Poodle Jinx
One of these days I'll head out with the poodles, and nothing will happen. We'll grab a beer, have a burger, I'll drop them back at the school, and the world will fucking end. Knowing them, they'd probably go out to save it. Heroes. They wear their socks too tight, or something. Blood not getting to the brain.
Meanwhile, Satan's little sister goes for a walk downtown for a spot of Christmas shopping, and there I am without my holy water. Never seem to be prepared. Granite boy takes a swing at me, and I'm not even packing a jackhammer. I'd make a crappy boy scout.
Captain'll probably rip me a new one when I get in tomorrow. I can hear her now. And the damn poodles -- maybe we can't be friends. Mutants, cops, whatever their agenda is ....
Shit.
---
Mid-afternoon, and the overcast sky does little to bestow holiday cheer in the wilds of Westchester. A quiet neighborhood. Even the small, quaint stores that make up the bulk of this portion of the city suffer a measure of the Christmas overflow; the traffic of pedestrians not far distant is bright and busy, bustling in and out to the rattle of bells and the clang of doors. Chill. Cold. Snow on the ground, and shadows (dim) lining the streets and alleys: the last two blocks before civilization is gone, and suburbia takes over in truth. Four blocks to habitation. Four blocks to commercialism. A no-man's land in truth, with only a stray dog to watch the show.
And, leaning into an alley's wall, a balding black man peeling his sleeve back from a watch. "She's late."
Harrison lets a scowl touch his features, pensive and gut-wrenchingly ready for action. His favoured bat, stained darkly from various people, sits under the shabby leather of his trench. "She'll be here," he assures at a murmur, observing and waiting. "Don -- ready with the cell in case there's no witness?"
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Such is the sound of Phoebe with her head hung, listlessly pushing one foot in front of the other as she trudges through the neighborhood. The last three hours have been somewhat unpleasant for her. All the fun of shopping was stolen away with the knowledge of what was to pass later in the day, a moment that's rapidly moving from the future into the present. Two bags are thrown over her shoulder and supported by her squeezing fingers; the one on top proclaiming the words 'Old Navy' in cheerful blue letters. Back up top, Phoebe's eyes cut from her white sneakers to the alley looming in front of her. Here goes nothing... Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Bodies stir out of the alley, coalescing out of the debris and detritus that adorns such avenues out of the public eye. The black man straightens, plugging the shine of his scalp with a knit cap. "That her?" Succinct, laconic; efficiency drags on leather gloves and flexes the broad hands beneath them, reveling in muscle and might. Brown eyes flick askance, checking Harrison for cues. "I got it. 9-1-1, right on the money. Wheeler should make the call. /He/ sounds like a woman."
"Fine," Harrison says, throwing a grin back towards his cohort -- seven men, poised to strike. "Wheeler, you wench, do it." Then it's to the wool pulled over the greasy locks, down to cover everything but eyes. "That's the one -- s'posed to turn into some crazy demon thing. Remember -- this is a statement, not a murder. Stay away from its head. Don, lead." He falls into a crouch, carefully watching the incoming figure, hand raised to make the final signal.
Mittened fingers curl tighter around the plastic shopping bag, a physical manifestation of the teenager's growing emotions, at the sight of the men wandering out of the alley. Her mind drifts back to the coaching given to her by Tom, her mentor for these past six months, on what to do in the scenario -- " Just act natural. If you feel scared, act scared. Make it as believable as possible. " He might've not even bothered. Fear is obviously plastered across her face, the emotion seeping out from her in great waves. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. She's about twenty feet away from the closest one. Her voice is high, tainted with her hesistant feelings. " W-what do you want?"
The cell phone, excavated from a pocket, arcs towards the protesting catch of a weedier compatriot; the knit cap rolls down, covering Don's blunt features. Framed neatly in the mouth hole, strong yellowed teeth bare in a grin. "Statement, yeah. I got you. Let's go have some fun, gentlemen." And he steps out into the street's open breadth, a fist leading the way in a solid strike towards Phoebe's head. Heraldry is for assholes. The Friends are all for good old American directness.
Somewhere on the road from Xavier School, a sullen green Buick trundles along the damp, salted roads with a keen sense of injury -- one not alleviated by the debate taking place in its warm interior. "--special prisons," says Detective Chris Rossi, stretched in one-handed ease behind the steering wheel. "That's just bullshit. And what the hell do we do with them when we catch them, anyway? We got no laws for telepaths, and how do we prove that crap? Use another telepath. At least with actual rape we have physical evidence."
The others pile around, fists and feet flinging in desperate attempts to garner contact with the girl. Harrison stays in his crouch, smiling lips hidden behind thick-knitted black wool. "Go on, boys, do it good."
"Got to find a trustworthy telepath," agrees Sean Cassidy, from the closet thing he can come to a relaxed stretch, in the passenger seat. "Shrinks can always tell change, if they're good enough. The cause, though, you need another one -- you drive terribly, you know that?"
"It also depends on the strength of the telepath on trial placed against the strength of the verifying telepath," Scott surmises mildly, slightly leaned back in the opposite passenger seat. "And if you determine you have to imprison them, well -- get a telepath in jail and you will need to take extra precautions."
The fist makes rude and unpleasant contact with Phoebe's cheek, the force enough to send her reeling backwards. Another punch follows a moment later, clipping her on the left shoulder, and then a foot, swinging right into right knee. The girl's quickly on the ground, driven to her stomach by the assualt, where she huddles. Invisible to the attackers are the changes manifesting themselves on her body, transformation urged on by the flood of emotions released into her body. Her normally dark brown eyes have transmuted into a bright and angry red, and already she's starting to grow larger.
"She's starting to change," Don's basso shout advises through the press of bodies, and one last, reluctantly pulled punch hammers down at her before he straightens out of the pack. The man's dark glance skips around the empty street and discovers no witnesses; behind the savage joy, colder reason wakes up and turns to Harrison. And his /bat/. "You gonna use that thing?"
"No chance, dickhead," calls back Harrison, though he pushes to his feet and swings, letting the wooden object begin its journey through the air -- slowly, surely, an arc of slowly spinning, bloodstained tree. "Wheeler? Do your job, wench."
Wheeler, hovering wistfully on the fringes of the fray, dallies a moment longer, gaze eager and absorbed on the melee before reluctantly pressing his thumb into the buttons. 9. 1.
On the road, Det. Rossi snorts, angling a glance to bounce off the mirror at Sean. "I went through the same Academy driving training you went through," he informs with dignity, while the Buick growls neatly through a changing yellow. "Passed with flying colors. Anyway, what do you care, if we get there in one piece? --Not many courts going to trust a telepath, even if it is Doc Grey. Got enough trouble getting /physical/ evidence through, and with that damn Forensics show, every jury thinks some bullshit machine'll prove the case."
"Difference is, I remember it," mutters Cassidy. Idly, a knuckle taps against the inner door. "You get them on something else, then. Semething you can prove. I happen ta like forensics, by the way."
"If we must die, make it a good death, Rossi," Scott states, deadpan, and examines the window control-toggle whatsit with his thumb. Not actually pressing it, now. "Telepaths can lie," Scott acknowledges.
Harrison's attack connects with Phoebe, swinging into her back, through her plain blue overcoat, with a satisfyingly loud thump. Her size has now reached and pased the six foot mark; her clothes -- excepting overcoat and pants, thoughtfully bought at a couple of sizes too large -- have stretched and started to rip. From the small amount of skin that's visible from her hunched up position, an observer could also note the change in color, red underlying the pale tan, and starting to come into greater prominence. Mentally, Phoebe's a storm of emotions, fear cascading and colliding with aggresion. A low growl bubbles up from her throat, closer to that of a dog than a human.
