ArchivedLogs:Adjustment

Adjustment
Dramatis Personae Sam, Steve	2017-01-15 "On your left!"
Location <NYC> Harlem
Harlem's gritty reputation has become less and less earned over the past decade or so as gentrification has set in. Its reputation as a hub of jazz and culture, however, is still very much earned -- throughout the years Harlem has been renowned for its contributions to music, from its swing dancing and jazz culture back when speakeasies were prevalent to the many hip-hop artists with Harlem roots in modern day. It's late Sunday morning and churchgoers are filtering out into the streets in small groups, buoyed on faith and fellowship. The air is brisk, but with the sun shining it's not at all unpleasant for a January day. Some who had left their houses bundled up are even shedding scarves or carrying layers. Not so the person huddled against a building on the sidewalk, sheltered from the wind by the stoop of a building and a great heap of black trash bags on the others. They're dressed in many, many layers, dark brown skin only visible in a thin crescent between knit caps and a heavy striped scarf. They are not moving. Two young people walk down the street, shoulder to shoulder and chattering with much laughter. Both are black and in their thirties, with just enough family resemblance to look related but perhaps not enough to be siblings. One has long thin braids that spill out over their smart burgundy coat, the other wearing a black and gold scarf elaborately wrapped around their head, a matching jacket, and neat black slacks. The second one slows as they walk past the sitting person, drawing their companion along. "Hey," they call out, "are you alright?" No response. They walk up closer and kneel down, reaching out to tap the unmoving figure. "Hey now..." The sitting figure stirs. Then looks up with empty, faded brown eyes set in an ashen face, mouth opening to loose a loud, breathy rattle. Both hands shoot out to grab the would-be good samaritan, who shrieks and tries to twist away, to no avail. "Tanya!" The other pedestrian is reaching for their companion. The zombie's mouth has not closed, and it lunges. Tanya has enough presence of mind to get an arm between the teeth and her neck, but the zombie keeps pressing, driven by ruthless hunger. Chomp chomp chomp. The teeth finally find the exposed skin of her wrist and skins in, ripping, tearing. Blood spills down onto the dirty striped scarf. It's late Sunday morning and one of those groups is a small knot -- mostly men, all black, in varying stages of Sharply Dressed. Plenty of chatter between them, plenty of smiles. One or the other or the other peeling away as they head farther from their point of origin -- to bus stops or the subway, to hail taxis in pairs for brunch or, in the case of the last tall broad-shouldered neatly-goateed man, to straighten the grey trilby on his head, fold his wool jacket over his arm, check messages on his phone and head down the street. He's also slowing with a small furrow of brow at the unmoving figure ahead of him on the sidewalk. "Hey, are you --" Though he stops, shoving his phone into his pocket when the figure grabs at the other. Sprints closer with a sharper, "/Hey/ what do you think you--" that swiftly morphs into "-- wooohat the damn /hell/?" when he's close enough to actually /see/ what's really going on. There's a distinct few seconds where his eyes have widened. Feet kind of -- rooting to the sidewalk. His cheeks puff out, he exhales. Looks at Tanya's companion reachin for her -- and finally just charges forward, shaking out his heavy coat to hold between them as he shoulder-checks the zombie, hat knocked off his head in the process. Sam's impact knocks the zombie loose from its would-be meal, and it thrashes wildly, teeth clacking together in a quest for flesh. Then it emits another rattling groan, much louder than one might expect such a sound to be. /This/ time, there's an answer from the nearest alley, as a second zombie shuffles into view, dragging one foot in extra shambly fashion, closing in on Sam. Tanya stumbles back into her companion's arms, breathing fast, eyes wide with pain and terror, mouth opening and closing. The wound on her wrist is ragged and bleeding pretty profusely. "Jay..." she manages at length, "help!" Her companion had fumbled out a phone and was perhaps in the process of calling 911, but in their attempt to hold Tanya upright has /dropped/ said phone and is now issuing panicked incoherent noises. Steve, like many others, is just leaving church. He's pulling on a navy blue peacoat over a pale blue dress shirt, silver tie covered with subtly embossed