<NYC> Midtown East
It's a brilliantly warm day -- mostly sunny, mid-50s already at noon, a perfectly lovely near-spring Saturday to be out and about enjoying a respite from freezing weather and slush and ice.
Or, in Jax's case, a perfectly lovely day to be out and about protesting. Protesting -- of /sorts/; it's a peaceful kind, but there's been a targeted effort (which in large part he's been helping spearhead, online and through New York's activist community lately) to encourage a concerted boycott of registration. Today and all through the week there are people around the city at a large number of the locations available for registration, handing out flyers, engaging in conversation with people who come to register.
The group here is a little bit bigger than most -- as one of the largest Mutant Affairs Division offices in the city, the effort here has attracted a little more /attention/. Perhaps because of the larger office or perhaps because of the very /colourful/ Notorious Terrorist organizing this particular branch of protest.
Jackson doesn't, admittedly, /look/ all that terroristy today; he's cheerful-bright as ever in black skinny jeans laced up the sides with corset-like ribboning, shiny slightly glittery purple Doc Martens, a long bell-sleeved black shirt embroidered in silver and purple, a lavender t-shirt over top covered in illustrations from the Lorax ('Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.' reads the text woven through the images), a bright rainbow-striped hoodie. Floppy black hair vividly streaked with lime-green and neon purple. An eyepatch on his eye, blue and embroidered with a silver dragonfly. He's warm and polite to the people arriving to the office, not trying to /stop/ anyone but asking if they have a minute to talk about the effects of registration on the mutant population.
Registration. It's not something Arturo is particularly happy about, but the consequences for not doing it are too severe for him to risk. He makes his way towards the office, wool peacoat buttoned all the way up and the collar raised up to cover his mouth. He stops short when he sees the protest and mutters something under his breath.
It's easy to miss Peter -- he's off to the side, out of immediate sight (though still relatively close to Jackson), hovering near an alleyway besides the mutant registration office. A slip of a teenage boy clad in a black hoodie (hood up, disguising his features) and black slacks; his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. Peter's just hanging out, it seems -- those who drop down low enough to see his dark chitin-clad expression might notice that he's frowning, looking a little frett-y.
Unlike Peter, Ghost isn't hiding at all. She's actually right in the center of things handing out flyers, her purple skin and yellow eyes /very/ noticable!
The young adult is being excitably cheerful in her efforts to combat registration, dressed in a gray hoodie, long thick jeans, and, barefoot, seeing as the weather is /slightly/ decent enough for it.
"How long are we staying out here, Jax?". Ghost says this with a cheer, not like she actually wants to leave but just curious how long they're staying out!
Chloe is definitively not attending a protest. But she's certainly /watching/ one, quiet and thoughtful. From a distance, at the moment -- the woman is perched down the block and across the street -- in the enormous /bustle/ of Midtown, protests, tourists, the most densely-packed neighborhood of Manhattan, it's -- really fairly unlikely she's noticeable at all from the protest. Nondescript in black jacket, jeans, hair bundled away beneath a sweatshirt hood, sunglass, scarf wrapped around most of her face.
The bow and arrow are slightly out of the norm for a tourist, though. But at the moment her bow is just perched on the hood of the large Hummer she sits atop of, one leg dangling over the side. "He really is very /cheerful/, isn't he?" She's saying this to her companion with -- well, her /smile/ is hidden behind her scarf but the brightness in her tone is audible anyway.
Deanna has no brightness in her tone. Just a ramrod-straight posture alongside the Hummer, arms crossed against her chest. A gruff low contralto when she speaks. "He likes a spectacle." And a moment later, an amendment: "He /is/ a spectacle." She's similarly garbed. Jacket, jeans, glasses, hood. She's watching the crowd like she's waiting for -- something.
Something which is, perhaps, currently /arriving/ in the form of a descending group of /counter/ protesters, louder and somewhat more /aggressive/ than the friendly-polite anti-registration crowd. Picket signs. Swagger. One man jostle-shoves his way past Ghost rather abruptly to poke a finger towards her and Jackson. "Get lost, freaks. We don't need you here encouraging people to break the /law/."
