(no subject)
4 March 2007:
From the main street outside, the sound of shattering glass can be heard down the length of a dingy alleyway. After a brief pause, it sounds twice more, and the undeniable smell of smoke and gasoline wafts out on the wind.
The weather is not great, really. Certainly not romantic walk on a weekend afternoon weather. But then again, Greenwich Village is not properly romantic walk territory anyway, and for all their geeky flirting, Andre and Beckah are not traditional romantics. The two Californians walk down the street, the acoustic musician holding his cane in his left hand and one of the hands of his electronic musician girlfriend with his other. Yet that cane is not so steady at the sound of explosions and the smell of glass. There is no /shaking/ from the explosion that is detectible outside, but a slippy cane and a stumble are a natural human reaction. Andre looks at Beckah, jaw practically unhinging. "Crap, what was that?!"
Beckah looks surprised, but perhaps not to such a degree as Andre. She looks in the direction of the sounds and smells, squinting her eyes at the alleyway and frowning. "I don't know?" She returns, "Maybe a car accident or something?" It's an alley. Logic says there could be cars in it. And when one is not familiar with the Sanctuary, wild guesses seem sane.
Smoke rises, now visible as it stretches for the sky, and in the distance sirens start to wail. The alley remains silent, for the moment.
It is an inevitable truth that when something exciting happens in New York City, people will appear where there previously was none. And so it is here. Outside across the street, bodies start to materialize, bundled against the weather but well and truly caught by the prospect of something interesting going down. First two or three. Then five. Then ten. More gather, brought by some signal inherent in New Yorkers: like the lemming instinct to stampede, it gathers them into interested, round-eyed spectatorship. Something is burning. Cool. Has someone called the cops? Wonder what it is? Hey, take a photo, Billy Bob. We can show the family back home. The Big Apple shore is excitin'.
Sirens grow closer, and response time for the first-arrivals is several minutes after the first call, the first shattering of glass. The police arrive first, and when they sprint for the alleyway, several masked figures clamber up fire escapes and run down alleyways to bowl over pedestrians. The front window of a coffeeshop is completely shattered and fallen away, and smoke pours from it in thick, billowing clouds.
With the arrival of police and after catching the sight of masked men running like hell and banging into people, Beckah's first instinct is to try to see just what is happening with the now clearly smoking building. She darts a few steps forward only to come up short and instead, try to see down the alley from her new distance. Human nature.
"Jesus /Christ/--"
Uniforms scatter, command shouting instructions in a full-throated bellow that sends two officers pelting after masked figures while the two remaining confront the belch of smoke and heat. Two more cars skid down the street, sirens blazing; one of them, unmarked, disgorges Chris Rossi and his partner on a rip of startled curses. "Fucking--" The nearby sergeant shouts a peremptory command. The detectives leap to obey, heading for the blocked door.
As further booming and banging comes from the Alleyway, Andre shakes his head at Beckah, some of the color draining out of his face. "That is so not a car accident. Car accidents are not that...repetitive. And...I know that alley. Bad news in that alley." He looks at his leg.
Beckah's eyes dart from the alley to Andre's leg and back. She looks around as more and more of the police cars appear. "This doesn't look good at all," she says in blatant obviousness. The red dreadlocked bystander continues gently jockeying for a visual clue as to what is happening.
The wailing of sirens get louder, then stop as several ambulances make it on the scene, paramedics tumbling out of their vehicles, slinging gear over their shoulders and standing outside the Sanctuary. Alicia steps out and looks at the carnage and the gawkers. "Oh /hell/!" she mutters, hefting her orange gear bag and making for the front door.
Several explosions of varying intensity sound from within the building, and the fire continues largely unabated. Smoke is a daunting thing. Entrance to the building is denied by flames and smoke, and from the sounds coming from within, it's a real fun time in there! Lucky, there's always the FDNY to save the day. Right? RIGHT?
A K-9 car screeches to a halt near as well, Andrew and Zeke joining the chaos. "Jesus Christ." He eyes the smoking and fires. Zeke barks and tugs to be let work and search, held back only by Andrew's iron grip on his leash. The dog may be for narcotics, but he can track perps...or find people...if it comes to that. He's quick on the heels of the others into the alley.
In the distance, lagging more than they'd like, the sirens of the FDNY can be heard behind the NYPD. There is a slight problem on reaching the alley's mouth: the great red and white Seagrave ladder truck and engine summoned to the scene cannot fit down the narrow length of McLachlan Alley. The firemen and their gear must hump on in on foot. Ladder 26 is first, out of their district but summoned in to cover for a crew already out. The engine boys are slower, hauling hoses and running lines.
Unrecognizable at the head of them, bar for the 'KESSLER' across the back of his jacket, and the lieutenant's insignia on his helmet, Matt and partner of Lieutenant Freddy Kowalski stride forward with haste and oxygen masks. And axes.
In spite of having met a couple of the emergency workers on scene and knowing one detective, Beckah does not recognize any faces. There are explosions, and there is smoke. And there is a crowd. Instead, she holds tightly onto Andre's hand. Even out on the street near the mouth of McLachlan Alley, this is a frightening place to be.
Alicia stares at the dumpster in front of the door, looking around in disgust. "That thing didn't make it there by /itself/," she growls, then moves to the side as the FDNY show up, switching her weight from side to side as she watches the flames and smoke, waiting for the opportunity to get in.
The Sergeant, ranking officer on the scene, has a veteran's control of priorities. The uniforms and Beston are pressed to the task of pushing aside the dumpster that blocks the front door. Rossi is grabbed by an arm, and engaged in a quick discussion before the detective is pushed free and sent racing around the building.
FDNY. About fucking time. "/Back door/," Rossi shouts across to cops and firemen, snagging Andrew with a hasty arm that does not bother with recognition. "Lose the goddamn dog!"
Andre clutches Beckah's hand back, knuckles going white both there and on the hand gripping the cane. The way his shoulders and knees tense seem to indicate that he's putting pressure on the ground. The pressure is also evident in his face. Though there is still no tangible shaking in the street, Andre's eyes begin to water from smoke and train wreck syndrome. "Beckah. There's a coffeeshop in there. I go to it sometimes. A lot of my friends go there a lot of the time." His voice is quiet, almost lost.
Andrew only takes a moment to assess what he can of the situation, whoever did this isn't his to chase down. No time to argue or debate, the dog goes back into the back of the car until or if he's needed later. Then he tears back with unexpected speed around the building, towards the ordered back door.
The paramedics are milling around, though a few are lighting up cigarettes and waiting for the wounded. There's even a few muttered comments about letting 'the damn place' burn, but Alicia doesn't do more than make note of the bigoted remarks before grabbing her driver and heading to the back door, following the cops to see if she can get in on their coattails.
At the sound of yet another explosion from the building, Beckah continues to cling to Andre's white-knuckling hand. "Those masked guys... Terrorists?" She asks, though she does not really expect the man beside her, or anyone else, to have an answer.
"Stay back," orders Matt to Alicia, one hand reaching out to try and snag her shoulder, and failing as she passes. "We don't know shit about the conditions inside, and you paras are no good to anyone crispy-fried. "We'll bring 'em out as we find 'em" confirms Kowalski. "
The NYPD and the dumpster are eyed. The FDNY decide to assist, helping in the last few inches of getting the dumpster out of the way, and then the fire axes fly. Jagged splinters arc, threatening eyes unshielded, but the door gives way after a minute's eternity. Radio reports crackle. The men enter into the hell-hole in a pair, as others of their team race for the roof to try and ventilate.
Behind them, the first few test shots of water are fired from hoses, as the pressure is ramped up.
Alicia glares at the cop, ducking under his hand, her short frame making it easy to dodge his grasp. "I don't give a good goddamn! It's been too /long/!" She shifts her bag on her shoulder. "I'll stay out of the way, but let me /help/!"
"You blow up a building and you're not supposed to, you're a terrorist," Andre assesses weakly. He's staring toward the alley, his eyes trained more on the reflection of siren lights off of buildings and the cloud of debris rising than on the matter of sifting through the growing crowd for masked men. He still appears to be straining toward the ground, though his left knee in particular starts to wobble profoundly. "I don't know why I'm watching this. There might be people in there I know. I should either be...trying to help, or not staring!" The matter of trying to help is enunciated particularly helplessly.
The top floor of the building is in sad repair, and bits and pieces of it do not only break through the interior, but decorative bits of (heavy!) molding fall to rain down on helpful alphabet soup men and women: FDNY, NYPD. Material continues to collapse inward, but with the dumpster shoved away from the front door, help begins to move in to contain the fire. The back door with its large truck (no keys!) continues to look unhelpful. The OTHER back door that spills out from the underground is open. So open.
Beckah pushes Andre lightly from his left side, a cue to get him off of his bad leg. "You're going to hurt yourself," she whispers urgently at him. Her concern is now split between trying to see what is happening and making sure that her boyfriend does not destroy himself trying to exert his will and power upon the sidewalk. "There's nothing we can do. The firemen and stuff will do their jobs. It's what they're for."
Rossi has no argument to make to Alicia or Matt; he slams on the brakes, rounding the corner, and pauses to stare for a split second at the truck blocking the back door. "Fucking-A," he curses, before bypassing the vehicle to cloak his nose and mouth in a hastily mined handkerchief. Other back door it is.
The other back door has its own set of gawkers, just like all the others. Here and there, people wield cell phones: to call and exclaim, to snap pictures of the excitement. One person has a digital camera, aimed on the back door. His focus tracks Rossi's progress, and then fixes on the door.
Andre's left leg twitches more emphatically, and he lifts it so that only his toe rests on the ground. His right leg is still tense as ever, though his entire posture leans to the side as his left arm suddenly compensates for the lack of weight bearing capability on his leg. "I know, I know, I know...but. I couldn't do anything in the riot either. I couldn't do anything. And I'm staring and that's wrong and I wanna know if my friends are in there but I also don't know if I want to know." His other hand is clamped quite hard around Beckah's.
Andrew skids to a stop at the sight of the truck, before coming around it. He sees the backdoor, but also the crowds around it. He comes towards them, wanting to keep the backdoor cleared. "I need everyone to get back!" He barks the order to the gathered, glancing around briefly. "Stand back!" No point in creating more hazards then there already are here.
Alicia curses under her breath and pulls out a penlight and throws her bag over her shoulder, following the policeman into the building, the small light helping her find her way.
Alicia goes to The Sanctuary
Outside, the chroniclers note the NYPDs victory over the FDNY on the race to find a save exit. Herded away from the exit by the outpouring of smoke, the crowd pushes back to allow people out. Mysterious masked men are long since gone -- or, if not gone, at least they have taken of their masks.
Outside, a few ragged cheers rise as the first of the people from inside spill out -- but just a few cheers. The majority of the crowd watches in grim silence, gawking with breath held. Camera phones click, and one digital recorder continues to track the back door.
Beckah remains largely where she is, aside from occasionally pushing up onto the toes of her boots in order to lift her gaze above the rest of the crowd as the fire continues to rage, and activity rushes around dizzyingly. Her hand is firmly on Andre's the entire time, "This is fucking horrible," she finally notes.
Andre isn't about to move his hand away from Beckah's, either. His eyelids lower and his jaw quivers. "Don't ever get into a situation like that, ok? Never."
Stumbling out into the alley, clutching a half finished bottle of beer in her hand, Tabitha gulps down the fresh clean air.
