Logs:The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Detergent Heist
| The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Detergent Heist | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-09-29 Next time we sticking to damn CVS. (immediately followed by first aid.) |
| Location
<NYC> Duane Reade - Lower East Side | |
This drugstore looks pretty much like most every other drugstore of its line. Lights just a little too bright, shelves packed neat with an enormous range of conveniences. At least, the shelves WERE packed neat, approximately one minute ago. That was before a several people -- jeans and baggy hoodies and balaclavas pulled over their faces -- burst into the store. Three of the people have pulled out huge trash bags and are racing to clear some aisles of their contents -- one is sweeping laundry detergent from the shelf into the heavy-duty contractor bag, one has claimed the aisle of painkillers and is emptying the Advil and Tynenol. A last has gone for baby formula -- already kept securely locked up as if in prediction of this occurrence but that hasn't stopped the youth, who caves in the plastic barrier with one crackling smash of a fist. The fourth isn't stealing anything at all -- he's standing between his cohorts and the store's security guard, who had started to approach but is rapidly backing away when a gun comes out of the young man's hoodie, aimed at him with a kind of shaky hand. James had been milling about most of the evening, it was now a day before starting work and he was looking for a place to stock up on groceries and prescription medication for the week. He’d taken the local transit and decided to explore the town. As the Store came into view he was met with the pure chaos of an active Robbery. He froze. Momentarily torn on what to do. if I try to help, I’ll probably get arrested too, imagine having to explain that I can’t come in to work on my first day because I was trying to help stop a robbery. He’d think I was lying. But I can’t just stand here and do nothing, what if someone gets hurt, what if someone sees me, and wonders why I DIDN’T help? Someone could get hurt.
It turned out that luck was not on his side at the moment. the minute he peeked around the corner he heard a shout and the man with the gun was glaring at him. He had no choice but to step out into full view of the criminals and the cowering security guard. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to fight anyone, yet the suggestion was there in his eyes. In the long list of bad ideas, this was officially the worst he’d ever had. If there was tension in the store at the initial burst of thievery, a few scared screams when the gun came out, the presence of Large Growling Ape only accentuates the chaos. Some of the non thieving patrons are fleeing -- others are taking advantage of the tumult to shove their own items into their pockets and zip out without paying -- still others are cowering. Kind of indiscriminately -- one takes cover behind the security guard, one takes cover behind the man with the gun, like the bystanders are not quite sure who in this situation they should be scared of. "What the fuck --" Behind the balaclava the youth's eyes have gone wide-wide. He's looking from James -- to his nearby compatriot loading up on baby formula -- back to James. "Yo how the fuck a gorilla get in here man --" He's backing away from James quickly, the gun kinda swinging wild. "Shit we ain't plan for no fucking ape --" This has frozen Baby Formula in his tracks. He's glaring at the security guard very accusatorily, like it's somehow his fault this is all going Sideways. "-- y'all hire damn monkeys now?" The kid grabbing the painkillers is puffing himself up. "Make yourself big!" he's suggests to his friends, "They smell fear!" The last one, with the laundry detergent, has decided that he's going to play the hero with his friends -- he races across the aisles, a bottle of Tide still in hand -- the bottle is kind of, oddly, glowing. He hucks the entire bottle at James, and though it misses, the bottle explodes on contact with the shelves behind James -- quite literally, a small boom rocking the shelves and a spray of detergent splattering everywhere. "SHOO", says Exploding Laundry Detergent, starting to pull another bottle out of his bag. What is Scott here shopping for -- it's unclear. The hodgepodge of supplies in his basket ranges from antiseptic to adhesive bandages to hair ties to acne cream. He is not, alas, dressed to fight crime -- he's wearing his work clothes: jeans, a navy T-shirt and a blue flannel in slightly clashing shades under his motorcycle jacket. When the robbers rush into the store, Scott is standing indecisively among the paper goods, scanning down a handwritten list on the back of a receipt; when he lifts his head to look at the sudden commotion in his aisle, it is with a furrowed expression of -- well, it's never easy to tell behind the tinted lenses. Surprise, judgment, concern, strong disapproval, these are all safe bets. He sets his basket down and backs swiftly away, striding quickly but casually to join a pair of wide-eyed teenagers loading up on Red Bulls around the corner. His sharp gaze finds the convex