If Don pales behind the ski mask, nature and knitting serve to conceal it. Bodies draw back for a moment as awareness twinges through the blood-lust: fear surges to drive adrenaline, and with a feral noise all its own, the small mob dives to the attack again, thoughts of /statements/ forgotten in the drive of hatred. Muscles bunch as the black man hammers down through bodies, careless of -- indifferent of -- injury to his fellows.
1. Send. Womanly, indeed. High-pitched, thrilled in the voice of androgyny, Wheeler plays his role through the eager jumps of a leashed terrier. "Help. Help! Someone there? There's a big ... a big mutant /monster/ beating up a bunch of guys. I'm on the corner of Terrace and -- shit. /Shit/. Help!"
One satisfying thud, and Harrison takes a step backwards, goggling slightly at the creature. "What the /fuck/ is that?" Another step away. "Tom didn't say anything about- shit." He pounces, swinging fast.
"Nobody's incorruptible," Rossi agrees on the heels of Scott's admission, twirling the steering wheel handily to send them around a corner with -- mercy of mercies -- no fatalities. "And the whole poking through someone's brain, thing? That kind of power--"
Under the didactic, conversational baritone, the radio abruptly breaks into white-voiced static, blaring in professional, measured cadence. "All units, possible 12-83 in progress at Terrace and 4th. Civilian injuries reported. All units--"
"-can be exceptionally dangerous," finishes Sean at a murmur, before listening carefully. "Go, Rossi. It's just 'round the corner." Sharp, snappy, to the point.
"Mutant attack," says Rossi with exasperation, hand already flown to the siren and the planting of the flashing lights in the dashboard. The Buick snarls and spins, wheeled savagely around across two lanes (thankfully empty) to skim into a side street. "Goodie. Why is it whenever I'm /with/ you assholes--"
Steel toed boots slam insistently against Phoebe's side, and a pair of knuckles bounce against the side of the teenager-turned-freak's head. Said head is now sporting a curling pair of ridged horns which, when combined with red leathery skin, elongated ears, and wicked claws, produce the sight of a monster horribly similar to someone's image of a biblical demon. Phoebe's pulls herself to her feet in the span of three seconds, weathering blow after blow that bounces off of her thickened skin. The creature's continued growl turns into an outright roar, displaying a dental nightmare of fangs. Limbs begin to flail, claws slashing and swiping anything that they make contact with in their frenzied flight.
Don's reaction is, sadly, uncreative. "Holy /FUCK/." Creativity is not a prerequisite for membership in the Friends. A demon arm's blow sends the heavy-set man flying to crash into a dumpster's side, sweater shredded around the long bleed of slashes. Excited, infuriated, his compatriots attack harder, one swinging wildly with a two-by-four specially collected for the occasion. More bodies fly.
Intelligence is also not a prerequisite for membership in the Friends.
"Because we're the happy shiny poodle people," retorts Sean, humour etched with the cold, hard darkness of preparation. "Luckily, we also know what we're doin' -- goddammit, where's the news on the perp?"
Forthcoming. Impatient Irish. "Suspect described as a nine-foot tall red-skinned, horned Satan," says the dispatcher, boredom dripping from every word. "All units..."
An inarticulate roar rips from Garath, as his bat rebounds from an arm. He continues his assault, expertly dodging, moving swiftly despite his bulk. "Take it /down/, you fuckers. WHEELER!" The diminutive man appears from the alley, staring goggle-eyed at the demon.
"Cruel coincidence," Scott says with the calmest of amusement, his head tilted just a touch toward the radio as he examines the (fast) milieu out the window. "Do you suppose that's an illusionist or-- I've always wondered about mutants who end up looking like devils."
The monster weathers the blows with more success than the human whose place she took ever did; fists, feet, weapons and construction supplies meet the stiff resistance of leathery skin. Fueled by the emotions that pushed her into this state in the first place, Phoebe rampages upon the humans surrounding her, battle plan starting and beginning at 'get them'.
"I'm blaming /you/, poodles," Rossi announces, speeding the car down a street to turn the last corner. The last corner, and before them: the crime scene. The Buick leaps forward; green eyes widen. "Holy /shit/."
"That /has/ to be an illusionist," Sean says, forcing calm over the instant flash of bewildered staring. "A shapeshifter is possible..." He trails off into a calculating look. "Is that a baseball bat?"
Wheeler abandons the phone where he stands, leaping belatedly to the fray. Or -- perhaps not. "Cops!" he squeals, voice climbing embarrassingly into feminine registers. Behind him, Don struggles painfully to his feet, shaking his head in disorientation. Before him, his brothers in the Friends begin taking their last licks, one flicking out a blade.
"/Fuck/ statements!"
Harrison takes a shot to his chest, staggering backwards as claws rake across his chest. "Shit!" explodes from his chest, and a wincing stumble brings him away from the rampaging monster. "Keep on it, guys! Wait 'til the pigs come out, then run." Then he's back in, defensive now as he attempts to lessen the damage to himself and his brethren.
as claws rake through wool, then skin.
Rossi has been called worse. A fist takes claim of the radio, rattling a hasty answer to the call; the powerful Buick screams as it spins, skidding to a controlled, disciplined stop -- nuts to you, Sean -- a few yards away. It is the work of a second to unbuckle and slam the door open, and only another second before the gun is out and pointed. At ... which? "NYPD!"
Phoebe catches a glint of steel out of the corner of her eye, quickly followed by a subsequent burst of agony in her arm. Blood, thick and scarlet, blossoms out of her heavy arm, liquid ribboning through the air as she continues to swipe at the others. Pain spurs her on, leading her to the one who holds the knife. Out flashes her head, scything teeth leading the charge. The call of New York's finest is lost on her; she's trapped inside of her emotions, and will most likely remain there until the members of FoH has had their exuent.
Cassidy hits the ground moving, straight into a battle crouch. A long, hefty breath inwards. "Soon as you need me, Rossi," says he, locking eyes onto the demonic figure in the middle.
Harrison pulls back, jamming his bat towards the gaping maw of the monster in a last-ditch attempt to distract it. He releases it, then turns to begin a sprint into the alley, and away. "Move, you fucks!"
A scream bubbles through the air, piercing even the shouts of men. The knife-wielder flies away, leaving ample evidence of injury behind him; hand pressed to his side, Don drags himself to a rasping run: away. /Away/. "Come /on/, you fuckers!" Retreat is sounded, and bodies scramble to obey.
"Stand /down/, pointy-head!" roars Rossi from the door's cover, a passing glance checking the position of his companions. "God/dammit/. Why does Satan always have to show up on my day /off/?"
"Want me to get the runners?" wonders Sean, throwing a glance towards Rossi -- impromptu leader.
Harrison's aim is true; the bat flies directly between Phoebe's mandibles, where it's progress is halted by applied pressure from either side. Phoebe applies a bit of force and, one crunching sound later, the tip of the bat breaks off, ending it's reign as a dispenser of vigilante justice. The hulking red creature pants, letting both pieces drop out of her mouth while her arm continues to push burbling streams off blood out. Finally, /finally/, the voices coming from behind her are acknowledged by her mind and she turns, staring. Her mind grapples to reach Tom's instructions on what to do next, though nothing coherent is able to break through the wall of emotion.
Scott emerges from behind Rossi, standing not quite in front of him, but near enough to appear the more prominent of the group. "The runners aren't important," he advises Sean lowly, as he steps, and addresses Pheobe in a louder voice, projected in volume, but not oppressive. "We're not going to hurt you."
"Balaclavas and baseball bats," replies Sean. "Targeted violence. Your call, though." Quite which one that is sent to, unknown, but Banshee relaxes his stance, coming to his full six feet and bringing a smile to the fore.
