Rescue and Rehabilitation
News snippets throughout 11/10/05
"The death count continues to rise, standing at 32 this evening as officials continue to piece together conflicting accounts of Wednesday's brutal attack on a pro-MRA rally. Among the dead: three policemen from the 32nd Precinct, and an officer from the city's new Mutant Affairs office. Also dead: Michael Baerkin, president of Purity, respected activist and politician.
More on Purity, their message, their tragedy, and how they will continue, after these messages."
---
"...as mourners continue to bring candles and flowers to the site of the Purity massacre this morning. Prayer vigils are being held through the night here at St. Stephens Cathedral for Sharon Evans, mother of two, who was apparently gunned down by Brotherhood terrorists on her way home through the rally. Mrs. Evans is currently in critical care at Sacred Heart Hospital...."
---
"And how do you think this will play out over the next few months?"
"Well, Dave, I think it's safe to say that popular sentiment will veer sharply against the so-called 'Mutant Rights' movement. My sources are informing me that membership in Purity has exploded in the past twenty-four hours, and that related organizations are also seeing a dramatic increase in membership across the country. If the last four years have taught us anything, it's that the United States doesn't look kindly on terrorists or their causes."
"Do you think this is a good thing?"
"I don't know. Obviously we don't have all the facts. This could very well be the reaction that Magneto was counting on. Alienating a minority of the population is the first step to creating revolution, but statistically speaking, even with the sometimes awesome power represented by rare 'omega' mutants such as Magneto, mutants are vastly outnumbered. I can tell you that my friends in Homeland Security are extremely troubled that this will play out to the benefit of anti-mutant terrorist cells as well. If Magneto and the Friends of Humanity sat down and planned it out, I don't think they could've done better...."
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"...Officer Brian Richards, 22, a recent graduate from the Police Academy. Witnesses have described Officer Richards' last moments as 'heroic,' and tell a chilling tale of his death at the hands of a 'naked blue woman.' Officials have identified his murderer as the terrorist Mystique, a known associate of Erik Lensherr. Officer Richards was an active member of his church, and a volunteer at his local mutant safehouse. He is survived by his parents, his wife Georgia, and his six-month old son, Kevin...."
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"...meanwhile, reports continue to trickle in of particularly gruesome deaths at the Purity massacre. Witnesses have described seeing people whose eyes, nostrils and mouths had been fused shut, resulting in suffocation.
In the wake of the attack, increasing political pressure is being exerted on Albany to discuss revisions of death penalty legislation. Proposed are looser standards to allow the use of the death penalty in cases where mutant abilities are used in the performance of a murder. The recent passage of mandatory registration for mutant criminals is not enough, says Kurt Peterson, a survivor of Wednesday's attack...."
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"...angry mob attacked and killed Sheniqua Taverns, 17, as she returned home from school. Witnesses state that Sheniqua was the victim of ongoing violence against mutants in the wake of yesterday's Purity massacre, which has already claimed 31 lives. Already several more attacks have been reported around the city as hostility climbs against mutants. Officials have pleaded for calm...."
---
Log from Rossi at X-Men MUCK
One has dutifully not attended the rally, but one dutifully feels that one's, ah, duty is to pick through the wreckage with darkened brows and expression and do what little one can in the aftermath. At least, this is the plan. Scott is striding long strides in from the street, at high alert.
Clean-up. It is a grim, grisly business, with nothing of romance about it. Medics and pavement alike are splashed bloody with gore, and the sounds of the wounded make their own smoke, where tear gas has dissipated. There are too many sheets covering too many bodies, left out on the street for detectives to handle -- and they have no stomach for it, not yet; even the hardened veterans of the NYPD and FDNY move like ghosts through the routine, faces drawn and aching with the memories trapped behind eyes: another autumn day when terror fell on the city, long ago. (Not long enough.)
One joins one's comrade for such experiences in the name of the greater good. Sean Cassidy strolls, long-legged, next to Scott with a deepening frown forming a deep cleft between red brows. Silence is his current watchword, though high tension rings true in every line of his body.
Averillix leans heavily against the ex-terrorist known currently as her boyfriend, placing her free hand against her nose, fingers pinching the bridge at the sinuses. She, unlike the child, hadn't gotten the gas filtered, and so every so often she gives another cough that rattles her body, hard. "I was just here, for a little, to listen. I guess I shouldn't be being so curious all the time, huh...? Kuh-!" Another fit of coughs.
It is a uniform that halts the two, a broad palm lifted before the unrolling and ubiquitous crime tape. "Sorry," he begins, a crack-voiced rookie with dazed eyes: reinforcements, too late for the front line. "The--" tongue stumbles. "--there's no ... you can't go through."
Scott's breath expels in a constricted gust and he half shakes his head. Something comes muttered and indistinguishable -- probably profanity. After a moment's hesitation, he moves toward the law enforcement. Let it be official and directed and if he can spot someone familiar, all the better. Not that he gets far. His footsteps make a rare stutter as they stop and Scott's eyes are narrow and irritated, if fortunately invisible. "Yes, we can. Are Detective Rossi or Beston here? They can clear us."
Through all the choas of the event, Felicia stayed with the last man she pulled from the carnage. She's still trembling from fear, but is not leaving her side, nor does he seem overly anxious to speak of her mutant abilities. So she sits, looking off into the distance and watching people, nodding as he speaks and adding her own words now and then.
Sean nods once in agreement with Scott once he comes to stiff-legged halt. "Twinker'll do as well. They're all homicide," he explains, forced polite pleasantness masking only a hint of the coiled wrath beneath. "Sean Cassidy an' Scott Summers, if it helps."
Brendan had gotten a good dose of the tear gas himself, and he finds himself hit with the occasional fit of coughing as well, his eyes bleary and reddened. He hasn't really gotten a good look at the scene of destruction around him just yet...he was too concerned with protecting both the little girl, and Avex. Despite his own lightheadedness, he still attempts to support Avex as best he can. "Maybe we should sit down or something," he suggests. "If we don't I think I'll fall on my face...and end up taking you with me."
"Beston," begins the uniform, glancing over his shoulder at higher ranks moving about their business behind him. "I don't--"
It is a darker voice that rescues him, a long-voweled drawl that moves past an ambulance's barrier into the conversation. Asian, laconic, a lazy-eyed detective jerks his thumb over his shoulder with: "You Rossi's Poodles? Twinker's over there. Getting treated. Beston's looking for Rossi. He's missing. --Let 'em through, Pete."
With the one person she was able to snag already carted off, Cassandra looks around the scene and sighs. Such a horrible sight for CSI. Thank goodness she's gotten out of there, although being in MA wasn't that much better at this point. She serveys the overall damage, before going to grab the items needed. "This report'll be hell," she mumbles.
Averillix gives a soft nod. The carnage about had done much more mental toll - to her perspective of altruism, of course, and, giving one more, good hard tug to Brendan, she heads to a spot nearby, devoid of most things floral. Her white toned eyes snap shut, and she draws her knees to herself; very attractively, the sound of choked back, muffled heaving can be heard from her slight form.
Scott does not note the poodles. "Missing?" Personal, then. (Not that the dead or the injured by inaction are not personal in their way . . . of course, of course.) "Where's Beston?" Scott takes a long stride forward.
Sean reserves a faint scowl for 'Poodle', but remains otherwise relatively calm as he steps along with Scott. "Probably in a donut shop," he mutters to himself, content to stay relatively quiet for the moment.
The detective looks back, peers, and lifts his chin; the hand gestures again, waving briefly across the street: to the far end, where the firefighters battle the last, stubborn flames of the mangled ambulance, and a stocky man in a frayed suit crouches by a sheet-covered body, studying its covered and anonymous length. "Over there," he says briefly, while the uniform peels the tape aside for the two men to pass. "MA grabbed Rossi for the rally. Doing sweeps. --Heard about you," he notes to Cassidy, brown eyes lifting to bare the rage behind serenity.
Brendan isn't quite sure what help he would be to those presently sifting through the wreckage of bodies and all that other fun stuff...so he joins Avex on the ground, sitting beside her. He slips his arms around her shoulders, holding her close to his chest as he finally takes a look at his surroundings. "Holy f----ing Christ," he mutters, shaking his head slowly. That's really all he can say to describe the situation.
"Doughnut shop," Scott echoes without expression in his voice, and after a bare and otherwise uncommunicative nod to the detective, begins to swiftly close the distance to Beston.
Now, as nice of a person as she is, this is just getting annoying. In a final effort to ditch the man clinging to her, Felicia offers him her name and dorm number on campus. He's thankful, and stands to try and leave, appearing to make no word about her being a mutant. That, however, is the last thing on her mind. She grabs a nearby officer. "I know it's not much, but I study medicine. I can help, if you'd like."
The uniform, grabbed by Felicia, stares blankly at her for a moment before jerking his head towards the nearby ambulances. "Ask FD," he recommends, drawing away to continue on his shuffling way, towards battered brethren resting against the support of a wall. "If they've got something you can do, they'll tell you."
There's blood seeping through the sheet that covers the body, a thick and spreading wetness that shapes the lines of the face beneath. Beston's crouch barely escapes the pool that spills beneath it, though relative indifference leaves him immobile. A hound dog of a man, with a sorrowful, tired face beneath the thatch of graying hair. Scott's approach lifts his head up, and he stares for a moment without recognition before gusting a sigh and automatic, empty smile. "Hey, it's the King."
"Yeah," Sean says quietly, "If..." he trails off, a forlorn look cast towards the sheeted bodies before his eyes close briefly. "Disgustin'," is mumbled quietly. "Nothin' could ever forgive what these people have done," he offers quietly, before moving off towards Scott and Beston, still slowly shaking his head.
Sheet, blood, irrelevent for the moment (as is strange greeting. King?), Scott stops and segues directly into matters of immediate importance. "Detective Rossi is missing?"
Brendan seems to suddenly sense that it'd be a good idea to move a short distance away from Avex...perhaps it's because of the sounds she seems to be making. ;) He scoots away a bit..."You don't sound good at all..." he replies, eyeing Avex carefully. He turns his attention to the surroundings, and he simply watches the activities going on around them.
Avex opens her eyes, half lidded, and the movement of a body, covered in a sheet quickly soaking with blood, does her in. Contents of breakfast, lunch, and a light dinner - crab rangoons with some Korean food from down in Chinatown composing that last one - are seen as her stomach gives one last momentous heave, and all illusions of graceful-French-flower are drowned. Even the girl's azalea scent can't cover that...
"Yeah." Beston straightens a little in his squat, dragging his old body up to hover a hand over the sheet's thick-dyed cover. "MA squad grabbed everybody they could get their hands on for this thing. Figured they'd try to sweep the crowd, pick up any known Friends--" A laugh, irreverent and inopportune, wavers through the Chicago-burred voice. "Can you believe that? --Cassidy. Hey."
"Hey there, Beston," greets Sean, shaking the final vestiges of obvious anguish from voice and eye. "How's the cleanup going?"
And that's a noise that someone just can't ignore, no matter how much they try. Forcing away her own brief bout of sickness, Cass turns to try and find the source. She approaches the young pair, mindful enough to stay back several paces. "Hey you guys. You were here for the whole mess, weren't you?" Stupid question, but best to get them talking. Hopefully.
"Where was Detective Rossi last seen, Beston?" Scott, removed and apparently recovered and emotionless, is all linear.
