ArchivedLogs:Fierceness and Fatigue

Fierceness and Fatigue
Dramatis Personae Anette, Killian	2015-08-23 "I can have talons in your eye sockets in .2 seconds flat." (Takes place immediately after Smash.)
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Monday, late night. Late enough that most humans aren't roaming the streets of this particular part of town unless they have a good reason to. The weather's also rather unforgiving, as dreary clouds move in to make the darkness even heavier and threaten to shed its rain on those below soon enough. The lower east side, while maybe sparse of people, is not devoid of its strays, the odd shaggy cat balancing on a partially broken chainlink fence, a thin looking dog moving from trashcan to trashcan to find its scraps for the day after whatever remains from evening meals has been tossed for the evening. Rats, probably larger than some would appreciate, intermittently pop out of drainage systems and disappear into the sewers again with a flash or two of red eye. Whether it be by serial observations or inner-working connections, finding the safehouse had happened at some point. Why it took the criminal and once-Promethean-labrat this long to actually check it out is a whole other story. A black and white dog, of medium size and medium coat, isn't far from the townhouse, having tucked itself between a couple of black trashbags with one partially ripped open and its contents spilled making his area even less warrenting of close examination. The only curious aspects about the creature, perhaps, is why its coat is relatively clean and why it hasn't indulged in any of those rotting fruit peels that smell so strongly. The cover of darkness, a curse for most, still remains a blessing for some. High above, amongst the tops of the tallest buildings, something has been flying. Moving quickly and quietly, she goes relatively unnoticed except for maybe the occasional soul looking out the window at the right time who probably don't believe what they saw anyway. Despite the dark, the being doesn't seem to have any trouble navigating, weaving in and out of obstacles with ease. Once that being reaches the Lower East Side, it dives, wings tucked in and swooping down to the earth again. Again, they manage to pinpoint their exact location, a dirty alley away from prying eyes, and have no trouble avoiding the buildings and trees along the way. Their landing isn't so clean, landing on all fours instead of just two and a muffled gasp of pain escaping. The bit of light found near the ground reveals Anette, though in a very rough state. Her face is pale with exhaustion and her teeth are gritted tightly, her breathing ragged and heavy. Her leg appears to be the problem; the calf of her jeans soaked in blood. She looks up, yellow eyes carefully scanning the dark for any sign of human life. Brown eyes watch, though canine eyes aren't within darkness so grand. But long-fur-trimmed ears perk at sound first. Soft wingbeats, the near-silence of owl wings, and the gasp at landing. Then the smell: the iron-heavy sweetness of blood, tainted as it seeps through and dries on clothing. The dog reveals itself, sunken as it walks beyond those trash bags in a border collie's classic stalking gait. But unlike any dog, the curiousness doesn't lead to any tail-wagging approach or frightened tail-tucked escape down some alley-way. Rather, the form shifts mid-stride until white forepaws become dingy human hands, back ones shortening their metatarsals into the shorter and unfurred feet of a man, body straightening into a bipedal walk by the time the fourth paw would have hit the pavement. When Killian stops some good number of feet- he's not that stupid- from Anette, he is clothed at the very least in dark jeans and a darker hoodie. "Thought I smelled something familiar." The greeting bypasses the obvious; a testing statement more than anything. Anette suddenly looks up, tensing at the sudden appearance of Killian, almost with fear. It's not often her senses miss things. "You, whoever you are, get away," she yells, reaching for a nearby trash can as she slowly pulls herself up, tucking her wings tight against her body. It's not until she focuses in on Killian that she recognizes him. "I've...met you before. What are you doing here?" she asks firmly, not trusting him anymore than she did before. "Hardly in a position to give me orders with a wound like that." Killian tips his chin at her, but his expression is neither one of sympathy nor one of intended violence. There's a mild grin that lines his face, though with his hoodie up and the dreariness of the streets, only one like her with such good vision would likely catch it. "My guess is you're headed there." He doesn't bother pointing to the safehouse, his hands casually remaining at his sides but, of course, not so casually as to be stuffed into pockets. "You got us-" the latter word is used with a slight edge to it, being he didn't really know who the third party was at their time of brief interaction, "out of an annoying situation. And I've seen you more than once." Whether he means the news or otherwise, he doesn't clarify, "You look like you could use a hand. Or a leg." His pun is not intended to be well-placed, but he still seems amused with himself for it. "Trust me, I could still take care of you if I had to," Anette says as Killian reminds her of her position. His grin is met with an annoyed eyeroll. "Yeah, I'm headed there. I'm on my way to...somewhere else. I just need to rest a moment and patch myself up a bit." Because that's all a gunshot wound needs is a patch-up. She looks over Killian for a moment, weighing her options, though her decision is quickly made as she begins to sway dangerously, held up only by one leg and a garbage can. "Fine," is all she says, lowering her head and letting down of some of her guard. But not all of it. "Don't doubt it." Killian replies to the threat, but his lackadaisical manner isn't swayed. What is swayed is his distance from her that's steadily decreased by a couple of slow, deliberate