A green eye flickers, sighting down that readied gun. /Scott/ might not. /Rossi/, on the other hand -- he steps out as well from behind cover, wary with attention for the demon's distance and pose. "Biggest threat first," he says askance, voice clipped. "They're not the threat right now. --If you're an illusionist, buddy, time to drop the act."
Phoebe's arms are held loosely, non-threateningly, at her side, no other force being exherted on them other than the force of gravity. She's breathing in heavy pants, and hasn't even noticed, outside a loose acknowledgement of pain, then wound that continues to issue blood from her arms. She makes no external movements except to continue stay silent and still, mind working through the cloud of dull emotion that covers it.
"I'm not denying they need apprehending, but we'll lose /her/ if we do," Scott explains sidelong and quietly, his eyes still fixed (behind the visor) on Phoebe. "Think she's in shock?" he more generally asides, and smiles at the, ah, devil. "Can you walk?"
Rossi wants to know, "How do you know it's a /she/? No way in /hell/ it's fitting in the Buick." The gun lowers slightly, eased from its ready aim.
"I can handle six men with bats, Scott," notes Sean, though he lifts shoulders into a shrug of acceptance. He studies the demon carefully, offering another smile -- the special fatherly smile reserved for teenage angst. "Not enough blood there for shock, I think. Rossi, she's just a mutant. Like me. Like Scott. Relax."
"I'm /relaxed/, Irish," advises Rossi, irritation alive and kicking in the Brooklyn-scored baritone. He ventures another step to the side, closer, weapon lowering a little more in favor of a single upraised hand. Empty. See? (Ignore the gun.) Somewhere not too distant, sirens begin to crescendo in belated, banshee approach. "Can you talk? --Christ. Those teeth. Can you talk? What's your name?"
Call. Go. Cops. Fight. Don't fight. Cops. Call cops. Don't fight. Go. Phoebe's mental fingers latch onto the memory that Tom imparted upon her, breaking through the shell that she had been fighting with. " One of our men will call the cops, who will arrive most likely a few minutes after the fighting begins. Do not hurt the cops, Phoebe. Go with them. " Intense feelings begin to ebb, with the features soon to follow. Phoebe responds to both Scott and Rossi's questions with action, enacting movement that will be, in retrospect, considered a bad idea. One step is taken forward, and Phoebe tries to speak. Growls issue forth instead.
"Call me sexist, but the behavior strikes me as female. Men are more likely to go berserk, at least /attempt/ to swear, any number of things. Still just a guess." Scott's mild aside brushes to Sean. "If you want to go after them, you can." He takes a step toward Phoebe, friendly like, unbothered by growls. "Do you have some other form you could change to?"
The gun pops up again at that errant step forward, Rossi's gaze clear and cold down its length. "Sense of humor, Summers?" Another step to the side, away from Cyclops, gives the cop a clear line of fire. Scott and Sean may be confident. Det. Chris Rossi is a paranoid son-of-a-bitch. Also, a lapsed Catholic without holy water.
"Bit late now," mutters Sean, before brightening to another smile. He simply follows Scott, at a reasonable distance, and keeps himself relaxed. Unthreatening. "It has been known for our friend to actually be hilarious."
The creature's advance is halted by the reappearance of the gun's muzzle. Phoebe halts, in both speech and movement. She's already begun to put a leash back on her mind again. Small and subtle presentations of her changes begin to show themselves. Size diminishes, claws and horns receede. Her hands move up in a gesture of peace as she becomes more mentally coherent, showing both of her open and empty palms.
"Mine is a subtle humor," Scott murmurs, cutting down his asides to let his attention rest primarily on Phoebe. Who receives a quiet, encouraging smile at her transformation. "That's more like it. What's your name?"
The gun's muzzle drops slowly as the transformation takes place, a distant wonder easing even the cynical detective's mien. "I'll be damned."
Sean says, "Scott was right." He allows another smile to the demon, and slowly, surely, begins a journey back towards the Buick. "Gonna waylay anyone that comes, so they don't scare her," he explains.
"They're not going to listen to you," Rossi realizes, torn. He lifts his head to the gathering approach of officialdom in all its noisy, riotous glory, and grimaces. "Hold off, Irish. I'll call in a quieter approach. -- You keep an eye on /her/." Back to the Buick he goes, stretching an arm in for the radio and a rasped, coded exchange with the dispatcher.
A rumbling growl emanates from Phoebe's throat, speech still elusive to her. Horns give way to straight brown hair, claws are slowly replaced by fingers, and her size continues to shrink. She's now about halfway done.
"Eye kept. Don't worry about it," Scott notes, and folds his arms, observing the continued transformation patiently.
The Irishman continues to the Buick, though now digging into glove compartment. "She's hurt," he explains to the Detective, before he exits, brandishing a small plastic box as he makes his way back slowly back.
The transformation goes about undoing itself rather faster than it took to come into being in the first place. In the space of a minute, she's back to her regular self, a decidedly average looking teenage girl, no older than fifteen. The frightened look on her face is unfeigned, and it's only now that she visually takes note of the growing pool of scarlet, bubbling gently through the hole in her oversized jacket. Breathing heavily, she keeps her eyes on Scott, frozen in place.
"Right." Scott smiles, a little more. One has to slowly transform into smiling, after all. "We can get you some medical help, if you'll come with us? I promise it's safe. And if you're not, ah, comfortable with that, we'll phone someone in."
"First aid kit," explains Sean, wafting it a little. "Keep you going 'til we can get you somewhere proper." Insert fatherly smile mk.2 -- friendly.
Pant. Pant. Pant. The girl holds her position for a drawn out length of time, mentally bringing everything back under her concious control. When she's finally herself again, Phoebe, and not the monster, she speaks. Her voice is high, cracked, pushed into the role of a scared girl -- one that she doesn't have any trouble playing. " I-I'll come."
"Good." Scott steps back, giving Sean precedence. "Follow us." And, with that, he backs away a few steps before trustfully turning his back and continuing.
The sirens cut off, though the red light in the Buick's window still casts its heartbeat over the assembled people, bloody, urgent color. Rossi hangs up the radio, offering laconically, "Uniforms're on the way," he adds, with a passing glance for the blood -- not all Phoebe's -- that paints the sidewalk. "This isn't my precinct, Summers. They're going to need her statement before they decide what to do."
The sirens cut off, though the red light in the Buick's window still casts its heartbeat over the assembled people, bloody, urgent color. Rossi hangs up the radio, offering laconically, "Uniforms're on the way. Hospitals're on the alert," he adds, with a passing glance for the blood -- not all Phoebe's -- that paints the sidewalk. "This isn't my precinct, Summers. They're going to need her statement before they decide what to do."
Sean steps forward, opening the box to reveal the basic first aid kit therein. "Hey there," says he, gently. "The name's Sean. Any chance of yours before I start fixin' you up a little?" He pauses once fairly close, and sets his expression calm, and friendly.
Phoebe follows, barefoot feet crunching through the snow while the discarded husks of tattered that were her sneakers lie behind her. Oh, that's why it's so cold. She has the presence of mind to clamp one hand over the wound, somewhat stopping the circulation of blood through the hole in her arm. Phoebe pauses upon being approached by Sean and, with a nod of assent, withdraws her hand, though the coat's still in the way. Grappling for suitable words, she comes up with a stuttered, " S-sorry. "
"If she needs to give a statement . . . I don't suppose it's possible to get her some medical care first?" Scott says as he approaches the Buick. "We could drive her to the correct precinct later. It's not as if you don't know, ah, where we live."