The veteran cop's grin fades, losing its already fragile hold for Beston's glance across the street. "Saw him back at the station. He was headed out here. Cleanup just got started. It'll take a while. Getting the wounded set, their stories--" The outstretched hand fists, pauses, then stirs again to peel the sheet away from its face. A young man, faint surprise still painted on his face: a rookie cop, throat pared open like a fruit. "Shit."
Brendan frowns, averting his eyes as Avex loses her lunch. That was lovely. ;) He rests his head upon his arms, staring down at the ground as he attempts to try and make sense of what happened here. Upon hearing someone approaching them, Brendan looks up wearily, eyeing Cass. "Yes," he replies to her, coughing after a moment. "A majority of it, anyhow. I'm still not sure what the hell happened, but I think I have a pretty damn good idea..."
Sean watches the kid, offering a slight nod towards him in promise of justice, perhaps even retribution. "Was he seen around here at all?" he asks, quiet again as the accent waxes strong, etched by the anger bubbling below.
Another heave. McDonald's breakfast sandwich. Avex scoots as far away from the pile as she can, which takes her nearer to Brendan, (OOC: snerk) and she again lowers her forehead to her knees, giving a dark groan in response to Cassandra. She's like that for a few moments; then she stands and quickly heads to the nearest trashcan. Dessert: stomach lining.
The removal of the sheet prompts unwanted startlement from Scott. He recovers. Nothing to be done. "And is there a way we could contact him? Check."
"Can't tell if he got here or not," Beston admits in a strained voice, closing his eyes -- over relief? over grief? -- a hand moving in Catholic benediction while the other draws the sheet over that frozen, mortal bewilderment. "Twinker says no. Ryan says he thought he saw him before everything started happening. I haven't found his-- you know how Chris is," he adds, tangenting as he stands. "Goes head-first into a fight. Been calling his phone, but I haven't heard it ring."
The cop, young and mostly unexperienced, finally nods and grants Felicia permission. She's on her way to 'tend' to one of the victims when she hears Averillix and nearly tosses her lunch as well. With all the things she's seen, that had to be the most disturbing to her. So she tries to walk past and avoid, preferring instead to help a young woman with a wounded leg. She's not too far away from the conversation about Rossi, and over hears it enough to piece together that he's missing. Even though she'd just met him, she sighs and tries to ignore the rest of their words. Other things to be done.
Grimly does Sean set his teeth. "No phone. Has anyone done th' casualty count an' inventory yet? I'll check wi' Ryan when he saw him - who is he?"
That's lovely. Really. All hope of talking to Avex is given up, although Cass does keep a good eye on her. "So you weren't around to witness the beginning of it all?" She was, but she wants an unbiased statement. "Did you really see much of anything you'd be able to make out?"
Scott holds his silence for a moment, sweeping his eyes back over the site. Endless, really.
Beston squints, and points: a portly uniform covered in bandages argues with the EMT attempting to stitch his arm. "Sergeant George Ryan," he identifies. "What're you two doing here, anyway? You at the rally?" He is for the next body, hands idly washing themselves of absent blood.
"No." Sean shakes his head, once. "Here ta help, though. When did ye see Rossi, an' where?" He throws a quick look over to Scott, wondering, "Ye alright, Scott?"
Averillix finishes, a very, very unpleasant look on her face. As she wavers her way back over to Brendan and the ... cop? Woman? Why's she asking questions? - Averillix stands mostly stooped over, hands on her knees, eyes snapped shut. "I was here, for most of it," she says, weakly. Her hand idly fishes into one of her pockets, as if searching for something; not finding it, she groans. "There was an... explosion, I'm thinking?" Her cheeks puff up as she presses a hard breath from between them.
"Fine, Sean." Scott continues his purely visual sweep.
When. Where. Beston scrubs at his face, bypassing a small body (too small, barely a bump in the sheet, far too small to be Chris Rossi) to move towards a larger one. "Station," he says. "Saw him out the door. He said he was heading to the rally after a smoke in the park."
Brendan shakes his head slowly, "I was here for enough of it," he replies. "I remember seeing a police car come flying out of the sky, out of nowhere...and then all hell broke loose..." He rests his head on his arms again. "To be honest, I'm lucky I'm still alive at all. If any of those lunatics would have spotted me, I would have been taken out without a second thought." He frowns. "I know them...all too well...and I'm not one of their favorite people..."
As Avex rejoins them, Cass immediately tries to offer her assistance. Since it seems most of the vomiting is done, of course. "Please, sit, head lowered. Don't push yourself." Her words are taken into consideration, and Cass nods, knowing what she's saying. "An explosion, yes. Anything else you remember." Wait a tic, what? She looks to Brendan, brow raising slowly. "Do I want to know what you're on about?"
"Right," says Sean, before casting his eyes along the line of bodies. "I'll help ye go through what's here, then. Thanks, Beston." Determination sets in his tone, and he casts another glance to Scott. "Want ta help?" he queries, even as he moves to get about the task, flicking each sheet back to check for a police figure, jaw set into a hard-edged line.
"Of course." Scott finally turns his eyes away from the horizon (now) to start on another end and begin pulling back sheets himself. Briskly. Professionally. Of course.
Averillix shifts slightly as she sits on the side of Brendan opposite the one she was just at, and peering up to Cassandra, she just shakes her head. "It's just, well..." She frowns, hard, fingering through her hair, and blinking her silver eyes rapidly as if to prove a point. "They just don't seem to be wanting to accept, that there are mutants who do not believe in humans being inferior. You know?"
It is morbid work, and the swift glance Beston casts Sean is -- for all its habitual cynicism -- grateful. Faster, with two at the task. Too many policemen under the sheets. Even more citizens, several faces destroyed beyond recognition. "Christ," John exhales at one body, baritone shaken by recognition. "/Richards/--" but so it goes. The last one proves itself not Rossi as well, and the missing man's partner straightens, brow furrowing. "So he's not here. Maybe in one of the hospitals."
Brendan sighs. "Nothing...never mind, it's not important right now..." He turns his eyes up to Avex, "Are you okay now? You're not going to puke on me, are you?" At Cass's question to Avex, Brendan replies. "Next thing I know, there are a bunch of psychos running around, shooting people and attacking them, seemingly without much prejudice..." At Avex's words, he frowns and doesn't reply. He was still dealing with his feelings about the whole 'humans are inferior' thing that he'd stuck with ever since he could remember.
Sean shakes his head a few times at particularly gruesome figures. Names are reeled off quickly towards Beston, followed by a gentle nod of understanding, before the Irishman turns to Scott. "I'll ring the hospitals, see if I can figure anythin' out. Maybe someone else has seen him around?" And then it's into a pocket, digging for cell phone, operator, and hospital numbers.
"Someone mention the park?" Scott drops the last of his sheets with poorly hidden gratefulness. "Long shot, but might as well cover every base. After hospitals."
Right. Brendan's words are filed away for future use. Future. There's already too many other things to be doing. "I know," she says softly to Avex, her tinted glasses falling slightly from looking down. If Avex were to catch her eyesight, even for a moment, it might help to calm the girl. "It will always be that way, too. Just as it is with non-mutants. Someday, hopefully, this whole mess can be overcome." Her own bit of pro-mutant speech, even though she doesn't come right out and say it. "I'll have to take your names, to contact for statements and all. If you don't mind?" [Cassandra]
"They'll be flooded," Beston warns, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger's knuckle. "We've got uniforms at the area ERs. I'll ask them. He'd check in, if he were able to."
"Alright," Sean says, with mild exasperation, before he cuts it off. "If you could, I'd be grateful. If he's not there, we need ta find whatever hole he's crawled into and drag his drunken arse out of it."
Beston suffers a faint grin for Sean, humorless, before nodding belatedly to Scott. "Park. Yeah. He heads there sometimes when he needs to be alone. --I'll check out the hospitals," he notes to the two men, rousing a little at the prospect of actions to be taken, things to be /done/. "You guys want to stop by the--well, but shit. He would've called if he'd gotten delayed."
"Unless he was murdered. Terrorists have been known to frequent the park, lately," Scott says with marked wryness -- and already decided, begins to take long strides away.
"Park it is," agrees Sean. "Want ta take the quickest route, Scott? Reckon it might not be safe today, though." Dark humour drifts into his tone, the last bastion against the bloody sheets littering the ground.
Left behind, Beston turns his stride elsewhere: to the blinking haven of black-and-white units, and the radios buzzing angry exchange within.
Averillix stops clutching so hard at her pants leg, at least, and her eyes tune down from a white silver down to their typical gunmetal color. Even though she is alarmed slightly by the asking of her name, and moreover Brendan's, she gives a soft little nod. "Averillix Montague," she replies quietly. "A-v-e-r..." She proceeds to spell out her name, not even waiting for the woman to pull out pad and paper.
"Risk it," Scott sighs and glances up at the sky. "Mind, if he's there, he might not be in any shape for help. But we'll see."
"You got it, Scott. Reckon you can deal with a lift? Might have ta cover ye ears," notes Sean, throwing a glace around to surrounding police, and offering a somewhat wan smile.
Brendan shrugs slightly. "Danny Schaefer," he replies to Cassandra when she asks for their names..."Though there isn't really one specific place I can be contacted. I'm sorta...between homes...at the moment..." he chuckles dryly. "You'd have to contact her to get to me..."
"Duly covered." Scott reaches into small front pocket of his jacket to stuff ear plugs in the appropriate spot. "Let's go," is said rather too loudly, as a result.
Nor will the woman pull out a pad. She's a memory like an elephant, and will certainly remember these two. Cass is suprised, however, at how easily the girl is giving her name. And Brendan. Hopefully this means they trust her. "If all goes well, I might not even have to contact you at all. The names are just in case, you know?" She eyes him once before re-adjusting her glasses. Hopefully someday she'd learn to control the fraggin' power of hers, or at least buy a strap for her glasses.
Cassidy takes a hol of Scott in his customary under-the-arms way, and shouts a "Cover ye ears, guys!" to the world at large. Then it's a deep breath, a "Ready," and the horrific screech that signifies takeoff sounds loud and proud across the area. Ethereal and piercing, the white noise of it settles across the sheeted bodies and spreads outwards as the two men shoot into the sky, flying high to avoid passing baseball bats and pistols. "Only a minute or two, Scott," says Sean, between lengthy breaths.
[Travel omitted]
Today's events have left Central Park and surrounding areas practically barren, almost deserted of it's usual passers-by. Word spreads quickly, and no-one wants to be caught by roving bands of mutant terrorists. Therefore, it's fairly quiet where Sean and Scott come to their landing, apart from the unearthly screech of Sean's power, that is. Lightly, he drops Scott about a foot from the ground, and comes to earth himself. "Where do we start, do you reckon?" he asks.
Scott only stumbles slightly -- a misplaced half step. He removes the ear plugs. "Reservoir. A hunch. Had to perform an intervention there a couple of weeks ago."
"Intervention with Magneto?" Sean asks, confirmation searched for, though his look is more than vagiely interested in full explanations. "Split or stay together?" he asks, deferring to the tactician.
"Together. For now. If there are still terrorists, I'd rather not be taken alone right now." Scott's long strides return, toward that reservoir. "Look out for any misplaced metal -- yes, Magneto."