mirror over the entrance -- flicks down the nearest empty aisle -- "C'mon," he decides, "let's get you out of the way." After a moment, the teenagers (and their Red Bulls) follow. Even as Scott begins to usher them out of view, though, he's distracted by the altercation at the store entrance -- he leaves the teenagers with a young woman buying nail polish and jogs back down the aisle. At first his hands slide into the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, before he removes them hastily and lets them hang empty at his sides. He shows up on the mirror before he comes into view of the young man with the gun and the -- uh, gorilla? "Hey," he says, not shouting but certainly loudly, just as -- "Hey!" Now he's shouting -- he blusters after Detergent, reaches with one hand for the teetering shelf to steady it. "Seriously? There's people here." shit shit shit shit SHIT ! He stands there panicking for a minute. He knew it could’ve possibly gone very VERY wrong, but he hadn’t anticipated THIS. Clearly this wasn’t working. To his dread he was scaring even the people he was trying to save. He tried to calm himself. Which meant the growling had to stop. He looked into the eyes of the security Guard and the Shop Clerk. Trying but probably failing to convey he was there to help. He then fixed his gaze back on the man with a gun. “ I don’t want to hurt you. Please put the gun down.” It was all he could think to say at the moment, there was really nothing else he could say that wouldn’t escalate violence. and after everything that had happened so far he was praying this guy didn’t have a death wish. He didn’t appear to be a mutant, none of these people looked at all like they could defend themselves except for the man with a gun. Suddenly, he heard a shout and saw a man. He was wearing dark tinted shades. He had an authoritative air about him. He was struck with a thought. Maybe he was their leader. He gave the man with the gun a hard look before daring to direct his full attention to this new addition to the team of criminals. He didn’t LOOK like he could be a robber. His clothes were clean and fit well on his body, but he’d watched enough movies to know that sometimes the leader hardly ever looked like they belonged. “ what your doing here, it’s not right! These people don’t deserve this. Call it off or I’ll call the police.” But he didn’t dare pull out his phone to prove it. "You ain't see the fuckin gorilla, man?" Detergent is wide-eyed, wild-eyed, a little hysterical in this answer to Scott; the next hurl of the bottle is aimed for James's feet. Once again the bottle explodes almost exactly unlike laundry detergent ought to do -- it's not enough to do anyone a grievous injury just then, but the splatter showers everyone in range with very hot detergent, and small pieces of plastic shrapnel are peppering the bystanders. One woman -- slightly singed in small speckles along her arm now -- dives to hide behind James, only to shriek loud when he begins speaking. "It's -- ahhhh." Laundry Detergent's ahhhh comes when James starts speaking; Detergent forgets to charge up his bottle, instead just taking it and chucking it at James's chest. "How you talking?" The kid with the gun is shaking as he backs away a foot. "What the fuck." His eyes narrow on James. "You one them freaks," he spits, as if his partner is not busy turning laundry detergent into small grenades. He's training the gun on James, now. "You wanna die for Duane Reade, ape-boy, shut your damn mouth." "I tol you." This is Painkillers, crowing smug in Gun's direction. "Fear, man." Baby Formula is shaking his head. His fist smashes through the next pane of extremely heavy-duty plastic pretty effortlessly. One of these thieves has work ethic: he's ignoring Gorilla now to sweep an armload of Enfamil into his bag. This time James couldn’t help the growl of pain as the hot, acid-like detergent liquid splashed on his pants and his chest. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but it seemed like getting physically involved was the only way to get out of this and somehow get these people to safety. A woman farted behind him. He lightly brushed a hand across her shoulder attempting to briefly comfort her. “ I’m not a monster, and I would prefer not to have to be one. You could either put down the gun, or I’ll have no choice but to force you. No one has to get hurt. In fact, if you let these people go, it only has to be us. You can’t possibly really want to be a killer right? All this can end. I’ll leave as soon as you.” He didn’t know how much longer he could stay reasonable. If words failed him a second time.. well, he was pretty sure it would. He was fooling himself with the thought that these guys could negotiate, especially with him. He silently pleaded with Shades guy. Please God, let him be a good guy. I need some help. Scott definitely sees the gorilla -- he's now holding one hand appeasingly toward Gun and one hand appeasingly toward James, like they are both velociraptors and he is Chris Pratt. "'Course I see the gorilla," he says, his voice low and even in a gritted-out way; one hand darts to the side of his glasses when the kid throws his bottle, though he doesn't remove them. At least