"Well, then , Miss Sorry, could you maybe give me a hand slipping off that jacket?" wonders Sean, with a tiny glint of humour twinkling in a blue eye. "I know it hurts, but we've got to see it before we can sort it." He stoops, placing the box to the floor, before going about his first aid in a practised, efficient manner.
"Ambulance," says Rossi with a crimped brow for the girl. He stoops to pop the trunk open; over his shoulder, he informs, "Blankets in the back. I'll call an ambulance while Cassidy does what he can to patch her up. --And there're the black-and-whites." Indeed. Belated to their mark, two police cars coast down the street, quiet in their silent running though lights of authority wink proof of their urgency. The detective grimaces and thrusts his hands in his pockets, already heading to meet them. "I'll do the talking."
" Phoebe. " automatically corrects the teenager, the beginnings of a bruise becoming noticable on her cheek where the first blow was struck. A slightly trembling hand begins to fumble with the zipper then pauses, the realization that her shirt, hidden under, is closer to a tattered rag than it is a proper garment. Instead, she opts to pull the sleeve up off her arm, complete with a wince from the coarse fabric running over her skin. She looks a bit more in control of herself, but still rather frightened.
"Very well," Scott says, after a moment's hesitation. "I'll follow you around and look attentive, if you don't mind. I should-- we should probably do something about her."
"Phoebe," Sean repeats, with a little nod, as he pulls on the obligatory rubber gloves. "Well then, Phoebe, I'm just going to apply a dressing -- I'm no doctor, but it doesn't look too bad. You'll get fixed up easy enough when we get you where you're going." A bandage taken from the kit without problem. "This may be a bad time to ask -- is that the first time this has happened to you?"
Rossi pauses, turning a glance at Scott while his hands busy themselves with tucking his shield into his breast pocket: plain view, officers. The approaching uniforms relax, slowing their pace. "You think? --She'll get medical care, we'll find out what happened, see if we can get any concerned citizens to tell us what they saw. If she was attacked, they'll probably cut her loose. Depends," he admits, baritone lowering. "Mutant powers, even in self-defense, man--"
Phoebe makes a quick mental review of her advice from Tom, then responds, a slight wavering still evident in her voice. " It's happened once before. Back home. " Rossi's words float past her, causing a look of concern to cross her face. She wasn't told about what would happen if she went to jail...
"Would it be better if she got away?" Scott asks, very quietly. "Bit late now, granted. But our Institute is made for cases like these. Self-control. Protection."
"This might hurt a little," says Sean, as he begins to apply pressure, by the book. "I know it's probably fairly terrifying for you, but I want you to know I'm the same -- got the X Factor, you know. I'm guessing you've not got control of it, just yet?"
Green eyes harden on the question; the black head cants. Rossi turns into Scott, mouth slashed thin and tight. "One time, Summers," he breathes, in the quiet gap between them. "I'm going to pretend this /one time/ that you didn't say that to me. Don't you /ever/ fucking do it again. --Hey, guys. Detective Rossi, Homicide. Sorry. Didn't mean to step on any toes...." Cheerful camaraderie, pitched amiable to the oncoming uniforms. Chris ambles to meet them, baritone joining in casual conversation.
When a doctor, dentist, or any other sort of medical professional says 'this might hurt a little', it invariably does. Thus, a wince follows the tightening pressure. Fortunately, the teenager has something to distract her. Phoebe's eyes are trained on the newcomers. Crap, she's not supposed to be heading to jail. She subconciously begins to nibble on her lower lip, distracted only Sean's question. Nod.
"Rossi. Let's remember for a moment that this /is/ a fifteen year old girl who doesn't need this kind of expos--" Scott snaps back at a hissed whisper, his eyebrows pushing down into his visor. But he lets it drop in the face of company and follows.
Sean completes that particular dressing, keeping up a constant chatter as he does. "Well, over time I'm sure you'll learn to control it -- everyone needs a little assistance with that sort of thing -- I remember the first time I tried to take to the skies. Disaster. Could you place your hand like-? There. Does it hurt anywhere else?" He pauses, after finishing his wrapping, to look at the girl, gauging mood.
An exchange of information overrides the immediate instincts of territorialism; ruffle feathers smooth under professional courtesy. Girl. Attack. Fleeing men. Rossi gestures through the weave of masculine voices, directing the uniforms after the departed Friends; an officer shakes his head, explaining in turn, and the detective shrugs. "They'll call the ambulance," he tells Phoebe and Sean, wandering back to the party with a kind-eyed patrolman in tow. "They can take your statement at the hospital. You got anyone we should call, kid? Parents? Guardian?"
Tense. Frightened. Both understandable emotions, given what just happened. Sean's question prompts Phoebe to take a closer sense of herself, body oblingingly screaming forth it's various points of discomfort. Immediately, she becomes aware of the acute pain in her chest, remanants from her encounter with the steel tip of the boot, the various bruises that are peppered over her body, and the cold that's numbing it's way up her leg, originating from her uncovered feet. " Here. " The word's followed by a hand, indicating the point on her stomach where flesh and footwear came into contact. Any further words are cut off by Rossi's question. " My aunt, Jessica. " Name is quickly followed by means of contact.
Scott continues to trail Rossi like a well trained dog, disguising a desired glower by lifting his eyebrows in great and sympathetic concern. The eyebrows say everything.
The uniform produces a notepad and takes the note; the others of his breed, dispersing, wander around the scene with professional curiosity. The fragments of the bat, discovered, receives its own share of poke-poke-pokey interest. Rossi plows his hands in his pockets, straight-arming viciously, and grimaces. "How's she looking, Irish?"
"Thanks, Officer," Sean says, offering a quick nod. "Not too bad, Chris. Detective Rossi, meet Phoebe. Scott Summers, Phoebe. Wound needs stitching, but she should be alright -- you agree, kid?" A glance, full of meaning and the ultimate question, is delivered to Scott, before the Irishman goes about the stomach.
A nod of Phoebe's head is offered to Detective Rossi, subsequently followed by a response to Sean's question, short and lame. " Yeah. " Sean will ferret no more information about the state of Phoebe's chest wound; she keeps the jacket firmly in place.
"Pleased to meet you, Phoebe," says Rossi, with a cordiality that belies the gun pointed so unerringly and unwaveringly at her but a few minutes ago. "Cassidy, Summers, meet Officer Riley. His jurisdiction. I got to go call my Captain. She's going to love this. Can't go /anywhere/ with you two," he adds with resignation, stalking away in answer to a distant uniform's gesturing arm.
"We should get going," Scott says, almost flatly, in response to Sean's look. "But if we could get your phone number, Phoebe, we'll be able to check up, later. Make sure you're all right." This stated almost in yet another aside. Toward Rossi's stalking. Faint growl implied.
"A pleasure, Riley. If you need a statement later,-" Pocket, dig, "-here's my card." Sean looks towards Scott, and allows another nod. "We'll get off, then. Phoebe? Reckon you'll be okay with these officers?" Fatherly, again.
Phoebe repeats her contact information to Scott, using the same number that she used for her aunt, then turns her attention back to the detective. She doesn't look like she's as glad to meet Rossi as much as he asserts that he is to her. In fact, she doesn't look too pleasant at all. Going to anywhere but Xavier's wasn't discussed with Tom, and there's a slight hint of panick strewn across her face. To Sean, she says, quietly, " I don't want to go to jail. I didn't /do/ anything but defend myself. "
"You were scared, and just trying to stay alive. Nothing wrong. You'll be fine." Sean's statement is decisive, as he allows a final, fatherly smile towards her. "I'll see you soon, okay?" Leaving the girl to the ministrations of the boys in blue, Cassidy makes his way back to his colleague. "Anyway, Scott. Where were we? Mindrape?" A final, comradely smile and the Irishman makes his way back to the car -- back to reality.
