No good deed goes unpunished
Bunch of jokers. Yamaguchi's a bad influence on Beston. Should separate the two of them. And Christ, "all the time?" Bullshit. Twice. Twice I've been slapped by a woman in the squad room. Three times, now. Once I got punched by Julia. How is this "all the time"?
That'll teach me to ask those dicks for help. Fuckers. My own partner. Guy's in his fifties. He should have more dignity.
So Summers has what he needed, and I get to wonder if Munroe will blow up New York looking for her perp. All I can do is wait and see. The Poodle King's a professional, so I got to figure his partner is too. Hope for the best. This is the part I hate, the waiting. It's like turning a case over to the DA to fuck up. Out of my hands. Hate feeling impotent, knowing there's shit all I could do against this guy who took out Summers, even if I had him in my sights. All the training the goddamn world means squat against someone who can throw lightning bolts, or throw a car around like it's a coffee cup. Leave it to the mutants to sort out the mutants? Frosts my cookies, man.
There are times when I can understand the Friends.
Time to call Alyssa. Horshack and her partner say they'll take her on some ridealongs. She'll take good care of the kid, make sure nothing happens. They can both keep their mouths shut too, just in case the kid slips up and outs herself while she's with them. Thinking about taking the kid with me next time I visit Tracy. Or VA. Because if she really wants to be a cop, she's got to see the people she won't be able to help. Because maybe it'll change her mind and she can stay a happy, slightly less suicidal chicken. And because I am, God help me, a complete and utter asshole....
---
Afternoon sees the precinct almost deserted, by relative terms: bodies shuffle in and out, true, but the heartbeat of activity has moved elsewhere. To courthouses. To streets. To the wide ribs of stairs leading up to the building, where two suit-clad detectives mime obedience to the city's new regulations on smoking, dutifully engaging in carcinogens away from the lungs of criminals and their civil rights. A greying hound of a man and a younger, lean-faced asian, both propped against the stone railings. Behold Leisure in the making.
Quiet and as unassuming as she can manage, Ororo makes her way towards the presinct. Dressed simply in a pair of black slack, snug against lean legs, and a white tank top, Ororo's hands clutch idly to a slender purse. Steps are taken one at a time, blue eyes observant as always, pausing to offer a faint inclination of her head to the two men leaning against the stair's railing. "Excuse me." She murmurs as she edges around them, heading towards the front door.
Detectives exchange glances. The elder steps aside. The younger, smothering his cigarette on a trash can's edge, drawls a laconic, "Sure." And then follows that with, "You the one coming to see Rossi?"
Storm's chin tilts slightly to glance back over her shoulder, regarding the two men. "I am. Do you know where I can find him?"
The grey-haired one of the two jerks a thumb. It is the other who supplies commentary. "Down the hall. Left hand side; Homicide on the door. When you see him, slap him." Grave brown eyes blink at Storm over the lighting of another cigarette. "You're supposed to pretend to be an ex, see."
Slender brows arch over mildly suspicious blue eyes. The directions aren't hard, and she's sure she could figure it out if she forgets. "I could just as easily pretend to be an ex without hitting him. I would rather not have myself arrested for assualting an officer." Ah, the oh so logical and boring mind or Ororo Munroe.
"It's not an officer," the detective informs, sleepily. (His companion, equally solemn, slumps against the wall and watches -- oh, look. /Pigeons/.) "It's just Rossi. Happens all the time. Anyway, that's what he said. Slap him. Just ask Beston." A thumb's jerk to the older man. "He's Rossi's partner."
"Random women simply walk in and slap Detective Rossi?" Ororo asks, trying to keep a faint smirk from growing too large. Somehow she's not surprised. An assessing look is shot in Beston's direction. "Slap him?" She asks again.
"Happens all the time," Beston concedes in a gravelly, Chicago-informed voice. "Poor goof."
The other detective blinks. "Slap. Hard. Make it believable, you know?"
"Sure." Still disbelieving, the woman makes her way around the two gentlemen and up to the door, pulling it open in order to step through. Directions followed with ease, Ororo pauses outside the Homicide door and takes a deep breath. Tooling her face into an annoyed expression, Ororo reaches up to futz with her hair, giving her a less held together look. And with that, she pushes open the Homicide door, heel clicking angrily as she looks for Chris.
