ArchivedLogs:The Right People to Send
| The Right People to Send | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2015-04-06 "Given the option, I'd certainly prefer /zero/ bodies to two." |
| Location
<NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side | |
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. It's dark, in this commandeered basement room of the clinic. Mostly dark, anyway. There's an intermittent flickering, ghostly blue-white. A shiver of spark that leaves an electrical-burn smell in the air. The sheets on Ion's cot are /very/ flame retardant. The lights have been turned off, maybe, or maybe he's burned them out. Either way: dark, save for the eerie-unreliable illumination Ion provides. Quiet, for a hospital room, too. He doesn't have the usual monitors, isn't hooked up to a battery of machinery to provide chugging and wheezing and beeping. Maybe he was at one point; there are monitors nearby, but their screens are dark as well. He does have an IV drip hooked up to his arm -- old fashioned. Manual. No pump. An electric pumped one stands nearby but it's... also been burned out. Whups. Rachel is just leaving the room, pushing a cart of medication before her, her huge black wings pressed behind to fit through the doorway. Her expression looks slightly pinched. In the bed, Ion has some ice packs bundled in with him. He's still shaky, eyes currently closed, fingers twitching against the sheets. There is fresh bandaging wrapped around his stomach, partially visible with only a thin white cloth covering him. Folded into not one but two chairs beside the bed, Isra has mantled her matte gray wings around her and remains relatively still but for her breathing. Though she also has an IV line in the back of one hand and thick white bandages on her tail and calf, she still wears her own clothing, a dark gray cropped top and matching capris. Her un-punctured hand she stretches out, heedless of Ion's occasional arcing, and gently clasps one of his. There's quiet for a while after Rachel has left. Quiet, still, when Regan slips in. She's in sneakers, scrubs, a light jacket thrown over top, hair tied back in a knot. There's a moment where she lingers in the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly as they adjust to the unstable and uneven light. She closes the door behind her as she moves further in, pulling a chair up to the opposite side of Ion's bed from Isra though she doesn't actually yet sit in it. Her eyes skim down over Ion, then lift to Isra. "-- How is he." Ion's fingers cling to Isra's hand -- kind of sporadically. Squeeze then loosen, grip slack then far too tight. It comes with intermittent jolts, teeth-clenching, muscle-seizing. Zap-zap-zap. One eye does crack open at the sound of Regan's voice. Then closes again, tighter, his head turning aside and his jaw clenched up. "{Aw, shit, yo.}" His deep voice is shakier than usual. "{I fucked it up, ma.}" "Not well." Isra's reply comes soft and low, in only her sonerous bass voice. Her eyes slowly raise to Regan, vivid green and unblinking, seemingly the only color about her whole person. "The arrow wound itself would have ruined his week, but the poison..." Her wings hitching up in something like a shrug. "All they can do is suppress the symptoms and wait for this tough guy to survive them." She squeezes Ion's hand. "Saved my life." "Poison arrows? What century are we living in?" Regan's lips thin, jaw tightening at this mention. "{You are both here alive, aren't you?}" Her Spanish doesn't flow quite so easily as Ion's, slower and somewhat textbook-accented. She settles down into a perch on the chair, leaning slightly forward to rest her forearms against the railing of the adjustable bed. "/That/ is hardly a fuck-up." Ion shakes his head, squeezing back tight at Isra's hand. "Nah, sister, you too kind. I not get myself goddamn fucking. /Skewered/. You maybe get in, out, like you should have. I don't -- I didn't." He's opened his eyes again, though a little unfocused. Staring somewhere off at the wall past Isra, only the back of his head to Regan. His words come slow and thick, a little sluggish through clenched teeth and an evident lot of pain even despite the painkillers dripping their way into his arm. Another shudder of shocks runs through Isra. Ion grimaces at it, jerks his arm as if to pull away, though his fingers are still clenched around hers. "{I'm sorry.}" "Skewered or no, if you hadn't gotten to the archer, I'd have taken an arrow, too." Isra's index phalanx brushes Ion's cheek. "Might have some trouble getting in and out like that, and past that women with the sword, no less." Her hairless brows wrinkle at the latest of many shocks, but she does not release his hand. "The bodyguards--two women--Dusk and I have tangled with them before, on patrol." She looks back at Regan. "We found them savaging a young mutant over some manner of theft. No poison arrows then, though." "Over a theft?" Regan's brows lift, her hand lifting as well to curl fingers loosely against her palm; it forms a prop for her chin in the fold of her knuckles. "And today with the senator? Are they law enforcement?" Her fingers curl a little tighter. "Do you think they'll give you /more/ trouble?" She leans back in her seat, considering the back of Ion's /head/ with his apology given his face is turned away. "We'll find another angle. There's more than one route to the future, surely." "{What fucking cop carry a damn sword. Or bow.}" Though even as he says this Ion is frowning, reconsidering: "... these days, maybe lots. Shit. Shit-shit. I don't know," he admits with another shiver. "I /had/ her -- you know -- and I didn't --" Now he does turn his head, finally looking back towards Regan. "Maybe I weren't the right. To send with Isra." "It happened a year ago, but as I recall, he had stolen one of their wallets." Isra's eyes narrow and defocus. "They talked about defending themselves, and their neighborhood. So no, not law enforcement. Vigilantes--and if they have gone mercenary, then I suspect they will indeed prove more trouble in the future." Her ears press back against her scalp and her tail thumps the side of the chair--only once, and painfully, judging by her wince. "We'll find another way. Ion." Her wing phalanx gently pushes on his cheek, smooth skin cool against his, coaxing him to look at her. "If I had any interest in assigning blame, I can only call the failure mine. In any case, it would not have changed the outcome much if you had slain her; I would still have brought you here straightaway." "Mmm. Somewhat well connected mercenaries, at least. Unfortunate. I'll see if we can't get Dusk on tracking down who they might be." Regan gives her head a small shake, fixing her eyes down on Ion when he turns. "Right? By whose metrics? Given the option, I'd certainly prefer /zero/ bodies to two." Her brows furrow, eyes skipping briefly down to his abdomen. "The /right/ people to send are the ones who'll bring each other home." Ion's head turns, eyes lifting to the others. "Another way." He relaxes at this -- insofar as he /can/, still kind of tense, kind of shaky, kind of pale and sweaty and clenched, but something in his voice eases. "Not have to do him again? Some other -- different." He closes his eyes again, sucking in a breath as a faint glimmer of sparks dance up over his arms. "Okay. Yeah, okay. -- Hey." A small and crooked attempt at a smile is pulling at his lips. "Either of you, you know how to arch? Learn me some arrowing. That shit's {fucking badass.}" | |