they protect his eyes from the spatter of hot detergent, though Scott hisses with pain when the drops catch him on his hand and cheeks. For a moment he looks tensed to act, to whip off the lenses, but -- he seems to notice just in time that the second bottle is not going to explode. "Hey," he says again, this time in a very gritted out way. "Nobody is dying for Duane Reade today, okay? Let's be rational. Drop the gun. And --" as an afterthought, with slight exasperation, "the detergent." The woman shrieks again when James touches her, and now she swats at him with the half-filled reusable tote bag full of nail polish remover, melatonin and Halloween candy that she's carrying. "Ohmygodohmygod." She's taking her tote bag and her peppering of burns and then fleeing for the exit. Baby Formula rolls his eyes. He's got his bag of Baby Formula, the others can deal with Talking Gorilla -- he's booking it for the door. "Let who go? The fuck you talking about?" Now Gun just looks absolutely confused. Painkillers, the Gorilla Understander, points to the pictures in the aisle they're now standing in -- smiling happy babies beaming bright from the labels of diapers and baby food. "It thinks they're real," he explains in what he probably thinks is a placating tone. Slowly and loudly: "We ain't gone shoot the babies, we just taking 'em." "Get yo damn Advil, boy," says Detergent -- whose current handful of Tide is quite noticeably again starting to glow. "Hurry the fuck up," Gun is snapping back towards the three remaining thieves, but he's looking -- nervous, a little shaky, tongue darting out to wet his lisp -- towards Scott. "Call off your gorilla," he tries to bargain, gun slowly -- but not completely -- starting to lower. “ No, ma’m! Wait, it’s not safe, you can’t—“ but it was too late she’d already ran off. Luckily none of the robbers seemed to care. The taunting was the last straw. The last time he could remember being this angry, it ended up with a busted wall of the gas station bathroom he used to work at. “ DROP THE GUN, NOW! 30 seconds or your going to really fucking regret it.” His hands both balled up at his sides. Time was up, if he didn’t do something no one would. He stomped into the shop and approached gun guy. He was able to regain enough composure to simply stand there between him, and the onlooking hostages and Shades. Scott, who had been edging carefully around the no-man's-land twixt gun and gorilla, stops in his tracks; one hand wavers between the side of his glasses and his Jurassic World pose. He looks from Gun to Detergent to Painkillers back to Detergent with sudden, dawning alarm -- "Hey --" behind the glasses his eyes flutter shut, then back open again, then he, too, is moving, trying to shoulder past James, though he's not calling him off, exactly, just trying to get in front of him. "Jesus, Christ, nobody needs to get shot," he says, to -- he seems to have decided that Gun is in charge, but it's anybody's guess whether he's talking to Gun or James. "Over baby formula and laundry detergent?" Oh, right, the laundry detergent -- he looks sharply at Detergent again -- now he's reaching again for his glasses. "The fuck," Gun's fear is definitely settled well into place, draping around him comfortably for the long-haul journey, "I ain't come here to shoot nobody," what's that gun doing in his hands, he seems flustered about this entire toootally not-his-fault situation, "but I ain't come to get ordered 'round by no goddamn 'Lady' 'Gorilla' either." "I came here for Advil." With a demonstrative rattle of pills, Painkillers is hefting his bag proudly to Scott. Then staring at Detergent. Then staring at James's balled up fists. He decides discretion is the better part of reselling his bag of ill-gotten gains and, too, turns and books it. Gun does not look pleased about the dwindling numbers, here. He's got no trigger discipline, either, finger pressing slowly against the trigger as he edges -- in counterpoint to Scott, it makes it look like they're doing some weird sort of folk dance, Gun shifting one way as Scott shifts the other. "-- yo cuz," he's saying this urgently to Detergent, insofar as it can be told behind the face masks, he looks like, sounds like, the youngest of them, "grab your shit 'fore I shoot this damn ape." "No I got it!" Detergent insists, hurling the latest of the bottles he was here to steal. The glowing bottle arcs high up into the air -- “ NO!” He immediately moved to shield the hostages behind him and anyone else within range of the hot spray. He felt the sting and singe of skin and fur. As soon as the glowing bottle of detergent reaches the peak of its parabola, Scott is moving too -- dodging fast out of their folk dance, and rushing -- reaching with one hand for Gun's wrist, maybe his gun (probably his wrist, Scott definitely noticed the lack of trigger discipline) -- trying to spin it to aim up, away from the crowd. There's a BLAM of the bottle as it explodes in a splatterspray of sizzling but pleasantly fresh-smelling detergent. Theres a 'BLAM' of the gun as it shoots upward, spattering a shower of ceiling-dust down on the gathered company. There's a yelp from one of the bystanders(?), who had mostly wandered over to