Rossi is, harmlessly enough, on the phone. His is the last desk in the long, battered room, piled high with files and the assorted floatsam and jetsam of police life; like his vocabulary, in fact, dragged out to good purpose for some biting, sarcastic argument with the person on the other end of the line. "--listen, lady. I don't /care/. All I'm asking for is -- no. NYPD. /No/, this isn't a prank call. Do you mind? Thank you. /Thank/ you. Christ."
Poor, harmless Rossi. The click of angry heels continues until it pauses just behind Rossi. She waits a good moment or two for the conversation to finish. Only once the phone has been hung up does he feel a tap on his shoulder. He'll turn to find himself nearly eye to eye with brilliant, blazing blue before Storm's chin lifts and she reaches up to smack him on the cheek. It isn't as hard as the men outside might have liked, but it certainly echos through the room. "You -bastard-." Tone is a sufficient mix between devastation and anger.
It is a solid slap, and a sound one, and the crack of it tugs up heads from around the room. Where there was noise and bustle, silence. A span of heartbeats where mouths and eyes gape. Then -- chaos again as detectives return to their conversations and their labor, grins splitting faces and brightening voices. While Rossi--
"What the /fuck/!" Temper is almost as quick to blossom as the rise of red against a tanned cheek, the welcome of greeting aborted mid-word. Rossi's chair slams back into file cabinets, spinning drunkenly on its pedestal; one hand clamps around Storm's, hauling her at the end of a swift stride. 'Captain' reads the legend on the nearby door, closed for privacy's sake. A small obstacle for Chris, who kicks it in with more impatience than courtesy, only to slam it shut after them. Green eyes blaze. "Did I /trip/? Did I trip and hit my head and forget accidentally /sleeping/ with you?"
Storm's eyes widen. So either he's a skilled actor or they were just fucking with her. You can guess which one she believes is really the case. As she's suddenly hauled into the captain's office, Ororo tires her best to bite back a mix of mortification and humor. "I assure you Chris that if you ever slept with me, it'd be something you'd remember." Her voice, despite the look in her eyes is calm and soft, dropping to a whisper. "Beston said you had this planned. By this point I'm going to assume I've been lied to."
It is true that Rossi has a reputation for language. He exhibits it now in Italian, releasing Ororo for a hand's hard, exasperated rake through hair. "--/cazzo/," he finishes, annoyance dying almost as quickly as it rose. "Shit. Asshole Yamaguchi. I'm going to kick his ass. Ow. Fuck. Did you have to hit so /hard/?" Despite the resignation of the words, a perverse mirth threads through his baritone, lightening its timbre.
My. That's a rather impressive rant. Ororo pulls her hand back against herself nad looks down to check for bruising. Finding none, she glances back to his face, finally allowing a grin to grow. "And here I thought you'd be the type to like it a little rough." Brows arch as she meets his mirth with good humor. "Want an ice pack?"
"I'm fine," Rossi says with hasty, humorous assurance, lifting both hands to bypass any attempts at first aid. Rue routes one to rub at the injured cheek. "I've been slapped harder. Much harder. I wasn't expecting it, is all. That'll teach me to ask those two asshats to do me a favor."
Storm had actually begun to dig through her purse, yes, she carries ice packs. So what? "Mm, I bet." She laughs again and has the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry for falling for their ruse."
The detective grins. "They're convincing. Dicks." It's a small office, crowded with the debris of duty: pictures and awards on the walls; files stacked high on the floors; an ancient television and VCR in one corner. It is to the last that Rossi jerks his head, stooping to flick knobs and push switches, setting the monitor to grainy, fuzzy life. Four split screens, frozen. "I forwarded to where your perp came in. He's in the left panel."
"I wasn't completely convinced. But in case they weren't lying I didn't want to ruin your carefully laid plan." Storm admits, smiling twinkling before she looks to the screen, walking closer. "Toad." The amusement has faded as her entire body tenses. The last time she saw that face she was trapped in a sewer vent with bugs crawling over her flesh and him grinning down at her. A subconscious twitch, hands moving to rub her arms. No bugs. She'd known it was him, but knowing and seeing are two different things. "Can you please press play."