[Log ends]
Meanwhile, Satan's little sister goes for a walk downtown for a spot of Christmas shopping, and there I am without my holy water. Never seem to be prepared. Granite boy takes a swing at me, and I'm not even packing a jackhammer. I'd make a crappy boy scout.
Captain'll probably rip me a new one when I get in tomorrow. I can hear her now. And the damn poodles -- maybe we can't be friends. Mutants, cops, whatever their agenda is ....
Shit.
---
Mid-afternoon, and the overcast sky does little to bestow holiday cheer in the wilds of Westchester. A quiet neighborhood. Even the small, quaint stores that make up the bulk of this portion of the city suffer a measure of the Christmas overflow; the traffic of pedestrians not far distant is bright and busy, bustling in and out to the rattle of bells and the clang of doors. Chill. Cold. Snow on the ground, and shadows (dim) lining the streets and alleys: the last two blocks before civilization is gone, and suburbia takes over in truth. Four blocks to habitation. Four blocks to commercialism. A no-man's land in truth, with only a stray dog to watch the show.
And, leaning into an alley's wall, a balding black man peeling his sleeve back from a watch. "She's late."
Harrison lets a scowl touch his features, pensive and gut-wrenchingly ready for action. His favoured bat, stained darkly from various people, sits under the shabby leather of his trench. "She'll be here," he assures at a murmur, observing and waiting. "Don -- ready with the cell in case there's no witness?"
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Such is the sound of Phoebe with her head hung, listlessly pushing one foot in front of the other as she trudges through the neighborhood. The last three hours have been somewhat unpleasant for her. All the fun of shopping was stolen away with the knowledge of what was to pass later in the day, a moment that's rapidly moving from the future into the present. Two bags are thrown over her shoulder and supported by her squeezing fingers; the one on top proclaiming the words 'Old Navy' in cheerful blue letters. Back up top, Phoebe's eyes cut from her white sneakers to the alley looming in front of her. Here goes nothing... Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Bodies stir out of the alley, coalescing out of the debris and detritus that adorns such avenues out of the public eye. The black man straightens, plugging the shine of his scalp with a knit cap. "That her?" Succinct, laconic; efficiency drags on leather gloves and flexes the broad hands beneath them, reveling in muscle and might. Brown eyes flick askance, checking Harrison for cues. "I got it. 9-1-1, right on the money. Wheeler should make the call. /He/ sounds like a woman."
"Fine," Harrison says, throwing a grin back towards his cohort -- seven men, poised to strike. "Wheeler, you wench, do it." Then it's to the wool pulled over the greasy locks, down to cover everything but eyes. "That's the one -- s'posed to turn into some crazy demon thing. Remember -- this is a statement, not a murder. Stay away from its head. Don, lead." He falls into a crouch, carefully watching the incoming figure, hand raised to make the final signal.
Mittened fingers curl tighter around the plastic shopping bag, a physical manifestation of the teenager's growing emotions, at the sight of the men wandering out of the alley. Her mind drifts back to the coaching given to her by Tom, her mentor for these past six months, on what to do in the scenario -- " Just act natural. If you feel scared, act scared. Make it as believable as possible. " He might've not even bothered. Fear is obviously plastered across her face, the emotion seeping out from her in great waves. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. She's about twenty feet away from the closest one. Her voice is high, tainted with her hesistant feelings. " W-what do you want?"
The cell phone, excavated from a pocket, arcs towards the protesting catch of a weedier compatriot; the knit cap rolls down, covering Don's blunt features. Framed neatly in the mouth hole, strong yellowed teeth bare in a grin. "Statement, yeah. I got you. Let's go have some fun, gentlemen." And he steps out into the street's open breadth, a fist leading the way in a solid strike towards Phoebe's head. Heraldry is for assholes. The Friends are all for good old American directness.
Somewhere on the road from Xavier School, a sullen green Buick trundles along the damp, salted roads with a keen sense of injury -- one not alleviated by the debate taking place in its warm interior. "--special prisons," says Detective Chris Rossi, stretched in one-handed ease behind the steering wheel. "That's just bullshit. And what the hell do we do with them when we catch them, anyway? We got no laws for telepaths, and how do we prove that crap? Use another telepath. At least with actual rape we have physical evidence."
The others pile around, fists and feet flinging in desperate attempts to garner contact with the girl. Harrison stays in his crouch, smiling lips hidden behind thick-knitted black wool. "Go on, boys, do it good."
"Got to find a trustworthy telepath," agrees Sean Cassidy, from the closet thing he can come to a relaxed stretch, in the passenger seat. "Shrinks can always tell change, if they're good enough. The cause, though, you need another one -- you drive terribly, you know that?"
"It also depends on the strength of the telepath on trial placed against the strength of the verifying telepath," Scott surmises mildly, slightly leaned back in the opposite passenger seat. "And if you determine you have to imprison them, well -- get a telepath in jail and you will need to take extra precautions."
The fist makes rude and unpleasant contact with Phoebe's cheek, the force enough to send her reeling backwards. Another punch follows a moment later, clipping her on the left shoulder, and then a foot, swinging right into right knee. The girl's quickly on the ground, driven to her stomach by the assualt, where she huddles. Invisible to the attackers are the changes manifesting themselves on her body, transformation urged on by the flood of emotions released into her body. Her normally dark brown eyes have transmuted into a bright and angry red, and already she's starting to grow larger.
"She's starting to change," Don's basso shout advises through the press of bodies, and one last, reluctantly pulled punch hammers down at her before he straightens out of the pack. The man's dark glance skips around the empty street and discovers no witnesses; behind the savage joy, colder reason wakes up and turns to Harrison. And his /bat/. "You gonna use that thing?"
"No chance, dickhead," calls back Harrison, though he pushes to his feet and swings, letting the wooden object begin its journey through the air -- slowly, surely, an arc of slowly spinning, bloodstained tree. "Wheeler? Do your job, wench."
Wheeler, hovering wistfully on the fringes of the fray, dallies a moment longer, gaze eager and absorbed on the melee before reluctantly pressing his thumb into the buttons. 9. 1.
On the road, Det. Rossi snorts, angling a glance to bounce off the mirror at Sean. "I went through the same Academy driving training you went through," he informs with dignity, while the Buick growls neatly through a changing yellow. "Passed with flying colors. Anyway, what do you care, if we get there in one piece? --Not many courts going to trust a telepath, even if it is Doc Grey. Got enough trouble getting /physical/ evidence through, and with that damn Forensics show, every jury thinks some bullshit machine'll prove the case."
"Difference is, I remember it," mutters Cassidy. Idly, a knuckle taps against the inner door. "You get them on something else, then. Semething you can prove. I happen ta like forensics, by the way."
"If we must die, make it a good death, Rossi," Scott states, deadpan, and examines the window control-toggle whatsit with his thumb. Not actually pressing it, now. "Telepaths can lie," Scott acknowledges.
Harrison's attack connects with Phoebe, swinging into her back, through her plain blue overcoat, with a satisfyingly loud thump. Her size has now reached and pased the six foot mark; her clothes -- excepting overcoat and pants, thoughtfully bought at a couple of sizes too large -- have stretched and started to rip. From the small amount of skin that's visible from her hunched up position, an observer could also note the change in color, red underlying the pale tan, and starting to come into greater prominence. Mentally, Phoebe's a storm of emotions, fear cascading and colliding with aggresion. A low growl bubbles up from her throat, closer to that of a dog than a human.