Andrew keeps his attention divided between the door, and keeping the gawking crowds from encroaching too close. The tiniest of grim smiles flickers across his features for a split second at the first few out, at least some are still alive. It's a start. Not a huge one, but a start.
Paramedics less fool-hardy wait for people to straggle out. A young man comes up to Tabitha's side as she clears the building to speak with her and get a sense of her condition. A conclusion of neither dying nor in danger of it puts her out of his mind.
As firemen hand survivors off and the fire takes hold full-force inside the basement, the lights begin to pop. One, two, three near the stairs. The others last a moment longer before they, too, go out. The building groans. Overhead, an entire floor has collapsed downward onto another.
Jubilee teleports in.
Hi, Bobby! Hi, Kathryn! Hi, Jubilee! Silent, grim faces watch as more people spill out. Most people have grown tired of taking pictures with their camera phones, but one determined young man continues to film.
Paramedics outside wait for people to clear the building. "Move away! It's unstable!" an older man shouts out, drawing the stragglers in a line toward waiting ambulances. The crowd has been pushed back, but they still linger. Each person who comes out is attended to, condition taken note of and those most in need of help given it.
Bobby is still muttering wheezing implications under his breath. Not happy. Not ill! Just not happy. Oh, to be a little less limp, a little more oxygenated, a little less-- exposed. Hello. But Bobby hasn't thought so far as the media yet. He squints dimly out between his eyelids and doesn't process much beyond. Some stupid do-gooder's pushing an oxygen mask on him or something.
As people start to spill out of the door and into the alleyway, Andre emits a long and ragged breath and moisture starts to run from the corners of his eyes. "Beckah. Look. People're coming out. They didn't all die." He leans even more heavily on his cane and gives his girlfriend a long look before considering the increasing size of the group of burned and charred survivors. "They didn't all die!"
Kathryn looks far worse then she is, only her hands are burned and cut, but blood, soot and sweat leave her looking much worse off. That and the disoriented, dazed glaze to her eyes as she's attended to by the paramedics as she mutely nods or shakes her head to anything spoken in her direction.
Beckah , remaining tucked safely into the crowd beside Andre, squeezes at his hand at his realization that people inside have not all been killed. She winces for his sake. Unlike him, she did not expect to know anyone in there. She's somewhat detached, a voyeur on the sidelines of all of this.
Briefly overwhelmed by the rush of people, the paramedics focus on those worse injured while others are kept close for treatment, statements, and other such fun. Occasional bits of stone, mortar, and brick crumble off the building. The crowd stands well back, and watches silently. A digital camera continues to record.
Zenith makes it outside, but no farther before she collapses, powers having taken everything she has. But lying on the ground and resting for a while, panting, that's nice.
Lucy comes coughing out, leaning on Jonah vaguely, her right arm limp and bleeding, looking for all purposes like a bat out of hell. Covered in smoke, grime, blood, sweat--it is not a pleasant reentry into society. She is still sparking vaguely into Jonah's arm, dizzy.
Tears leave streaks of lighter grey against the black smoke stains on Jackson's cheeks as he exits into the alley. His crawling turned into being half-dragged, but he certainly wasn't about to offer any resistance to the firefighter who helped him out of the building -- his burned legs could hardly support his weight even if he'd wanted to.
However unpleasant Lucy's reentry, it is recorded for posterity. A paramedic moves up to help her, and then falls back with wary hesitation at her sparking. "Are you dangerous?" he asks bluntly.
With the building now cleared of all who can be found, and too unsafe for further searches, the laddermen are out, and the engine crews are in. Cold mist fills the early March air, generated by stream after stream of water trying to cool the flames, knock out the heat. To those so recently pulled from the fire, chills may well set in even without the helping hand of shock and burns.
Not nice enough. A firefighter shouts at Zenith and swoops over her, grabbing her by the shoulders to drag her backwards across the concrete. Debris pelts at them from above; the man squints, shielding her face with his shoulders before hauling brutally backward again. Business. All business. He dumps her by an ambulance before slapping on his mask again to head back into the action.
Glaring at the jerk with the camera, Tabitha takes a few unsteady steps raising her fist. The sudden movement makes the world spin a little, then a nice man tells her to sit down and breathe through a mask.
Bobby is -- oxygen masked. And a little more coherent, if not a whole lot. Used a lot of ice, breathed in a lot of smoke. He seems to be relaxing a bit, maybe. Stopped muttering, at least.
Andre leans forward a little, cane serving as a very primary support now, eyes watering with stress and drifting smoke. Those eyes squint until Zenith appears outside, as well as Jackson and Lucy. The appearance of the latter cause Andre to tap Beckah's hand with one finger of the hand still clutching it tightly. "Beckah. You know /her/. But she's not dead. None of them look dead!"
At some point during the proceedings, supporting Jeremy has turned into carrying Jeremy, though there is nothing graceful about the process. Rossi hauls the student to the nearest ambulance and surrenders him to a harassed EMT. "Inhaler," he supplies, and then does something complicated and ugly with his own lungs. His face is black and comely! Except for the red eyes.
Lucy glares at the paramedic, drawing back from him and cradling her arm. "Are /you/?" she snaps back, eyes tearing up. "Do your fucking job!" It is, of course, only the residual smoke in her eyes making her cry. Not pain. Not confusion.
Nearby, coughing into her own oxygen mask, Jubilee curls against a tire of some vehicle. Her skin tone gradually starts to lose it's blueish cast.
Rossi's so dreamy. Possibly someone, somewhere in the crowd swoons, overcome.
Matt is well on Alicia's heels, carrying Elliott over to a waiting ambulance with a brow knit in worry, and little encouraging mutters. ("Don't die, goddamnit, we haven't finished playing Dead Rising" isn't perhaps the most stirring of speeches.) Once she's been loaded into the ambulance, he's left at a loss, standing around and looking for something more to do. The nearness of his own demise is just a matter of course. "Kowalski!" he bounds over towards his crewmate, currently looking at Jubilee with mild concern. "Kessler," he mutters sidelong. "Is that the kid's...?"
Jonah does his best to hold onto Lucy, that taking about the rest of his reserved energy. He coughs violently and is glad of the paramedic help, despite his apparent rudeness. "Just help her." He growls out as best he can.
Up onto the toes of her boots, Beckah's eyes go rather wide at having Lucy pointed out to her, "Holy fucking shit. Lucy?!" It's now that this becomes something personal to her. Her fingers grasp Andre's hand much more tightly as she fights with an urge to try to run out of the crowd and to the friend she's spotted. She edges forward a bit, but doesn't cave in.
"I'm trying, ma'am," the paramedic answers Lucy, regarding her steadily and ignoring Jonah completely. "But I need to know if it is dangerous to treat you. If you could just calm down--?"
"I /am/ calm! You try being dragged out of fire!" she snaps. It takes several deep breaths--and the arrival of Beckah and Andre--to calm her. "Go help someone who needs it then, you sod. I've just got a few /splinters/." Lies, and it is probably less selflessness and more of a desire for the paramedic the clear the fuck off.
With help, Zenith makes it as far as sitting up, and staying numbly still as she's checked over--smoke inhalation and shock worsened by her exhaustion, but nothing else directly needing treatment.
The crowd thins as things move from exciting to dangerous: crumbling building, dangerous muties, et cetera. Camera phones go down and so do digital cameras, people dispersing.
Andrew still eyes the crowds, but as they thin his attention is directed more towards those coming out. One form in particular makes his blood run cold. Jonah was in there? Its all he can do to remain where he is, to remain professional, instead of going directly over to him.
Kathryn has finally regained her tongue as she shakes her head slightly towards the paramedics. "Just wanna go home. I’m okay" She protests weakly, seeming anything /but/ alright.
Andre's gripping hand also becomes a lightly tugging one as Beckah jostles a bit forward. "N-n-no. You just said we can't do anything because we're not paramedics. We should let them deal with it. She's not dead! None of them are!" Refrain much?
Cursing, even funny foreign cursing, does not make Lucy's paramedic any happier. "I can't do that, ma'am. I need you to tell me if you are /safe/. Can you do that?"
Beckah didn't really arrive anywhere, since she is still firmly planted in the ground beside Andre. "I fucking know. I know," she assures him, looking across the distance to where Lucy is being paramediced at with frustration at her sudden sense of helplessness evident.
Jonah clears his throat. "Lucy...you should get checked out. Tell him...How are you feeling? Are you in control?"
"Someone might still want to take a statement, ma'am," a young woman in a uniform answers Kathryn, "and we'll need to make sure you are okay. Just have a seat here," she says, patting a convenient seat-like surface and doing her job.
Andre shifts his weight slightly, cane becoming less of a support as he rests his arm against Beckah's side. "We can find another way to help somehow. Can't we? I think we can..." He matches her tone for helplessness, despite the apparent optimism of the statement.
"Hey..." Matt decides to ask, crouching down beside Jubilee as well, and pulling out an aluminum shock blanket from amongst his kit. Around her shoulders it goes. "Is there anyone you want us to call, honey? You're Flynn's girlfriend, right?"
"I am safe," Lucy says, gritting her teeth. "And I am fine. I've been struck by /lightning/ before, Jonah, I can handle a few /splinters/." If she is a little more snappish than normal, it can be excused.
Bobby lids his eyes a little resentfully at the sky and coughs into his oxygen mask. Irritated lungs, irritated Bobby. He makes a fist to indicate his irritation. Ggnng.
Kathryn sinks down on the surface indicated without further protest. She rocks back and forth slightly, before looking up at the building. One hand tugs on the slightly charred ends of her hair. She'll need a haircut now, she ponders abstractly.
Jonah nods, "I know you can sweetheart, but you still need to be checked out. Can you please just go with him? Go to the hospital...make me feel better?"
Jubilee pulls the mask away from her mouth and attempts a reply that gets lost in a fit of coughing. She settles instead for nodding, then shaking her head, and then nodding again at the second question. Um. Confused much? Maybe not /all/ smoke related.
Jackson might be just as snappish as some of his companions, but at the moment is too exhausted to show much irritation, shivering and gasping into his mask, curled into a ball where he lies, thankful to take his weight off his injured legs.
Beston has found Rossi in the aftermath, and vents his feelings by being extremely rude. Manly love. It involves a great many four-letter words, and some arm-waving. Rossi breathes into an oxygen mask and glares blearily. Someone has found him a blanket. It is not fuzzy.
Lucy nods slowly, begrudgingly, letting go of Jonah to go in a huffy mess with the paramedic. Perhaps one static shock into his arm, but she is under control now, coughing into her hand, the gloves no longer the protection they once were.
"How 'bout we just get you loaded into one of the ambulances so we can get you down to Lennox Hill," the men of the 26th Ladder decide. "Yeah. Heard they're shipping all the folks here down there, just 'case so many are muti-- er, mutants," Kowalski corrects his language. He is -sensitive-, see? "They got some awesome docs of all kinds there anyways," Matt counsels, as Jubilee is scooped up for the second time today. "My kid brother's in there a lot. They'll probably just check you over, make sure your lungs're OK."
"Sir, just one moment while I tend to your daughter--" Ignoring the distraction, the paramedic takes a deep breath. With Lucy's assertion that she's safe, he tentatively reaches out to touch her. He flinches as fingers make contact with skin, but when he doesn't die, he does sets to work verifying her condition and then treating it.
Sitting on the floor, Tabitha seems to be receiving a lecture about not drinking beer when you have smoke inhalation.
