Logs:Spilt Milk

Spilt Milk
cn: blood/violence
Dramatis Personae DJ, Tony
In Absentia	2021-06-24 "Do you want to run that by me again?" (Set just before DJ drops in on Hive.)
Location <NYC> NYPD 121st Precinct - Staten Island
There's not much here, anymore, really -- in the station or for some small distance around, a mess of rubble and half-collapsed buildings and seemingly abandoned arcane equipment sectioned off on this block by sturdy fencing and ominous signs warning of both danger and that this is government property upon which trespassing is not allowed. Still, given the rumors, even the high fences and signage are unlikely to deter committed urban explorers -- and they certainly haven't done much to stop DJ, who is, at the moment, perched cross-legged on a jut of fragmented concrete in the nearly-faded evening light, elbow propped on his knee and his forehead resting on his knuckles. He looks much as he always has; jeans, a black tee, casual short-sleeve green and white checked button-up unbuttoned over it (hanging empty at one side), black boots, belt pouch at his hip. So near to his eyes it's unlikely he's seeing much of the flat steel ring he turns between his fingers, looking more through the band than at it, though his fingertip intermittently traces against the constellation and date etched into the inside of the metal. High fences don't do much to stop you when you're coming from above, either. It's not the eye-catching red and gold, half blending in with the dusk in shadowy matte blacks and greys, and oddly quiet in its landing -- consciously within DJ's peripheral vision. There's a distinct hesitation after Iron Man lands, and though the blank faceplate has nothing by way of expression, something in the silence feels guarded. DJ hasn't actually moved from his perch, but his eyes cut to the side as the stealth suit descends. By the time it touches down, the ring has disappeared from between his fingers; though he's barely seemed to move, the belt pouch is unfastened, his fist now closed tight. His chin tips up, propped on his first knuckle, now, where his forehead had been, eyes a touch more narrowed than they had been before. "Manhattan can't possibly have run out of liquor." The metal headpiece inclines, just slightly. "Needed some nachos to go with. Thought I'd swing by and --" The upward, outward, tip of his gauntleted hand toward the ruins of their surroundings might be casual, in ordinary circumstances. His face does not for an instant move from its focus on DJ. DJ's fist has been tightening, but when Tony speaks his breath comes out in a rush, his shoulders wilting and head bowing back down. Not so much resting against his fist, knuckles grinding into the hollow of one eye now. "Yeah, well." His voice sounds kind of deflated, too. "They're fresh out of those here, too. Are you stalking me, Tony? Why --" "Please." Tony cuts this off with a small huff, somewhat distorted through the speaker on his helmet. "You're here, you're there, you're -- who has that kind of time?" He nods towards the rubble -- or, more accurately, towards some of the equipment still stationed around it, here and there a few telltale lights signaling signs of life still. "You think you're the only one who wants to get home?" The faceplate on the helmet slides back, followed smoothly by the rest of it, the suit peeling itself open for Tony to step out of its frozen shell. "Besides." Though the ring has vanished, he still flicks a glance to DJ's now-closed hand. "Today, of all days? Not a hard guess." A muscle twitches in DJ's cheek. "I didn't think you'd --" His eyes lock on Tony's face for only a second, then drop to the ground, his fist tightening again. His nostrils flare, his eyes closing before he finally asks, softly, "Have you figured it out?" Tony's eyes dart to DJ's curled fist. Then away to the rubble. "Yep. That that door is shut tight right now." His pacing is slow, picking his way carefully across the uneven footing. "-- not sure anymore that you were the only key." In the dim light it's even harder than usual to track, when DJ moves. Visually, at least -- though for Tony it's clear enough in the hard clamp of fist against his neck, the familiar flutter-warp of motion, the sudden blaze of agony that blooms across Tony's back and shoulders where his shirt -- and a thin layer of his skin as well -- have enmeshed themselves with the gritty surface of a half-erect wall. "I'm sorry," DJ's voice is soft, still, but at such close proximity now that's not much problem, "do you want to run that by me again?" It's a good thing the block is abandoned, with the strangled scream that escapes Tony when he's teleported not-quite-into the wall. Reflexively, he makes the mistake of trying to pull away. Just for a second, though. He's a quick learner. His head tips back, teeth clenched and his breath wheezing between them. "At -- at this exact moment I'm -- kind of thinking not really." His eyes close, his words thin and halting around the hard grip at his throat. "You're -- gonna wonder a long time. Why -- you." DJ's hand tightens, calloused fingers digging viciously against Tony's throat. His head drops forward, thumping against the wall beside Tony's with a soft sprinkling of dust. In the same instant as his sharp exhale the pressure on Tony's windpipe releases; Tony himself is freed from the wall (though a torn flap of his shirt and a fair bit of his skin has been left inside it), cast somewhat carelessly to fall a few feet behind DJ (and a foot or so off the ground.) DJ's hand drops against the wall, pressing there as if it's keeping him up, now. "And you know why?" Tony stumbles, falls to his knees where he's been summarily deposited. There isn't an immediate answer forthcoming but that's maybe because he's still taking stock of his bodily integrity. His breathing is ragged, his palms pressed to the ground; for a second he looks like he thinks about standing. Reconsiders. "Educated guesses. Been educating myself. Since we slammed that door." His eyes cut to his suit, still and empty not far away. Slowly, teeth gritted, he pushes himself to a crouch, bloodied shoulders hunched inward. "You know, Dawson Allred -- this Dawson Allred -- died the same day the first anomaly hit this station." DJ doesn't answer this, at first. Just slumps further against the wall, fingers pressing harder against it. He does eventually turn around, shoulders shaking and a thin strained smile on his lips. "I'm sorry -- I'm sorry," there's a hoarse rasp of laughter in these words, an incredulity that suggests he's probably not apologizing for Tony's torn and bloodied back, "what on earth do you want me to do with that? I have heard so darn much about how that man all but walked on water and now -- what? The entire flipping universe rearranged itself because it couldn't handle losing him?" The tip of Tony's head, the spread of his hands, are kind of like a shrug, made somewhat less casual by the current tremor in his limbs. "Doesn't have to be the universe. Just -- someone powerful enough in it. Not the only anomaly that day. Same time as the rupture -- odd psionic surge. Whole damn city, grieving at once." He's managed to get himself to his feet now, stumbling finally back to his suit, though he only topples himself into it with a rather displeased gasp. "-- don't suppose you know anyone who can do that? Anyway, if it could be done once --" Tony is speaking to an empty ruins now, though. There's only a brief ghostly flutter to tell of DJ's departure.