If Don pales behind the ski mask, nature and knitting serve to conceal it. Bodies draw back for a moment as awareness twinges through the blood-lust: fear surges to drive adrenaline, and with a feral noise all its own, the small mob dives to the attack again, thoughts of /statements/ forgotten in the drive of hatred. Muscles bunch as the black man hammers down through bodies, careless of -- indifferent of -- injury to his fellows.
1. Send. Womanly, indeed. High-pitched, thrilled in the voice of androgyny, Wheeler plays his role through the eager jumps of a leashed terrier. "Help. Help! Someone there? There's a big ... a big mutant /monster/ beating up a bunch of guys. I'm on the corner of Terrace and -- shit. /Shit/. Help!"
One satisfying thud, and Harrison takes a step backwards, goggling slightly at the creature. "What the /fuck/ is that?" Another step away. "Tom didn't say anything about- shit." He pounces, swinging fast.
"Nobody's incorruptible," Rossi agrees on the heels of Scott's admission, twirling the steering wheel handily to send them around a corner with -- mercy of mercies -- no fatalities. "And the whole poking through someone's brain, thing? That kind of power--"
Under the didactic, conversational baritone, the radio abruptly breaks into white-voiced static, blaring in professional, measured cadence. "All units, possible 12-83 in progress at Terrace and 4th. Civilian injuries reported. All units--"
"-can be exceptionally dangerous," finishes Sean at a murmur, before listening carefully. "Go, Rossi. It's just 'round the corner." Sharp, snappy, to the point.
"Mutant attack," says Rossi with exasperation, hand already flown to the siren and the planting of the flashing lights in the dashboard. The Buick snarls and spins, wheeled savagely around across two lanes (thankfully empty) to skim into a side street. "Goodie. Why is it whenever I'm /with/ you assholes--"
Steel toed boots slam insistently against Phoebe's side, and a pair of knuckles bounce against the side of the teenager-turned-freak's head. Said head is now sporting a curling pair of ridged horns which, when combined with red leathery skin, elongated ears, and wicked claws, produce the sight of a monster horribly similar to someone's image of a biblical demon. Phoebe's pulls herself to her feet in the span of three seconds, weathering blow after blow that bounces off of her thickened skin. The creature's continued growl turns into an outright roar, displaying a dental nightmare of fangs. Limbs begin to flail, claws slashing and swiping anything that they make contact with in their frenzied flight.
Don's reaction is, sadly, uncreative. "Holy /FUCK/." Creativity is not a prerequisite for membership in the Friends. A demon arm's blow sends the heavy-set man flying to crash into a dumpster's side, sweater shredded around the long bleed of slashes. Excited, infuriated, his compatriots attack harder, one swinging wildly with a two-by-four specially collected for the occasion. More bodies fly.
Intelligence is also not a prerequisite for membership in the Friends.
"Because we're the happy shiny poodle people," retorts Sean, humour etched with the cold, hard darkness of preparation. "Luckily, we also know what we're doin' -- goddammit, where's the news on the perp?"
Forthcoming. Impatient Irish. "Suspect described as a nine-foot tall red-skinned, horned Satan," says the dispatcher, boredom dripping from every word. "All units..."
An inarticulate roar rips from Garath, as his bat rebounds from an arm. He continues his assault, expertly dodging, moving swiftly despite his bulk. "Take it /down/, you fuckers. WHEELER!" The diminutive man appears from the alley, staring goggle-eyed at the demon.
"Cruel coincidence," Scott says with the calmest of amusement, his head tilted just a touch toward the radio as he examines the (fast) milieu out the window. "Do you suppose that's an illusionist or-- I've always wondered about mutants who end up looking like devils."
The monster weathers the blows with more success than the human whose place she took ever did; fists, feet, weapons and construction supplies meet the stiff resistance of leathery skin. Fueled by the emotions that pushed her into this state in the first place, Phoebe rampages upon the humans surrounding her, battle plan starting and beginning at 'get them'.
"I'm blaming /you/, poodles," Rossi announces, speeding the car down a street to turn the last corner. The last corner, and before them: the crime scene. The Buick leaps forward; green eyes widen. "Holy /shit/."
"That /has/ to be an illusionist," Sean says, forcing calm over the instant flash of bewildered staring. "A shapeshifter is possible..." He trails off into a calculating look. "Is that a baseball bat?"
Wheeler abandons the phone where he stands, leaping belatedly to the fray. Or -- perhaps not. "Cops!" he squeals, voice climbing embarrassingly into feminine registers. Behind him, Don struggles painfully to his feet, shaking his head in disorientation. Before him, his brothers in the Friends begin taking their last licks, one flicking out a blade.
"/Fuck/ statements!"
Harrison takes a shot to his chest, staggering backwards as claws rake across his chest. "Shit!" explodes from his chest, and a wincing stumble brings him away from the rampaging monster. "Keep on it, guys! Wait 'til the pigs come out, then run." Then he's back in, defensive now as he attempts to lessen the damage to himself and his brethren.
as claws rake through wool, then skin.
Rossi has been called worse. A fist takes claim of the radio, rattling a hasty answer to the call; the powerful Buick screams as it spins, skidding to a controlled, disciplined stop -- nuts to you, Sean -- a few yards away. It is the work of a second to unbuckle and slam the door open, and only another second before the gun is out and pointed. At ... which? "NYPD!"
Phoebe catches a glint of steel out of the corner of her eye, quickly followed by a subsequent burst of agony in her arm. Blood, thick and scarlet, blossoms out of her heavy arm, liquid ribboning through the air as she continues to swipe at the others. Pain spurs her on, leading her to the one who holds the knife. Out flashes her head, scything teeth leading the charge. The call of New York's finest is lost on her; she's trapped inside of her emotions, and will most likely remain there until the members of FoH has had their exuent.
Cassidy hits the ground moving, straight into a battle crouch. A long, hefty breath inwards. "Soon as you need me, Rossi," says he, locking eyes onto the demonic figure in the middle.
Harrison pulls back, jamming his bat towards the gaping maw of the monster in a last-ditch attempt to distract it. He releases it, then turns to begin a sprint into the alley, and away. "Move, you fucks!"
A scream bubbles through the air, piercing even the shouts of men. The knife-wielder flies away, leaving ample evidence of injury behind him; hand pressed to his side, Don drags himself to a rasping run: away. /Away/. "Come /on/, you fuckers!" Retreat is sounded, and bodies scramble to obey.
"Stand /down/, pointy-head!" roars Rossi from the door's cover, a passing glance checking the position of his companions. "God/dammit/. Why does Satan always have to show up on my day /off/?"
"Want me to get the runners?" wonders Sean, throwing a glance towards Rossi -- impromptu leader.
Harrison's aim is true; the bat flies directly between Phoebe's mandibles, where it's progress is halted by applied pressure from either side. Phoebe applies a bit of force and, one crunching sound later, the tip of the bat breaks off, ending it's reign as a dispenser of vigilante justice. The hulking red creature pants, letting both pieces drop out of her mouth while her arm continues to push burbling streams off blood out. Finally, /finally/, the voices coming from behind her are acknowledged by her mind and she turns, staring. Her mind grapples to reach Tom's instructions on what to do next, though nothing coherent is able to break through the wall of emotion.
Scott emerges from behind Rossi, standing not quite in front of him, but near enough to appear the more prominent of the group. "The runners aren't important," he advises Sean lowly, as he steps, and addresses Pheobe in a louder voice, projected in volume, but not oppressive. "We're not going to hurt you."
"Balaclavas and baseball bats," replies Sean. "Targeted violence. Your call, though." Quite which one that is sent to, unknown, but Banshee relaxes his stance, coming to his full six feet and bringing a smile to the fore.