Jonah glances at the paramedic, but just manages a slight grin before turning back to Lucy, "I'm going to head back to the hospital too. You do what he says, if you need to check in to the hospital for a while, I'd better see you there."
Awesome Doc Jean. Yeah... she's gonna be just /thrilled/ to see them all rolling in. Jubilee would roll her eyes, if they weren't so bloodshot. She toted off, easy peasy. At least until--Jeremy? Bobby? She starts to squirm.
Paramedics and firemen, who know their job and an unstable building when they see one, have been herding the crowd a safe distance backward. It's a good thing, because the flaming building gives one final groan, and then another upper floor collapses. Under the weight of two floors and the debris that comes with it, and weakened at the base by the building fire, the building that houses the Sanctuary pancakes, floor collapsing onto floor in one very fast chain reaction. Debris scatters toward the crowd, bricks and wood and chunks of stone flying dangerously.
Bobby winces. He has enough mental here-ness to manage that.
Lucy throws her good arm up, ducking down behind the paramedic as a few of the far-flying bits of debris make contact with her back. Ow. Rocks. At least no bricks this time, and enough sanity is left to send her pitching forward and out of the way.
The cloud of dust - bits of wood, insulation, cracked stone - that rises and chases out into the alley is perhaps more worrisome to most, especially those already struggling with breath.
The crashing debris and associated noise is enough to jerk Kathryn back to near full awareness. She looks up, watching everything fall. Her strangely fascinated attention is broken by the dust and debris that trigger another violent coughing fit, dust further irritating already aggravated air passage-ways.
The housekeeper arrives to cart Jonah off to bed.
Zenith's reaction times are very slow, and she flinches long after anything would have hit her, though luckily she is sitting out of range. Dust sends her into a paroxysm of coughing, and she folds in on herself, blanket kept clutched around her shoulders, tears of irritation and then just of shock sliding down her cheeks.
Jackson flinches as he's peppered with debris, adding more nicks and scratches to his sooty skin. Rather dazed, his reaction is slow, and he bats dully at the pieces with one hand before bending over, reddened eyes squeezing shut against the cloud of dust as he coughs into his oxygen mask.
One of the ambulances pulls away along the street, siren wailing as it hurries its occupants off to Lennox Hill.
Bobby is protected somewhat from further inhalation from his mask. He's also being loaded into one of them ambulances. Bah! He's fine!
Close to the ground, the cloud of dust is at first not a problem, until it begins to settle. Pebbles hit her back, and without the luxury of an oxygen mask, Lucy inhales a rather un-delicious mouthful of dust and ash. She is not crying, no sir.
At the groaning and collapsing of the building, Andre winces, coughing edged with an overtone of alarm and fear. Suddenly appearing through all expression and body language to be much younger than he is, the Californian leans more heavily on Beckah.
New York is a big city. A big city rife with scandal and publicity. It is also rife with awful traffic. Thus, the news vans start to pull onto the scene only after the building has come down, bristling with microphones and state of the art cameras, reporters salivating like hyenas over a stolen kill.
Their charges loaded into ambulances, and now under the total care of the paramedics, the firefighters begin the slow and painful business of mopping up. Water continues to play, even as crews start to swarm the collapsed heap as soon as the dust settles, looking for hot spots and killing them with fi-- er, water.
Andre and Beckah just wanted to go on a walk. They end up watching a building get blown up. Nice change of plans...
4 March 2007:
Andre shufflesteps slowly down the hallway of Greenwich Apartments, weary gait heavily reliant on the support of his cane. They're the kind of steps that would thud if he had the capability to thud. His face is pale save for red rims around his eyes, and his expression is creased with worry. But at least he's out and moving, even if it's only toward next door. Andre raps the handle of his cain dully against Beckah's door and waits with his eyebrows raised as far as he can hold them up.
It does not take long for the door to open at the tapping of the cane against it. The sound is familiar by now. Beckah is hidden behind the door, since her coat is not on. It's filthy with debris from the death of the Sanctuary. Instead, she ushes Andre in quickly, "C'mon in. My coat's all fucked up and I haven't had a chance to wash it. I should have worn it in the shower."
Andre scuffles into the room, looking anxiously up at Beckah as she shuts the door behind him, then making his way to the nearest seat and flumping down into it. His hair is a mess and still contains ash and dust. "I...haven't showered yet. I know that's gross...I'm sorry. This is the most I've stood up since...yeah." He breathes heavily.
Concern immediately comes over Beckah's face at seeing Andre still in his messy state. "Andre, honey, it looked like everyone got out okay. I haven't heard anything on the news about casualities." This is, it should be noted, the first time she has ever called him that. She also hurries to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other, returning to his side at the couch. "Are you okay?"
"I tried watching the news," Andre explains softly, flashing Beckah a grateful though weary smile as she shows up with towel and washcloth. "They just kept showing pictures of it. Like they kept showing pictures of 9-11 when that happened, except I didn't see 9-11 in person." In pretty much any other case, this would be an inherently grateful statement. Here, it's just a sidenote. "So I turned off the news. Nobody looked dead..." he repeats. "I...think I'm probably more ok than after the riot or the mugging or...are /you/ ok?"
"I'm fine. A little shaken, a little scared, but I'll be okay." Beckah gives him a smile that is meant to show she is fine and hopefully let him borrow some of that. She kneels down on the couch beside him and actually takes the washcloth to him, gently rubbing at the dust and ash remaining to try to clean it off. She is not being maternal at all here. Not a bit.
Andre holds still as Beckah does her work with the washcloth, aside from the slow and steady motion of his shoulders and chest as he breathes deeply. The air in all of Greenwich is full of dust tonight, but the interior of the apartment is clearer than many other places. "Only a little?" The corners of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly upward. "That's good..."
"Having a terrorist break into your place and strangle you does wonders for toughening your shit up," she speculates. "I mean, I hope Lucy is okay and all. I'm pretty sure that was her being carted into that ambulance. Hard to tell with all the smoke and shit, but yeah." Rebecca uses the towel to remove some of the grime she is wetting into a mud on poor Andre. The towel and washcloth both are likely doomed.
At least Andre was wearing his winter coat during the ordeal this afternoon, and he is not wearing it now, so his clothes are not depositing junk all over Beckah's furniture. "But I was in that riot. I was almost mugged in the blackout. I had my hip smashed by a big werewolf guy. And...I'm not toughened up here. Really obviously not." He shakes his head even as Beckah persists to wipe his face. "Sure looked like Lucy. And also that dancer that was hitting on me that one time..."
Beckah smiles down to Andre gently and takes advantage of having more arms than him. She can reach to take both of his hands while still fussing over the mess in his hair and on his face. She gives them a warm squeeze, "Hey, you're allowed to be upset. Seriously, I'm probably still just kind of in denial about it and that's why I'm not in tears. I mean... fuck."
Andre attempts to squeeze back. His effort is tangible, though not particularly strong. He did in his hand-clutching quotient earlier in the day. "Yeahh...I mean. It took me a while before I could really cry about the other stuff." He glances down at the floor, then corrects, "Well, I cried about the leg right away, but, you know, pain..."
Sympathy is written clearly all over Beckah's face. She scruffs at Andre's hair with the towel a little. "Do you want something to drink? Have you eaten anything? We kind of skipped dinner. I can order something if you want?"
"I haven't been all that hungry. Have you?" As soon as Beckah finishes scuffing his hair, Andre lifts one hand to run through it and assess the damage. "I should probably eat something before I get all whiney, though. After the riot, people just kept calling me whiney, and they were right, and I at least want to be stronger about /that/ if I can't for the other stuff."
"Andre?" She looks over at him, a nice pronounced worry-line having nested itself between her brows. "If you want to whine, you can whine to me all you want. Do you want dinner? I'll buy. Do you want booze? I'll get you drunk. Anything you want..." Beckah upturns all four hands.
"I think I need to just...talk about normal things. Not talk about that, not make it worse with a lot of booze, just...be." Andre nods more firmly. "Pre-emptively stop the whining." There's a line in his forehead, too, worried but also as resolute as he can manage. "But yeah, food. You don't have to buy."
Beckah nods her head. She is toned down tonight all over. Her glasses are on her nose, her nose-ring is out. She walks into the kitchen to her little basket loaded with take-out menus. "What are you in the mood for? Pizza, maybe?" She runs her upper hands through her dreadlocks, while the lower pair sift through the various colorful papers, trying to find a nice variety.
Andre shrugs lightly, looking over his shoulder toward Beckah's kitchen and fingering the handle of his cane. "Pizza's always good. Though, ah...you think that good place a few blocks away is still /open/?"
rt through the menus and a third plucks one out, an orange flier. She picks up the phone and starts dialing. "What do you want if they are open? Anything. My treat," she refrains, even though he tried to say she didn't have to once before.
"I'm not picky." Andre shifts a little more in his seat so that he can face Beckah in the kitchen more directly, rather than just straining his neck to speak with her. "I'm only adverse to anchovies, and you don't eat those anyway...and no, it can't hurt. Can't hurt."
After a few rings of the phone, there is indeed an answer. Beckah quickly orders two pizzas, one supreme and one spinach and garlic. Address is given, and she tosses the phone to the counter. Once that's done with, she walks back over to Andre's seat and deposits herself beside him. "I guess I might have more work coming my way soon," she says, trying to get a less upsetting conversation starting.
Andre appears more relieved than he really should, considering Beckah's phone conversation only confirms the survival of one small pizzeria. As she plunks back down beside him, he straightens his position once more, one hand tentatively rubbing at his left hip. "Really? A different club for the other three nights?" He seems relieved at the change of subject as well.
"No, some private parties and stuff," she shares. "It's nothing set in stone, but it would be more exposure, you know?" Beckah laughs gently, "Wouldn't it be great if I ended up rich and famous or something?"
"That'd be pretty awesome," Andre agrees, tone more solid and warmer than it has been this far this evening. "I could go around bragging about my rich and famous girlfriend, and then they'd laugh and wonder why you were dating a geek like me. And I could never tell them your little secret that you're just as geeky."
"Andre," she says, looking over the frames of her glasses at him. "Do you really think it's possible to hide how geeky I am?" Beckah chuckles, "You want a soda or something?"
"I've never seen you try!" Andre confesses. "And I should hope you know you'll never need to around me." He manages a weak laugh, though it sounds like it is genuine and trying to escape his exhaustion rather than being forced through it. "Caffeinate me. I need it."
Up from the couch she goes, with a soft pat of Andre's leg. Beck heads into the kitchen and into the fridge, which Andre may note is far better stocked than it was when they first met. She calls over, "What do you want to drink? I have Dew, Diet Coke, and root beer." A hand runs back through her dreadlocks. "Man. We need like, video games or something Just kind of turn stuff off, you know?"
Andre's leg twitches lightly under the pat, though it more the flinch of an exhausted muscle than a reflexive reaction to pin. "Um. Dew. Might as well go for the maximum punch there..." He glances toward her TV now, noting, "I suck at video games. Could be fun!"
"Maybe tomorrow I'll go see if I can find a Wii somewhere," Beckah muses as she comes back with a green can for Andre and a silver one for herself. She opens her soda and sips at it, then she falls quiet. She looks down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes slowly, while she rests her lower hands in her lap. "Fuck," she says after a moment.
Andre flicks at the can with his index finger a couple of times before opening the lid. The artificial coloring fizzes excitedly once exposed to the air, and Andre takes a gulp, swishing the liquid around in his mouth, but swallowing abruptly at Beckah's expletive. "What?"