stars, and gray trousers. Just then, he hears the commotion and the cry down the street, and is running even as he shrugs into the harness that holds his iconic shield across his back. He moves with inhuman speed, leaps easily over the heap of trash, pulling the shield from its harness. His eyes skim over Sam and the bloody-mouthed zombie, then flick past them to the second zombie. Back to Sam, catching his eyes briefly as his arm winds back. "On your left!" he calls, before hurling the shield past both man and zombie, aimed squarely at the midsection of zombie #2. The first zombie, still wrestling somewhat ineffectively against Sam--not for want of strength, but coordination--takes no notice of Steve, only continues its hungry rattle. The second zombie catches the shield squarely in the chest and falls flat on its back. The shield rebounds off of the wall of the alley and back out, though not directly back toward Steve. Sam's eyes don't seem like to get any /less/ wide. He catches Steve's eyes -- catches sight of the shield -- his brows hike up! Way up. He pulls back only long enough to slam into the zombie again, harder. His coat he leaves where it is -- kind of tangled OVER the zombie's face and arms -- darting to the side to claim the rebounded shield. For the briefest moment the look he gives it is -- blink. Pause. "Yo!" When he throws it back it's not with half as much coordination as Steve. He's still keeping a close eye on BloodyFace Zombie when he approaches Tanya, untucking an unused and neatly folded pocket handkerchief from the pocket of his purplish-blue vest. Fold, fold -- "Do you mind?" It's more a courtesy than an actual request, because he's kind of commandeering, kind of steeeeeering the women to the side. Away from Zombie. Though not so much so that he can't keep an eye on things. "Can you hold this against here?" He's pressing the handkerchief against the wound, pressing Tanya's good hand against the injured one. "I know it's hurting. His scarf is next to join the handkerchief. His church wardrobe is suffering terribly. The first zombie staggers back several steps when Sam hits it, and probably would have fallen if it had not backed into the stoop of the building, by which point it has finally succeeded in throwing the coat from its face. The second zombie is slowly getting back up, not evidently too much worse for taking a shield to the chest, thanks to its winter-worthy layering. Tanya hisses loudly, but obeys Sam's instructions, both her hands shaking violently now. Jay follows close, and seems to be calming down by degrees. But only by degrees. "How bad is it?" they ask urgently, starting to move Tanya's hand so they can get a look. "Shouldn't we clean that out so it don't get infected? Willy got bit by one last winter and it got all infected." Steve catches the shield out of the air easily. "Much obliged!" He steps forward, putting himself as much between the zombies and the living as he can. "If you can understand me, you need to /stand down now./" There's a commanding edge to his voice now. He straps the shield to his left forearm and waits for a reply. The zombies' reply is only more rattling, and as close to a charge that their clumsy gait can manage, gloved hands and snapping teeth reaching for Steve. "Right now, we should stop the bleeding." Sam doesn't turn his back on the zombies, but he, too, is placing himself squarely between them and the pair he is with. "But you should definitely get to a hospital after this. For making sure it's clean, getting stitched proper so it don't scar too bad -- and, yeah," he's agreeing, "human mouths? Full of germs. They'll take care of things. Help keep it from infection. Right now, though? Right now you keep good firm direct pressure there." He's helping demonstrate, hand cupping over Tanya's shaking ones to press down firmer, steadying. "And you," he pulls his own phone out of his pocket to offer to Jay, "you get on this, call 911. Give them our intersection here." Steve bashes zombie #1 with his shield, knocking it back again, and kicks zombie #2 in its weak leg in a bid to knock it down. He follows this with a descending arc of his shield, its edge aimed at its neck. Tanya is nodding, quickly, jerkily, and far too many times. Her face is pale and her eyes are fixed on the fight between the zombies and Steve. Even so, she does her best to apply more pressure, wincing as she does. "I hate hospitals," she mumbles indistinctly. "Your ma can stitch this up, right?" This is probably directed at Jay, who has already dialed 911 and is frowning. "Sure she can, but didn't you hear him? It'll get infected, you gotta go. You /seen/ Willy's