A green eye flickers, sighting down that readied gun. /Scott/ might not. /Rossi/, on the other hand -- he steps out as well from behind cover, wary with attention for the demon's distance and pose. "Biggest threat first," he says askance, voice clipped. "They're not the threat right now. --If you're an illusionist, buddy, time to drop the act."
Phoebe's arms are held loosely, non-threateningly, at her side, no other force being exherted on them other than the force of gravity. She's breathing in heavy pants, and hasn't even noticed, outside a loose acknowledgement of pain, then wound that continues to issue blood from her arms. She makes no external movements except to continue stay silent and still, mind working through the cloud of dull emotion that covers it.
"I'm not denying they need apprehending, but we'll lose /her/ if we do," Scott explains sidelong and quietly, his eyes still fixed (behind the visor) on Phoebe. "Think she's in shock?" he more generally asides, and smiles at the, ah, devil. "Can you walk?"
Rossi wants to know, "How do you know it's a /she/? No way in /hell/ it's fitting in the Buick." The gun lowers slightly, eased from its ready aim.
"I can handle six men with bats, Scott," notes Sean, though he lifts shoulders into a shrug of acceptance. He studies the demon carefully, offering another smile -- the special fatherly smile reserved for teenage angst. "Not enough blood there for shock, I think. Rossi, she's just a mutant. Like me. Like Scott. Relax."
"I'm /relaxed/, Irish," advises Rossi, irritation alive and kicking in the Brooklyn-scored baritone. He ventures another step to the side, closer, weapon lowering a little more in favor of a single upraised hand. Empty. See? (Ignore the gun.) Somewhere not too distant, sirens begin to crescendo in belated, banshee approach. "Can you talk? --Christ. Those teeth. Can you talk? What's your name?"
Call. Go. Cops. Fight. Don't fight. Cops. Call cops. Don't fight. Go. Phoebe's mental fingers latch onto the memory that Tom imparted upon her, breaking through the shell that she had been fighting with. " One of our men will call the cops, who will arrive most likely a few minutes after the fighting begins. Do not hurt the cops, Phoebe. Go with them. " Intense feelings begin to ebb, with the features soon to follow. Phoebe responds to both Scott and Rossi's questions with action, enacting movement that will be, in retrospect, considered a bad idea. One step is taken forward, and Phoebe tries to speak. Growls issue forth instead.
"Call me sexist, but the behavior strikes me as female. Men are more likely to go berserk, at least /attempt/ to swear, any number of things. Still just a guess." Scott's mild aside brushes to Sean. "If you want to go after them, you can." He takes a step toward Phoebe, friendly like, unbothered by growls. "Do you have some other form you could change to?"
The gun pops up again at that errant step forward, Rossi's gaze clear and cold down its length. "Sense of humor, Summers?" Another step to the side, away from Cyclops, gives the cop a clear line of fire. Scott and Sean may be confident. Det. Chris Rossi is a paranoid son-of-a-bitch. Also, a lapsed Catholic without holy water.
"Bit late now," mutters Sean, before brightening to another smile. He simply follows Scott, at a reasonable distance, and keeps himself relaxed. Unthreatening. "It has been known for our friend to actually be hilarious."
The creature's advance is halted by the reappearance of the gun's muzzle. Phoebe halts, in both speech and movement. She's already begun to put a leash back on her mind again. Small and subtle presentations of her changes begin to show themselves. Size diminishes, claws and horns receede. Her hands move up in a gesture of peace as she becomes more mentally coherent, showing both of her open and empty palms.
"Mine is a subtle humor," Scott murmurs, cutting down his asides to let his attention rest primarily on Phoebe. Who receives a quiet, encouraging smile at her transformation. "That's more like it. What's your name?"
The gun's muzzle drops slowly as the transformation takes place, a distant wonder easing even the cynical detective's mien. "I'll be damned."
Sean says, "Scott was right." He allows another smile to the demon, and slowly, surely, begins a journey back towards the Buick. "Gonna waylay anyone that comes, so they don't scare her," he explains.
"They're not going to listen to you," Rossi realizes, torn. He lifts his head to the gathering approach of officialdom in all its noisy, riotous glory, and grimaces. "Hold off, Irish. I'll call in a quieter approach. -- You keep an eye on /her/." Back to the Buick he goes, stretching an arm in for the radio and a rasped, coded exchange with the dispatcher.
A rumbling growl emanates from Phoebe's throat, speech still elusive to her. Horns give way to straight brown hair, claws are slowly replaced by fingers, and her size continues to shrink. She's now about halfway done.
"Eye kept. Don't worry about it," Scott notes, and folds his arms, observing the continued transformation patiently.
The Irishman continues to the Buick, though now digging into glove compartment. "She's hurt," he explains to the Detective, before he exits, brandishing a small plastic box as he makes his way back slowly back.
The transformation goes about undoing itself rather faster than it took to come into being in the first place. In the space of a minute, she's back to her regular self, a decidedly average looking teenage girl, no older than fifteen. The frightened look on her face is unfeigned, and it's only now that she visually takes note of the growing pool of scarlet, bubbling gently through the hole in her oversized jacket. Breathing heavily, she keeps her eyes on Scott, frozen in place.
"Right." Scott smiles, a little more. One has to slowly transform into smiling, after all. "We can get you some medical help, if you'll come with us? I promise it's safe. And if you're not, ah, comfortable with that, we'll phone someone in."
"First aid kit," explains Sean, wafting it a little. "Keep you going 'til we can get you somewhere proper." Insert fatherly smile mk.2 -- friendly.
Pant. Pant. Pant. The girl holds her position for a drawn out length of time, mentally bringing everything back under her concious control. When she's finally herself again, Phoebe, and not the monster, she speaks. Her voice is high, cracked, pushed into the role of a scared girl -- one that she doesn't have any trouble playing. " I-I'll come."
"Good." Scott steps back, giving Sean precedence. "Follow us." And, with that, he backs away a few steps before trustfully turning his back and continuing.
The sirens cut off, though the red light in the Buick's window still casts its heartbeat over the assembled people, bloody, urgent color. Rossi hangs up the radio, offering laconically, "Uniforms're on the way," he adds, with a passing glance for the blood -- not all Phoebe's -- that paints the sidewalk. "This isn't my precinct, Summers. They're going to need her statement before they decide what to do."
The sirens cut off, though the red light in the Buick's window still casts its heartbeat over the assembled people, bloody, urgent color. Rossi hangs up the radio, offering laconically, "Uniforms're on the way. Hospitals're on the alert," he adds, with a passing glance for the blood -- not all Phoebe's -- that paints the sidewalk. "This isn't my precinct, Summers. They're going to need her statement before they decide what to do."
Sean steps forward, opening the box to reveal the basic first aid kit therein. "Hey there," says he, gently. "The name's Sean. Any chance of yours before I start fixin' you up a little?" He pauses once fairly close, and sets his expression calm, and friendly.
Phoebe follows, barefoot feet crunching through the snow while the discarded husks of tattered that were her sneakers lie behind her. Oh, that's why it's so cold. She has the presence of mind to clamp one hand over the wound, somewhat stopping the circulation of blood through the hole in her arm. Phoebe pauses upon being approached by Sean and, with a nod of assent, withdraws her hand, though the coat's still in the way. Grappling for suitable words, she comes up with a stuttered, " S-sorry. "
"If she needs to give a statement . . . I don't suppose it's possible to get her some medical care first?" Scott says as he approaches the Buick. "We could drive her to the correct precinct later. It's not as if you don't know, ah, where we live."
"Well, then , Miss Sorry, could you maybe give me a hand slipping off that jacket?" wonders Sean, with a tiny glint of humour twinkling in a blue eye. "I know it hurts, but we've got to see it before we can sort it." He stoops, placing the box to the floor, before going about his first aid in a practised, efficient manner.