"We're only stayin' until -- /oh/ gosh /where/ did Peter go, Ghost, can you find him an' tell him if he's out here he /needs/ to stay with the /group/ or I'm callin' his folks /right this minute/ to pick him up?" Jackson's thick Southern drawl lends itself well to fretting; down there it's like their official pasttime. He's just turning towards Arturo, flyer in hand -- "Excuse me, sir? D'you have jus' a minute to talk about registration an' the effects it's havin' on --"
-- when suddenly he is /intercepted/ by large man, poking-finger. A very small shift of position angles himself /just/ a little bit in between the other man and Ghost with reflexive protectiveness. "Beg pardon, sir, but we're just out here to talk. Not lookin' to cause no trouble. This law's having an /enormous/ effect on a lot of people an' all we're doing here is having -- /polite/ -- discussions on that."
Arturo ducks his head and tries to prevent any eye contact with Jackson when he comes forward holding the flyer. Then, there's the big guy in the way. The 'f' word brings a low snarl up from his chest. Fortunately, there's a fair amount of people here, so it's hard to identify the sound's origin. This isn't going to be good. He drops back a few steps, but ends up bumping into one of the counter protestors.
"I'm right here, don't worry--" Peter's voice calls up, behind Jax, stepping forward out of the alleyway -- though when the man with the large finger interrupts, Peter goes quiet; there might be just a /hint/ of shifting behind the teacher -- the sound of feet scraping across asphalt and gravel, sliding apart. His eyes drift past Jax, toward Arturo -- and then he's scanning the crowd, hood peeking up, revealing a flash of chitin and dark, charcoal blue.
"Oh, but I /do/ love a spectacle." Down the block, Chloe is answering Deanna with low amusement in her voice. "I mean, so /earnest/. You kind of have to respect -- so many young people don't even /bother/ trying to get involved with the political process at all. And he's what, Twenty? Twenty-one? Out there with --" With gloved hands she's dragging an arrow out of the quiver on her back, using the arrow to wave towards the protest. "Getting those /children/ involved too, really gives you hope for the future. I mean, if /everyone/ had that kind of passion --"
"You've got enough for all of us," Deanna grumbles in interruption. She's still watching the crowd, arms still folded over her chest. Finger tapping slowly at the crook of her arm. Her lips twitch in amusement at Arturo's avoidance. "Thankfully for us, not everyone /has/ that kind of passion. Makes our job a bit easier, doesn't it?"
"You're /not/ encouraging a boycott of registration, then?" The man's brows raise. Around them the other protesters are not so much gathering as pulling slightly back, creating a bit of a wider berth around Jackson and the teenagers. "Because I'm pretty sure that's what I've been hearing the past few days." The protester Arturo bumps into is backing up as well, leaving Arturo in the middle of the group with Jackson and the others.
Micah is arriving laaate, oops. And hoping every step of the way that first aid skills aren't required. Particularly not /this/ early in the game. He got held up at work during a shift at the shop this morning and is rushing in, still smelling of metal and motor oil under his fresh T-shirt, olive canvas jacket, and blue jeans. His auburn hair is a tousled mess sticking out all at angles from his newsboy cap and there are a few dark stains on his hands still. At one hip is his usual messenger bag, at the other a portable first aid kit, and strapped to his back are his neon orange forearm crutches. Just in case quick moving becomes necessary... He hurries himself /near/ to the group but not into it, never the most crowd-manoeuvrable of individuals, keeping an eye out for people in need of assistance.
Well. This is...not good. Exactly what Arturo didn't want to happen is...happening. Drawing attention to himself. Getting in the middle of politics. None of that is exactly good for keeping his profile low. He scans the crowd, searching for an easy way to slip out. "Look. I...don't want to get involved. Just let me go on with my business." Which would sound more convincing if he didn't put his hands up in the air. He's either wearing black nailpolish (he doesn't seem like the type) or it's something else.
"Peaceful civil disobedience has always been an important part'a civil rights struggle in this country, sir," Jackson answers calmly. When Arturo tries to avoid him he doesn't /press/ the issue, not looking to hassle anyone and really only looking to engage people /willing/ to be engaged -- which, /unfortunately/ for him at the moment seems to be the aggressive man in front of him. "An' right now we seem to be kinda in the middle of a pretty large civil rights issue. I feel like gettin' people aware of the effects of registration is worth the risks."