"It's just been a bad day. I don't really know what to say. I feel like I'm just kind of making excuses or something." Beckah sighs slowly and takes a long drink from her soda. "I'll feel better once I eat some pizza."
"You're welcome to whine to me," Andre echoes, taking another sip of his soda. With this one swallowed, though, the vague perk on his face slides back away. "I dunno...should we be making excuses? I mean...crap. We saw a building get /blown up/. Even if it wasn't one I used to visit really often..." He trails off on the last few words.
Beckah shrugs her shoulders slowly. "I don't know. What's the right thing to do?" Her free upper hand moves up to run back through her loose dreadlocks, leaning her head against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling. "Fuck."
"I...uh." Andre tilts his can, peering into the almost luminescent green fizzy depths. "I think we have to keep living. Not let the people who did it actually stop people from living even after they didn't kill anyone either." He tilts the can back normal. "And we can definitely whine."
A long, slow sigh winds it's way out of Beckah. She reaches a hand back to rub at the back of her neck. "I guess we should probably, you know, not try to pretend nothing happened. That isn't really healthy."
Andre shakes his head stiffly. "I didn't say pretend it didn't happen. I mean...living like normal in the face of it. Like 9-11 but without the annoying flag waving." He takes another chug of his soda, then leans toward Beckah.
"It really figures something like this has to happen after they get rid of that stupid assed mutant registration law," Beckah notes, with a frown. "Sometimes living in this city is like being stuck on a big roller coaster." Beckah smiles faintly to him as he leans her way. "At least I've got a good partner in the seat next to me, right?" Her smile indicates she knows full well how cheesey that was.
Andre leans further, resting more solidly against Beckah's side. "I scream way more on roller coasters than I did today," he explains, an attempt at levity. "And...I'd bet it's /because/ of that stupid registration law. Timing's too...um. Good. To use a wrong word for it."
Beckah frowns at that, "Why would that have anything to do with it?" Her frown, of course, is not at the man resting against her, but more at the content of his statement. Lightly, she wraps an arm around his shoulders, an ability imparted by being the taller of the two.
Andre initially relaxes into Beckah's hold, though he stiffens for a split second again at Beckah's question. Brown eyes open wide as he tilts his head back to look at her, upside down though this may make things. "That building. Coffeehouse called the Sanctuary. It was called that because it, um, was one."
Beckah meets Andre's eyes with her hazel eyes magnified by the lenses of her glasses. "What do you mean?" Her tone is gentle. Up this close, she could feel him stiffen at her asking. "I get the feeling I'm missing something."
"Sanctuary for mutants. Safe space. Owned and run by." Andre's explanation is given with a somewhat muted voice. He sips at his Mountain Dew once more, then adds, "I guess it wasn't something that everyone knew, but it was obviously something the wrong people knew."
"Oh," Beckah says, looking down. "I guess that explains why I didn't know. You know how I amabout trying to turn a deaf ear to mutant shit." She breathes in slowly, tugging at the collar of the t-shirt she is wearing. "I guess that makes sense though, why this would happen today."
"I started going there pretty often after the riot," Andre supplies, words coming faster now, though grouped together irregularly. "The riot was about that stuff, too. I wasn't involved before, but after that, it was good to have a place to talk to other people who had the same kind of experience with it..." He frowns as Beckah maintains her record of not getting involved. "Stopped going because that's where the leg thing happened, too. Or outside of it."
Beckah nods her head slowly as she listens. She may want to avoid mutant-related thoughts and be as far from the community as can be, but coming from Andre, she's willing to hear it. "You've really had a lot of shit happen, haven't you?" She asks after a moment, sympathy and concern for him draped heavily over her tone.
Andre nods, small and slow, then again more broadly. "Yeah. Which is why I guess I should call it /good/ luck that I wasn't /in/ there today. Which maybe makes it good that my hip got smashed..." He sounds confused by his own words.
Beckah shakes her head at that, "I'm glad you weren't there today, but I am not going to be thankful that some freak hurt you. That's not even close to the right kind of thinking." She squeezes him lightly with the arm around him. "I just... I think I'd rather you be safe and happy."
"I didn't mean to think that." Andre's jaw tenses, and he bites down on his lower lip. "I said something similar once to someone else and she kind of flew off the handle..." He leans his head back, resting it once more on Beckah's arm. "I'm safe. You're safe. I don't think we have to be really happy today, though, not after that."
"I don't mean right now. I just mean, you know..." Her lower right hand gives a sweeping gesture, "In general." Beckah looks down toward Andre's leg, with some concern. "Did you hurt your hip earlier? I've been worrying about it."
Andre nods gently, his hair working up a little bit of static electricity against the fabric of Beckah's sleeve. "I know what you mean. And it's a little bit sore, nothing major..."
Beckah laughs very gently, the kind that is more a sharp exhalation through her nose as Andre's hair begins to move with that little bit of static. Her other upper hand moves to smooth it back down for him. "Good," she says quietly. For a moment, she simply looks at him. Without any real cue for it, her eyes begin to well up with tears behind her glasses and she looks away, trying to cover it with a sip of her soda.
Andre reaches up and rests one hand on top of the one of Beckah's that is occupied with his hair. "I figured...explosion, maybe underground, maybe shaky, so I figured I could put pressure...I took tylenol. It's ok."
The hand Andre rests his atop of stills itself, content instead of be touched by his instead of fussing with his hair. "I'm just glad you didn't hurt yourself," Beckah says. She's looking off toward the door of the apartment to hide the tears that somehow were summoned.
"There's metal screws holding my hip in place. I know I'm not strong enough to pop them out." At this angle, Andre doesn't catch Beckah looking away. "I don't think. But I didn't."
"I'm glad you weren't in there," Beckah says, her voice failing to raise above a whisper. "You're important to me, you know."
"I'm glad I wasn't in there," Andre responds, voice almost as quiet. "I wouldn't want to leave you alone."
That does it. Restrained tears turn into an actual sob, which Beckah tries her best to choke back immediately. Her arm around him is suddenly accompanied by three more and her head goes to his shoulder, her body turning to face him. She also puts a knee into the couch to make sure none of her weight hits his leg. All of the strong motherly act from earlier is forgotten as she embarassedly cries on Andre's shoulder.
At first, Andre seems a little bewildered by the moisture suddenly seeping through the sleeve of his t-shirt, but as he glances up toward Beckah and notes the tears in her eyes, he leans into her arm and allows for his own tear ducts to stop being so stoic.
So she remains for a long moment, until the cathartic moment of letting out all of the day's fear and tension is interrupted by a series of sharp knocks at the apartment door. Beckah startles and looks at Andre. "Pizza. Shit." She scrambles up to her feet, grabbing her wallet out of her coat pocket, where the ash and dust covered garment rests, and tosses it to him. "Pay, please?" She says, pushing up her glasses to wipe at her eyes, as she retreats for the walled off studio of her apartment.
"Just a sec!" Andre calls for the benefit of the pizza man, his voice still strained and teary. He grabs his cane and hauls himself over to the door, opening it and then opening Beckah's wallet as the delivery boy names the price. Which is...a very minimal price compared to the amount of green that is within the wallet's confines. Andre's eyes go very big. "Uhm. I have a fifty...got change?" The delivery boy does, fortunately, and the change is handed back to Andre. He tosses the wallet back toward the couch, where it lands squarely, then accepts the pizzas with a nod.
Beckah only emerges once the door of the apartment has been closed. In her rush of other emotions, she has forgotten entirely that there is anything to her wallet that she has neglected to mention to Andre. She smiles uncertainly. It is a lucky thing her makeup of the day has long since been washed off, otherwise crying might have made a red mess all over her face. "Got 'em?"
Andre needs not answer that question verbally. The pizza boxes rest on his forearm, his free hand wrapped around the edge. His expression is still wide-eyed, though, inclined to another question. "So. Uhm. Why was there no bill smaller than a fifty in there, and why were there so many?"
What a surprise. Her face manages to redden without the need for makeup. "Oh, yeah. That." Beckah comes walking out to meet him, all four arms hanging low, like a child who had just been caught being naughty. In this posture, Andre can see one of the inconveniences of her aberrant anatomy - her arms cannot hang straight down, because there are others in the way. "I guess I didn't really know how to say uh, how much I make at work. I was kind of worried it would put you off."
Andre slips the pizzas onto the nearest flat surface, at which point his one free arm flops down to dangle straight while Beckah's cannot; the arm holding the cane goes a little slack as well. "Well. Dang." He laughs and flushes a little, shaking his head. "Congratulations! I'm...not put off. Just awed."
"Yeah," she says, awkward. "I never imagined I'd be embarassed to say how much money I make, instead of how little." Beckah chucles and heads over to the pizza boxes, where they've ended up at the kitchen counter. She opens the one without meat on it and pulls a slice out. She takes a big bite, because a mouthful will stop her from talking.
Andre flips open the lid to the carnivore pizza, then grabs a napkin and uses it to dislodge a slice. "Well, I'm just glad that, even though you're big league now, you're still choosing to stay in this particular little apartment." He smiles, then bites his own slice of pizza. He can feel the hot cheese raising burns on the roof of his mouth. Wonderful.
"That's 'zactly what I didn't want you to worry about," Beckah mumbles after swallowing her herbivore pizza. "I can just afford to buy pizza when I feel like offering, without having to get on the phone to my dad and ask for some money." With a free hand, she reaches to pluck a napkin for herself. She cheats in holding her pizza with two hands and wiping her mouth with a third.
Andre wrinkles his nose as he presses his tongue against the burned portion of his palate, holding the slice flat on his one available hand. "I am not worried about that," he assures. "It's something I know I can count on when there's so much other crap going on to worry about."
"I'm going to be here, you know, as long as you want me to be." She smiles across the pizza boxes toward Andre. "I can't go away now. I'm just starting to get used to calling you my boyfriend without blushing."
Andre, however, hasn't gotten used to being called Beckah's boyfriend without blushing. "All excellent news!" he says as he blushes.
Beckah smiles at him, the gentle sort of a thing meant to be comforting to his blush. With a toss of her head that swings her dreadlocks toward the couch, she starts back that way. "You want to watch a movie or something? Maybe Office Space or something. We could probably use a laugh." There are no rules against eating on her couch, and so she seems to plan to do it shamelessly.
"You've got four hands," Andre says, the comment seeming like a non-sequitur until he adds, "clearly, this means you took my stapler. Since it would be so easy with that many hands." He follows her to the couch, sliding down into it with food in tow. "Don't touch my stapler." This is clearly an agreement to a movie, if there ever was an agreement.
Milton impressions are certainly agreement. Beckah sets her pizza down on the coffee table (grease smarks ahoy) and goes to put the DVD in. Once it's playing, she settles down onto the couch beside Andre. She breathes in slowly through her teeth at him. "Yeeeah, I'm going to have to ask you to hug me again while we watch this. Yeah, that'd be great."
"I think I can manage that," Andre says, leaning into Beckah's side again as he finishes his pizza and turns his eyes to the screen.
Several hours after the Sanctuary went boom, Andre visits Beckah. It is ostensibly to see if she is ok, but he ends up being whinier. Then they cry. Then they eat pizza and quote Office Space.
I have also been NPCing like crazy.
HFC Ball: Charles Bigmuth, Patron Of The Arts
Part One
Part Two
Sanctuary Go Boom: Stephen St. Helen, Barista
Part One
Part Two
I think there were a couple more FDNY and Stephen poses after what's here. Did anyone log them? I was an idiot and forgot.