Only a nod meets the suggestion, and Sean takes rearguard, scanning backwards every few seconds with a wary eye. "Benches, railings, reinforced concrete, bollards, anythin' else?"
"Sounds about right -- Magneto is rarely subtle." The reservoir approaches. Scott figures another few minutes will do it. Calculating, calculating.
Watching, watching. Practised eyes peer out all over. "Worth shouting for him?" he asks, suddenly stopping dead to peer at a... vandalised bench. "Saints. Damn kids."
"Perhaps. You have more of a voice." Scott tosses a glance over his shoulder at Sean's exclaimation. He is incapable of rolling his eyes. "Sean. Least of our worries."
"Well, he know about my powers," Sean says, trailing off before giving an indignant, "Always worth thinking about the future, an' the local kids, Scott. Even in this situation." Defensively uttered, with a quick frown. "Cover ye ears, an' then listen carefully for a while."
"They're irrelevent at this very present moment, Sean," Scott states at little better than a growl, then covers his ears.
"Look, if ye don'-" Sean is cut off by the covering of ears, and frowns, faintly. Then his voice lifts again, this time into a high-volumed shriek designed to travel. He puts the ethereal tone in that Rossi should hopefully recognise, if he's within range, and attempts to form words. Unsuccessfully, except perhaps for one such as himself or Logan. After a few seconds, he stops, and listens.
Silence answers. No ... wait. Noise. Angry ducks. (Quack.)
Scott removes his hands. Also listens. Perfectly still. Then, "I don't hear anything. Let's keep going." On toward the reservoir.
Sean shrugs, then follows the leader, now keeping an eye on the sky for the potential of incoming daughter or terrorist as well as around the place in general. "Should keep listenin' though. Just in case."
"Of course." Stride stride. And here is the stretch of the reservoir. Scott slows his gait and his attention becomes sharper. It does not, because he is expecting it, take him long to find the anomaly. He points to a missing section of railing. "There."
Sean nods at it, immediately taking another glance around. "We should probably check the reservoir," he offers quietly, before striding quickly over to the railing. "Or try ta figure out what happened."
No, Magneto is not subtle, and the torn railing that greets the two men at the reservoir is proof of it. Metal is frozen in mute evidence, wrenched by force out of the long barrier that guards the water from impolitic would-be swimmers. Lost, abandoned along the way, today's Times flaps its leaves in the pathway, speckled with blood; signs of struggle or travail, at least, like the small fragments of bullet that sprinkle tiny against the concrete.
Scott crouches. "Newspaper. See anything, ah, indicative? If he's in the water, I'm not sure we can . . . find him easily."
"Blood." A single jerk of Sean's head. "Over there, and not sprayed against the floor over here. Unless he was held until he stopped bleedin', he's not in the reservoir."
"Good." Scott's gaze passes to the other evidence. "Where do you think is most likely? In the park or . . . out?"
Sean heads over towards the beginnings of the blood-spatterings, for a closer look. "Well, hopefully, there's some sort o' trail o' this stuff, or we can try ta think like a half-crazed terrorist omega mutant." He frowns at the colour, and begins to flick his eyes around for anything like a yellow brick road.
Scott follows Sean, eyes casting, but he lacks certain color perceptions that might be useful in this case. "That would be remarkably convenient."
Blood. This is what happens when one is as pig-headed as Chris Rossi, engaged in uncivil conversation with an omega mutant. A little trail of it, nigh invisible. Plop. Plop. (Plop.)
"Gotcha," mutters Sean as he eventually spots something good, fortunate in that his eyes are not quite as troubled by this as his companion. Fingers jab at each in turn. "There, there, there. Can ye see 'em now? Any ideas on likely place yet?"
is able to pinpoint the shade discrepencies. "Yes." He calculates and lifts his head, calculating trajectory -- "Outside. That way. But follow the trail as long as you can, Sean. It may only appear to go in this line."
Scott is able to pinpoint the shade discrepencies. "Yes." He calculates and lifts his head, calculating trajectory -- "Outside. That way. But follow the trail as long as you can, Sean. It may only appear to go in this line."
"Right," says Sean, before falling quiet to better follow the trail. He bends slightly, supple spine curving easily into the half-crouch designed to aid his movement. He follows the trail as best he can.
Scott is almost on his heels, but running cover as well. And calculating, yet calculating. Trail seems direct. Good sign.
Out of the park it leads, into one of the quiet, anonymous streets that thread through it. On pavement, blood is clearer, darker, closer together -- a quicker flow, despite the travel. No traffic on this road, and still less in the shadowed alleys that boundary it. Between one intersection and the next, the trail stops.
"Shit," mutters Sean, as he pulls up short. "No more trail. I'll let you shout this time, Scott."
Scott side-steps Sean and reaches for something on his belt -- but lets the hand rest for a moment. "Very well." He clears his throat. "Rossi!" he bellows.
No answer. None vocal, at any rate. But in the quiet that swallows the echoes of his voice, a shrill wail replies from one of the dark alleys: a cell phone, ringing in persistent, determined summons from an anxious partner in Long Island.
Eyes alight, and Sean skips into an immediate jog towards that alley, though he slows to allow a tactical entrance, deep breath forming the preparation for an assault. A single hand gesture offers Scott the first step in.
It is a contorted mass of metal and flesh that waits for them in the alleyway, railing twined around an unmoving figure. The blood was his, and obviously so; it mats the torn fabric dark, pooling under the slack droop of a hand. Chris Rossi has made Magneto's acquaintance, it is plain. Social event of the season.
Scott takes it, keeping his breathing carefully under control. His hand clamps and pulls out the belt apparatus. It flares on. Flashlight. Oh. All the better to see you with, Rossi. Scott's jaw loosens into a partial gape. "Damn," he manages, very quietly.
Sean comes in a moment later, eyes widening as he spots the injured figure. Stunned for a moment into silence, Sean stares at the Detective for a long moment. "Can you get him out?" he asks, "I might hurt him if I try."
"Yes." Scott waves the flashlight at Sean. "Hold it, please." He gets down into a crouch and adjusts his visor intensity with great, great care. "But it'll be tricky." He hitches his breath, steadies it, and fires a pair of blasts into the railing -- systematic, strategic, and meant to shear through only the metal, please.
With flashlight in hand, and trained on Rossi, Sean awaits the result with concern etched firmly over his features. Ready to spring forward for first-aid purposes, he watches.
The metal crumples under the concussive blasts, paring free to begin the task of untangling. In its carapace, Rossi's body slouches, limp, spilling onto concrete without response. Again the cell phone trills into urgency, muffled under his boneless fall.
"Enough." Scott takes his hand from the visor and exhales. "Do we answer that?" he indicates the cellphone -- as he gets into a lifting position next to Rossi.
Sean moves forward with Scott, glancing down towards the phone. "Check Rossi first," he notes, even as he glances down at the offending ringtone. "Least it's not crazy frog," he mutters, as he leans to assist in basic first aid.
The old, cheap suit proves itself shredded, free of the concealing metal; the rips that part the fabric go through the shirt underneath, baring rent skin beneath: the source of the red trail, scabbed and -- torn afresh -- bleeding afresh. Blood stains too the unresponsive head, matting the black hair close to the battered skull. Bloody-minded Rossi proves himself so in literal fact.
Scott does some initial work in binding and dousing, his jaw set tight. "Maybe use it," he says, loosening the jaw naturally enough to speak, "to call an ambulance, if -- damn, I'm no doctor, but this looks mostly surface to me. Let's pick him up and drive him ourselves. The ambulances are probably packed as it is."
"Drive?" queries Sean, "We're missin' the most vital ingredient." Then the phone is in his hand to speak to Beston, with a quick, "Beston? Cassidy. We found him, he's alive. I'll be sure to tell him how much you love him." Beep.
"Right. Damn. Call the Institute." Scott bites off a considerably stronger curse. "Maybe we can even infirmary him. Just. Get him out of here."
Rapidly, numbers are thumbed in to the phone, as Sean fingers the keys for Hank's extension, before offering it over to Scott. "I'll take him there meself. Sound's not goin' ta hurt him any more than he is, I think, an' the jet's a bit too obvious, eh?"
Somewhere in Long Island, John Beston collapses a little, closing his eyes around relief before venting pent-up emotion in a stream of relieved curses: called down on Chris Rossi's prim and oblivious head; on Sean Cassidy's dubious ancestral relationship to pekinese dogs; on Scott Summers's dubious sexual orientation. In the alleyway, Detective Rossi opens his eyes slightly, stares glassily and blankly -- hullo, Scott -- and then lapses into unconsciousness again. Because it's fun.
"Go ahead, then." Scott pulls himself up, accepting the phone. "Hank," quick series of incoming, lookout cop. "I'll subway," Scott asides away from the phone. And, on second thought, fumbles out his earplugs. Offers. With perhaps just a glance at Rossi's breif almost conscious.
Sean rises more to his feet, holding out arms to receive the limp form of Rossi. "Might as well shove 'em in him - won't do him any harm. Jus' hope he doesn't wake up." From somewhere, the Irishman forms the beginnings of a relieved grin. "Ye hear that, lad? Keep asleep, yeah?"
If he hears, he makes no response. Rossi commits to nothing.
Scott finishes his phone call and regards his new task with a small grimace. But, the earplugs are more or less correctly deposited. "All right. You go ahead and take off, Sean. Hank's ready."
"See ye soon, Scott," says Sean, by way of farewell, before the inevitable deep breath that precedes the unearthly noise of the beginnings of flight. Ahoy, Rossi, to the Institute do you go, and pray you stay asleep the entire way.
Scott and Sean go hunting for Rossi in the aftermath of the Purity attack.
The news is swift on the heels of disaster, as ever; in ten minutes work, Magneto and his merry band of murderers have done what the organizers of Purity have labored on for weeks: cast the name of a little-known anti-mutant organization into fame, and destroyed the hopes of mutant rights activists for many a month to come. Thus the latest visitor to the Xavier Institute, bloody, unconscious, clothing and flesh rent from injury. Detective Chris Rossi, borne on the back of Sean Cassidy's flight and deposited with little explanation on the Infirmary's table.
Dr. Henry McCoy was occupied with a swim in the pool as part of his workout, when the call came in about the decidedly damaged Detective. Grumbling about how he seems to always be interrupted when he's off duty, Hank quickly lept out and dried his fur and pulled on a labcoat. If the good detective can deal with the fact he's being worked on my a cobalt blue apeman, he can deal with him wearing nothing more than a speedo and a labcoat. Rushing into the medlab, still training some water behind him on the floor from his loose mess of hair, Hank quickly rushes to Det. Rossi's sid and begins checking his vitals. It seems Sean vacated, leaving Dr. McCoy to deal with the patient on his lonesome, what a joy for both patient and physician.
The man's vitals are steady, though his breath rasps heavily, labored and in pain even through the blessed anaesthesia of oblivion. Opened through travel, lacerations pool their blood in thin trickles, stealing red drops like apologetic mice down the arm to the spigot of fingers. Superficial, most of them, though the occasional deep wound will need stitches. More serious is that harsh breathing, and the injury that plows its way across his black scalp, proof of concussion or worse.