"Good name for him," says Rossi, dry, and with a crack of a button the tiny mannequins stir into life. No sound. Just pantomine. The innocence of Summers, inspecting merchandise; the casual Toad, trolling his cart. Chris steps back to settle his hips against the desk, arms folding into a loose knot as he watches.
"It fits." The woman agrees, leaning closer to the screen, watching movements quietly. "He's following Scott." she points out as she follows their movements with her fingers.
Chris assents with an unseen nod, adding the verbal agreement a half-second later. "Yeah. Looks like he's stalking him. Doesn't show whether he knew Summers was there before he walked into the place, but it seems like a decent assumption. He doesn't react when he makes contact." Tiny Scott looks at popcorn. Poor tiny Scott.
And from popcorn to diapers, Ororo's head tilting curiously at Toad. "He was actually shopping. He moved the cart out of the way." She watches as Toad moves the cart then suddenly leaps onto the shelves and drives it down on Scott. Ororo can't help it, she gasps, pressing her hand over her mouth as she leans forward. Oh Scott.
Though he has seen the tape before, a small flinch twitches across Rossi's face at the collapse, prompted as much by Ororo's reaction as Summers' surprise and suffocation. "Trying to be efficient, I guess?" he murmurs, while Toad scales the angle of shelving before sending explosives at security. With a hiss, one of the small panels dies out, lapsing into white noise. "Sprinklers caught some wiring."
Storm shakes her head, eyes hard and unreadable as she watches the white noise take place of pictures. "It's only partially about being efficient. He enjoyed Scott's pain and sruggling more than anything else." She continues to stare at the screen, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
The tiny Toad springs; with a lurch, the shelving unit overturns, and Scott is sent backwards across the store to smash into glass. The milk jug dropping on his head is insult to injury. "Nice guy," Chris comments briefly. "Real sweetheart. Summers can take a lot of damage, I'll say that much."
There's not reaction this time, Ororo's gone cold, watching, learning, observing every movement the man makes. "He's had practice." Scott that is. She watches Toad as the can is kicked towards Scott, unflinching when it impacts.
"No job for a father," says Rossi wearily -- not for the first time -- and stirs out of his repose to turn a wary glance through the office blinds. On the screen, light flies over Toad's head, and another panel fizzes out of existence to share the crackle and spark of static with its brother. Two left. "That's the other one. The rest stay on until the end."
Storm knows that beam and recognizes it as Scott's, her head nodding in responce to his words. "We're all very thankful that Nate wasn't there with him when he decided to go shopping." Ororo states quietly as she continues to watch. "He.. stopped long enough to grab.. steaks." Ororo notices, eyes flashing white before fading back to blue. (Restrain. Show it.) Mental chiding doing little to calm her nerves.
Baritone drawl. "Guy's got a sense of humor. --Is that his tongue that's doing that?" Because -- gross. Chris lapses into pensive silence, the screen's reflection caught in the mirror of his gaze. Two more cans, pitched dizzyingly across the panels. Toad's hop at Scott.
"He has a prehensile tongue. It's quite lengthy, I'd guess a good couple of feet." From what she saw at the Statue of Liberty. The can impacts the glasses into his face. Toad takes the glasses. The knife, ripping at his pants. "He wanted the visor." She states after a moment, shoulders straightening. "All of them."
"Well, that's a relief," says Rossi with a wry grimace for the knife. "The guys were wondering if maybe he was after-- something else, let's just say. Somehow didn't think that was Summers' line. There's not much more. Paramedics got there; Summers blows off most of the building's roof. Lucky nobody got killed."
"No. It was the visor. He took the pants to try and embarress Scott. Get in one last hurrah." Ororo frowns and finally turns from the TV, not yet willing to turn her attention to Rossi, choosing instead to watch look at a pile of papers.
"Your guy Toad took his groceries with him," Rossi notes, straightening again to pause the replay. Sprawled unconscious and lonely (and Tidy Whitied), mini-Scott freezes in dreamless slumber. "At least, they didn't find the cart on the scene. Bizarre way to go shopping, but the hell do I know about normal."