From the main street outside, the sound of shattering glass can be heard down the length of a dingy alleyway. After a brief pause, it sounds twice more, and the undeniable smell of smoke and gasoline wafts out on the wind.
The weather is not great, really. Certainly not romantic walk on a weekend afternoon weather. But then again, Greenwich Village is not properly romantic walk territory anyway, and for all their geeky flirting, Andre and Beckah are not traditional romantics. The two Californians walk down the street, the acoustic musician holding his cane in his left hand and one of the hands of his electronic musician girlfriend with his other. Yet that cane is not so steady at the sound of explosions and the smell of glass. There is no /shaking/ from the explosion that is detectible outside, but a slippy cane and a stumble are a natural human reaction. Andre looks at Beckah, jaw practically unhinging. "Crap, what was that?!"
Beckah looks surprised, but perhaps not to such a degree as Andre. She looks in the direction of the sounds and smells, squinting her eyes at the alleyway and frowning. "I don't know?" She returns, "Maybe a car accident or something?" It's an alley. Logic says there could be cars in it. And when one is not familiar with the Sanctuary, wild guesses seem sane.
Smoke rises, now visible as it stretches for the sky, and in the distance sirens start to wail. The alley remains silent, for the moment.
It is an inevitable truth that when something exciting happens in New York City, people will appear where there previously was none. And so it is here. Outside across the street, bodies start to materialize, bundled against the weather but well and truly caught by the prospect of something interesting going down. First two or three. Then five. Then ten. More gather, brought by some signal inherent in New Yorkers: like the lemming instinct to stampede, it gathers them into interested, round-eyed spectatorship. Something is burning. Cool. Has someone called the cops? Wonder what it is? Hey, take a photo, Billy Bob. We can show the family back home. The Big Apple shore is excitin'.
Sirens grow closer, and response time for the first-arrivals is several minutes after the first call, the first shattering of glass. The police arrive first, and when they sprint for the alleyway, several masked figures clamber up fire escapes and run down alleyways to bowl over pedestrians. The front window of a coffeeshop is completely shattered and fallen away, and smoke pours from it in thick, billowing clouds.
With the arrival of police and after catching the sight of masked men running like hell and banging into people, Beckah's first instinct is to try to see just what is happening with the now clearly smoking building. She darts a few steps forward only to come up short and instead, try to see down the alley from her new distance. Human nature.
"Jesus /Christ/--"
Uniforms scatter, command shouting instructions in a full-throated bellow that sends two officers pelting after masked figures while the two remaining confront the belch of smoke and heat. Two more cars skid down the street, sirens blazing; one of them, unmarked, disgorges Chris Rossi and his partner on a rip of startled curses. "Fucking--" The nearby sergeant shouts a peremptory command. The detectives leap to obey, heading for the blocked door.
As further booming and banging comes from the Alleyway, Andre shakes his head at Beckah, some of the color draining out of his face. "That is so not a car accident. Car accidents are not that...repetitive. And...I know that alley. Bad news in that alley." He looks at his leg.
Beckah's eyes dart from the alley to Andre's leg and back. She looks around as more and more of the police cars appear. "This doesn't look good at all," she says in blatant obviousness. The red dreadlocked bystander continues gently jockeying for a visual clue as to what is happening.
The wailing of sirens get louder, then stop as several ambulances make it on the scene, paramedics tumbling out of their vehicles, slinging gear over their shoulders and standing outside the Sanctuary. Alicia steps out and looks at the carnage and the gawkers. "Oh /hell/!" she mutters, hefting her orange gear bag and making for the front door.
Several explosions of varying intensity sound from within the building, and the fire continues largely unabated. Smoke is a daunting thing. Entrance to the building is denied by flames and smoke, and from the sounds coming from within, it's a real fun time in there! Lucky, there's always the FDNY to save the day. Right? RIGHT?
A K-9 car screeches to a halt near as well, Andrew and Zeke joining the chaos. "Jesus Christ." He eyes the smoking and fires. Zeke barks and tugs to be let work and search, held back only by Andrew's iron grip on his leash. The dog may be for narcotics, but he can track perps...or find people...if it comes to that. He's quick on the heels of the others into the alley.
In the distance, lagging more than they'd like, the sirens of the FDNY can be heard behind the NYPD. There is a slight problem on reaching the alley's mouth: the great red and white Seagrave ladder truck and engine summoned to the scene cannot fit down the narrow length of McLachlan Alley. The firemen and their gear must hump on in on foot. Ladder 26 is first, out of their district but summoned in to cover for a crew already out. The engine boys are slower, hauling hoses and running lines.
Unrecognizable at the head of them, bar for the 'KESSLER' across the back of his jacket, and the lieutenant's insignia on his helmet, Matt and partner of Lieutenant Freddy Kowalski stride forward with haste and oxygen masks. And axes.
In spite of having met a couple of the emergency workers on scene and knowing one detective, Beckah does not recognize any faces. There are explosions, and there is smoke. And there is a crowd. Instead, she holds tightly onto Andre's hand. Even out on the street near the mouth of McLachlan Alley, this is a frightening place to be.
Alicia stares at the dumpster in front of the door, looking around in disgust. "That thing didn't make it there by /itself/," she growls, then moves to the side as the FDNY show up, switching her weight from side to side as she watches the flames and smoke, waiting for the opportunity to get in.
The Sergeant, ranking officer on the scene, has a veteran's control of priorities. The uniforms and Beston are pressed to the task of pushing aside the dumpster that blocks the front door. Rossi is grabbed by an arm, and engaged in a quick discussion before the detective is pushed free and sent racing around the building.
FDNY. About fucking time. "/Back door/," Rossi shouts across to cops and firemen, snagging Andrew with a hasty arm that does not bother with recognition. "Lose the goddamn dog!"
Andre clutches Beckah's hand back, knuckles going white both there and on the hand gripping the cane. The way his shoulders and knees tense seem to indicate that he's putting pressure on the ground. The pressure is also evident in his face. Though there is still no tangible shaking in the street, Andre's eyes begin to water from smoke and train wreck syndrome. "Beckah. There's a coffeeshop in there. I go to it sometimes. A lot of my friends go there a lot of the time." His voice is quiet, almost lost.
Andrew only takes a moment to assess what he can of the situation, whoever did this isn't his to chase down. No time to argue or debate, the dog goes back into the back of the car until or if he's needed later. Then he tears back with unexpected speed around the building, towards the ordered back door.
The paramedics are milling around, though a few are lighting up cigarettes and waiting for the wounded. There's even a few muttered comments about letting 'the damn place' burn, but Alicia doesn't do more than make note of the bigoted remarks before grabbing her driver and heading to the back door, following the cops to see if she can get in on their coattails.
At the sound of yet another explosion from the building, Beckah continues to cling to Andre's white-knuckling hand. "Those masked guys... Terrorists?" She asks, though she does not really expect the man beside her, or anyone else, to have an answer.
"Stay back," orders Matt to Alicia, one hand reaching out to try and snag her shoulder, and failing as she passes. "We don't know shit about the conditions inside, and you paras are no good to anyone crispy-fried. "We'll bring 'em out as we find 'em" confirms Kowalski. "
The NYPD and the dumpster are eyed. The FDNY decide to assist, helping in the last few inches of getting the dumpster out of the way, and then the fire axes fly. Jagged splinters arc, threatening eyes unshielded, but the door gives way after a minute's eternity. Radio reports crackle. The men enter into the hell-hole in a pair, as others of their team race for the roof to try and ventilate.
Behind them, the first few test shots of water are fired from hoses, as the pressure is ramped up.
Alicia glares at the cop, ducking under his hand, her short frame making it easy to dodge his grasp. "I don't give a good goddamn! It's been too /long/!" She shifts her bag on her shoulder. "I'll stay out of the way, but let me /help/!"
"You blow up a building and you're not supposed to, you're a terrorist," Andre assesses weakly. He's staring toward the alley, his eyes trained more on the reflection of siren lights off of buildings and the cloud of debris rising than on the matter of sifting through the growing crowd for masked men. He still appears to be straining toward the ground, though his left knee in particular starts to wobble profoundly. "I don't know why I'm watching this. There might be people in there I know. I should either be...trying to help, or not staring!" The matter of trying to help is enunciated particularly helplessly.
The top floor of the building is in sad repair, and bits and pieces of it do not only break through the interior, but decorative bits of (heavy!) molding fall to rain down on helpful alphabet soup men and women: FDNY, NYPD. Material continues to collapse inward, but with the dumpster shoved away from the front door, help begins to move in to contain the fire. The back door with its large truck (no keys!) continues to look unhelpful. The OTHER back door that spills out from the underground is open. So open.
Beckah pushes Andre lightly from his left side, a cue to get him off of his bad leg. "You're going to hurt yourself," she whispers urgently at him. Her concern is now split between trying to see what is happening and making sure that her boyfriend does not destroy himself trying to exert his will and power upon the sidewalk. "There's nothing we can do. The firemen and stuff will do their jobs. It's what they're for."
Rossi has no argument to make to Alicia or Matt; he slams on the brakes, rounding the corner, and pauses to stare for a split second at the truck blocking the back door. "Fucking-A," he curses, before bypassing the vehicle to cloak his nose and mouth in a hastily mined handkerchief. Other back door it is.
The other back door has its own set of gawkers, just like all the others. Here and there, people wield cell phones: to call and exclaim, to snap pictures of the excitement. One person has a digital camera, aimed on the back door. His focus tracks Rossi's progress, and then fixes on the door.
Andre's left leg twitches more emphatically, and he lifts it so that only his toe rests on the ground. His right leg is still tense as ever, though his entire posture leans to the side as his left arm suddenly compensates for the lack of weight bearing capability on his leg. "I know, I know, I know...but. I couldn't do anything in the riot either. I couldn't do anything. And I'm staring and that's wrong and I wanna know if my friends are in there but I also don't know if I want to know." His other hand is clamped quite hard around Beckah's.
Andrew skids to a stop at the sight of the truck, before coming around it. He sees the backdoor, but also the crowds around it. He comes towards them, wanting to keep the backdoor cleared. "I need everyone to get back!" He barks the order to the gathered, glancing around briefly. "Stand back!" No point in creating more hazards then there already are here.
Alicia curses under her breath and pulls out a penlight and throws her bag over her shoulder, following the policeman into the building, the small light helping her find her way.
Alicia goes to The Sanctuary
Outside, the chroniclers note the NYPDs victory over the FDNY on the race to find a save exit. Herded away from the exit by the outpouring of smoke, the crowd pushes back to allow people out. Mysterious masked men are long since gone -- or, if not gone, at least they have taken of their masks.
Outside, a few ragged cheers rise as the first of the people from inside spill out -- but just a few cheers. The majority of the crowd watches in grim silence, gawking with breath held. Camera phones click, and one digital recorder continues to track the back door.
Beckah remains largely where she is, aside from occasionally pushing up onto the toes of her boots in order to lift her gaze above the rest of the crowd as the fire continues to rage, and activity rushes around dizzyingly. Her hand is firmly on Andre's the entire time, "This is fucking horrible," she finally notes.
Andre isn't about to move his hand away from Beckah's, either. His eyelids lower and his jaw quivers. "Don't ever get into a situation like that, ok? Never."
Stumbling out into the alley, clutching a half finished bottle of beer in her hand, Tabitha gulps down the fresh clean air.