Hank dashes once more away from Det. Rossi's side, bounding over medbeds. "And as usual, no nurse to assist. Not even a candy striper when you need one." Hank lands next to the one of the larger refridgeration units, quickly digging around and returning with a bit of a drug cocktail for the pain. Getting him stable and then dealing with the major issues is first on Hank's list. Leaping back over twords Rossi, Hank snaps his right leg out and grabs a suture kit as well. "Good thing I've been practicing my cross-stitch." Hank offers to himself, flipping the kit into his hands and then sitting everything next to Rossi. Hank gathers together an injection for the Detective, giving him something that will help keep him lucid, but dull the pain. )
Lucidity implies sense, or at the very least, consciousness. Whether the former is present must remain tested by time; the latter is, at least, within grasp. Eyes flicker, opening slowly to bare slivers of dazed green; the bloody hand stirs, and finds itself a moment later with a quiet sound of pain. The detective's gaze turns slowly, dreamily, puzzling for a span of heartbeats across the Infirmary's ceiling. White.
Hank slides the needle into Rossi's arm, giving him the planned injection. Next it's to work on getting the major wounds closed, before dealing with the potential concussion. Hank starts humming something playfully operatic to himself, as he prepares to start cleaning, disenfecting, and stitching closed the wounds. Of course that's when Rossi seems to be coming around, so Hank carefully sits the suture needle down and grabs a penlight, checking Rossi's eyes. Which means that he's got his furry hands in Rossi's view. "Good, you're alive. I'm glad to say that I've never lost a patient yet. Well, there was the one that just vanished, but I don't really think they count."
Pupils contract unevenly to that flood of light; if the fuzzy blue registers, it is only as errata, secondary to the abrupt and unthinking reaction to who-knows-what stimulus: violence. Rossi cracks out a sharp word -- Italian obscenity -- and a fist lashes out, arching towards Hank even before the mellow voice and pain fully registers.
The Fates seem to be fond of coincidence and mysteriously arranged circumstance. Hopefully for the better. Someone in the front yard does not frequently observe battered and bloody detectives - or most professions, for that matter - being bodily transported inside. Count Jareth among that number. On the heels of the injured delivery by several minutes, some mix of interest and trepidation draws him to hurry after. Rumble go the doors, and tap, tap go his quick footsteps inward. "Hank? What happened?"
Det. Rossi is rather quick, even though he's injured. But he can't compete with a Hank's dexterity. So as the fist flies, Hank snaps a hand out and grabs it and wraps his massive furry fingers around the balled fist. Rossi's hand is basically enveloped by Beast's handpaw, which also offers a slight increase in strength. No intention is to break the hand, just teach a lesson by example. "A word to the wise, Det. Rossi. I'm attempting to deal with you're injuries. If you'd like to fight with me, let me get you healthy first. Then I'll gladly engage in fisticuffs with you, and then leave you dangling by your underpants from the flagpole outside your precinct." Hank offers, his tone of voice still smooth and calm, showing no intent to damage the Detective further. Hank glances back to Jareth as he arrives, offering him a wide feral smile. "I'm unsure as to the events behind his injuries, but then I was in the pool when I got called to put Pinoccio back together again."
Detective Rossi manages Italian again, a breathless, raging stream of invective, and wrenches himself around in a struggle that recklessly defies injury. A beautiful language, his ancestral tongue, and malleable to the wildest uses put to it by its wielder; it masticates Hank's background, his odor, his intelligence, and his sexuality, while the man himself sends his other fist -- bloody-minded and persistent -- driving towards the doctor's throat. "--and you can tell him to /fuck/ himself," he finishes in fury.
There exists no small amount of things that can likely be said about that greater speed. Several of them pass through the back corridors of Jareth's mind. For his part, he remains a step or so farther from the table bearing the good detective. It might also come to the notice of Hank's ears that there is something muttered from Jareth's direction regarding Humpty Dumpty and all the king's men. Following that... "Detective? You remember me?"
Hank stands there, listening to Det. Rossi berate him in his lovely Italian tongue. Beast seems to show no reaction to what is being said, but does snap his other hand out to grab the newly added hand. This one also recieves a squeeze, but once again not enough to break it. He hmms softly as Rossi finishes in English, nodding just a bit to the man. And that's when Hank leans back, his feral lips peel back to reveal sharp fanged teeth. And as the time seems to pause for a minute between the two men, Hank utters three little words in Italian. "I speak Italian." Hank lets Jareth attempt to calm the Detective, but Henry does not release him. As for what was said to him, Hank will wait til the man is well for a nice long talk about that.
The pale, glittering gaze that sweeps towards Jareth betrays nothing of recognition, wild as it is with passion and a disoriented anxiety. The technopath gets only a glance before Rossi bucks again, lashing out this time with a foot; his inventory if limbs is limited and few, and he must make do with what he has. Italian whips again, edged raw and bleeding in despairing ferocity, tangling in a mixture of random English.
For a lengthy moment, Jareth does little but continue to watch. His hands finally lift to his hips, settling there in defeat as he moves his own gaze to Hank and shrugs. Just as quickly, his attention snaps back in response to the newest struggle. "Detective Rossi!" Though hardly louder, he has taken now some of the passion for his own in this next attempt. "It's Jareth Tarrant. A friend of Jean Grey. You remember her? We're trying to help you."
Hank grumbles just a bit, glancing to Jareth and gesturing to the restraints. "I may have prehensile feet, but they're a bit useless at the moment. And unless you want me high-kicking like a Rockette to keep him from kicking me in the face, I'd recommend getting the restraints on him. He needs to be patched up, before he pushes me to break him again." Hank leans his weight on Rossi's legs, still holding his hands tight. "Why do I always get the patients that are nuts? Is it me, did I do something to make me deserve this? And don't even bother responding Detective, if you're going to continue swearing and insulting me. I've half a mind to gag you now."
Another word jogs out in Italian, more harmless than the earlier torrent, and attention skews, scattering across the lab and Jareth's urgent timbres before focusing for a moment's bewildered comprehension -- "The /fuck/?" -- if not propriety of language. Rossi relaxes a little in that strong grasp, blinking past a fresh trickle of blood; the room falls slightly quieter in his sudden silence, replaced by the quick rasp of his breathing. "--The rally."
The big stick waits in the wings, but diplomacy seems to have more time on stage yet. Jareth moves closer now, fingers curling over one of the thick straps to lift it, coming to a pause as that fervence seems to pass from the detective. Gone or not, the subsequent opportunity is there for the taking, and so he brings the strap over an arm and secures it. "What about the rally? What happened?"
Hank perks a brow as the struggling and fighting seems to end. Does this mean he's actually going to be able to treat the Detective, or is it just a moment of lucidity before the storm. "I'll release your hands if you swear on your badge not to try to hit me again. Considering I'm trying to get you patched up, it's really rather rude." Hank exhales deeply, releasing one hand and the other. "Now, may I finish stitching you up... or do I have to make you behave?" Hank glances to Jareth about the mention of a rally and back. "Yes, please explain."
"The rally," Rossi repeats, clinging to the word even as he tugs at his arm, belatedly made aware of the restraint. Anxiety sharpens the baritone burr, riding it roughshod over the Brooklyn accent. "Purity. Magneto's headed there. Call Lazzaro. They have to get the goddamn thing called off. --Fuck, let me /out/ of this thing."
The remaining free arm can be allowed that continued freedom, in light of currently improved behavior. Jareth makes no move to secure the remaining one - agitation over the one making the decision a degree easier - and instead leans a similar degree forward onto the cot. "Well, shit. ...Wait. When was the rally scheduled to happen?" No need to answer, because as soon as the question is complete, he spins away to seek the nearest newspaper somewhere nearby. For several moments comes the rustling of pages, and then only one word which provides all the summary that should be needed. "Shiiiit."
Hank has been somewhat out of the loop himself, considering his work schedule. But considering the look on Jareth's face and the single charming utterance of the slang for excrement, Hank is assured it's bad. "Can we please reduce the number of charming swear words being thrown about. I'm old enough to wash both your mouths out for this, and don't appreciate it in my medlab." McCoy jabs Rossi with the suture needle, and starts working on the serious wounds. "Now you can either be still and let me patch you up, or I'll show you more of my charming bedside manner. They didn't vote me most likely to leave a patient in restraints with a glucose drip during medical school just for kicks, Detective."
If the threats make any impression on Detective Rossi, it is not self-evident. "Call Lazzaro," he demands, baritone rising again towards frustrated wrath, twisting so his hand can quarrel with his wrist's restraint. "Or call Jean. She knows how to get him. --Where's my goddamn phone? Christ on a pogo stick, are you fucking /deaf/?"
Throughout the room are many suitable vertical surfaces. One of these in the form of the nearest wall is currently receiving a brief series of introductions to Jareth's head. Several moments following completion of the series, Jareth returns to sight and tosses the newspaper to the nearest table. "Well, this is just dandy." Any other choice words that would have played a part in the sentence wail through some dark and unsavory corner of Jareth's mind. With another moment spared to decide, Jareth moves to release the strap from Rossi's arm, only to aim an indicative finger flexible as granite toward the detective. "Call him, but stay there. Don't make big blue cranky."
McCoy continues working to stitch Rossi up. Thankfully the drug cocktail is dulling the pain enough so Hank can do it without having to knock him out. Of course, that also means Hank has to listen to Rossi's mouth continue to flap. "Indeed, call your partner. But I'd recommend not going into detail as to your current status. I am holding a rather large needle, you remember." He doesn't want to have to send Jean, Charles, or someone else out to perform a brain wipe. It's so tasteless in Hank's opinion. "By the way, pleasure to meet you again, Det. Rossi." Hank gives the newspaper a glance, but will read it later.
Ludicrous that of the two men in the room, it should be Jareth that Rossi recognizes the better. Brilliant eyes skip across to McCoy, registering none of that assumption of familiarity, while hands take unhappy and futile inventory. "Phone," he says harshly, before finally remembering: "Westchester. Gave you a ride. I don't--" The tongue's slur trails off the last thought, baritone aching with bewilderment. "Have to call Lazzaro. Magneto threw my badge in the reservoir, that drama queening prick. Can't use guns."
What is the option when faced with circumstances one can do nothing about? Pacing the living daylights out of the floor only lasts as long as it takes for Jareth to step across the distance to the next cot over. His arms cross over his chest, and there he stands in sudden deprivation of motion. He adds only silence to the exchange for the next short while, until considering Hank's comment somewhat further. "No, I don't think that would go over well to tell your partner 'I'm getting stitches and an IV drip from a blue sasquatch in a Speedo, but I'm otherwise really quite serious." This follows with a small grunt, and a more muttered "Hell of a story for the grandkids one day, though."
Hank just drops quiet and returns to working on Rossi. He lets Jareth deal with the man, while he deals with the mangling. Hank's mood starts to improve slightly, which means he begins humming something operating. "Yes, pleased you remember me. Shame though, I usually try to keep myself covered up in public. Oh well, like you're going to tell anyone... /Right/?" Hank offers with a feral smile, and goes back to his work.
The glance Rossi winks towards Hank and Jareth is confused, spun by vertigo and disorientation -- but the bright-eyed gaze is easily distracted, to the discovery of the phone in the battered recesses of his suit. Comfort, of a edgy, uneasy sort; the black and bloody head bows to the electronic summons, and lapses into brooding silence. Too little, too late: he'll learn that later. For now, the effort is all, and fractured peace falls over the infirmary.
Hank and Jareth tend to an extremely reluctant Rossi in the Xavier Institute Infirmary.