"Of course he did. Plenty of mouths to feed." Ororo mutters under her breath before finally lifting blue eyes to take in the Detective. "Thank you for getting me in here to see it." Cold and emotionless.
Green eyes, cynical, less cold, meet blue. "Yeah," Chris says, acknowledging and dismissing. The television clicks off and the VCR pops, whirring with geriatric complaint as the tape pitches into rewind. Another glance checks the tick of clock, faint tension easing at its report. Then back to Storm. "So what're you going to do now?"
Storm doesn't turn back to the TV, simply staring at Chris. It's all her strength of will that keeps Ororo emotionless, bubbling anger held on a thin leash. "I'm going to find him."
Rossi considers Storm thoughtfully. "You're not a murderer, you said."
Storm merely arches a brow. "And I do not intend on becoming one." But she will happily leave him a bloody, burnt chittering mess.
"Right." Mild-voiced agreement. The VCR chatters, popping open on a fussy chirp, and Chris rouses to claim the cassette, slamming the lid down in its wake. "You okay?"
Storm doesn't follow his movements, remaining fixated on whatever is before her now. Look, a wall. Hello wall. "I will be fine."
Chris props himself on the door to the crinkle of blinds behind his back. Legs cross at ankles: watchful man at rest. "Usually when I say that, things get broke."
He may be at rest, but at the same time, he's just blocked her exit, making this already anxious woman feel like thr room just got that much smaller. Her body tightens, muscles flexing in response. "I don't have the liberty of simply breaking things. I have to either draw my attention to something else until the rage has passed, or do what it takes to relieve myself of that rage."
"That's probably just as well," Chris agrees neutrally. "So many breakable things around. Chairs. People. Brooklyn. Feel like slapping me again? Other cheek, make it even." Another glance for the clock; yet a second for the squadroom beyond the blinds. No Captain. However, the smoking Asian from earlier is gravely setting up a chess set on Rossi's desk. The detective sighs and straightens off the door. "Asshole."
Storm allows a forced smirk to her lips at his offer. "I'm afraid that such aggressive acts would lead to my wanting to emotionally set myself free. I cannot show such disregard for my emotions." If Brooklyn intends to survive another day that is. She follows his gaze and the smirk remains. "You play chess?" Yes, distraction.
Rossi grimaces, peeking out the blinds again. The chess set meticulously set up, its owner thrusts his hands in his pockets, admires the display, then ambles off. "I suck ass. Probably why Yamaguchi got you to slap me, because I wouldn't play with him. I swear the guy's a nutjob. You ready to face the great outdoors? Or you need some time alone?"
"That is not a very good reason to have someone slap another person." Ororo frowns before taking a breath and stepping closer to peer out by his side. "I suppose I should storm out first to make it look as though we've been arguing all this time?"
Chris's grin through the glass is a crooked, deprecating thing, self-mockery leashed to the glint of eyes and reddened cheek. "Depends on how you look at it, I guess. If we were arguing all this time, the windows would be broken. Again. I got a bad temper, but the shit I break is fixable. Don't worry about it. --You good?" An eyebrow arcs for Ororo; a hand pauses on the doorknob, waiting reply.
Storm reaches out to rest her hand over his, stopping him from twisting the doorknob. "Wait. Scott wanted me to invite you to play Scrabble with us. We were curious to see how many four letter words you could come up with." She pulls her hand back and nods. Random, but she didn't want to forget. "Yes. I'm good."
"You'd be surprised," Rossi tells the aftermath of warmth on his skin, amusement ruffling his voice. "I was taught by Jesuits." The door pops open on his twist, letting in a rush of colder, fresher air. Chris gestures Storm to precede him, the video tape tucking into the cover of his jacket.
Storm smirks, this time the gesture seems more honest than forced. "We'll see." she remarks and steps around him. "Thank you again for your help." The fresher air is caught in a quick inhilation of breath before Storm begins her journey towards the door leading into this part of the station. There's only a moment's pause as she thinks to give homage to Chris Rossi's reputation as a lady killer. She stops, looks over her shoulder, offering a sly smile before turning back to the door, an extra sway to her hips that's sure to grab a few men's attention. She leaves the other officer's to applaud as she heads away from the building and towards a waiting car, her expression slipping back into the nothingness of her anger.