Peter's gone notably quiet; not that he's been making a lot of noise since his arrival. The previous interest he showed in coming here has all but vanished; now he's tense, silent, brooding. When Ghost steps up next to him, he doesn't respond -- not at first -- eyes on the man Jax is arguing with... and then on the other protesters. Nudging his way a little closer to Jax (though still close to Ghost). The hood dips low, again: "Just... stay calm. Be ready to move if you have to," Peter responds, his voice hushed but level -- distracted.
The crowd already seems so thrilled at the protest. Yay. Micah turns the video recording app on his phone on, said phone hanging from a rubbery connector on a lanyard around his neck, camera portion facing out and screen up against his chest. It'll be a rather low video, as if recorded by a child, but the audio will be there either way. After the /last/ protest, it just seems prudent. Seeing the kids rather isolated out there with Jax, he moves closer by skirting the crowd, utilizing the alleyway Peter was in. He's trying to position himself closer in case something happens, to give himself better access to Jax and the kids.
"/Peaceful/ civil disobedience, is that what they're calling terrorism now?" The man's voice is growing louder, his posture just that much more /puffed-up/ in front of Jackson. "Is that what they call letting out a man who murdered a /million/ people? You should be rotting in jail still after what you did to this city. There's /finally/ an effort to keep /track/ of dangerous abilities, to /protect/ our families, and you're out here trying to -- what. Recruit more people into your --" He waves a hand towards Peter and Ghost and Jackson. "Hit squad."
With eyes on the loud man engaged in the argument, it's probably easy to miss things that come from /other/ sides. Quieter, faster. Chloe's bow and arrow do not draw much attention to themselves as she props herself up into a kneeling position on the hood of the Hummer, taking well-practiced aim to fire into the clearing the other protesters have helpfully spread around Jackson. One arrow and then another, aimed at the bright colourful target of Jackson's back.
Arturo happens to be looking away from the commotion in order to find a way out of it. He spots Chloe, but isn't exactly sure what to do about it. Other than point, that is, and shout, "Hey!"
Peter's paying attention to the crowd. His back is turned to Chloe, to Deanna, to the arrows -- his eyes to Jackson and the man in front of him. But when those arrows lift -- just as the fingers release -- every nerve-ending in his body /shrieks/ in painful anticipation of violence. And suddenly -- Peter's wrenching his arms out, hurling one arm around Ghost -- the other around Jackson -- attempting to /tackle/ them both to the ground, simultaneously. Bellowing: "SHIELD!"
As Peter hurls his arms out, Ghost isn't fighting it, allowing herself to be tackled to the ground. "Holy shit, what was that?!".
She's lifting her head to look at what's going on, and as soon as she notices teh arrows, is /lowering/ it back down.
There's a very faint tension that creeps into Jackson's posture, into the line of his jaw, but his tone remains quietly calm and /impeccably/ polite when he replies. "Sir, what happened with that disease was /caused/ by the government, not by my people. If you want to look to be pointin' fingers, you should maybe be looking to the folks that are hunting us down to /turn/ us into weapons. If anything, registration is gonna be an avenue for them to focus those efforts even /more/. It's not just /us/ who're going to be --"
But his words cut off, here, with a sort of /wetly/ startled choking noise. There's a bright /ripple/ of light around him -- a shimmer around the entire small clearing around the group that solidifies, far too late, into a prismatic-translucent but very solid dome of /wall/ as he is -- apparently tackled to the ground. Sprouting bright /new/ feathers from his back, teeth clenched up in pain from the shafts torn through his sweatshirt. His eye is wide -- he looks more startled at the moment than hurt, reflexively fumbling for his phone. "... I think this is. Time to --" The shimmer around them fades but /he/ is glowing, now, fiercely bright and /very/ hot. "Panic --" Only belatedly he remembers to add: "/button/."
With the tension growing in the crowd, Micah's concern grows proportionally. He unhitches his crutches from his back, bringing them down to place one arm in each. A little extra support in a jostling situation never hurts...and the neon orange hard /metal/ can be a bit of encouragement to give him some /room/. His attention is drawn, first by Arturo yelling (turning to Arturo), then by Arturo pointing (turning to...is that an archer?), then Peter yelling (not just /turning/ to the group but moving faster toward it, 'encouraging' people out of his way with his crutches). "Medic! Out of the way! Medical emergency!" he calls loudly when Jax goes down, swinging in in such a way as it would be difficult to block his path--crutches first and then both feet swooping through. Apologies to anybody getting kicked; this is a medical emergency, after all! He /crashes/ down at Jax's side, crutches thrown off beside him, immediately assessing the wound, grabbing a pile of clean cloth from his bag to apply pressure until a better plan can be formulated. "Call for help, /now/!" is vaguely directed at Peter and Ghost.