"The death count continues to rise, standing at 32 this evening as officials continue to piece together conflicting accounts of Wednesday's brutal attack on a pro-MRA rally. Among the dead: three policemen from the 32nd Precinct, and an officer from the city's new Mutant Affairs office. Also dead: Michael Baerkin, president of Purity, respected activist and politician.
More on Purity, their message, their tragedy, and how they will continue, after these messages."
---
"...as mourners continue to bring candles and flowers to the site of the Purity massacre this morning. Prayer vigils are being held through the night here at St. Stephens Cathedral for Sharon Evans, mother of two, who was apparently gunned down by Brotherhood terrorists on her way home through the rally. Mrs. Evans is currently in critical care at Sacred Heart Hospital...."
---
"And how do you think this will play out over the next few months?"
"Well, Dave, I think it's safe to say that popular sentiment will veer sharply against the so-called 'Mutant Rights' movement. My sources are informing me that membership in Purity has exploded in the past twenty-four hours, and that related organizations are also seeing a dramatic increase in membership across the country. If the last four years have taught us anything, it's that the United States doesn't look kindly on terrorists or their causes."
"Do you think this is a good thing?"
"I don't know. Obviously we don't have all the facts. This could very well be the reaction that Magneto was counting on. Alienating a minority of the population is the first step to creating revolution, but statistically speaking, even with the sometimes awesome power represented by rare 'omega' mutants such as Magneto, mutants are vastly outnumbered. I can tell you that my friends in Homeland Security are extremely troubled that this will play out to the benefit of anti-mutant terrorist cells as well. If Magneto and the Friends of Humanity sat down and planned it out, I don't think they could've done better...."
---
"...Officer Brian Richards, 22, a recent graduate from the Police Academy. Witnesses have described Officer Richards' last moments as 'heroic,' and tell a chilling tale of his death at the hands of a 'naked blue woman.' Officials have identified his murderer as the terrorist Mystique, a known associate of Erik Lensherr. Officer Richards was an active member of his church, and a volunteer at his local mutant safehouse. He is survived by his parents, his wife Georgia, and his six-month old son, Kevin...."
---
"...meanwhile, reports continue to trickle in of particularly gruesome deaths at the Purity massacre. Witnesses have described seeing people whose eyes, nostrils and mouths had been fused shut, resulting in suffocation.
In the wake of the attack, increasing political pressure is being exerted on Albany to discuss revisions of death penalty legislation. Proposed are looser standards to allow the use of the death penalty in cases where mutant abilities are used in the performance of a murder. The recent passage of mandatory registration for mutant criminals is not enough, says Kurt Peterson, a survivor of Wednesday's attack...."
---
"...angry mob attacked and killed Sheniqua Taverns, 17, as she returned home from school. Witnesses state that Sheniqua was the victim of ongoing violence against mutants in the wake of yesterday's Purity massacre, which has already claimed 31 lives. Already several more attacks have been reported around the city as hostility climbs against mutants. Officials have pleaded for calm...."
---
Log from Rossi at X-Men MUCK
One has dutifully not attended the rally, but one dutifully feels that one's, ah, duty is to pick through the wreckage with darkened brows and expression and do what little one can in the aftermath. At least, this is the plan. Scott is striding long strides in from the street, at high alert.
Clean-up. It is a grim, grisly business, with nothing of romance about it. Medics and pavement alike are splashed bloody with gore, and the sounds of the wounded make their own smoke, where tear gas has dissipated. There are too many sheets covering too many bodies, left out on the street for detectives to handle -- and they have no stomach for it, not yet; even the hardened veterans of the NYPD and FDNY move like ghosts through the routine, faces drawn and aching with the memories trapped behind eyes: another autumn day when terror fell on the city, long ago. (Not long enough.)
One joins one's comrade for such experiences in the name of the greater good. Sean Cassidy strolls, long-legged, next to Scott with a deepening frown forming a deep cleft between red brows. Silence is his current watchword, though high tension rings true in every line of his body.
Averillix leans heavily against the ex-terrorist known currently as her boyfriend, placing her free hand against her nose, fingers pinching the bridge at the sinuses. She, unlike the child, hadn't gotten the gas filtered, and so every so often she gives another cough that rattles her body, hard. "I was just here, for a little, to listen. I guess I shouldn't be being so curious all the time, huh...? Kuh-!" Another fit of coughs.
It is a uniform that halts the two, a broad palm lifted before the unrolling and ubiquitous crime tape. "Sorry," he begins, a crack-voiced rookie with dazed eyes: reinforcements, too late for the front line. "The--" tongue stumbles. "--there's no ... you can't go through."
Scott's breath expels in a constricted gust and he half shakes his head. Something comes muttered and indistinguishable -- probably profanity. After a moment's hesitation, he moves toward the law enforcement. Let it be official and directed and if he can spot someone familiar, all the better. Not that he gets far. His footsteps make a rare stutter as they stop and Scott's eyes are narrow and irritated, if fortunately invisible. "Yes, we can. Are Detective Rossi or Beston here? They can clear us."
Through all the choas of the event, Felicia stayed with the last man she pulled from the carnage. She's still trembling from fear, but is not leaving her side, nor does he seem overly anxious to speak of her mutant abilities. So she sits, looking off into the distance and watching people, nodding as he speaks and adding her own words now and then.
Sean nods once in agreement with Scott once he comes to stiff-legged halt. "Twinker'll do as well. They're all homicide," he explains, forced polite pleasantness masking only a hint of the coiled wrath beneath. "Sean Cassidy an' Scott Summers, if it helps."
Brendan had gotten a good dose of the tear gas himself, and he finds himself hit with the occasional fit of coughing as well, his eyes bleary and reddened. He hasn't really gotten a good look at the scene of destruction around him just yet...he was too concerned with protecting both the little girl, and Avex. Despite his own lightheadedness, he still attempts to support Avex as best he can. "Maybe we should sit down or something," he suggests. "If we don't I think I'll fall on my face...and end up taking you with me."
"Beston," begins the uniform, glancing over his shoulder at higher ranks moving about their business behind him. "I don't--"
It is a darker voice that rescues him, a long-voweled drawl that moves past an ambulance's barrier into the conversation. Asian, laconic, a lazy-eyed detective jerks his thumb over his shoulder with: "You Rossi's Poodles? Twinker's over there. Getting treated. Beston's looking for Rossi. He's missing. --Let 'em through, Pete."
With the one person she was able to snag already carted off, Cassandra looks around the scene and sighs. Such a horrible sight for CSI. Thank goodness she's gotten out of there, although being in MA wasn't that much better at this point. She serveys the overall damage, before going to grab the items needed. "This report'll be hell," she mumbles.
Averillix gives a soft nod. The carnage about had done much more mental toll - to her perspective of altruism, of course, and, giving one more, good hard tug to Brendan, she heads to a spot nearby, devoid of most things floral. Her white toned eyes snap shut, and she draws her knees to herself; very attractively, the sound of choked back, muffled heaving can be heard from her slight form.
Scott does not note the poodles. "Missing?" Personal, then. (Not that the dead or the injured by inaction are not personal in their way . . . of course, of course.) "Where's Beston?" Scott takes a long stride forward.
Sean reserves a faint scowl for 'Poodle', but remains otherwise relatively calm as he steps along with Scott. "Probably in a donut shop," he mutters to himself, content to stay relatively quiet for the moment.
The detective looks back, peers, and lifts his chin; the hand gestures again, waving briefly across the street: to the far end, where the firefighters battle the last, stubborn flames of the mangled ambulance, and a stocky man in a frayed suit crouches by a sheet-covered body, studying its covered and anonymous length. "Over there," he says briefly, while the uniform peels the tape aside for the two men to pass. "MA grabbed Rossi for the rally. Doing sweeps. --Heard about you," he notes to Cassidy, brown eyes lifting to bare the rage behind serenity.
Brendan isn't quite sure what help he would be to those presently sifting through the wreckage of bodies and all that other fun stuff...so he joins Avex on the ground, sitting beside her. He slips his arms around her shoulders, holding her close to his chest as he finally takes a look at his surroundings. "Holy f----ing Christ," he mutters, shaking his head slowly. That's really all he can say to describe the situation.
"Doughnut shop," Scott echoes without expression in his voice, and after a bare and otherwise uncommunicative nod to the detective, begins to swiftly close the distance to Beston.
Now, as nice of a person as she is, this is just getting annoying. In a final effort to ditch the man clinging to her, Felicia offers him her name and dorm number on campus. He's thankful, and stands to try and leave, appearing to make no word about her being a mutant. That, however, is the last thing on her mind. She grabs a nearby officer. "I know it's not much, but I study medicine. I can help, if you'd like."
The uniform, grabbed by Felicia, stares blankly at her for a moment before jerking his head towards the nearby ambulances. "Ask FD," he recommends, drawing away to continue on his shuffling way, towards battered brethren resting against the support of a wall. "If they've got something you can do, they'll tell you."
There's blood seeping through the sheet that covers the body, a thick and spreading wetness that shapes the lines of the face beneath. Beston's crouch barely escapes the pool that spills beneath it, though relative indifference leaves him immobile. A hound dog of a man, with a sorrowful, tired face beneath the thatch of graying hair. Scott's approach lifts his head up, and he stares for a moment without recognition before gusting a sigh and automatic, empty smile. "Hey, it's the King."
"Yeah," Sean says quietly, "If..." he trails off, a forlorn look cast towards the sheeted bodies before his eyes close briefly. "Disgustin'," is mumbled quietly. "Nothin' could ever forgive what these people have done," he offers quietly, before moving off towards Scott and Beston, still slowly shaking his head.
Sheet, blood, irrelevent for the moment (as is strange greeting. King?), Scott stops and segues directly into matters of immediate importance. "Detective Rossi is missing?"
Brendan seems to suddenly sense that it'd be a good idea to move a short distance away from Avex...perhaps it's because of the sounds she seems to be making. ;) He scoots away a bit..."You don't sound good at all..." he replies, eyeing Avex carefully. He turns his attention to the surroundings, and he simply watches the activities going on around them.
Avex opens her eyes, half lidded, and the movement of a body, covered in a sheet quickly soaking with blood, does her in. Contents of breakfast, lunch, and a light dinner - crab rangoons with some Korean food from down in Chinatown composing that last one - are seen as her stomach gives one last momentous heave, and all illusions of graceful-French-flower are drowned. Even the girl's azalea scent can't cover that...
"Yeah." Beston straightens a little in his squat, dragging his old body up to hover a hand over the sheet's thick-dyed cover. "MA squad grabbed everybody they could get their hands on for this thing. Figured they'd try to sweep the crowd, pick up any known Friends--" A laugh, irreverent and inopportune, wavers through the Chicago-burred voice. "Can you believe that? --Cassidy. Hey."
"Hey there, Beston," greets Sean, shaking the final vestiges of obvious anguish from voice and eye. "How's the cleanup going?"
And that's a noise that someone just can't ignore, no matter how much they try. Forcing away her own brief bout of sickness, Cass turns to try and find the source. She approaches the young pair, mindful enough to stay back several paces. "Hey you guys. You were here for the whole mess, weren't you?" Stupid question, but best to get them talking. Hopefully.
"Where was Detective Rossi last seen, Beston?" Scott, removed and apparently recovered and emotionless, is all linear.