[Log ends]
That'll teach me to ask those dicks for help. Fuckers. My own partner. Guy's in his fifties. He should have more dignity.
So Summers has what he needed, and I get to wonder if Munroe will blow up New York looking for her perp. All I can do is wait and see. The Poodle King's a professional, so I got to figure his partner is too. Hope for the best. This is the part I hate, the waiting. It's like turning a case over to the DA to fuck up. Out of my hands. Hate feeling impotent, knowing there's shit all I could do against this guy who took out Summers, even if I had him in my sights. All the training the goddamn world means squat against someone who can throw lightning bolts, or throw a car around like it's a coffee cup. Leave it to the mutants to sort out the mutants? Frosts my cookies, man.
There are times when I can understand the Friends.
Time to call Alyssa. Horshack and her partner say they'll take her on some ridealongs. She'll take good care of the kid, make sure nothing happens. They can both keep their mouths shut too, just in case the kid slips up and outs herself while she's with them. Thinking about taking the kid with me next time I visit Tracy. Or VA. Because if she really wants to be a cop, she's got to see the people she won't be able to help. Because maybe it'll change her mind and she can stay a happy, slightly less suicidal chicken. And because I am, God help me, a complete and utter asshole....
---
Afternoon sees the precinct almost deserted, by relative terms: bodies shuffle in and out, true, but the heartbeat of activity has moved elsewhere. To courthouses. To streets. To the wide ribs of stairs leading up to the building, where two suit-clad detectives mime obedience to the city's new regulations on smoking, dutifully engaging in carcinogens away from the lungs of criminals and their civil rights. A greying hound of a man and a younger, lean-faced asian, both propped against the stone railings. Behold Leisure in the making.
Quiet and as unassuming as she can manage, Ororo makes her way towards the presinct. Dressed simply in a pair of black slack, snug against lean legs, and a white tank top, Ororo's hands clutch idly to a slender purse. Steps are taken one at a time, blue eyes observant as always, pausing to offer a faint inclination of her head to the two men leaning against the stair's railing. "Excuse me." She murmurs as she edges around them, heading towards the front door.
Detectives exchange glances. The elder steps aside. The younger, smothering his cigarette on a trash can's edge, drawls a laconic, "Sure." And then follows that with, "You the one coming to see Rossi?"
Storm's chin tilts slightly to glance back over her shoulder, regarding the two men. "I am. Do you know where I can find him?"
The grey-haired one of the two jerks a thumb. It is the other who supplies commentary. "Down the hall. Left hand side; Homicide on the door. When you see him, slap him." Grave brown eyes blink at Storm over the lighting of another cigarette. "You're supposed to pretend to be an ex, see."
Slender brows arch over mildly suspicious blue eyes. The directions aren't hard, and she's sure she could figure it out if she forgets. "I could just as easily pretend to be an ex without hitting him. I would rather not have myself arrested for assualting an officer." Ah, the oh so logical and boring mind or Ororo Munroe.
"It's not an officer," the detective informs, sleepily. (His companion, equally solemn, slumps against the wall and watches -- oh, look. /Pigeons/.) "It's just Rossi. Happens all the time. Anyway, that's what he said. Slap him. Just ask Beston." A thumb's jerk to the older man. "He's Rossi's partner."
"Random women simply walk in and slap Detective Rossi?" Ororo asks, trying to keep a faint smirk from growing too large. Somehow she's not surprised. An assessing look is shot in Beston's direction. "Slap him?" She asks again.
"Happens all the time," Beston concedes in a gravelly, Chicago-informed voice. "Poor goof."
The other detective blinks. "Slap. Hard. Make it believable, you know?"
"Sure." Still disbelieving, the woman makes her way around the two gentlemen and up to the door, pulling it open in order to step through. Directions followed with ease, Ororo pauses outside the Homicide door and takes a deep breath. Tooling her face into an annoyed expression, Ororo reaches up to futz with her hair, giving her a less held together look. And with that, she pushes open the Homicide door, heel clicking angrily as she looks for Chris.