"Ambulance," says Rossi with a crimped brow for the girl. He stoops to pop the trunk open; over his shoulder, he informs, "Blankets in the back. I'll call an ambulance while Cassidy does what he can to patch her up. --And there're the black-and-whites." Indeed. Belated to their mark, two police cars coast down the street, quiet in their silent running though lights of authority wink proof of their urgency. The detective grimaces and thrusts his hands in his pockets, already heading to meet them. "I'll do the talking."
" Phoebe. " automatically corrects the teenager, the beginnings of a bruise becoming noticable on her cheek where the first blow was struck. A slightly trembling hand begins to fumble with the zipper then pauses, the realization that her shirt, hidden under, is closer to a tattered rag than it is a proper garment. Instead, she opts to pull the sleeve up off her arm, complete with a wince from the coarse fabric running over her skin. She looks a bit more in control of herself, but still rather frightened.
"Very well," Scott says, after a moment's hesitation. "I'll follow you around and look attentive, if you don't mind. I should-- we should probably do something about her."
"Phoebe," Sean repeats, with a little nod, as he pulls on the obligatory rubber gloves. "Well then, Phoebe, I'm just going to apply a dressing -- I'm no doctor, but it doesn't look too bad. You'll get fixed up easy enough when we get you where you're going." A bandage taken from the kit without problem. "This may be a bad time to ask -- is that the first time this has happened to you?"
Rossi pauses, turning a glance at Scott while his hands busy themselves with tucking his shield into his breast pocket: plain view, officers. The approaching uniforms relax, slowing their pace. "You think? --She'll get medical care, we'll find out what happened, see if we can get any concerned citizens to tell us what they saw. If she was attacked, they'll probably cut her loose. Depends," he admits, baritone lowering. "Mutant powers, even in self-defense, man--"
Phoebe makes a quick mental review of her advice from Tom, then responds, a slight wavering still evident in her voice. " It's happened once before. Back home. " Rossi's words float past her, causing a look of concern to cross her face. She wasn't told about what would happen if she went to jail...
"Would it be better if she got away?" Scott asks, very quietly. "Bit late now, granted. But our Institute is made for cases like these. Self-control. Protection."
"This might hurt a little," says Sean, as he begins to apply pressure, by the book. "I know it's probably fairly terrifying for you, but I want you to know I'm the same -- got the X Factor, you know. I'm guessing you've not got control of it, just yet?"
Green eyes harden on the question; the black head cants. Rossi turns into Scott, mouth slashed thin and tight. "One time, Summers," he breathes, in the quiet gap between them. "I'm going to pretend this /one time/ that you didn't say that to me. Don't you /ever/ fucking do it again. --Hey, guys. Detective Rossi, Homicide. Sorry. Didn't mean to step on any toes...." Cheerful camaraderie, pitched amiable to the oncoming uniforms. Chris ambles to meet them, baritone joining in casual conversation.
When a doctor, dentist, or any other sort of medical professional says 'this might hurt a little', it invariably does. Thus, a wince follows the tightening pressure. Fortunately, the teenager has something to distract her. Phoebe's eyes are trained on the newcomers. Crap, she's not supposed to be heading to jail. She subconciously begins to nibble on her lower lip, distracted only Sean's question. Nod.
"Rossi. Let's remember for a moment that this /is/ a fifteen year old girl who doesn't need this kind of expos--" Scott snaps back at a hissed whisper, his eyebrows pushing down into his visor. But he lets it drop in the face of company and follows.
Sean completes that particular dressing, keeping up a constant chatter as he does. "Well, over time I'm sure you'll learn to control it -- everyone needs a little assistance with that sort of thing -- I remember the first time I tried to take to the skies. Disaster. Could you place your hand like-? There. Does it hurt anywhere else?" He pauses, after finishing his wrapping, to look at the girl, gauging mood.
An exchange of information overrides the immediate instincts of territorialism; ruffle feathers smooth under professional courtesy. Girl. Attack. Fleeing men. Rossi gestures through the weave of masculine voices, directing the uniforms after the departed Friends; an officer shakes his head, explaining in turn, and the detective shrugs. "They'll call the ambulance," he tells Phoebe and Sean, wandering back to the party with a kind-eyed patrolman in tow. "They can take your statement at the hospital. You got anyone we should call, kid? Parents? Guardian?"
Tense. Frightened. Both understandable emotions, given what just happened. Sean's question prompts Phoebe to take a closer sense of herself, body oblingingly screaming forth it's various points of discomfort. Immediately, she becomes aware of the acute pain in her chest, remanants from her encounter with the steel tip of the boot, the various bruises that are peppered over her body, and the cold that's numbing it's way up her leg, originating from her uncovered feet. " Here. " The word's followed by a hand, indicating the point on her stomach where flesh and footwear came into contact. Any further words are cut off by Rossi's question. " My aunt, Jessica. " Name is quickly followed by means of contact.
Scott continues to trail Rossi like a well trained dog, disguising a desired glower by lifting his eyebrows in great and sympathetic concern. The eyebrows say everything.
The uniform produces a notepad and takes the note; the others of his breed, dispersing, wander around the scene with professional curiosity. The fragments of the bat, discovered, receives its own share of poke-poke-pokey interest. Rossi plows his hands in his pockets, straight-arming viciously, and grimaces. "How's she looking, Irish?"
"Thanks, Officer," Sean says, offering a quick nod. "Not too bad, Chris. Detective Rossi, meet Phoebe. Scott Summers, Phoebe. Wound needs stitching, but she should be alright -- you agree, kid?" A glance, full of meaning and the ultimate question, is delivered to Scott, before the Irishman goes about the stomach.
A nod of Phoebe's head is offered to Detective Rossi, subsequently followed by a response to Sean's question, short and lame. " Yeah. " Sean will ferret no more information about the state of Phoebe's chest wound; she keeps the jacket firmly in place.
"Pleased to meet you, Phoebe," says Rossi, with a cordiality that belies the gun pointed so unerringly and unwaveringly at her but a few minutes ago. "Cassidy, Summers, meet Officer Riley. His jurisdiction. I got to go call my Captain. She's going to love this. Can't go /anywhere/ with you two," he adds with resignation, stalking away in answer to a distant uniform's gesturing arm.
"We should get going," Scott says, almost flatly, in response to Sean's look. "But if we could get your phone number, Phoebe, we'll be able to check up, later. Make sure you're all right." This stated almost in yet another aside. Toward Rossi's stalking. Faint growl implied.
"A pleasure, Riley. If you need a statement later,-" Pocket, dig, "-here's my card." Sean looks towards Scott, and allows another nod. "We'll get off, then. Phoebe? Reckon you'll be okay with these officers?" Fatherly, again.
Phoebe repeats her contact information to Scott, using the same number that she used for her aunt, then turns her attention back to the detective. She doesn't look like she's as glad to meet Rossi as much as he asserts that he is to her. In fact, she doesn't look too pleasant at all. Going to anywhere but Xavier's wasn't discussed with Tom, and there's a slight hint of panick strewn across her face. To Sean, she says, quietly, " I don't want to go to jail. I didn't /do/ anything but defend myself. "
"You were scared, and just trying to stay alive. Nothing wrong. You'll be fine." Sean's statement is decisive, as he allows a final, fatherly smile towards her. "I'll see you soon, okay?" Leaving the girl to the ministrations of the boys in blue, Cassidy makes his way back to his colleague. "Anyway, Scott. Where were we? Mindrape?" A final, comradely smile and the Irishman makes his way back to the car -- back to reality.
[Log ends]