The veteran cop's grin fades, losing its already fragile hold for Beston's glance across the street. "Saw him back at the station. He was headed out here. Cleanup just got started. It'll take a while. Getting the wounded set, their stories--" The outstretched hand fists, pauses, then stirs again to peel the sheet away from its face. A young man, faint surprise still painted on his face: a rookie cop, throat pared open like a fruit. "Shit."
Brendan frowns, averting his eyes as Avex loses her lunch. That was lovely. ;) He rests his head upon his arms, staring down at the ground as he attempts to try and make sense of what happened here. Upon hearing someone approaching them, Brendan looks up wearily, eyeing Cass. "Yes," he replies to her, coughing after a moment. "A majority of it, anyhow. I'm still not sure what the hell happened, but I think I have a pretty damn good idea..."
Sean watches the kid, offering a slight nod towards him in promise of justice, perhaps even retribution. "Was he seen around here at all?" he asks, quiet again as the accent waxes strong, etched by the anger bubbling below.
Another heave. McDonald's breakfast sandwich. Avex scoots as far away from the pile as she can, which takes her nearer to Brendan, (OOC: snerk) and she again lowers her forehead to her knees, giving a dark groan in response to Cassandra. She's like that for a few moments; then she stands and quickly heads to the nearest trashcan. Dessert: stomach lining.
The removal of the sheet prompts unwanted startlement from Scott. He recovers. Nothing to be done. "And is there a way we could contact him? Check."
"Can't tell if he got here or not," Beston admits in a strained voice, closing his eyes -- over relief? over grief? -- a hand moving in Catholic benediction while the other draws the sheet over that frozen, mortal bewilderment. "Twinker says no. Ryan says he thought he saw him before everything started happening. I haven't found his-- you know how Chris is," he adds, tangenting as he stands. "Goes head-first into a fight. Been calling his phone, but I haven't heard it ring."
The cop, young and mostly unexperienced, finally nods and grants Felicia permission. She's on her way to 'tend' to one of the victims when she hears Averillix and nearly tosses her lunch as well. With all the things she's seen, that had to be the most disturbing to her. So she tries to walk past and avoid, preferring instead to help a young woman with a wounded leg. She's not too far away from the conversation about Rossi, and over hears it enough to piece together that he's missing. Even though she'd just met him, she sighs and tries to ignore the rest of their words. Other things to be done.
Grimly does Sean set his teeth. "No phone. Has anyone done th' casualty count an' inventory yet? I'll check wi' Ryan when he saw him - who is he?"
That's lovely. Really. All hope of talking to Avex is given up, although Cass does keep a good eye on her. "So you weren't around to witness the beginning of it all?" She was, but she wants an unbiased statement. "Did you really see much of anything you'd be able to make out?"
Scott holds his silence for a moment, sweeping his eyes back over the site. Endless, really.
Beston squints, and points: a portly uniform covered in bandages argues with the EMT attempting to stitch his arm. "Sergeant George Ryan," he identifies. "What're you two doing here, anyway? You at the rally?" He is for the next body, hands idly washing themselves of absent blood.
"No." Sean shakes his head, once. "Here ta help, though. When did ye see Rossi, an' where?" He throws a quick look over to Scott, wondering, "Ye alright, Scott?"
Averillix finishes, a very, very unpleasant look on her face. As she wavers her way back over to Brendan and the ... cop? Woman? Why's she asking questions? - Averillix stands mostly stooped over, hands on her knees, eyes snapped shut. "I was here, for most of it," she says, weakly. Her hand idly fishes into one of her pockets, as if searching for something; not finding it, she groans. "There was an... explosion, I'm thinking?" Her cheeks puff up as she presses a hard breath from between them.
"Fine, Sean." Scott continues his purely visual sweep.
When. Where. Beston scrubs at his face, bypassing a small body (too small, barely a bump in the sheet, far too small to be Chris Rossi) to move towards a larger one. "Station," he says. "Saw him out the door. He said he was heading to the rally after a smoke in the park."
Brendan shakes his head slowly, "I was here for enough of it," he replies. "I remember seeing a police car come flying out of the sky, out of nowhere...and then all hell broke loose..." He rests his head on his arms again. "To be honest, I'm lucky I'm still alive at all. If any of those lunatics would have spotted me, I would have been taken out without a second thought." He frowns. "I know them...all too well...and I'm not one of their favorite people..."
As Avex rejoins them, Cass immediately tries to offer her assistance. Since it seems most of the vomiting is done, of course. "Please, sit, head lowered. Don't push yourself." Her words are taken into consideration, and Cass nods, knowing what she's saying. "An explosion, yes. Anything else you remember." Wait a tic, what? She looks to Brendan, brow raising slowly. "Do I want to know what you're on about?"
"Right," says Sean, before casting his eyes along the line of bodies. "I'll help ye go through what's here, then. Thanks, Beston." Determination sets in his tone, and he casts another glance to Scott. "Want ta help?" he queries, even as he moves to get about the task, flicking each sheet back to check for a police figure, jaw set into a hard-edged line.
"Of course." Scott finally turns his eyes away from the horizon (now) to start on another end and begin pulling back sheets himself. Briskly. Professionally. Of course.
Averillix shifts slightly as she sits on the side of Brendan opposite the one she was just at, and peering up to Cassandra, she just shakes her head. "It's just, well..." She frowns, hard, fingering through her hair, and blinking her silver eyes rapidly as if to prove a point. "They just don't seem to be wanting to accept, that there are mutants who do not believe in humans being inferior. You know?"
It is morbid work, and the swift glance Beston casts Sean is -- for all its habitual cynicism -- grateful. Faster, with two at the task. Too many policemen under the sheets. Even more citizens, several faces destroyed beyond recognition. "Christ," John exhales at one body, baritone shaken by recognition. "/Richards/--" but so it goes. The last one proves itself not Rossi as well, and the missing man's partner straightens, brow furrowing. "So he's not here. Maybe in one of the hospitals."
Brendan sighs. "Nothing...never mind, it's not important right now..." He turns his eyes up to Avex, "Are you okay now? You're not going to puke on me, are you?" At Cass's question to Avex, Brendan replies. "Next thing I know, there are a bunch of psychos running around, shooting people and attacking them, seemingly without much prejudice..." At Avex's words, he frowns and doesn't reply. He was still dealing with his feelings about the whole 'humans are inferior' thing that he'd stuck with ever since he could remember.
Sean shakes his head a few times at particularly gruesome figures. Names are reeled off quickly towards Beston, followed by a gentle nod of understanding, before the Irishman turns to Scott. "I'll ring the hospitals, see if I can figure anythin' out. Maybe someone else has seen him around?" And then it's into a pocket, digging for cell phone, operator, and hospital numbers.
"Someone mention the park?" Scott drops the last of his sheets with poorly hidden gratefulness. "Long shot, but might as well cover every base. After hospitals."
Right. Brendan's words are filed away for future use. Future. There's already too many other things to be doing. "I know," she says softly to Avex, her tinted glasses falling slightly from looking down. If Avex were to catch her eyesight, even for a moment, it might help to calm the girl. "It will always be that way, too. Just as it is with non-mutants. Someday, hopefully, this whole mess can be overcome." Her own bit of pro-mutant speech, even though she doesn't come right out and say it. "I'll have to take your names, to contact for statements and all. If you don't mind?" [Cassandra]
"They'll be flooded," Beston warns, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger's knuckle. "We've got uniforms at the area ERs. I'll ask them. He'd check in, if he were able to."
"Alright," Sean says, with mild exasperation, before he cuts it off. "If you could, I'd be grateful. If he's not there, we need ta find whatever hole he's crawled into and drag his drunken arse out of it."
Beston suffers a faint grin for Sean, humorless, before nodding belatedly to Scott. "Park. Yeah. He heads there sometimes when he needs to be alone. --I'll check out the hospitals," he notes to the two men, rousing a little at the prospect of actions to be taken, things to be /done/. "You guys want to stop by the--well, but shit. He would've called if he'd gotten delayed."
"Unless he was murdered. Terrorists have been known to frequent the park, lately," Scott says with marked wryness -- and already decided, begins to take long strides away.
"Park it is," agrees Sean. "Want ta take the quickest route, Scott? Reckon it might not be safe today, though." Dark humour drifts into his tone, the last bastion against the bloody sheets littering the ground.
Left behind, Beston turns his stride elsewhere: to the blinking haven of black-and-white units, and the radios buzzing angry exchange within.
Averillix stops clutching so hard at her pants leg, at least, and her eyes tune down from a white silver down to their typical gunmetal color. Even though she is alarmed slightly by the asking of her name, and moreover Brendan's, she gives a soft little nod. "Averillix Montague," she replies quietly. "A-v-e-r..." She proceeds to spell out her name, not even waiting for the woman to pull out pad and paper.
"Risk it," Scott sighs and glances up at the sky. "Mind, if he's there, he might not be in any shape for help. But we'll see."
"You got it, Scott. Reckon you can deal with a lift? Might have ta cover ye ears," notes Sean, throwing a glace around to surrounding police, and offering a somewhat wan smile.
Brendan shrugs slightly. "Danny Schaefer," he replies to Cassandra when she asks for their names..."Though there isn't really one specific place I can be contacted. I'm sorta...between homes...at the moment..." he chuckles dryly. "You'd have to contact her to get to me..."
"Duly covered." Scott reaches into small front pocket of his jacket to stuff ear plugs in the appropriate spot. "Let's go," is said rather too loudly, as a result.
Nor will the woman pull out a pad. She's a memory like an elephant, and will certainly remember these two. Cass is suprised, however, at how easily the girl is giving her name. And Brendan. Hopefully this means they trust her. "If all goes well, I might not even have to contact you at all. The names are just in case, you know?" She eyes him once before re-adjusting her glasses. Hopefully someday she'd learn to control the fraggin' power of hers, or at least buy a strap for her glasses.
Cassidy takes a hol of Scott in his customary under-the-arms way, and shouts a "Cover ye ears, guys!" to the world at large. Then it's a deep breath, a "Ready," and the horrific screech that signifies takeoff sounds loud and proud across the area. Ethereal and piercing, the white noise of it settles across the sheeted bodies and spreads outwards as the two men shoot into the sky, flying high to avoid passing baseball bats and pistols. "Only a minute or two, Scott," says Sean, between lengthy breaths.
[Travel omitted]
Today's events have left Central Park and surrounding areas practically barren, almost deserted of it's usual passers-by. Word spreads quickly, and no-one wants to be caught by roving bands of mutant terrorists. Therefore, it's fairly quiet where Sean and Scott come to their landing, apart from the unearthly screech of Sean's power, that is. Lightly, he drops Scott about a foot from the ground, and comes to earth himself. "Where do we start, do you reckon?" he asks.
Scott only stumbles slightly -- a misplaced half step. He removes the ear plugs. "Reservoir. A hunch. Had to perform an intervention there a couple of weeks ago."
"Intervention with Magneto?" Sean asks, confirmation searched for, though his look is more than vagiely interested in full explanations. "Split or stay together?" he asks, deferring to the tactician.
"Together. For now. If there are still terrorists, I'd rather not be taken alone right now." Scott's long strides return, toward that reservoir. "Look out for any misplaced metal -- yes, Magneto."