Rossi is, harmlessly enough, on the phone. His is the last desk in the long, battered room, piled high with files and the assorted floatsam and jetsam of police life; like his vocabulary, in fact, dragged out to good purpose for some biting, sarcastic argument with the person on the other end of the line. "--listen, lady. I don't /care/. All I'm asking for is -- no. NYPD. /No/, this isn't a prank call. Do you mind? Thank you. /Thank/ you. Christ."
Poor, harmless Rossi. The click of angry heels continues until it pauses just behind Rossi. She waits a good moment or two for the conversation to finish. Only once the phone has been hung up does he feel a tap on his shoulder. He'll turn to find himself nearly eye to eye with brilliant, blazing blue before Storm's chin lifts and she reaches up to smack him on the cheek. It isn't as hard as the men outside might have liked, but it certainly echos through the room. "You -bastard-." Tone is a sufficient mix between devastation and anger.
It is a solid slap, and a sound one, and the crack of it tugs up heads from around the room. Where there was noise and bustle, silence. A span of heartbeats where mouths and eyes gape. Then -- chaos again as detectives return to their conversations and their labor, grins splitting faces and brightening voices. While Rossi--
"What the /fuck/!" Temper is almost as quick to blossom as the rise of red against a tanned cheek, the welcome of greeting aborted mid-word. Rossi's chair slams back into file cabinets, spinning drunkenly on its pedestal; one hand clamps around Storm's, hauling her at the end of a swift stride. 'Captain' reads the legend on the nearby door, closed for privacy's sake. A small obstacle for Chris, who kicks it in with more impatience than courtesy, only to slam it shut after them. Green eyes blaze. "Did I /trip/? Did I trip and hit my head and forget accidentally /sleeping/ with you?"
Storm's eyes widen. So either he's a skilled actor or they were just fucking with her. You can guess which one she believes is really the case. As she's suddenly hauled into the captain's office, Ororo tires her best to bite back a mix of mortification and humor. "I assure you Chris that if you ever slept with me, it'd be something you'd remember." Her voice, despite the look in her eyes is calm and soft, dropping to a whisper. "Beston said you had this planned. By this point I'm going to assume I've been lied to."
It is true that Rossi has a reputation for language. He exhibits it now in Italian, releasing Ororo for a hand's hard, exasperated rake through hair. "--/cazzo/," he finishes, annoyance dying almost as quickly as it rose. "Shit. Asshole Yamaguchi. I'm going to kick his ass. Ow. Fuck. Did you have to hit so /hard/?" Despite the resignation of the words, a perverse mirth threads through his baritone, lightening its timbre.
My. That's a rather impressive rant. Ororo pulls her hand back against herself nad looks down to check for bruising. Finding none, she glances back to his face, finally allowing a grin to grow. "And here I thought you'd be the type to like it a little rough." Brows arch as she meets his mirth with good humor. "Want an ice pack?"
"I'm fine," Rossi says with hasty, humorous assurance, lifting both hands to bypass any attempts at first aid. Rue routes one to rub at the injured cheek. "I've been slapped harder. Much harder. I wasn't expecting it, is all. That'll teach me to ask those two asshats to do me a favor."
Storm had actually begun to dig through her purse, yes, she carries ice packs. So what? "Mm, I bet." She laughs again and has the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry for falling for their ruse."
The detective grins. "They're convincing. Dicks." It's a small office, crowded with the debris of duty: pictures and awards on the walls; files stacked high on the floors; an ancient television and VCR in one corner. It is to the last that Rossi jerks his head, stooping to flick knobs and push switches, setting the monitor to grainy, fuzzy life. Four split screens, frozen. "I forwarded to where your perp came in. He's in the left panel."
"I wasn't completely convinced. But in case they weren't lying I didn't want to ruin your carefully laid plan." Storm admits, smiling twinkling before she looks to the screen, walking closer. "Toad." The amusement has faded as her entire body tenses. The last time she saw that face she was trapped in a sewer vent with bugs crawling over her flesh and him grinning down at her. A subconscious twitch, hands moving to rub her arms. No bugs. She'd known it was him, but knowing and seeing are two different things. "Can you please press play."
