Logs:Stop and Identify

Stop and Identify
Dramatis Personae Isra, Mirror
In Absentia	2019-05-13 "Go away."
Location NYC - Mount Sinai Hospital
On the cutting edge of many medical technologies, Mount Sinai Hospital is often ranked as one of the nation's best hospitals. The medical school attached is one of the best in the world, meaning that even your med students know what they are doing. Chin up, then -- when you come in here badly mutilated after the latest terrible catastrophe in Times Square, you're in good hands. This corner of the hospital has, for the past week, been given over to survivors of the Met Gala bombing--less, perhaps, out of any consideration on the part of the hospital administration for the patients' safety or comfort than concerns about potentially unstable mutant powers. Most of those patients have, by now, been discharged, the preponderance of Prometheans being not best pleased with spending any more time in a hospital setting than absolutely necessary. The expansion of Ryan's security detail has mostly meant shorter shifts and more sleep for the volunteers, though this is bound to change when the comatose rockstar's location becomes public knowledge. For now, though, Isra appears to be alone in the little sitting area in view of Ryan's door, the flatscreen television on the wall playing The Fault in Our Stars with the volume off and captions on. Perched somewhat awkwardly sideways in a chair, Isra isn't paying the movie any mind, her attention mostly on the large tablet propped up in her lap. She's wearing a voluminous white dress patterned on an ancient Greek himation, her skin is a gradient of iridescent blue-purple splashed with drifts of fine silver spots that glimmer in the sunlight, highlighting rather than hiding the sharp angles of her inhuman body. The membranes of her immense batlike wings are night-black and spangled with silver stars that seem to twinkle as she moves. The caprine horns that spiral back from her temples and the heavy sharp talons that tip her fingers, toes, and each digit of her wings gleam a bright polished silver. Every once in a while she flicks the stylus in her left hand along the edge of the tablet screen, but other than this and an occasional blink of her cat-green eyes, she hardly moves at all. There is a young man coming down the hall -- slight, lean, light tan skin, pin-straight black hair cut close above his ears, wearing a black corduroy light jacket (unbuttoned and somewhat damp) over a deep maroon henley, khakis, black sneakers. There's a phone in one of his hands, the other currently skimming through his hair. His pace is less brisk than the purposeful stride of the nurses, moreso than the slow ramble of lost visitors or those stretching time between long stints of waiting for bad news. Isra's eye-catching profile draws his eyes up from his phone -- enough to put a very slight widening in his eyes, a very slight furrow in his brow, a vague but not particularly intent drift of his steps toward the farther wall to skirt the waiting area with just that much wider a berth on his path down the hallway. Isra's ears flick toward the young man, but she doesn't really pay much attention to him until he starts to pass the waiting area, at which point she rises--with disturbing ease, considering how oddly contorted her sitting position looked--and stalks toward him on long, gliding steps. "Stop," she says, her voice not loud but quite firm, wings mantling out slightly. The young man slows, looking back at his phone; stops only a few steps later, turning to look Isra over. Brows furrowing, then raising. "Do you -- work here?" Kiiind of uncertain. "No." There's no hostility in Isra's reply, nor her serene expression, though her tail is swaying low and rhythmic behind her, pendulum-like. "Where are you going?" She studies the young man, eyes unblinking. The young man's eyes drop to Isra's tail. Then lift back to her face, as he reflexively takes a step back, still holding his phone carefully. "I'm sorry, who are you?" "You did not answer the question." Isra's expression doesn't change, but her tail sways faster and a low, low rumble starts in her chest. The young man's brows pull together. He looks past Isra and the waiting area both towards the nurses' station, then back to Isra. Down to the phone. Up to Isra. "Yeah and /you're/ a total stranger who accosted me in a hallway for no reason. You may not be aware," he shakes his head briefly, already turning to continue on his path, "but that's a little unnerving." Isra does not reply. Does not step in front of him. Just extends one starry, silver-taloned wing into his path--not even all the way, though if she did it would easily block the entire width of the corridor. "Seriously?" He lifts his phone again, aims it at Isra briefly. His head shakes, and he does not really /stop/, just makes a small irritated chuff, skirting sideways and ducking as she extends her wing. "Seeing as you're the one harassing me pretty sure /you/ should be telling me who you are." A low, low growl rises in Isra's chest as the man tries to outmaneuver her. She just extends her wing the rest of the way, one heavy index talon scraping against the far wall of the hallway. "Go away," she rumbles, her voice doubled--not menacing as such, but certainly quite eerie. "You could have just answered." Another quick snap of picture -- but that's as long as the man stops. When he moves forward again, it's straight /through/ Isra's wing, unbothered as though it -- or he -- simply wasn't there. "Maybe get you farther next time than being a rude-ass bitch. And believe me," he's waggling the phone in his hand towards Isra, his brows lifting, "/someone/ at this hospital's already looking to auction off his location so there's going to be a /lot/ of next times."