Only a nod meets the suggestion, and Sean takes rearguard, scanning backwards every few seconds with a wary eye. "Benches, railings, reinforced concrete, bollards, anythin' else?"
"Sounds about right -- Magneto is rarely subtle." The reservoir approaches. Scott figures another few minutes will do it. Calculating, calculating.
Watching, watching. Practised eyes peer out all over. "Worth shouting for him?" he asks, suddenly stopping dead to peer at a... vandalised bench. "Saints. Damn kids."
"Perhaps. You have more of a voice." Scott tosses a glance over his shoulder at Sean's exclaimation. He is incapable of rolling his eyes. "Sean. Least of our worries."
"Well, he know about my powers," Sean says, trailing off before giving an indignant, "Always worth thinking about the future, an' the local kids, Scott. Even in this situation." Defensively uttered, with a quick frown. "Cover ye ears, an' then listen carefully for a while."
"They're irrelevent at this very present moment, Sean," Scott states at little better than a growl, then covers his ears.
"Look, if ye don'-" Sean is cut off by the covering of ears, and frowns, faintly. Then his voice lifts again, this time into a high-volumed shriek designed to travel. He puts the ethereal tone in that Rossi should hopefully recognise, if he's within range, and attempts to form words. Unsuccessfully, except perhaps for one such as himself or Logan. After a few seconds, he stops, and listens.
Silence answers. No ... wait. Noise. Angry ducks. (Quack.)
Scott removes his hands. Also listens. Perfectly still. Then, "I don't hear anything. Let's keep going." On toward the reservoir.
Sean shrugs, then follows the leader, now keeping an eye on the sky for the potential of incoming daughter or terrorist as well as around the place in general. "Should keep listenin' though. Just in case."
"Of course." Stride stride. And here is the stretch of the reservoir. Scott slows his gait and his attention becomes sharper. It does not, because he is expecting it, take him long to find the anomaly. He points to a missing section of railing. "There."
Sean nods at it, immediately taking another glance around. "We should probably check the reservoir," he offers quietly, before striding quickly over to the railing. "Or try ta figure out what happened."
No, Magneto is not subtle, and the torn railing that greets the two men at the reservoir is proof of it. Metal is frozen in mute evidence, wrenched by force out of the long barrier that guards the water from impolitic would-be swimmers. Lost, abandoned along the way, today's Times flaps its leaves in the pathway, speckled with blood; signs of struggle or travail, at least, like the small fragments of bullet that sprinkle tiny against the concrete.
Scott crouches. "Newspaper. See anything, ah, indicative? If he's in the water, I'm not sure we can . . . find him easily."
"Blood." A single jerk of Sean's head. "Over there, and not sprayed against the floor over here. Unless he was held until he stopped bleedin', he's not in the reservoir."
"Good." Scott's gaze passes to the other evidence. "Where do you think is most likely? In the park or . . . out?"
Sean heads over towards the beginnings of the blood-spatterings, for a closer look. "Well, hopefully, there's some sort o' trail o' this stuff, or we can try ta think like a half-crazed terrorist omega mutant." He frowns at the colour, and begins to flick his eyes around for anything like a yellow brick road.
Scott follows Sean, eyes casting, but he lacks certain color perceptions that might be useful in this case. "That would be remarkably convenient."
Blood. This is what happens when one is as pig-headed as Chris Rossi, engaged in uncivil conversation with an omega mutant. A little trail of it, nigh invisible. Plop. Plop. (Plop.)
"Gotcha," mutters Sean as he eventually spots something good, fortunate in that his eyes are not quite as troubled by this as his companion. Fingers jab at each in turn. "There, there, there. Can ye see 'em now? Any ideas on likely place yet?"
is able to pinpoint the shade discrepencies. "Yes." He calculates and lifts his head, calculating trajectory -- "Outside. That way. But follow the trail as long as you can, Sean. It may only appear to go in this line."
Scott is able to pinpoint the shade discrepencies. "Yes." He calculates and lifts his head, calculating trajectory -- "Outside. That way. But follow the trail as long as you can, Sean. It may only appear to go in this line."
"Right," says Sean, before falling quiet to better follow the trail. He bends slightly, supple spine curving easily into the half-crouch designed to aid his movement. He follows the trail as best he can.
Scott is almost on his heels, but running cover as well. And calculating, yet calculating. Trail seems direct. Good sign.
Out of the park it leads, into one of the quiet, anonymous streets that thread through it. On pavement, blood is clearer, darker, closer together -- a quicker flow, despite the travel. No traffic on this road, and still less in the shadowed alleys that boundary it. Between one intersection and the next, the trail stops.
"Shit," mutters Sean, as he pulls up short. "No more trail. I'll let you shout this time, Scott."
Scott side-steps Sean and reaches for something on his belt -- but lets the hand rest for a moment. "Very well." He clears his throat. "Rossi!" he bellows.
No answer. None vocal, at any rate. But in the quiet that swallows the echoes of his voice, a shrill wail replies from one of the dark alleys: a cell phone, ringing in persistent, determined summons from an anxious partner in Long Island.
Eyes alight, and Sean skips into an immediate jog towards that alley, though he slows to allow a tactical entrance, deep breath forming the preparation for an assault. A single hand gesture offers Scott the first step in.
It is a contorted mass of metal and flesh that waits for them in the alleyway, railing twined around an unmoving figure. The blood was his, and obviously so; it mats the torn fabric dark, pooling under the slack droop of a hand. Chris Rossi has made Magneto's acquaintance, it is plain. Social event of the season.
Scott takes it, keeping his breathing carefully under control. His hand clamps and pulls out the belt apparatus. It flares on. Flashlight. Oh. All the better to see you with, Rossi. Scott's jaw loosens into a partial gape. "Damn," he manages, very quietly.
Sean comes in a moment later, eyes widening as he spots the injured figure. Stunned for a moment into silence, Sean stares at the Detective for a long moment. "Can you get him out?" he asks, "I might hurt him if I try."
"Yes." Scott waves the flashlight at Sean. "Hold it, please." He gets down into a crouch and adjusts his visor intensity with great, great care. "But it'll be tricky." He hitches his breath, steadies it, and fires a pair of blasts into the railing -- systematic, strategic, and meant to shear through only the metal, please.
With flashlight in hand, and trained on Rossi, Sean awaits the result with concern etched firmly over his features. Ready to spring forward for first-aid purposes, he watches.
The metal crumples under the concussive blasts, paring free to begin the task of untangling. In its carapace, Rossi's body slouches, limp, spilling onto concrete without response. Again the cell phone trills into urgency, muffled under his boneless fall.
"Enough." Scott takes his hand from the visor and exhales. "Do we answer that?" he indicates the cellphone -- as he gets into a lifting position next to Rossi.
Sean moves forward with Scott, glancing down towards the phone. "Check Rossi first," he notes, even as he glances down at the offending ringtone. "Least it's not crazy frog," he mutters, as he leans to assist in basic first aid.
The old, cheap suit proves itself shredded, free of the concealing metal; the rips that part the fabric go through the shirt underneath, baring rent skin beneath: the source of the red trail, scabbed and -- torn afresh -- bleeding afresh. Blood stains too the unresponsive head, matting the black hair close to the battered skull. Bloody-minded Rossi proves himself so in literal fact.
Scott does some initial work in binding and dousing, his jaw set tight. "Maybe use it," he says, loosening the jaw naturally enough to speak, "to call an ambulance, if -- damn, I'm no doctor, but this looks mostly surface to me. Let's pick him up and drive him ourselves. The ambulances are probably packed as it is."
"Drive?" queries Sean, "We're missin' the most vital ingredient." Then the phone is in his hand to speak to Beston, with a quick, "Beston? Cassidy. We found him, he's alive. I'll be sure to tell him how much you love him." Beep.
"Right. Damn. Call the Institute." Scott bites off a considerably stronger curse. "Maybe we can even infirmary him. Just. Get him out of here."
Rapidly, numbers are thumbed in to the phone, as Sean fingers the keys for Hank's extension, before offering it over to Scott. "I'll take him there meself. Sound's not goin' ta hurt him any more than he is, I think, an' the jet's a bit too obvious, eh?"
Somewhere in Long Island, John Beston collapses a little, closing his eyes around relief before venting pent-up emotion in a stream of relieved curses: called down on Chris Rossi's prim and oblivious head; on Sean Cassidy's dubious ancestral relationship to pekinese dogs; on Scott Summers's dubious sexual orientation. In the alleyway, Detective Rossi opens his eyes slightly, stares glassily and blankly -- hullo, Scott -- and then lapses into unconsciousness again. Because it's fun.
"Go ahead, then." Scott pulls himself up, accepting the phone. "Hank," quick series of incoming, lookout cop. "I'll subway," Scott asides away from the phone. And, on second thought, fumbles out his earplugs. Offers. With perhaps just a glance at Rossi's breif almost conscious.
Sean rises more to his feet, holding out arms to receive the limp form of Rossi. "Might as well shove 'em in him - won't do him any harm. Jus' hope he doesn't wake up." From somewhere, the Irishman forms the beginnings of a relieved grin. "Ye hear that, lad? Keep asleep, yeah?"
If he hears, he makes no response. Rossi commits to nothing.
Scott finishes his phone call and regards his new task with a small grimace. But, the earplugs are more or less correctly deposited. "All right. You go ahead and take off, Sean. Hank's ready."
"See ye soon, Scott," says Sean, by way of farewell, before the inevitable deep breath that precedes the unearthly noise of the beginnings of flight. Ahoy, Rossi, to the Institute do you go, and pray you stay asleep the entire way.
Scott and Sean go hunting for Rossi in the aftermath of the Purity attack.
The news is swift on the heels of disaster, as ever; in ten minutes work, Magneto and his merry band of murderers have done what the organizers of Purity have labored on for weeks: cast the name of a little-known anti-mutant organization into fame, and destroyed the hopes of mutant rights activists for many a month to come. Thus the latest visitor to the Xavier Institute, bloody, unconscious, clothing and flesh rent from injury. Detective Chris Rossi, borne on the back of Sean Cassidy's flight and deposited with little explanation on the Infirmary's table.
Dr. Henry McCoy was occupied with a swim in the pool as part of his workout, when the call came in about the decidedly damaged Detective. Grumbling about how he seems to always be interrupted when he's off duty, Hank quickly lept out and dried his fur and pulled on a labcoat. If the good detective can deal with the fact he's being worked on my a cobalt blue apeman, he can deal with him wearing nothing more than a speedo and a labcoat. Rushing into the medlab, still training some water behind him on the floor from his loose mess of hair, Hank quickly rushes to Det. Rossi's sid and begins checking his vitals. It seems Sean vacated, leaving Dr. McCoy to deal with the patient on his lonesome, what a joy for both patient and physician.
The man's vitals are steady, though his breath rasps heavily, labored and in pain even through the blessed anaesthesia of oblivion. Opened through travel, lacerations pool their blood in thin trickles, stealing red drops like apologetic mice down the arm to the spigot of fingers. Superficial, most of them, though the occasional deep wound will need stitches. More serious is that harsh breathing, and the injury that plows its way across his black scalp, proof of concussion or worse.