"Good name for him," says Rossi, dry, and with a crack of a button the tiny mannequins stir into life. No sound. Just pantomine. The innocence of Summers, inspecting merchandise; the casual Toad, trolling his cart. Chris steps back to settle his hips against the desk, arms folding into a loose knot as he watches.
"It fits." The woman agrees, leaning closer to the screen, watching movements quietly. "He's following Scott." she points out as she follows their movements with her fingers.
Chris assents with an unseen nod, adding the verbal agreement a half-second later. "Yeah. Looks like he's stalking him. Doesn't show whether he knew Summers was there before he walked into the place, but it seems like a decent assumption. He doesn't react when he makes contact." Tiny Scott looks at popcorn. Poor tiny Scott.
And from popcorn to diapers, Ororo's head tilting curiously at Toad. "He was actually shopping. He moved the cart out of the way." She watches as Toad moves the cart then suddenly leaps onto the shelves and drives it down on Scott. Ororo can't help it, she gasps, pressing her hand over her mouth as she leans forward. Oh Scott.
Though he has seen the tape before, a small flinch twitches across Rossi's face at the collapse, prompted as much by Ororo's reaction as Summers' surprise and suffocation. "Trying to be efficient, I guess?" he murmurs, while Toad scales the angle of shelving before sending explosives at security. With a hiss, one of the small panels dies out, lapsing into white noise. "Sprinklers caught some wiring."
Storm shakes her head, eyes hard and unreadable as she watches the white noise take place of pictures. "It's only partially about being efficient. He enjoyed Scott's pain and sruggling more than anything else." She continues to stare at the screen, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
The tiny Toad springs; with a lurch, the shelving unit overturns, and Scott is sent backwards across the store to smash into glass. The milk jug dropping on his head is insult to injury. "Nice guy," Chris comments briefly. "Real sweetheart. Summers can take a lot of damage, I'll say that much."
There's not reaction this time, Ororo's gone cold, watching, learning, observing every movement the man makes. "He's had practice." Scott that is. She watches Toad as the can is kicked towards Scott, unflinching when it impacts.
"No job for a father," says Rossi wearily -- not for the first time -- and stirs out of his repose to turn a wary glance through the office blinds. On the screen, light flies over Toad's head, and another panel fizzes out of existence to share the crackle and spark of static with its brother. Two left. "That's the other one. The rest stay on until the end."
Storm knows that beam and recognizes it as Scott's, her head nodding in responce to his words. "We're all very thankful that Nate wasn't there with him when he decided to go shopping." Ororo states quietly as she continues to watch. "He.. stopped long enough to grab.. steaks." Ororo notices, eyes flashing white before fading back to blue. (Restrain. Show it.) Mental chiding doing little to calm her nerves.
Baritone drawl. "Guy's got a sense of humor. --Is that his tongue that's doing that?" Because -- gross. Chris lapses into pensive silence, the screen's reflection caught in the mirror of his gaze. Two more cans, pitched dizzyingly across the panels. Toad's hop at Scott.
"He has a prehensile tongue. It's quite lengthy, I'd guess a good couple of feet." From what she saw at the Statue of Liberty. The can impacts the glasses into his face. Toad takes the glasses. The knife, ripping at his pants. "He wanted the visor." She states after a moment, shoulders straightening. "All of them."
"Well, that's a relief," says Rossi with a wry grimace for the knife. "The guys were wondering if maybe he was after-- something else, let's just say. Somehow didn't think that was Summers' line. There's not much more. Paramedics got there; Summers blows off most of the building's roof. Lucky nobody got killed."
"No. It was the visor. He took the pants to try and embarress Scott. Get in one last hurrah." Ororo frowns and finally turns from the TV, not yet willing to turn her attention to Rossi, choosing instead to watch look at a pile of papers.
"Your guy Toad took his groceries with him," Rossi notes, straightening again to pause the replay. Sprawled unconscious and lonely (and Tidy Whitied), mini-Scott freezes in dreamless slumber. "At least, they didn't find the cart on the scene. Bizarre way to go shopping, but the hell do I know about normal."
"Of course he did. Plenty of mouths to feed." Ororo mutters under her breath before finally lifting blue eyes to take in the Detective. "Thank you for getting me in here to see it." Cold and emotionless.