Chloe's rapidfire shoot-and-reload is evidently attempting to just /fill/ Jackson full of arrows -- she's shooting off a trio more even as the man is getting tackled to the ground, though with her quarry falling now it's anyone's guess where /these/ might land. Possibly in the people gathered nearest him. "He does make a /really/ colorful target," she tells Deanna cheerfully.
"Get /down/ from there. You make an obvious one, now," Deanna is answering Chloe. Gruff but calm, as she unholsters a pistol from beneath her jacket, not bothering to shoot until /after/ Jackson's shield has shimmered and faded away. It's a harder prospect now, though -- the crowd is starting to /panic/ because, well, /arrows/ coming out of nowhere is unusual even for New York. And an agitated crowd means far less clear of shots to take.
Despite her advice to Chloe, she ends up climbing up to /join the other woman on the vehicle, a better line of sight from which to sight the man who first pointed-and-shouted. The crack of /gunfire/ is a far clearer report than the quiet whisper of arrows as she aims towards Arturo.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the man who was in Jackson's face through all of this does not seem particularly startled by the sudden chaos. As Micah swoops in to commence with his medicking, /he/ is hefting a sturdy boot to aim a solid heavy /kick/ towards the smaller man's chest.
Ghost is whipping out her cellphone, tapping the panic button app on it. "Should..we get out of here? Will everyone be safe?".
Now, Ghost is /really/ freaked out, but she's trying to keep calm. "Peter, that alley you were in, where does it lead?"
Peter has no idea what triggered his danger sense; only that it was triggered. So when he sees the feathers sprouting from Jackson's back, there's a brief surge of confusion -- followed by realization -- followed by... something else. As Jackson fumbles for his phone, Peter's on his feet -- teeth grinding, fists clenched, eyes swooping through the crowd. When he sees Micah -- "Leads out. Other side of the block." His voice is treacherously soft, stepping aside to give Micah room -- if Micah or anyone else catches Peter's face in that brief instant, they'll see it twisted into mindless, white hot /fury/.
And then... gunshots. There's a /k-thwp/; the front of Peter's hoodie pops open -- just above the left chest. He staggers back, briefly; the rage intensifies as his eyes focus on Chloe and Deanna -- and then -- Peter's gone, /hurling/ himself into the air, over the crowd's head -- swooping at least 5 or 6 yards into the air with a single leap, toward the other end of the block. Running toward Chloe and Deanna, springing up and down at high speed as he goes. /Screaming/ in rage. "Going to fucking /KILL/ you--"
Gunfire. Arturo barely registers it before he's /feeling/ it. A bullet grazes his left arm, cutting a bloody swathe. The sound he makes...well, that's /not/ human. It's wolflike and very...very unhappy. He crouches low to the ground and bares pointed teeth. His arm stings like a bitch, which pokes at the creature that lives inside him. "Everyone get the hell out of here! Run!" He rolls behind a mailbox, hopefully out of sight of the shooter.
As Micah crashes down by Jax, the foot comes toward him. Likely not in the way it was aimed due to his own sudden movement, though it does clip his left shoulder and knock him briefly aside. His teeth come down hard on his bottom lip, splitting it into a bloody mess that looks far worse than it is, as is the way of such injuries. Growling in pain and anger, Micah determinedly keeps up his aim of staying at Jax's side. Unable to get close enough with his pile of cloth for decent wound compression, he grabs one of his crutches and /jabs/ it at the groin of the kicking man. "Pressure on the wounds when it's safe t'get close; he burns hot!" he spits out bloodily at Arturo. "Gotta stabilise the shafts of the arrows so they don't cause more damage. First aid kit there." But then the other man is already fleeing the /gunshots/.
"Go -- car. Now." Deanna is terse, muscles tensed but her hand remarkably steady in its aim -- which is switching, through Peter's charge, to -- well, to /try/ and keep track of the swinging mutant. It's only when he's /running/ and not in the air that she fires, one shot and then another straight towards the boy's chest though -- with his speeds so much /faster/ than a /usual/ human sprint her calculation is likely far more off than usual. She's starting to slide down off the roof herself as Peter approaches though -- the time taken to stop and /fire/ at him means this retreat is not actually as hasty as it probably should have been.