Hank dashes once more away from Det. Rossi's side, bounding over medbeds. "And as usual, no nurse to assist. Not even a candy striper when you need one." Hank lands next to the one of the larger refridgeration units, quickly digging around and returning with a bit of a drug cocktail for the pain. Getting him stable and then dealing with the major issues is first on Hank's list. Leaping back over twords Rossi, Hank snaps his right leg out and grabs a suture kit as well. "Good thing I've been practicing my cross-stitch." Hank offers to himself, flipping the kit into his hands and then sitting everything next to Rossi. Hank gathers together an injection for the Detective, giving him something that will help keep him lucid, but dull the pain. )
Lucidity implies sense, or at the very least, consciousness. Whether the former is present must remain tested by time; the latter is, at least, within grasp. Eyes flicker, opening slowly to bare slivers of dazed green; the bloody hand stirs, and finds itself a moment later with a quiet sound of pain. The detective's gaze turns slowly, dreamily, puzzling for a span of heartbeats across the Infirmary's ceiling. White.
Hank slides the needle into Rossi's arm, giving him the planned injection. Next it's to work on getting the major wounds closed, before dealing with the potential concussion. Hank starts humming something playfully operatic to himself, as he prepares to start cleaning, disenfecting, and stitching closed the wounds. Of course that's when Rossi seems to be coming around, so Hank carefully sits the suture needle down and grabs a penlight, checking Rossi's eyes. Which means that he's got his furry hands in Rossi's view. "Good, you're alive. I'm glad to say that I've never lost a patient yet. Well, there was the one that just vanished, but I don't really think they count."
Pupils contract unevenly to that flood of light; if the fuzzy blue registers, it is only as errata, secondary to the abrupt and unthinking reaction to who-knows-what stimulus: violence. Rossi cracks out a sharp word -- Italian obscenity -- and a fist lashes out, arching towards Hank even before the mellow voice and pain fully registers.
The Fates seem to be fond of coincidence and mysteriously arranged circumstance. Hopefully for the better. Someone in the front yard does not frequently observe battered and bloody detectives - or most professions, for that matter - being bodily transported inside. Count Jareth among that number. On the heels of the injured delivery by several minutes, some mix of interest and trepidation draws him to hurry after. Rumble go the doors, and tap, tap go his quick footsteps inward. "Hank? What happened?"
Det. Rossi is rather quick, even though he's injured. But he can't compete with a Hank's dexterity. So as the fist flies, Hank snaps a hand out and grabs it and wraps his massive furry fingers around the balled fist. Rossi's hand is basically enveloped by Beast's handpaw, which also offers a slight increase in strength. No intention is to break the hand, just teach a lesson by example. "A word to the wise, Det. Rossi. I'm attempting to deal with you're injuries. If you'd like to fight with me, let me get you healthy first. Then I'll gladly engage in fisticuffs with you, and then leave you dangling by your underpants from the flagpole outside your precinct." Hank offers, his tone of voice still smooth and calm, showing no intent to damage the Detective further. Hank glances back to Jareth as he arrives, offering him a wide feral smile. "I'm unsure as to the events behind his injuries, but then I was in the pool when I got called to put Pinoccio back together again."
Detective Rossi manages Italian again, a breathless, raging stream of invective, and wrenches himself around in a struggle that recklessly defies injury. A beautiful language, his ancestral tongue, and malleable to the wildest uses put to it by its wielder; it masticates Hank's background, his odor, his intelligence, and his sexuality, while the man himself sends his other fist -- bloody-minded and persistent -- driving towards the doctor's throat. "--and you can tell him to /fuck/ himself," he finishes in fury.
There exists no small amount of things that can likely be said about that greater speed. Several of them pass through the back corridors of Jareth's mind. For his part, he remains a step or so farther from the table bearing the good detective. It might also come to the notice of Hank's ears that there is something muttered from Jareth's direction regarding Humpty Dumpty and all the king's men. Following that... "Detective? You remember me?"
Hank stands there, listening to Det. Rossi berate him in his lovely Italian tongue. Beast seems to show no reaction to what is being said, but does snap his other hand out to grab the newly added hand. This one also recieves a squeeze, but once again not enough to break it. He hmms softly as Rossi finishes in English, nodding just a bit to the man. And that's when Hank leans back, his feral lips peel back to reveal sharp fanged teeth. And as the time seems to pause for a minute between the two men, Hank utters three little words in Italian. "I speak Italian." Hank lets Jareth attempt to calm the Detective, but Henry does not release him. As for what was said to him, Hank will wait til the man is well for a nice long talk about that.
The pale, glittering gaze that sweeps towards Jareth betrays nothing of recognition, wild as it is with passion and a disoriented anxiety. The technopath gets only a glance before Rossi bucks again, lashing out this time with a foot; his inventory if limbs is limited and few, and he must make do with what he has. Italian whips again, edged raw and bleeding in despairing ferocity, tangling in a mixture of random English.
For a lengthy moment, Jareth does little but continue to watch. His hands finally lift to his hips, settling there in defeat as he moves his own gaze to Hank and shrugs. Just as quickly, his attention snaps back in response to the newest struggle. "Detective Rossi!" Though hardly louder, he has taken now some of the passion for his own in this next attempt. "It's Jareth Tarrant. A friend of Jean Grey. You remember her? We're trying to help you."
Hank grumbles just a bit, glancing to Jareth and gesturing to the restraints. "I may have prehensile feet, but they're a bit useless at the moment. And unless you want me high-kicking like a Rockette to keep him from kicking me in the face, I'd recommend getting the restraints on him. He needs to be patched up, before he pushes me to break him again." Hank leans his weight on Rossi's legs, still holding his hands tight. "Why do I always get the patients that are nuts? Is it me, did I do something to make me deserve this? And don't even bother responding Detective, if you're going to continue swearing and insulting me. I've half a mind to gag you now."
Another word jogs out in Italian, more harmless than the earlier torrent, and attention skews, scattering across the lab and Jareth's urgent timbres before focusing for a moment's bewildered comprehension -- "The /fuck/?" -- if not propriety of language. Rossi relaxes a little in that strong grasp, blinking past a fresh trickle of blood; the room falls slightly quieter in his sudden silence, replaced by the quick rasp of his breathing. "--The rally."
The big stick waits in the wings, but diplomacy seems to have more time on stage yet. Jareth moves closer now, fingers curling over one of the thick straps to lift it, coming to a pause as that fervence seems to pass from the detective. Gone or not, the subsequent opportunity is there for the taking, and so he brings the strap over an arm and secures it. "What about the rally? What happened?"
Hank perks a brow as the struggling and fighting seems to end. Does this mean he's actually going to be able to treat the Detective, or is it just a moment of lucidity before the storm. "I'll release your hands if you swear on your badge not to try to hit me again. Considering I'm trying to get you patched up, it's really rather rude." Hank exhales deeply, releasing one hand and the other. "Now, may I finish stitching you up... or do I have to make you behave?" Hank glances to Jareth about the mention of a rally and back. "Yes, please explain."
"The rally," Rossi repeats, clinging to the word even as he tugs at his arm, belatedly made aware of the restraint. Anxiety sharpens the baritone burr, riding it roughshod over the Brooklyn accent. "Purity. Magneto's headed there. Call Lazzaro. They have to get the goddamn thing called off. --Fuck, let me /out/ of this thing."
The remaining free arm can be allowed that continued freedom, in light of currently improved behavior. Jareth makes no move to secure the remaining one - agitation over the one making the decision a degree easier - and instead leans a similar degree forward onto the cot. "Well, shit. ...Wait. When was the rally scheduled to happen?" No need to answer, because as soon as the question is complete, he spins away to seek the nearest newspaper somewhere nearby. For several moments comes the rustling of pages, and then only one word which provides all the summary that should be needed. "Shiiiit."
Hank has been somewhat out of the loop himself, considering his work schedule. But considering the look on Jareth's face and the single charming utterance of the slang for excrement, Hank is assured it's bad. "Can we please reduce the number of charming swear words being thrown about. I'm old enough to wash both your mouths out for this, and don't appreciate it in my medlab." McCoy jabs Rossi with the suture needle, and starts working on the serious wounds. "Now you can either be still and let me patch you up, or I'll show you more of my charming bedside manner. They didn't vote me most likely to leave a patient in restraints with a glucose drip during medical school just for kicks, Detective."
If the threats make any impression on Detective Rossi, it is not self-evident. "Call Lazzaro," he demands, baritone rising again towards frustrated wrath, twisting so his hand can quarrel with his wrist's restraint. "Or call Jean. She knows how to get him. --Where's my goddamn phone? Christ on a pogo stick, are you fucking /deaf/?"
Throughout the room are many suitable vertical surfaces. One of these in the form of the nearest wall is currently receiving a brief series of introductions to Jareth's head. Several moments following completion of the series, Jareth returns to sight and tosses the newspaper to the nearest table. "Well, this is just dandy." Any other choice words that would have played a part in the sentence wail through some dark and unsavory corner of Jareth's mind. With another moment spared to decide, Jareth moves to release the strap from Rossi's arm, only to aim an indicative finger flexible as granite toward the detective. "Call him, but stay there. Don't make big blue cranky."
McCoy continues working to stitch Rossi up. Thankfully the drug cocktail is dulling the pain enough so Hank can do it without having to knock him out. Of course, that also means Hank has to listen to Rossi's mouth continue to flap. "Indeed, call your partner. But I'd recommend not going into detail as to your current status. I am holding a rather large needle, you remember." He doesn't want to have to send Jean, Charles, or someone else out to perform a brain wipe. It's so tasteless in Hank's opinion. "By the way, pleasure to meet you again, Det. Rossi." Hank gives the newspaper a glance, but will read it later.
Ludicrous that of the two men in the room, it should be Jareth that Rossi recognizes the better. Brilliant eyes skip across to McCoy, registering none of that assumption of familiarity, while hands take unhappy and futile inventory. "Phone," he says harshly, before finally remembering: "Westchester. Gave you a ride. I don't--" The tongue's slur trails off the last thought, baritone aching with bewilderment. "Have to call Lazzaro. Magneto threw my badge in the reservoir, that drama queening prick. Can't use guns."
What is the option when faced with circumstances one can do nothing about? Pacing the living daylights out of the floor only lasts as long as it takes for Jareth to step across the distance to the next cot over. His arms cross over his chest, and there he stands in sudden deprivation of motion. He adds only silence to the exchange for the next short while, until considering Hank's comment somewhat further. "No, I don't think that would go over well to tell your partner 'I'm getting stitches and an IV drip from a blue sasquatch in a Speedo, but I'm otherwise really quite serious." This follows with a small grunt, and a more muttered "Hell of a story for the grandkids one day, though."
Hank just drops quiet and returns to working on Rossi. He lets Jareth deal with the man, while he deals with the mangling. Hank's mood starts to improve slightly, which means he begins humming something operating. "Yes, pleased you remember me. Shame though, I usually try to keep myself covered up in public. Oh well, like you're going to tell anyone... /Right/?" Hank offers with a feral smile, and goes back to his work.
The glance Rossi winks towards Hank and Jareth is confused, spun by vertigo and disorientation -- but the bright-eyed gaze is easily distracted, to the discovery of the phone in the battered recesses of his suit. Comfort, of a edgy, uneasy sort; the black and bloody head bows to the electronic summons, and lapses into brooding silence. Too little, too late: he'll learn that later. For now, the effort is all, and fractured peace falls over the infirmary.
Hank and Jareth tend to an extremely reluctant Rossi in the Xavier Institute Infirmary.