Green eyes, cynical, less cold, meet blue. "Yeah," Chris says, acknowledging and dismissing. The television clicks off and the VCR pops, whirring with geriatric complaint as the tape pitches into rewind. Another glance checks the tick of clock, faint tension easing at its report. Then back to Storm. "So what're you going to do now?"
Storm doesn't turn back to the TV, simply staring at Chris. It's all her strength of will that keeps Ororo emotionless, bubbling anger held on a thin leash. "I'm going to find him."
Rossi considers Storm thoughtfully. "You're not a murderer, you said."
Storm merely arches a brow. "And I do not intend on becoming one." But she will happily leave him a bloody, burnt chittering mess.
"Right." Mild-voiced agreement. The VCR chatters, popping open on a fussy chirp, and Chris rouses to claim the cassette, slamming the lid down in its wake. "You okay?"
Storm doesn't follow his movements, remaining fixated on whatever is before her now. Look, a wall. Hello wall. "I will be fine."
Chris props himself on the door to the crinkle of blinds behind his back. Legs cross at ankles: watchful man at rest. "Usually when I say that, things get broke."
He may be at rest, but at the same time, he's just blocked her exit, making this already anxious woman feel like thr room just got that much smaller. Her body tightens, muscles flexing in response. "I don't have the liberty of simply breaking things. I have to either draw my attention to something else until the rage has passed, or do what it takes to relieve myself of that rage."
"That's probably just as well," Chris agrees neutrally. "So many breakable things around. Chairs. People. Brooklyn. Feel like slapping me again? Other cheek, make it even." Another glance for the clock; yet a second for the squadroom beyond the blinds. No Captain. However, the smoking Asian from earlier is gravely setting up a chess set on Rossi's desk. The detective sighs and straightens off the door. "Asshole."
Storm allows a forced smirk to her lips at his offer. "I'm afraid that such aggressive acts would lead to my wanting to emotionally set myself free. I cannot show such disregard for my emotions." If Brooklyn intends to survive another day that is. She follows his gaze and the smirk remains. "You play chess?" Yes, distraction.
Rossi grimaces, peeking out the blinds again. The chess set meticulously set up, its owner thrusts his hands in his pockets, admires the display, then ambles off. "I suck ass. Probably why Yamaguchi got you to slap me, because I wouldn't play with him. I swear the guy's a nutjob. You ready to face the great outdoors? Or you need some time alone?"
"That is not a very good reason to have someone slap another person." Ororo frowns before taking a breath and stepping closer to peer out by his side. "I suppose I should storm out first to make it look as though we've been arguing all this time?"
Chris's grin through the glass is a crooked, deprecating thing, self-mockery leashed to the glint of eyes and reddened cheek. "Depends on how you look at it, I guess. If we were arguing all this time, the windows would be broken. Again. I got a bad temper, but the shit I break is fixable. Don't worry about it. --You good?" An eyebrow arcs for Ororo; a hand pauses on the doorknob, waiting reply.
Storm reaches out to rest her hand over his, stopping him from twisting the doorknob. "Wait. Scott wanted me to invite you to play Scrabble with us. We were curious to see how many four letter words you could come up with." She pulls her hand back and nods. Random, but she didn't want to forget. "Yes. I'm good."
"You'd be surprised," Rossi tells the aftermath of warmth on his skin, amusement ruffling his voice. "I was taught by Jesuits." The door pops open on his twist, letting in a rush of colder, fresher air. Chris gestures Storm to precede him, the video tape tucking into the cover of his jacket.
Storm smirks, this time the gesture seems more honest than forced. "We'll see." she remarks and steps around him. "Thank you again for your help." The fresher air is caught in a quick inhilation of breath before Storm begins her journey towards the door leading into this part of the station. There's only a moment's pause as she thinks to give homage to Chris Rossi's reputation as a lady killer. She stops, looks over her shoulder, offering a sly smile before turning back to the door, an extra sway to her hips that's sure to grab a few men's attention. She leaves the other officer's to applaud as she heads away from the building and towards a waiting car, her expression slipping back into the nothingness of her anger.
[Log ends]