Chloe, on the other hand, does not wait around for this. She's grabbing her bow and jumping of the roof the instant Deanna says go, letting the other woman cover her retreat as she jumps down on the driver's side of the vehicle. "-- /Hey/. You come /too/, that kid looks fucking crazy what the hell is that -- what the hell is that," she repeats this question a little louder for Peter's sake. "Some freaking /bug/ -- get in the car, woman."
Over with the others there is a good deal more panic in the crowd -- it might be hard to figure out which way is /up/ from the people either yelling or pulling out their phones to /record/ or blocking traffic or just /gawking/. The man who'd been arguing with Jackson stumbles back a step at the hard jab of crutch into groin, doubling over with a sickened oof. Behind Micah, someone brings a -- /picket sign/ down across the man's head. Thankfully it's mostly made of poster paper and a thin piece of plywood.
"Jesus you're /one/ of them," someone else is yelling at Arturo -- from somewhere in the crowd there's a kick jabbed at him, but in the panic it's hard to keep track of just /who/.
At Jackson's cry, Ghost nods an affirmative, and begins running as fast as she can towards Peter.
As Ghost chases after Peter, one of the bullets whisks past him..into Ghost's stomach. Shot's rather hard, she's down, nonfatal but she's bleeding rather bad and isn't getting up any time soon.
Flicker /has/ been drinking hot chocolate and working on homework in a cafe just down the street when his panic button blared. He'd probably have shown up even /faster/ but conscientious as ever he had to stop to make sure to leave enough /money/ on the table to cover his food; the young man looks more than a little bit flustered when he shows up in mid-chaos. The young X-Man shows up very /abruptly/, not walking but simply /appearing/ in a faint shimmer-blur. First at the periphery of the crowd and then in its midst, dressed totally not for a riot in neat khakis, button-down, a sweater vest.
"Jax -- Micah? What." His green eyes widen as he looks at Jackson on the floor. Whirls to Arturo, as the first non-/yelling/ non-occupied person he sees. "-- What happened. Where are they?"
Arturo is unprepared for the kick. The air is knocked out of him and he makes another wounded animal sound. He'd retaliate, but there are too many cameras, and it's too likely he'd claw the wrong person. Instead, he grabs the wound on his arm. "What happened?" he replies, "What happened was all hell broke loose. Someone shot your friend. Then they shot me." He gets himself up and moves over towards the arrow-pinpricked man again. "We all need to get the hell out of here. I don't think the police are going to be too fussy about who they arrest."
Attention rather occupied with fending off the kicking man and trying to get close enough to Jax to help him, Micah is utterly oblivious to the sign cracking down on his head. It stuns him briefly, another trickle of blood forming from the small laceration on his scalp. Vision momentarily going blurry, he just plunges forward with his hands wrapped in the cloths, hoping this is adequate protection as he stubbornly presses in against the worst of Jax's wounds. Then there's that familiar voice... "Flicker! Ohgod, Flicker! Jax is bleedin' out down here, get 'im /out/ of here! He needs a hospital! The Clinic! Hank! Somebody /now/! Ghost an' Peter are off in the crowd, I don't know what happened to them..."
Strangely enough, as fast as Peter's going, he doesn't even appear to be /trying/ to avoid getting shot. That being said -- trying to hit him is like trying to hit an incoming meteor -- bullets whiz by him as Deanna struggles to compensate. One bullet /does/ seem to hit -- something -- another k-thwp on his chest, catching him by surprise. He staggers forward, grimacing -- dropping to all fours. Gasping, lurching for breath. By the time they're in the hummer -- Ghost is hit, Peter's head jerking back at the sight. His face shudders with another grimace, his eyes focusing on the chaos behind him -- one last furious glance thrown to their truck. "--find you," he manages to croak, before turning toward Ghost, limping his way toward her, clutching at his chest.
"Don't panic," Peter tells Ghost, dropping down next to her, reaching one hand for her shoulder -- the other for the wound. The bracer around his wrist produces a low hum, before -- THWP -- he splats it with webbing, to seal the injury -- and applies gentle but firm pressure to it. Glancing back at the crowd. "--god. I left -- I left Jax and Micah... oh, god. Okay, I need to -- get you somewhere safe, and... make sure they're..." He breathes raggedly.