Andrew keeps his attention divided between the door, and keeping the gawking crowds from encroaching too close. The tiniest of grim smiles flickers across his features for a split second at the first few out, at least some are still alive. It's a start. Not a huge one, but a start.
Paramedics less fool-hardy wait for people to straggle out. A young man comes up to Tabitha's side as she clears the building to speak with her and get a sense of her condition. A conclusion of neither dying nor in danger of it puts her out of his mind.
As firemen hand survivors off and the fire takes hold full-force inside the basement, the lights begin to pop. One, two, three near the stairs. The others last a moment longer before they, too, go out. The building groans. Overhead, an entire floor has collapsed downward onto another.
Jubilee teleports in.
Hi, Bobby! Hi, Kathryn! Hi, Jubilee! Silent, grim faces watch as more people spill out. Most people have grown tired of taking pictures with their camera phones, but one determined young man continues to film.
Paramedics outside wait for people to clear the building. "Move away! It's unstable!" an older man shouts out, drawing the stragglers in a line toward waiting ambulances. The crowd has been pushed back, but they still linger. Each person who comes out is attended to, condition taken note of and those most in need of help given it.
Bobby is still muttering wheezing implications under his breath. Not happy. Not ill! Just not happy. Oh, to be a little less limp, a little more oxygenated, a little less-- exposed. Hello. But Bobby hasn't thought so far as the media yet. He squints dimly out between his eyelids and doesn't process much beyond. Some stupid do-gooder's pushing an oxygen mask on him or something.
As people start to spill out of the door and into the alleyway, Andre emits a long and ragged breath and moisture starts to run from the corners of his eyes. "Beckah. Look. People're coming out. They didn't all die." He leans even more heavily on his cane and gives his girlfriend a long look before considering the increasing size of the group of burned and charred survivors. "They didn't all die!"
Kathryn looks far worse then she is, only her hands are burned and cut, but blood, soot and sweat leave her looking much worse off. That and the disoriented, dazed glaze to her eyes as she's attended to by the paramedics as she mutely nods or shakes her head to anything spoken in her direction.
Beckah , remaining tucked safely into the crowd beside Andre, squeezes at his hand at his realization that people inside have not all been killed. She winces for his sake. Unlike him, she did not expect to know anyone in there. She's somewhat detached, a voyeur on the sidelines of all of this.
Briefly overwhelmed by the rush of people, the paramedics focus on those worse injured while others are kept close for treatment, statements, and other such fun. Occasional bits of stone, mortar, and brick crumble off the building. The crowd stands well back, and watches silently. A digital camera continues to record.
Zenith makes it outside, but no farther before she collapses, powers having taken everything she has. But lying on the ground and resting for a while, panting, that's nice.
Lucy comes coughing out, leaning on Jonah vaguely, her right arm limp and bleeding, looking for all purposes like a bat out of hell. Covered in smoke, grime, blood, sweat--it is not a pleasant reentry into society. She is still sparking vaguely into Jonah's arm, dizzy.
Tears leave streaks of lighter grey against the black smoke stains on Jackson's cheeks as he exits into the alley. His crawling turned into being half-dragged, but he certainly wasn't about to offer any resistance to the firefighter who helped him out of the building -- his burned legs could hardly support his weight even if he'd wanted to.
However unpleasant Lucy's reentry, it is recorded for posterity. A paramedic moves up to help her, and then falls back with wary hesitation at her sparking. "Are you dangerous?" he asks bluntly.
With the building now cleared of all who can be found, and too unsafe for further searches, the laddermen are out, and the engine crews are in. Cold mist fills the early March air, generated by stream after stream of water trying to cool the flames, knock out the heat. To those so recently pulled from the fire, chills may well set in even without the helping hand of shock and burns.
Not nice enough. A firefighter shouts at Zenith and swoops over her, grabbing her by the shoulders to drag her backwards across the concrete. Debris pelts at them from above; the man squints, shielding her face with his shoulders before hauling brutally backward again. Business. All business. He dumps her by an ambulance before slapping on his mask again to head back into the action.
Glaring at the jerk with the camera, Tabitha takes a few unsteady steps raising her fist. The sudden movement makes the world spin a little, then a nice man tells her to sit down and breathe through a mask.
Bobby is -- oxygen masked. And a little more coherent, if not a whole lot. Used a lot of ice, breathed in a lot of smoke. He seems to be relaxing a bit, maybe. Stopped muttering, at least.
Andre leans forward a little, cane serving as a very primary support now, eyes watering with stress and drifting smoke. Those eyes squint until Zenith appears outside, as well as Jackson and Lucy. The appearance of the latter cause Andre to tap Beckah's hand with one finger of the hand still clutching it tightly. "Beckah. You know /her/. But she's not dead. None of them look dead!"
At some point during the proceedings, supporting Jeremy has turned into carrying Jeremy, though there is nothing graceful about the process. Rossi hauls the student to the nearest ambulance and surrenders him to a harassed EMT. "Inhaler," he supplies, and then does something complicated and ugly with his own lungs. His face is black and comely! Except for the red eyes.
Lucy glares at the paramedic, drawing back from him and cradling her arm. "Are /you/?" she snaps back, eyes tearing up. "Do your fucking job!" It is, of course, only the residual smoke in her eyes making her cry. Not pain. Not confusion.
Nearby, coughing into her own oxygen mask, Jubilee curls against a tire of some vehicle. Her skin tone gradually starts to lose it's blueish cast.
Rossi's so dreamy. Possibly someone, somewhere in the crowd swoons, overcome.
Matt is well on Alicia's heels, carrying Elliott over to a waiting ambulance with a brow knit in worry, and little encouraging mutters. ("Don't die, goddamnit, we haven't finished playing Dead Rising" isn't perhaps the most stirring of speeches.) Once she's been loaded into the ambulance, he's left at a loss, standing around and looking for something more to do. The nearness of his own demise is just a matter of course. "Kowalski!" he bounds over towards his crewmate, currently looking at Jubilee with mild concern. "Kessler," he mutters sidelong. "Is that the kid's...?"
Jonah does his best to hold onto Lucy, that taking about the rest of his reserved energy. He coughs violently and is glad of the paramedic help, despite his apparent rudeness. "Just help her." He growls out as best he can.
Up onto the toes of her boots, Beckah's eyes go rather wide at having Lucy pointed out to her, "Holy fucking shit. Lucy?!" It's now that this becomes something personal to her. Her fingers grasp Andre's hand much more tightly as she fights with an urge to try to run out of the crowd and to the friend she's spotted. She edges forward a bit, but doesn't cave in.
"I'm trying, ma'am," the paramedic answers Lucy, regarding her steadily and ignoring Jonah completely. "But I need to know if it is dangerous to treat you. If you could just calm down--?"
"I /am/ calm! You try being dragged out of fire!" she snaps. It takes several deep breaths--and the arrival of Beckah and Andre--to calm her. "Go help someone who needs it then, you sod. I've just got a few /splinters/." Lies, and it is probably less selflessness and more of a desire for the paramedic the clear the fuck off.
With help, Zenith makes it as far as sitting up, and staying numbly still as she's checked over--smoke inhalation and shock worsened by her exhaustion, but nothing else directly needing treatment.
The crowd thins as things move from exciting to dangerous: crumbling building, dangerous muties, et cetera. Camera phones go down and so do digital cameras, people dispersing.
Andrew still eyes the crowds, but as they thin his attention is directed more towards those coming out. One form in particular makes his blood run cold. Jonah was in there? Its all he can do to remain where he is, to remain professional, instead of going directly over to him.
Kathryn has finally regained her tongue as she shakes her head slightly towards the paramedics. "Just wanna go home. I’m okay" She protests weakly, seeming anything /but/ alright.
Andre's gripping hand also becomes a lightly tugging one as Beckah jostles a bit forward. "N-n-no. You just said we can't do anything because we're not paramedics. We should let them deal with it. She's not dead! None of them are!" Refrain much?
Cursing, even funny foreign cursing, does not make Lucy's paramedic any happier. "I can't do that, ma'am. I need you to tell me if you are /safe/. Can you do that?"
Beckah didn't really arrive anywhere, since she is still firmly planted in the ground beside Andre. "I fucking know. I know," she assures him, looking across the distance to where Lucy is being paramediced at with frustration at her sudden sense of helplessness evident.
Jonah clears his throat. "Lucy...you should get checked out. Tell him...How are you feeling? Are you in control?"
"Someone might still want to take a statement, ma'am," a young woman in a uniform answers Kathryn, "and we'll need to make sure you are okay. Just have a seat here," she says, patting a convenient seat-like surface and doing her job.
Andre shifts his weight slightly, cane becoming less of a support as he rests his arm against Beckah's side. "We can find another way to help somehow. Can't we? I think we can..." He matches her tone for helplessness, despite the apparent optimism of the statement.
"Hey..." Matt decides to ask, crouching down beside Jubilee as well, and pulling out an aluminum shock blanket from amongst his kit. Around her shoulders it goes. "Is there anyone you want us to call, honey? You're Flynn's girlfriend, right?"
"I am safe," Lucy says, gritting her teeth. "And I am fine. I've been struck by /lightning/ before, Jonah, I can handle a few /splinters/." If she is a little more snappish than normal, it can be excused.
Bobby lids his eyes a little resentfully at the sky and coughs into his oxygen mask. Irritated lungs, irritated Bobby. He makes a fist to indicate his irritation. Ggnng.
Kathryn sinks down on the surface indicated without further protest. She rocks back and forth slightly, before looking up at the building. One hand tugs on the slightly charred ends of her hair. She'll need a haircut now, she ponders abstractly.
Jonah nods, "I know you can sweetheart, but you still need to be checked out. Can you please just go with him? Go to the hospital...make me feel better?"
Jubilee pulls the mask away from her mouth and attempts a reply that gets lost in a fit of coughing. She settles instead for nodding, then shaking her head, and then nodding again at the second question. Um. Confused much? Maybe not /all/ smoke related.
Jackson might be just as snappish as some of his companions, but at the moment is too exhausted to show much irritation, shivering and gasping into his mask, curled into a ball where he lies, thankful to take his weight off his injured legs.
Beston has found Rossi in the aftermath, and vents his feelings by being extremely rude. Manly love. It involves a great many four-letter words, and some arm-waving. Rossi breathes into an oxygen mask and glares blearily. Someone has found him a blanket. It is not fuzzy.
Lucy nods slowly, begrudgingly, letting go of Jonah to go in a huffy mess with the paramedic. Perhaps one static shock into his arm, but she is under control now, coughing into her hand, the gloves no longer the protection they once were.
"How 'bout we just get you loaded into one of the ambulances so we can get you down to Lennox Hill," the men of the 26th Ladder decide. "Yeah. Heard they're shipping all the folks here down there, just 'case so many are muti-- er, mutants," Kowalski corrects his language. He is -sensitive-, see? "They got some awesome docs of all kinds there anyways," Matt counsels, as Jubilee is scooped up for the second time today. "My kid brother's in there a lot. They'll probably just check you over, make sure your lungs're OK."
"Sir, just one moment while I tend to your daughter--" Ignoring the distraction, the paramedic takes a deep breath. With Lucy's assertion that she's safe, he tentatively reaches out to touch her. He flinches as fingers make contact with skin, but when he doesn't die, he does sets to work verifying her condition and then treating it.
Sitting on the floor, Tabitha seems to be receiving a lecture about not drinking beer when you have smoke inhalation.
Jonah glances at the paramedic, but just manages a slight grin before turning back to Lucy, "I'm going to head back to the hospital too. You do what he says, if you need to check in to the hospital for a while, I'd better see you there."