ear?" Jay shudders. The first zombie, bashed, stumbles back into the stoop yet again. The second one crumples in place, its bad leg going out from under it. Steve's shield does not cut cleanly through its neck, but it does enough. The body jerks once as the shield pulls out, then goes still. The mouth continues chomping only for a moment, then also stops. The remaining zombie does not look in any way deterred, though, and is back at Steve again as he straightens up. "I feel you on that. I just want to make sure this is fixed up right, don't catch you any trouble down the road, right? Now, I know a nurse, Lise, in the ER at Sinai, usually there about now. Wonderful lady, takes as good care of everyone as if she were their own ma." Sam's hand rests underneath Tayna's to brace it, gently slightly elevated from where she's been holding it. "Can we get you over here -- get you sitting?" He nods to a bus shelter not far off. Steve only barely gets his shield up in time to keep the zombie's gnashing teeth from closing on his shoulder. He throws it back as he finishes righting himself, and follows it fast with a sharp jab of the shield to its neck. Glancing at the bus shelter, Tanya nods, and starts walking toward it. "Don't like hospitals but this...it's kinda gone a little numb actually." She stops, looks at Sam in sudden alarm. "Is that bad? Does that mean it's infected? They're not gonna cut it off, are they? It's not /that/ bad..." On the phone, Jay's stream-of-conscious conversation with the 911 operator seems to be hitting the import bits of information despite their panic. Though they have to correct their count of zombies that need disposing to corpses that need disposing when Steve's shield finds the second one's neck and it collapses unceremoniously where it had stood. "Infection wouldn't set in so quickly. If you get it clean soon, get it cared for soon, a lot of times they can stop infection from ever getting in." Sam walks along with her -- still stabilizing the arm, yes, though halfway as an excuse to simply support the pale-and-jerky looking Tanya as she walks. Easing her down to sitting on the shelter's bench. "Can you wiggle your fingers for me?" Steve steps back from the two corpses, no expression on his face. He picks up a fallen beanie -- one of several that zombie #2 had been wearing, and wipes the worst of the blood off of his shield. He pads over to the alley and watches closely for any further sign of movement. Only when he's satisfied no more zombies are still en route to answer the call of their fallen comrades does he make his way to the bus shelter, the shield returned to its harness now. He nods to Jay on the phone and to Sam, then takes a knee a couple of steps from him and Tanya. "Anything I can do to help? It sounds like an ambulance is on the way." A pair of distant siren can be heard dopplering toward them, growing steadily louder. Jay sits down on the bench beside Tanya, who gives Sam an only /slightly/ skeptical look, but wiggles her fingers all the same, flinching at the movement. "It feels all swollen up and tight." She looks up at Steve, blinking for a moment in apparent uncomprehension. Then she 'ohhs' quietly. "Those zombies done? I mean they're not getting back up?" Her eyes skid aside toward the alley. Then drop down. "Why am I even asking, right?" She tries to smile, but only manages to make her lips quiver. "{Thanks,} though." The forbidden word she speaks in Spanish. "Both of you." An ambulance turns the corner and slow to a stop, but no one emerges until the police squad car behind it disgorges two cops to swagger down the sidewalk and look at the fallen zombies. Yep, they're proper dead. One of them waves a thumbs-up at the ambulance, and the EMTs descend on the bus shelter in a tumble of equipment and boots. Sam's brows pinch together. His eyes follow Tanya's toward the alley, then drop. His lips have pinched, too, breath pulling in slow. One nod, two. "The swelling will ease when circulation starts getting better in there. Which --" He isn't moving away from Tanya, but shifting to one side when the EMTs approach, "these people will be bringing you to get help with, aright? You just remember, /Lise/. Ask for her there if you feeling iffy, tell her Sam Wilson sent you. She's a Harlem girl, you know?" "They're not getting back up," Steve assures Tanya, grim-faced. "{And it's nothing.