank you, Illyana.}" Hank nods briefly to her and then turns to look at Rossi. He may have to look up slightly, but still manages the air of a teacher patiently explaining to a pupil. Not insulting at all, but not quite the conversation of equals either. "Yes, detective, I do have quite a specific idea. I understand your concern, and I will do my best to ensure that we do not cross through the rift accidentally." He sets out after Illyana, following the path as long as possible before finally cutting across the grass as well. "As I had hoped it seems Illyana has some sense of its location, so you may be in no danger whatsoever."

Rossi mutters something under his breath, his stride lagging just behind Hank's. Heightened senses might detect skepticism in that snatch of words. With you poodles? Nonetheless, he tags along, a fine, upstanding representative of the NYPD, New York's Finest.

Illyana ducks under a tree branch, taking the most direct path to the point of silliness, if you're not used to wiggling through tight forest spaces as a matter of course anyway. She finally comes to a stop, staring at a strangeness in the coloration of the night sky. "It is--wrong," she says on a frown.

Hank preserves Rossi's illusion of going unheard and keeps his expression carefully controlled. Coming up to the tight squeeze through trees and underbrush he pauses to take in all the obstacles and then ducks and weaves safely through with an agility somewhat surprising and entirely at odds with his attire. On the other side he pauses again to brush off a stray leaf and straighten his jacket. "Wrong in what way? {Use Russian if it's easier to explain}," he prompts Illyana, watching her rather than the sky.

There is a crash in the undergrowth, and a hiccup and a bump of sound. Rossi's voice rises in a sharp curse, and a bright, metallic tang of fresh blood spreads itself across the breeze: a scratch, if that. Typical. Cops are not meant to go through foliage. Carry on, folks. He'll be right-- "fuck" --there. Just give him a minute.

"{Out of focus. Like trying to see something that's--}" Illyana gestures reaching into the air, not being able to touch something quite where one sees it. "{Perhaps this is only because it is not mine.}" She takes a couple steps forward and then stops at an invisible edge. Rossi's stumbling draws her attention. "Sorry?"

"{It's a good sign you can sense it at all.}" Hank paces up to just behind her, a looming presence at her shoulder, and studies intently the air in front of them. He spares no attention for Rossi beyond nostrils briefly flared at the scent of blood. "{Do you think crossing through would be worth the danger?}"

"Don't mind me," Rossi says a bit breathlessly, dabbing at a fresh scratch on his cheek as he materializes from between a pair of intimately acquainted trees. His hair is rumpled, and there are twigs clinging to his coat. What they suffer in the name of saving the world. Bah. "I'll just keep an eye out from over there. You got a perimeter on this thing?"

"Perimeter?" Illyana asks of Hank, smile blooming at having translation help once more. "{You would know of the danger on the other side better than I. I did not make the portal, so there is no cost in energy to me to use it.}" She shrugs, and watches both the men over her shoulder, toe-tips at the edge of the portal still.

"{Perimeter}" Hank translates with an answering smile down at her. "{The danger would be from other people, mostly. Detective Rossi wouldn't go with us though, since he's human. But would you get more information from that side?}" He leaves the answer to Rossi's question to her, but turns slightly so as to be able to see both their faces at once.

"Here," Illyana tells Rossi, sketching a line up and down with her arm in the air. "Not--round, like mine. {A tear.}" She considers said tear, and tentatively extends fingertips towards it. "{I do not need to see the other side so much as feel what it is like to travel through.}" She frowns at Rossi. "Why cannot come?"

"Then perhaps a short exploration would be in order. I doubt there will be any immediate danger in the other reality which together we could not stave off long enough for us to return." Hank slips back into English for Rossi's benefit, so tacitly informing of their intention. First his jacket, then his tie come off as he prepares, keeping quiet to allow Rossi now to answer Illyana's question.

Rossi stops. His brow twitches down. "What?" he asks blankly. And then, with waking wrath, "You're shitting me. You're going /through/? --You too?" Accusation swings towards Hank, knit brilliant and vivid under the press of brows. The cop twitches his shoulders; in the line of throat, the even pulse skips and hastens, rousing to a staccato jog. He unbuckles the snap on his holster with a practiced thumb and draws the glock. "Fine. Fuck. Lay on, MacDuff. Whatever."

"Two steps," Illyana says, trying to reassure Rossi. "Only. Then back, yes?" She smiles, curls a hand around the hilt of her sword, and then steps through, into gathering darkness and among the ragged ruins of what had once been trees. She makes a wordless sound of annoyance and confusion on the other side, apparently not liking the trip.

"We are," Hank confirms calmly. "Our purpose is for Illyana to gather as much information as possible and she feels it might prove helpful to experience the transition between realities." His suit jacket now carefully tied he hesitates, eyeing the grassy ground and then the detective speculatively. Then Illyana steps through and he drops it hastily, following after her. On the other side he steps out of Illyana's way and drops to a fighter's ready stance, scanning the surroundings and carefully testing the light breeze.