Awesome Doc Jean. Yeah... she's gonna be just /thrilled/ to see them all rolling in. Jubilee would roll her eyes, if they weren't so bloodshot. She toted off, easy peasy. At least until--Jeremy? Bobby? She starts to squirm.
Paramedics and firemen, who know their job and an unstable building when they see one, have been herding the crowd a safe distance backward. It's a good thing, because the flaming building gives one final groan, and then another upper floor collapses. Under the weight of two floors and the debris that comes with it, and weakened at the base by the building fire, the building that houses the Sanctuary pancakes, floor collapsing onto floor in one very fast chain reaction. Debris scatters toward the crowd, bricks and wood and chunks of stone flying dangerously.
Bobby winces. He has enough mental here-ness to manage that.
Lucy throws her good arm up, ducking down behind the paramedic as a few of the far-flying bits of debris make contact with her back. Ow. Rocks. At least no bricks this time, and enough sanity is left to send her pitching forward and out of the way.
The cloud of dust - bits of wood, insulation, cracked stone - that rises and chases out into the alley is perhaps more worrisome to most, especially those already struggling with breath.
The crashing debris and associated noise is enough to jerk Kathryn back to near full awareness. She looks up, watching everything fall. Her strangely fascinated attention is broken by the dust and debris that trigger another violent coughing fit, dust further irritating already aggravated air passage-ways.
The housekeeper arrives to cart Jonah off to bed.
Zenith's reaction times are very slow, and she flinches long after anything would have hit her, though luckily she is sitting out of range. Dust sends her into a paroxysm of coughing, and she folds in on herself, blanket kept clutched around her shoulders, tears of irritation and then just of shock sliding down her cheeks.
Jackson flinches as he's peppered with debris, adding more nicks and scratches to his sooty skin. Rather dazed, his reaction is slow, and he bats dully at the pieces with one hand before bending over, reddened eyes squeezing shut against the cloud of dust as he coughs into his oxygen mask.
One of the ambulances pulls away along the street, siren wailing as it hurries its occupants off to Lennox Hill.
Bobby is protected somewhat from further inhalation from his mask. He's also being loaded into one of them ambulances. Bah! He's fine!
Close to the ground, the cloud of dust is at first not a problem, until it begins to settle. Pebbles hit her back, and without the luxury of an oxygen mask, Lucy inhales a rather un-delicious mouthful of dust and ash. She is not crying, no sir.
At the groaning and collapsing of the building, Andre winces, coughing edged with an overtone of alarm and fear. Suddenly appearing through all expression and body language to be much younger than he is, the Californian leans more heavily on Beckah.
New York is a big city. A big city rife with scandal and publicity. It is also rife with awful traffic. Thus, the news vans start to pull onto the scene only after the building has come down, bristling with microphones and state of the art cameras, reporters salivating like hyenas over a stolen kill.
Their charges loaded into ambulances, and now under the total care of the paramedics, the firefighters begin the slow and painful business of mopping up. Water continues to play, even as crews start to swarm the collapsed heap as soon as the dust settles, looking for hot spots and killing them with fi-- er, water.
Andre and Beckah just wanted to go on a walk. They end up watching a building get blown up. Nice change of plans...
4 March 2007:
Andre shufflesteps slowly down the hallway of Greenwich Apartments, weary gait heavily reliant on the support of his cane. They're the kind of steps that would thud if he had the capability to thud. His face is pale save for red rims around his eyes, and his expression is creased with worry. But at least he's out and moving, even if it's only toward next door. Andre raps the handle of his cain dully against Beckah's door and waits with his eyebrows raised as far as he can hold them up.
It does not take long for the door to open at the tapping of the cane against it. The sound is familiar by now. Beckah is hidden behind the door, since her coat is not on. It's filthy with debris from the death of the Sanctuary. Instead, she ushes Andre in quickly, "C'mon in. My coat's all fucked up and I haven't had a chance to wash it. I should have worn it in the shower."
Andre scuffles into the room, looking anxiously up at Beckah as she shuts the door behind him, then making his way to the nearest seat and flumping down into it. His hair is a mess and still contains ash and dust. "I...haven't showered yet. I know that's gross...I'm sorry. This is the most I've stood up since...yeah." He breathes heavily.
Concern immediately comes over Beckah's face at seeing Andre still in his messy state. "Andre, honey, it looked like everyone got out okay. I haven't heard anything on the news about casualities." This is, it should be noted, the first time she has ever called him that. She also hurries to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other, returning to his side at the couch. "Are you okay?"
"I tried watching the news," Andre explains softly, flashing Beckah a grateful though weary smile as she shows up with towel and washcloth. "They just kept showing pictures of it. Like they kept showing pictures of 9-11 when that happened, except I didn't see 9-11 in person." In pretty much any other case, this would be an inherently grateful statement. Here, it's just a sidenote. "So I turned off the news. Nobody looked dead..." he repeats. "I...think I'm probably more ok than after the riot or the mugging or...are /you/ ok?"
"I'm fine. A little shaken, a little scared, but I'll be okay." Beckah gives him a smile that is meant to show she is fine and hopefully let him borrow some of that. She kneels down on the couch beside him and actually takes the washcloth to him, gently rubbing at the dust and ash remaining to try to clean it off. She is not being maternal at all here. Not a bit.
Andre holds still as Beckah does her work with the washcloth, aside from the slow and steady motion of his shoulders and chest as he breathes deeply. The air in all of Greenwich is full of dust tonight, but the interior of the apartment is clearer than many other places. "Only a little?" The corners of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly upward. "That's good..."
"Having a terrorist break into your place and strangle you does wonders for toughening your shit up," she speculates. "I mean, I hope Lucy is okay and all. I'm pretty sure that was her being carted into that ambulance. Hard to tell with all the smoke and shit, but yeah." Rebecca uses the towel to remove some of the grime she is wetting into a mud on poor Andre. The towel and washcloth both are likely doomed.
At least Andre was wearing his winter coat during the ordeal this afternoon, and he is not wearing it now, so his clothes are not depositing junk all over Beckah's furniture. "But I was in that riot. I was almost mugged in the blackout. I had my hip smashed by a big werewolf guy. And...I'm not toughened up here. Really obviously not." He shakes his head even as Beckah persists to wipe his face. "Sure looked like Lucy. And also that dancer that was hitting on me that one time..."
Beckah smiles down to Andre gently and takes advantage of having more arms than him. She can reach to take both of his hands while still fussing over the mess in his hair and on his face. She gives them a warm squeeze, "Hey, you're allowed to be upset. Seriously, I'm probably still just kind of in denial about it and that's why I'm not in tears. I mean... fuck."
Andre attempts to squeeze back. His effort is tangible, though not particularly strong. He did in his hand-clutching quotient earlier in the day. "Yeahh...I mean. It took me a while before I could really cry about the other stuff." He glances down at the floor, then corrects, "Well, I cried about the leg right away, but, you know, pain..."
Sympathy is written clearly all over Beckah's face. She scruffs at Andre's hair with the towel a little. "Do you want something to drink? Have you eaten anything? We kind of skipped dinner. I can order something if you want?"
"I haven't been all that hungry. Have you?" As soon as Beckah finishes scuffing his hair, Andre lifts one hand to run through it and assess the damage. "I should probably eat something before I get all whiney, though. After the riot, people just kept calling me whiney, and they were right, and I at least want to be stronger about /that/ if I can't for the other stuff."
"Andre?" She looks over at him, a nice pronounced worry-line having nested itself between her brows. "If you want to whine, you can whine to me all you want. Do you want dinner? I'll buy. Do you want booze? I'll get you drunk. Anything you want..." Beckah upturns all four hands.
"I think I need to just...talk about normal things. Not talk about that, not make it worse with a lot of booze, just...be." Andre nods more firmly. "Pre-emptively stop the whining." There's a line in his forehead, too, worried but also as resolute as he can manage. "But yeah, food. You don't have to buy."
Beckah nods her head. She is toned down tonight all over. Her glasses are on her nose, her nose-ring is out. She walks into the kitchen to her little basket loaded with take-out menus. "What are you in the mood for? Pizza, maybe?" She runs her upper hands through her dreadlocks, while the lower pair sift through the various colorful papers, trying to find a nice variety.
Andre shrugs lightly, looking over his shoulder toward Beckah's kitchen and fingering the handle of his cane. "Pizza's always good. Though, ah...you think that good place a few blocks away is still /open/?"
rt through the menus and a third plucks one out, an orange flier. She picks up the phone and starts dialing. "What do you want if they are open? Anything. My treat," she refrains, even though he tried to say she didn't have to once before.
"I'm not picky." Andre shifts a little more in his seat so that he can face Beckah in the kitchen more directly, rather than just straining his neck to speak with her. "I'm only adverse to anchovies, and you don't eat those anyway...and no, it can't hurt. Can't hurt."
After a few rings of the phone, there is indeed an answer. Beckah quickly orders two pizzas, one supreme and one spinach and garlic. Address is given, and she tosses the phone to the counter. Once that's done with, she walks back over to Andre's seat and deposits herself beside him. "I guess I might have more work coming my way soon," she says, trying to get a less upsetting conversation starting.
Andre appears more relieved than he really should, considering Beckah's phone conversation only confirms the survival of one small pizzeria. As she plunks back down beside him, he straightens his position once more, one hand tentatively rubbing at his left hip. "Really? A different club for the other three nights?" He seems relieved at the change of subject as well.
"No, some private parties and stuff," she shares. "It's nothing set in stone, but it would be more exposure, you know?" Beckah laughs gently, "Wouldn't it be great if I ended up rich and famous or something?"
"That'd be pretty awesome," Andre agrees, tone more solid and warmer than it has been this far this evening. "I could go around bragging about my rich and famous girlfriend, and then they'd laugh and wonder why you were dating a geek like me. And I could never tell them your little secret that you're just as geeky."
"Andre," she says, looking over the frames of her glasses at him. "Do you really think it's possible to hide how geeky I am?" Beckah chuckles, "You want a soda or something?"
"I've never seen you try!" Andre confesses. "And I should hope you know you'll never need to around me." He manages a weak laugh, though it sounds like it is genuine and trying to escape his exhaustion rather than being forced through it. "Caffeinate me. I need it."
Up from the couch she goes, with a soft pat of Andre's leg. Beck heads into the kitchen and into the fridge, which Andre may note is far better stocked than it was when they first met. She calls over, "What do you want to drink? I have Dew, Diet Coke, and root beer." A hand runs back through her dreadlocks. "Man. We need like, video games or something Just kind of turn stuff off, you know?"
Andre's leg twitches lightly under the pat, though it more the flinch of an exhausted muscle than a reflexive reaction to pin. "Um. Dew. Might as well go for the maximum punch there..." He glances toward her TV now, noting, "I suck at video games. Could be fun!"
"Maybe tomorrow I'll go see if I can find a Wii somewhere," Beckah muses as she comes back with a green can for Andre and a silver one for herself. She opens her soda and sips at it, then she falls quiet. She looks down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes slowly, while she rests her lower hands in her lap. "Fuck," she says after a moment.
Andre flicks at the can with his index finger a couple of times before opening the lid. The artificial coloring fizzes excitedly once exposed to the air, and Andre takes a gulp, swishing the liquid around in his mouth, but swallowing abruptly at Beckah's expletive. "What?"