}" His eyes track to her hand, bundled up under makeshift bandages. "I wish you a swift recovery." So saying, he's getting out of the EMTs' way. Jay gets up and slides to the other side of the bench so they can hand Sam back his phone without getting between the emergency medical personnel and Tanya. They keep darting uncertain glances at Steve. "You know they say you only care about mutants. No time for regular folks," this seems to be directed at Steve. "I'm glad it ain't true." Tanya nods. "Lise," she repeats. "Lise. Got it. I will." And then her attention is consumed by the EMTs' questions. Jay returns to her side. Meanwhile, the police have started wandering toward the bus shelter, too. Other sirens are approaching, and a crowd is gathering to gawk and mutter. With the EMTs taking care of Tanya, now Sam finally stands. Moves away from the bus shelter, slightly, to wave back some of the crowd. "Y'all, it's all good here. I'm sure you got church to get to, brunches need eating." It's only now he finally turns his attention more squarely to Steve -- flicks eyes to the shield, to Steve's face. "You make a habit of this? In your Sunday best and all?" Steve looks down, as if he had quite forgotten how he was dressed. Then blushes just a touch. "It's...not as /much/ a habit these days as it was a year ago, but -- yeah, needs must. Steve Rogers." He starts to offer his hand, but hesitates. "I'm afraid I'm a bit. Dirty." Considering Sam for a moment. "Do /you/ make a habit of this? In your Sunday best?" A warm smile flashes across Sam's face, his head tipping a little toward one shoulder as he chuckles. "Yeah I /kin/da picked up on that. Sam Wilson." He looks down at his own hand -- wipes it off on his now-grubby coat before stepping forward to clasp Steve's firmly anyway. "Oh hell no. Be honest, it's been great having a Sunday Best I get to pick out for myself." His eyes skim away. Toward the corpses -- very briefly. "So this, this ain't a /regular/." His smile has faded. "New York's changed some." Steve's hand is calloused, his grip also firm but oddly careful. "Pleasure meeting you -- wish it were under better circumstances." He looks around, shakes his head slightly. "It sure has. I'm not used to being the one who's jaded about...all this." Pale blue eyes flick to the other man's haircut, posture. "You've been away a while?" The lift in his intonation is very mild, though there's a slight uptick of eyebrows as he ventures, "Deployed?" "Too long. Changed or not, though, coming home is --" Sam's head shakes. He skims his hand up over his hair, exhales slow. "Jaded 'bout the zombies?" Now his smile is kiiinda askew. He wanders over to claim his hat from the ground where it's fallen. Dust it off carefully. "Or about -- /all/ this?" He waves the trilby in a general sort of way. Around -- them, everywhere, everything, before replacing it neatly atop his head. "Coming home is surprisingly complicated, sometimes." Steve shrugs, the gesture more helpless than dismissive. "Zombies. Fascism. High-speed Internet." His own smile is crooked now, too. "/All/ this. Well, I shouldn't assume about where you've been. You out now? Or just on leave?" "You telling me there wasn't Fascism in your day?" Sam's brows have hiked way up. "May have changed its face some, but I'm /pretty/ sure I read a thing. On my high-speed internet." He folds his arms across his chest, coat held in against his slightly less grubby suit jacket. "Oh, I'm out-out. Though I been working down at the VA now. Talking people through the -- surprisingly complicated coming-home thing." His fingers press in firmer at the crook of his arm. "And you? You home, but you --" His glance to the shield is brief. "Out?" Steve's lips press together. "I'm used thinking about fascism being far, far away. Something you cross oceans to fight. But -- really, it's always been here, too. I was just naive, back in my day, and," a quick twitch of a smirk, "didn't have high-speed internet." He nods, slowly, meditative. "Important work, that is. Especially for folks who've come back to find home practically a war zone, too." His hand wobbles in the air, 'kinda'. "/That/ is part of my unexpectedly complicated homecoming, but at least no one's telling me to get up before the crack of dawn to run ten miles." His smile now is guileless and bemused. "Except my dog, I guess. It's an adjustment." "Hey, if you gotta have /someone/ giving you orders that is definitely the way to go." There's a moment where Sam's eyes look briefly searching -- but they pull away, watching the EMTs load their patient into the truck. He nods, half to himself. "You come look me up at the VA some time, you maybe feel like finding other people who get what that adjustment's like. I mean, I know you got complicated on /top/ of complicated but --" His shrug is small. "One thing I been learning, everyone's got their stories, right? And coming home's always hard."