"/Shit/," says Rossi, as the two figures disappear. Magic. He draws in a shaky breath, his grip on the down-turned gun tightening, and lapses into the comfort of old habits. The left hand crosses himself; baritone exhales in an eloquent "Fuck. Fuck fuck /fuck/--!" --and then he follows them. On the other side, dilated green rimmed with white and black, he closes his mouth tight around another four-letter word and takes his own, slightly wild-eyed glance around.

Everywhere is evidence of past violence, but no one immediately offering it. Illyana spends a moment to look all around, memorizing the sights, and then turns her attention immediately back to the rift once Rossi has come through. She nudges him out of her way with a touch on his arm. "Not feel where I am," she complains, plaintive.

Not finding any immediate threat, Hank relaxes back to a more normal posture and looks over to his companions. Rossi gets a raise eyebrow, but no further comment. There are more important matters at the moment. "Ilyana?" he inquires with concern. "{What do you mean?}"

Rossi shifts, making room for Illyana and Hank. The change in skyline is a distraction; he concentrates on it, a fleeting shock skidding across his face before he reengages his attention elsewhere. Backup. For a change, he keeps his mouth shut. Twice in one day! Somewhere, pigs are flying.

"{In my place, I can feel--where I am. Where other people are. I cannot here. It is like the real world.}" Illyana shakes herself, trying to look less creeped out about it than she feels. "We can go," she offers to Rossi.

Hank nods, relieved by her answer. "{It is the real world. Another one.}" He resists the temptation to explain and says instead, "We should go. Illyana. Detective." He nods to each of them, then turns to face away from the rift again, watching for possible trouble and waiting to return last.

"After you," Rossi tells Illyana, with rough courtesy. There is an unnerved relief in his face as well, under the professionalism of his mask. Adrenaline pushes the speed of his heartbeat, clenching its fist around the Brooklyn-accented baritone. "Just two steps back? That's all it is?"

Taking that as confusion as to the location of the rift, Illyana reaches out to close a hand lightly around Rossi's arm as she goes, so used to dragging people through her doors by the hand. On the other side she lets go, taking a deep breath, savoring the difference in scents living green things bring.

No longer hearing the other two, Hank turns and strides through the rift. He nearly bumps into Rossi on the other side and sets a warding off hand on his back for a brief instant before stepping around the other man. "Right. Shall we return to the school?" The discarded suit jacket is scooped up from the ground and fastidiously brushed off.

Rossi's face is a little paler than usual; the scratch from earlier in the night shows up starkly across the high cheekbone. "Like hell," he says flatly. "You guys go back. I'll call for backup. We need a perimeter on this or some poor fuck'll be out walking his dog some night and end up -- in /that/." His thumb jerks back, ill-aimed, towards the invisible portal.

"Wait," Illyana requests, and focuses all her attention on the portal, trying to manipulate things not visible to the eye. There's nothing to see except a rising look of frustration, at at one point a flicker of red near the rift. At length, she shakes her head and lets out a long breath. "Can't." Then she looks up, ready to follow Hank.

"As you wish detective. It does seem advisable to isolate the rift from those unaware of it's existence. We do have someone observing the area of course, but the police might have better luck with--'dog walkers'." Hank nods good night and turns to Illyana, jacket folded over one arm. He watches her intently as she works and can't quite hide the disappointed slump of his shoulder as she admits failure. "It's alright Illyana, we came just to observe tonight. There are ways we may be able to assist you in an attempt to close it."

Rossi stoops to move a stick: from there to /here/, an uncertain and decidedly tenuous boundary marker. "Getting late," he says, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. Pale eyes gleam at the pair, glittering a little too brightly. "Get outta here. You got a long ride back. Tell Cadbury I'll stay in Brooklyn tonight, if you see her."

Illyana nods in farewell, leaving the inexplicable request to Hank to take care of. She settles her hand on her sword once more, and heads back for the car.

"Of course. I will be sure to pass your message to Ororo," Hank agrees, then follows quickly after Illyana.

Behind them, Chris Rossi, Detective, flips open his phone to call the NYPD. "Yo. Lazzaro. Wake up, you lazy SOB. We got a situation. You're not going to fucking /believe/ this--"

And so it goes.

[Log ends]
Rossi goes on a jaunt with sword girl and cookie monster, and ends up going to an alternate reality. Has he mentioned the suckage of hanging out with poodles yet? Jesus H. Christ.

On Tuesday evening, the NYPD sets up floodlights and an armed perimeter around an apparent crime scene in Tompkins Square Park. "Possible gas leak," officers tell inquiring passersby. "Just making sure, ma'am." Although why a gas leak requires the SWAT is anybody's guess. City employees. They're always overreacting.