"Get the kids," Jackson tells Flicker, first. "Peter chased /after/. After." He trails off here, words a little raspy-wet and eventually bubbling off to quiet heavy breathing. Now he just focuses on staying /calm/ through the pain; it takes a bit, but slowly the fierce /burn/ around him starts to fade, cooling off to still uncomfortable but at least not /searing/ temperatures. His eye closes, teeth gritted as he concentrates hard on -- not exploding.
"-- Oh -- hnngh the kids. -- If you're hurt stay there," Flicker says quickly to Arturo, "I can get you out."
And then in a flash the young man is disappearing again. Kind of disappearing, more sort of /shimmering/ too fast to really track, a chaotic /blur/ of afterimage as he ghosts off. It's likely none too /pleasant/, the following. He appears next to Peter and Ghost with only enough time to warn them: "We're moving. Now." And then with a hand on each teenager's shoulder they are disappearing, too.
He's back for Jackson and Micah next, disappearing them in equally short order. Arturo last. It's a fairly stomach-turning wrench of journey, not one smooth trip but a /series/ of teleported jumps that makes the city vanish and reappear whirlwind-fast around them. But it is, at least, thankfully over very /quickly/; what he lacks in range he makes up for in lightning speed and by the time it is /done/ the lot of them are no longer in the middle of the angry chaotic crowd but -- quieter, in a small alley several blocks away.
Flicker, for his part, looks pale and nauseated himself after carrying too many people too far too fast; he's pulling his phone out to call an /ambulance/. "-- Did you get a license plate?" His eyes have focused on Peter with this question, calmly as though he /didn't/ just yank them all a few blocks on zero notice.
Ghost is having struggles communicating, a slow nod to Peter. "I'm..".
As they reappear far away, Ghost isn't..really moving much still. Wound's rather bad, probably pierced something, bleeding heavily, but she'll live if she gets medical attention. "Jax..okay?..". Her words are coming out more or less mumbled, she's partially inbetween passed out, though she's closing in on it.
Arturo is about to start a sentence when he gets well...picked up? by Flicker. Given the wind being knocked out of him, plus being shot, he's looking pretty green by the time everything has stopped going blurry. He takes a deep, steeling breath and tries to stand. He wobbles and drops back down again. "Okay. Okay. Thank you, I guess. Anyone got a tums?" It's a slightly inappropriate crack, but. He shrugs off his peacoat, revealing a pale blue dress shirt that is stained with blood. "Hookay. Triage time." He moves towards Ghost and starts to check her over. "Here, hey, relax. I'm a doctor. Looks like you and I have the same enemy number one. That makes us pals. And a pal takes a deep breath while they let their doctor pal get a look at their injury."
Peter's starting to rise, moving to pick Ghost up -- but then Flicker is there. Though Peter only has an instant to show it, the relief he feels is nearly palpable -- so much that even the nauseating sensation of being rapidly ported away in a series of flashes isn't enough to disquiet him. When they're in the alleyway -- the sight of Micah and Jackson, injured though the latter might be, causes a *flood* of relief in Peter -- his back hits the wall of the alleyway, breathing harder -- tugging at his bullet-hole'd hoodie.
Peter's already yanking it off -- exposing the sleek, honey-comb like surface of the bodyarmor he wears underneath -- when Flicker asks the question. For a moment, Peter stares at Flicker, expression locked into intense thought. And then -- it goes blank.
"I'm sorry. I didn't," Peter lies.
Once they arrive at their final destination, Micah falls fully into first aid mode. Especially now that Jax is no longer about to burn his hands off. "I need another set of hands over here!" he calls a little wetly, blood still dripping from his head and mouth like stupid little head wounds will. "Keep pressure where I am so's I can stabilise these arrows. They need t'/not/ move when we're movin' 'im. But I can't do anythin' 'til I got my hands back." Said hands are currently spread wide over layers of cloth, pushing down over the worst of the bloody open spots on Jax's back, around the arrows.
Jackson is mostly quiet. A little raspy-breathed, cheek pressed against the gritty pavement, the long shafts protruding from his back preventing him from turning /over/. "S'Ghost -- okay," he's asking nearly at the same time she asks about him. A faint twitch curls at his lips. "... they take the /civil/ right. /Outta/ civil diso -- be --"
His eye slips closed to the approaching wail of sirens.