"It's just been a bad day. I don't really know what to say. I feel like I'm just kind of making excuses or something." Beckah sighs slowly and takes a long drink from her soda. "I'll feel better once I eat some pizza."
"You're welcome to whine to me," Andre echoes, taking another sip of his soda. With this one swallowed, though, the vague perk on his face slides back away. "I dunno...should we be making excuses? I mean...crap. We saw a building get /blown up/. Even if it wasn't one I used to visit really often..." He trails off on the last few words.
Beckah shrugs her shoulders slowly. "I don't know. What's the right thing to do?" Her free upper hand moves up to run back through her loose dreadlocks, leaning her head against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling. "Fuck."
"I...uh." Andre tilts his can, peering into the almost luminescent green fizzy depths. "I think we have to keep living. Not let the people who did it actually stop people from living even after they didn't kill anyone either." He tilts the can back normal. "And we can definitely whine."
A long, slow sigh winds it's way out of Beckah. She reaches a hand back to rub at the back of her neck. "I guess we should probably, you know, not try to pretend nothing happened. That isn't really healthy."
Andre shakes his head stiffly. "I didn't say pretend it didn't happen. I mean...living like normal in the face of it. Like 9-11 but without the annoying flag waving." He takes another chug of his soda, then leans toward Beckah.
"It really figures something like this has to happen after they get rid of that stupid assed mutant registration law," Beckah notes, with a frown. "Sometimes living in this city is like being stuck on a big roller coaster." Beckah smiles faintly to him as he leans her way. "At least I've got a good partner in the seat next to me, right?" Her smile indicates she knows full well how cheesey that was.
Andre leans further, resting more solidly against Beckah's side. "I scream way more on roller coasters than I did today," he explains, an attempt at levity. "And...I'd bet it's /because/ of that stupid registration law. Timing's too...um. Good. To use a wrong word for it."
Beckah frowns at that, "Why would that have anything to do with it?" Her frown, of course, is not at the man resting against her, but more at the content of his statement. Lightly, she wraps an arm around his shoulders, an ability imparted by being the taller of the two.
Andre initially relaxes into Beckah's hold, though he stiffens for a split second again at Beckah's question. Brown eyes open wide as he tilts his head back to look at her, upside down though this may make things. "That building. Coffeehouse called the Sanctuary. It was called that because it, um, was one."
Beckah meets Andre's eyes with her hazel eyes magnified by the lenses of her glasses. "What do you mean?" Her tone is gentle. Up this close, she could feel him stiffen at her asking. "I get the feeling I'm missing something."
"Sanctuary for mutants. Safe space. Owned and run by." Andre's explanation is given with a somewhat muted voice. He sips at his Mountain Dew once more, then adds, "I guess it wasn't something that everyone knew, but it was obviously something the wrong people knew."
"Oh," Beckah says, looking down. "I guess that explains why I didn't know. You know how I amabout trying to turn a deaf ear to mutant shit." She breathes in slowly, tugging at the collar of the t-shirt she is wearing. "I guess that makes sense though, why this would happen today."
"I started going there pretty often after the riot," Andre supplies, words coming faster now, though grouped together irregularly. "The riot was about that stuff, too. I wasn't involved before, but after that, it was good to have a place to talk to other people who had the same kind of experience with it..." He frowns as Beckah maintains her record of not getting involved. "Stopped going because that's where the leg thing happened, too. Or outside of it."
Beckah nods her head slowly as she listens. She may want to avoid mutant-related thoughts and be as far from the community as can be, but coming from Andre, she's willing to hear it. "You've really had a lot of shit happen, haven't you?" She asks after a moment, sympathy and concern for him draped heavily over her tone.
Andre nods, small and slow, then again more broadly. "Yeah. Which is why I guess I should call it /good/ luck that I wasn't /in/ there today. Which maybe makes it good that my hip got smashed..." He sounds confused by his own words.
Beckah shakes her head at that, "I'm glad you weren't there today, but I am not going to be thankful that some freak hurt you. That's not even close to the right kind of thinking." She squeezes him lightly with the arm around him. "I just... I think I'd rather you be safe and happy."
"I didn't mean to think that." Andre's jaw tenses, and he bites down on his lower lip. "I said something similar once to someone else and she kind of flew off the handle..." He leans his head back, resting it once more on Beckah's arm. "I'm safe. You're safe. I don't think we have to be really happy today, though, not after that."
"I don't mean right now. I just mean, you know..." Her lower right hand gives a sweeping gesture, "In general." Beckah looks down toward Andre's leg, with some concern. "Did you hurt your hip earlier? I've been worrying about it."
Andre nods gently, his hair working up a little bit of static electricity against the fabric of Beckah's sleeve. "I know what you mean. And it's a little bit sore, nothing major..."
Beckah laughs very gently, the kind that is more a sharp exhalation through her nose as Andre's hair begins to move with that little bit of static. Her other upper hand moves to smooth it back down for him. "Good," she says quietly. For a moment, she simply looks at him. Without any real cue for it, her eyes begin to well up with tears behind her glasses and she looks away, trying to cover it with a sip of her soda.
Andre reaches up and rests one hand on top of the one of Beckah's that is occupied with his hair. "I figured...explosion, maybe underground, maybe shaky, so I figured I could put pressure...I took tylenol. It's ok."
The hand Andre rests his atop of stills itself, content instead of be touched by his instead of fussing with his hair. "I'm just glad you didn't hurt yourself," Beckah says. She's looking off toward the door of the apartment to hide the tears that somehow were summoned.
"There's metal screws holding my hip in place. I know I'm not strong enough to pop them out." At this angle, Andre doesn't catch Beckah looking away. "I don't think. But I didn't."
"I'm glad you weren't in there," Beckah says, her voice failing to raise above a whisper. "You're important to me, you know."
"I'm glad I wasn't in there," Andre responds, voice almost as quiet. "I wouldn't want to leave you alone."
That does it. Restrained tears turn into an actual sob, which Beckah tries her best to choke back immediately. Her arm around him is suddenly accompanied by three more and her head goes to his shoulder, her body turning to face him. She also puts a knee into the couch to make sure none of her weight hits his leg. All of the strong motherly act from earlier is forgotten as she embarassedly cries on Andre's shoulder.
At first, Andre seems a little bewildered by the moisture suddenly seeping through the sleeve of his t-shirt, but as he glances up toward Beckah and notes the tears in her eyes, he leans into her arm and allows for his own tear ducts to stop being so stoic.
So she remains for a long moment, until the cathartic moment of letting out all of the day's fear and tension is interrupted by a series of sharp knocks at the apartment door. Beckah startles and looks at Andre. "Pizza. Shit." She scrambles up to her feet, grabbing her wallet out of her coat pocket, where the ash and dust covered garment rests, and tosses it to him. "Pay, please?" She says, pushing up her glasses to wipe at her eyes, as she retreats for the walled off studio of her apartment.
"Just a sec!" Andre calls for the benefit of the pizza man, his voice still strained and teary. He grabs his cane and hauls himself over to the door, opening it and then opening Beckah's wallet as the delivery boy names the price. Which is...a very minimal price compared to the amount of green that is within the wallet's confines. Andre's eyes go very big. "Uhm. I have a fifty...got change?" The delivery boy does, fortunately, and the change is handed back to Andre. He tosses the wallet back toward the couch, where it lands squarely, then accepts the pizzas with a nod.
Beckah only emerges once the door of the apartment has been closed. In her rush of other emotions, she has forgotten entirely that there is anything to her wallet that she has neglected to mention to Andre. She smiles uncertainly. It is a lucky thing her makeup of the day has long since been washed off, otherwise crying might have made a red mess all over her face. "Got 'em?"
Andre needs not answer that question verbally. The pizza boxes rest on his forearm, his free hand wrapped around the edge. His expression is still wide-eyed, though, inclined to another question. "So. Uhm. Why was there no bill smaller than a fifty in there, and why were there so many?"
What a surprise. Her face manages to redden without the need for makeup. "Oh, yeah. That." Beckah comes walking out to meet him, all four arms hanging low, like a child who had just been caught being naughty. In this posture, Andre can see one of the inconveniences of her aberrant anatomy - her arms cannot hang straight down, because there are others in the way. "I guess I didn't really know how to say uh, how much I make at work. I was kind of worried it would put you off."
Andre slips the pizzas onto the nearest flat surface, at which point his one free arm flops down to dangle straight while Beckah's cannot; the arm holding the cane goes a little slack as well. "Well. Dang." He laughs and flushes a little, shaking his head. "Congratulations! I'm...not put off. Just awed."
"Yeah," she says, awkward. "I never imagined I'd be embarassed to say how much money I make, instead of how little." Beckah chucles and heads over to the pizza boxes, where they've ended up at the kitchen counter. She opens the one without meat on it and pulls a slice out. She takes a big bite, because a mouthful will stop her from talking.
Andre flips open the lid to the carnivore pizza, then grabs a napkin and uses it to dislodge a slice. "Well, I'm just glad that, even though you're big league now, you're still choosing to stay in this particular little apartment." He smiles, then bites his own slice of pizza. He can feel the hot cheese raising burns on the roof of his mouth. Wonderful.
"That's 'zactly what I didn't want you to worry about," Beckah mumbles after swallowing her herbivore pizza. "I can just afford to buy pizza when I feel like offering, without having to get on the phone to my dad and ask for some money." With a free hand, she reaches to pluck a napkin for herself. She cheats in holding her pizza with two hands and wiping her mouth with a third.
Andre wrinkles his nose as he presses his tongue against the burned portion of his palate, holding the slice flat on his one available hand. "I am not worried about that," he assures. "It's something I know I can count on when there's so much other crap going on to worry about."
"I'm going to be here, you know, as long as you want me to be." She smiles across the pizza boxes toward Andre. "I can't go away now. I'm just starting to get used to calling you my boyfriend without blushing."
Andre, however, hasn't gotten used to being called Beckah's boyfriend without blushing. "All excellent news!" he says as he blushes.
Beckah smiles at him, the gentle sort of a thing meant to be comforting to his blush. With a toss of her head that swings her dreadlocks toward the couch, she starts back that way. "You want to watch a movie or something? Maybe Office Space or something. We could probably use a laugh." There are no rules against eating on her couch, and so she seems to plan to do it shamelessly.
"You've got four hands," Andre says, the comment seeming like a non-sequitur until he adds, "clearly, this means you took my stapler. Since it would be so easy with that many hands." He follows her to the couch, sliding down into it with food in tow. "Don't touch my stapler." This is clearly an agreement to a movie, if there ever was an agreement.
Milton impressions are certainly agreement. Beckah sets her pizza down on the coffee table (grease smarks ahoy) and goes to put the DVD in. Once it's playing, she settles down onto the couch beside Andre. She breathes in slowly through her teeth at him. "Yeeeah, I'm going to have to ask you to hug me again while we watch this. Yeah, that'd be great."
"I think I can manage that," Andre says, leaning into Beckah's side again as he finishes his pizza and turns his eyes to the screen.
Several hours after the Sanctuary went boom, Andre visits Beckah. It is ostensibly to see if she is ok, but he ends up being whinier. Then they cry. Then they eat pizza and quote Office Space.
I have also been NPCing like crazy.
HFC Ball: Charles Bigmuth, Patron Of The Arts
Part One
Part Two
Sanctuary Go Boom: Stephen St. Helen, Barista
Part One
Part Two
I think there were a couple more FDNY and Stephen poses after what's here. Did anyone log them? I was an idiot and forgot.