steps. "Well you have a choice, babe. Either you can try to tolerate my devilishly handsome self, or I can give you a ride." The implications are inappropriate, but they come easily enough. "But unless dog slobber has as much healing properties as some say, I don't think I can save y'from infection if you just slap a bandaid on that." He has about as much trust as one could expect a survivalist to, and when he reaches out at hand to see if she'd be willing to take it, those intense eyes of his are only a little less outlined by his smugness. "Thank you for your medical expertise, doc," Anette responds, her words just as sarcastic as it, though perhaps with a bit more bite. "I plan on getting better treatment. Just need to...get there first. Not as if I can show up at the nearest hospital with a gunshot wound and labelled a terrorist." She holds out a gloved hand, hiding her talons, to Killian as he offers it. "Just need to...stop the bleeding. Maybe rest some." Anette returns Killian's stare, her own eyes outlined with fierceness. And fatigue. "Anytime." The sarcasm is heavier, but quieter as he lets his own guard down for the closeness required to take her gloved hand and loop it around the back of his neck. His other arm would try to support around her waist to take the weight off that leg and take the role the trashcan had, though perhaps a bit better given he's mobile. "And here I am, just not wanting anyone to pet me." Killian says after her comment of her labelling, the shooting, the hefty weight of events befallen her. And, should he have succeeding in his approach to help her walk, begins to take a step towards the safehouse. "Who got you?" The first appropriate question comes with a slight narrowing of his eyes that doesn't really take away from the crooked grin that still keeps to his shadowed expression. "Fucking cop. This guy attacked them, got all big and green and monster-y. Tried to be a decent person and help them but obviously I'm mutant so I'm obviously attacking. He calls for back-up, next thing I know I'm surrounded. Can't wait to see how they twist fucking story in the news," Anette says, holding tightly to Killian as he positions her arm around him. "Had no desire to be arrested so I took off. Almost got away, too." She takes a tender step with her bad leg, barely touching the ground before she gasps and quickly raises her leg, settling for hopping beside him. "Can't blame them for petting you...much cuter as a dog," she forces out, trying to ignore the pain. "They're all fucking blind." Killian says dismissively of cops, of humans, in a tone and associated darkness that delivers such a normalcy to it that it's hard to imagine it's anything but his daily thought on the matter. "Lucky you got out with one, and not'a busted wing." Sympathetic he still isn't, but with a comraderie of understanding that only one who can also fly can share. He's patient at first with her tender step and then resultant hopping, pausing in stride to allow her time to do so. It would almost seem as though the patience will continue, until it doesn't. His grip on her arm shifts and he stoops rather quickly- not as fast as it's likely he could go, but fast enough to not give a wide window to fight back as he scoops her up. Wings make it more awkward than necessary, cumbersome, but manageable as he shifts a little until he can start walking. The effort pushes the hood off his head, letting black messy hair free and his face easier to see. He tsks at her comment, "Now you're just gonna hurt my feelings." Perfectly content with hopping, Anette barely lets out a squeak as she's suddenly scooped up, finding herself in the arms of Killian. Perfectly stunned, she's actually silent for a moment before suddenly glaring. "If you get ANY goddamn ideas, I can have talons in your eye sockets in .2 seconds flat," she warns, reluctantly wrapping her arms about Killian's neck to steady herself. As the hood falls from his face, an eyebrow raises as she takes a moment to fully appreciate her assistant. Not bad. "I also doubt I can explain away the Sentinel situation by admitting I was really, really drunk." It's fortunate that they aren't too far from the townhouse given the talon-threat hung in the air and what usually comes out of Killian's mouth, curtailed for the few moments of imminent danger into a lopsided, broadened smirk below those suggestive eyes of his. And now that there isn't hopping involved, the young man makes much more efficient progress towards it, pausing at the chipped-paint door only long enough to blindly fumble for the handle. It swings open, thankfully with minimal squealing of its hinges, and once he's inside angling carefully in the process to not clip leg or wing on the doorframe. "Home, love." The nickname seems to be about as particular to her as 'babe' was earlier, said as he turns his head away to look over his shoulder at the door and kick it closed. <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. Anette doesn't usually do the whole 'damsel in distress' thing so she's actually pretty pleased with the efficiency of Killian carrying her into the safehouse. "Couch...over there. First aid kit in the bathroom...just over there," Anette starts ordering about, as if she had any real power to enforce her demands. "So do you know what you're doing or should I just wrap myself up?" she asks, only now beginning to wonder how exactly this is going to be handled. Perhaps it's the evergrowing red stain on her jeans reminding her of the seriousness of her situation. Chivalry has been a little more than rusted over time with the metamorph, and as he sets her down on the couch, it's probably not as gentle as it should be done. He doesn't /drop/ her, at least. He draws back a step before turning, though that cocky expression he'd created earlier stays even with his back to her. A hand lifts, waving off the doubts as he turns some corner as if he knows the place. As if he'd been here a few times before. Instruction to find the bathroom isn't necessary apparently, but there's rustling of things in a cabinet as he searches out the first aid kit. When he comes back with it, he's still not in any terrible rush. The lid's been flipped open and his hands sift through the items. "You gonna take off your pants for me?" He doesn't watch her as he says that, but he does kneel beside the couch, putting the kit on the table beside them both. "Or you a shy one?" A little farther from the talons, he finds the capability to speak again. Once on the couch, Anette leans back, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. She doesn't even mind the less than gentle way she's set down, just thankful to be set down at all. Still, she can't help but grin as she hears Killian helplessly dig around in the bathroom for the kit. Her eyes quickly flutter open once she hears Killian approaching, peeling the gloves off her hands for the sake of comfort. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?" she says, though as if to prove a point, the pants do start coming off. For easier access to the wound of course. Though the wet bit takes some time, they do come off eventually, revealing a single bullet wound in the back of her left calf. "Shit, I think the bullet hit bone," she groans, the wound beginning to sting as fresh air begins to hit it. A breathy chuckle is her response, but Killian apparently has a more serious side to him despite the grins and arsenal of callous remarks. "Y'only got the one, yeah?" A dressing pad package is bit between his teeth and torn open, leaving the sterile pad itself untouched until he pulls it free and placed immediately on the wound as she peels the fabric from it. His pressure is significant, the whole of his palm adding to it as his free hand messes with a roll of rollgauze. He's quick about it; clearly it's not the first time he' seen a bullet wound. "Mnlesh.." He spits out the packaging from his mouth, "Unless you want a mouse in your wound, it's stayin' in there 'til you get a real doc. Deep as shit." Is purely agreement to her assessment. "How long you been bleedin' anyway? You come straight here?" Offhanded questions as he starts wrapping the bandaging around her leg so long as she complies to him lifting it enough for him to do so. "Better be just the one," Anette says, relaxing against the couch as she watches Killian work on the wound. As he presses the gauze against the wound, an owl-like screech escapes before she can stifle it, her talons digging into the couch. Someone can fix the holes later. With her lips pressed firmly shut, she waits out the rest of the bandaging process until the majority of the pain subsides and she releases the breath she didn't realize she was holding. "No, I stopped for Starbucks. Of course I flew straight here," she responds, the agony converting into more bitter sarcasm. "Don't know how long, didn't have a stopwatch on me. However long it takes to fly from Central Park to here." The screech earns a flinch, those blue eyes of his flicking up to her face after to assess the situation- or, more accurately, his level of danger within it. "The calories would'a done you some good." He offers on the thought of Starbucks, his placid composure continuing on. It's multiple layers of wrap that he winds her leg with, given the significance of her bleeding, a second type of cling-wrap overlaying it, and tape to hold it. "Y'obviously not going anywhere for awhile. And you'll need a second one," he tips his head in gesture to the dressings, "before the night's through. Y'feel like you're gonna live, or pass out?" He's already standing, regardless of whatever her answer may be, but it's not with the intention to leave the place. "Got any food here? I didn't smell any earlier." "It is almost pumpkin spice season," Anette adds to the Starbucks conversation. "What do you mean I'm not going anywhere, what happened to seeing a real doctor?" she asks, watching him from the couch as Killian begins to walk off. "Well, the urge to pass out hasn't gotten any worse than before, if that's what you're asking," she says with a light shrug. "Pretty sure I'll live anyway. There should be some food in there somewhere. Might belong to somebody but I think they'd understand." "For the night." Killian clarifies as he disappears again around a corner, this time to the kitchen. The sound of the refrigerator opening, some clinking, rustling, and then the door shutting denotes he must have found something. A sandwhich on a plate is set beside her with a clunk of ceramic to table when he returns, the foodstuff wrapped mostly with foil. It may be old, probably dry, but at least the bread isn't green. "Unless you got a doctor friend on speed-dial before the sun's up. I sure don't." He shrugs as his hands come up to pull his hood back over his head, a thumb and forefinger reaching for the peak of it to tug it into place and shade his face again. "That's a night longer than I'd rather wait," Anette says, though she remains on the couch, apparently settled into a comfy position. She watches as as sandwich is dropped next to her, amused at Killian's hosting abilities. Though she does frown slightly as the hood comes up. "Leaving so soon? Not going to keep a girl company?" The grin that gets is accentuated with a wink at her before he turns away. "Hardly." Killian answers, having stepped closer to one of the boarded up windows to look through a slightly wider gap in the panels. "Took me long enough to find an excuse to be in here without sneaking." The admittance holds no guilt. "But I'm more useful with a little more hair and the ears to go with it while we're here. Besides," he looks back with another shrug, "You said I was cute." He steps behind a chair as his body seems to shrink at the same time, and once the rustling of first clothes, then something more the sound of fur settles in seconds, what comes around the otherside of the armchair is that same dog. The border collie shakes off the sensation of the change and pads those few few feet or so closer to the couch, if not quite within Anette's immediate reach, to curl up beside it.