this aisle to try and yoink some formula of their own while the case was smashed open and the store in disarray. There's a chaotic rush for the door at the sound of the gun. Detergent has puffed himself up in the manner of Painkiller's Gorilla Savvy Advice, to a not-at-all impressive 5'6" -- nevermind that he's trying this on Scott and not on James. He's swinging his bag overloaded with detergents, panic and fear in the expression behind the mask as he tries (clumsily, it's heavy) to thwack at Scott's back. "Hey HEY lettem GO that's my CUZ --" "Get out yo pops gone kill me I get you ate by a damn gorilla --" The gun clunks to the floor from Gun's gloved hand; he's trying to squirm in Scott's grip in an attempt to free himself. Detergent, mid-swing, now flings the bag in James's direction and bolts for the door. Possibly to get detergent at a more hospitable drugstore. James is now fully focused on trying to stop Detergent from exiting the store. He catches the bag and drops it to the floor, kicking it away and moves quickly back towards the entrance to block him. He also thrusts out his arms ready to put him in a hold to keep him in place if needed. “ You aren’t going anywhere, not yet.” ( He also looked very curiously at a role of duct tape that was lying on the floor near the door as a possible alternative to restraint) Scott only flinches slightly at the sound of the gun, planting his feet firmer as Gun struggles. The whack from the detergent bag does surprise him -- he says eloquently, "Nnnnff!" and then -- spins Gun out of his grasp, and just grabs the gun off the floor -- "Is this registered?" He clearly assumes not -- he's unloading it with practiced ease, he's sticking it in the back of his jeans. He doesn't seem bothered by what James is doing, but -- while the exit is blocked anyway -- he takes advantage of his captive audience to say casually, "You kids can't just explode stuff. You could have seriously hurt someone here -- this really what you wanna do with your life? A mutation isn't an excuse to do this kind of thing." "Shit, boy scout, you gonna pay Grams' dialysis?" Gun's panic is twisting into a look of irritation that quickly morphs right back into panic when he sees James holding Detergent hostage, now. "You --" He's hurtling towards the exit, making Way More Mess as he picks things at random off the shelves to hurl them towards James's broad back. Each word punctuated with a throw (surprisingly well-aimed, unlike Detergent, maybe he should have been blessed with the Exploding Projectile Power). "leave --" WHOOSH goes a Febreze, "my --" hurtling all-purpose cleaner, "cousin," a bottle of bleach, "alone." This time it's a packet of crisps from near the register, oh well. "What the hell wrong with you?" Detergent is backing away towards Gun, wide-eyed. He picks up the Drano -- it's starting to glow, too. "You a damn pig? Get the hell out my way." He felt a pang of alarm when he noticed the Drano that detergent was now holding. The feeling of dread and exhaustion and overall frustration had become associated with those pesky bombs by now. “ Will you cut that out?” He snapped at Detergent. At this point it was empty frustration and less to get him to stop. He considered just running at him and tackling him to the ground, assuming he could time it right so the bomb would be out of harms way and into the empty parking lot. He turned to Shades. “ We gotta get someone down here, there’s not much else we can do but keep them here until help comes.” It was an open invitation for suggestions more than anything. Shades seemed like he’d dealt with things like this before. At this point it was worth following his lead, because clearly he’d over estimated his ability to simply scare them off and save ONE guy. "Not the Drano." This is alarmed but firm -- Scott is coming up behind Gun and Detergent. "That stuff is corrosive -- nobody ever tell you kids to be careful with chemicals? You're gonna kill somebody, you keep this up." He has one leather-jacketed arm up to shield his face, gripping the sleeve over his palm to cover as much skin as possible, is approaching slowly. "Can you uncharge it?" Despite being unarmed, Gun is still trying -- a little jumpily -- to keep himself between Detergent and the others. Given that James is on one side of Detergent and Scott is on the other, this involves a bit of erratic pacing. "I --" Detergent begins, hand curling tighter around the Drano and a very uncertain look in his expression. Gun cuts him off: "Call off yo damn ape and we'll see," he's demanding urgently of Scott before -- reluctantly -- looking towards James. "You get the fuck out the way, we'll be out your --" He grimaces, disgust briefly breaking through his protective fear. "-- fur." It was time to make a choice: If he stayed, Detergent would most likely throw the Drano, hurting everyone in its path, even him. But if he left, Shades would be undefended except for the gun. No amount of experience could come up against unpredictability. He was at a loss for what to do. Continuing to try and back up Shades could very well be the downfall of them all. He looked into the eyes of Guns mask, then Detergents “ If I leave-if I step out of this store, that means you put THAT down, and nobody gets hurt, correct?” He was not feeling at all very helpful beyond being a big furry wall against the releases of detergent bombs. At least some people would get out of this ok, maybe that’s all that matters. Maybe leaving would give him a chance to actually call for help, while staying relatively close to the situation. Scott is ignoring Gun, ignoring James, zeroing in only on Detergent and the Drano. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he says. "I'm not gonna call the cops." Probably the cops are already on their way anyway, but -- this is beside the point. "Take a deep breath. Is it gonna explode if you put it back down?" Detergent lifts the Drano, but he's not looking all that eager to throw it. He's stepped a little closer to Gun as if the older boy will somehow get them out of this predicament. "Why the fuck you love Duane Reade so much," No More Gun is demanding of James, now. "Get the hell out our way, this ain't a fucking negotiation." "I just wanna go home, man," Detergent is saying to Scott, and to his cousin: "Next time we sticking to damn CVS." "CVS probably hiring lions now," Gun is replying, defensively, "this neighborhood sucks." “ If you wanted to go home you shouldn’t have ransacked a drug store.” He shot back at Detergent. “ The only place your going now is prison.” He glanced out of the store, looking for any signs of blinking blue lights but still saw no signs. “ If you want all this to end, all you have to do is put down the Drano, I can tell you don’t want to throw it.” His only defense at this point was to try as best he could to catch it or move it out of the store, even if he gets hurt in the process. "Man," says Scott, finally addressing James, "they're kids." To Detergent, again, more insistently: "Is it gonna explode if you put it down?" He's picking a pair of yellow rubber gloves out of a nearby abandoned shopping basket with his free hand, still holding the other one up to shield his face. "It ain't gotta," Detergent says slowly, "I mean, I can --" Whatever he can do shortly becomes irrelevant, though. "'Fuck you', you ugly-ass pig," Gun is shouting, sharp, when James mentions his cousin going to prison. He's grabbing the Drano from Detergent -- and hucking it straight toward's James's chest. Just an instant after throwing the bottle, he's shoving Detergent out of the way with an urgent, "get the fuck out here this bitch crazy -- " and diving right towards James in an attempt to full-on tackle the man -- evidently unthinking or unfussed that James probably has seven inches and at least 50 pounds on him. “Wait, no-you don’t—“ He backhanded the detergent but it exploded at that moment. As gun collided with him he closed protectively around him. "That's good," says Scott encouragingly; he is just starting to lower his arm. A moment later his eyebrows shoot upward again -- he barrels toward the boys just as they scatter, then skids to a stop and focuses on blocking the splatter of hot drain cleaner with his jacket. He does not entirely succeed -- the backs of his hands are red and shiny and peeling in splotches. Maybe he just can't summon any words for this development -- he says with deep emotion, "Gah," before he hurtles toward Gun and James -- Detergent, for now, is home free. Gun is thankfully mostly protected by his Robbery Outfit as sizzling hot detergent speckles at his sweatshirt, his balaclava -- but the clothing is starting to smoulder in places and where his arm catches a particularly big glob of the exploding detergent, it's undoubtedly Not Fun Times beneath the singed fabric. He is flailing, balled fists thumping at James's chest -- perhaps this is meant to be an attack, at first, but then he's just trying to push himself away from the much (much) larger man's grip. It's bought Detergent the time he needs, anyway -- he's giving a small worried look to Gun but at his cousin's hissed, "Go," he's going. Unsatisfyingly, the pneumatic door does not slam behind him; as it swings slowly closed the distant wail of sirens can finally be heard. James kept a firm hold on him. Then chanced a look at him, he seemed mostly alright and unharmed to his relief. Gun was still struggling a bit, and man did it HURT as his fists beat against a sensitive spot on his chest where his fur had been singed off leaving a raw and angry looking bald spot. He grabbed the hands and held them in place. He heard sirens in the distance. Finally he thought. but there was still just one problem- his current predicament did NOT look innocent. And he doubted the police would even listen to him if he tried to explain. He simply didn’t want to leave shades alone with this guy. On the other hand, most of the stores detergent supply was gone, he had to make a decision fast before the cops pulled up. He only hoped Shades would not turn him in. Scott shoulders into this tussle, somewhat heedless of the lingering drain cleaner splattered over all three of them in his effort to separate the other two -- "Stop it!" he says, "What the --" He looks at the door, his brow furrowing at the sound of the sirens, huffs out another tiny, huffy, "Gah. Let go of him and get out of here, man, what are you doing?" "I been asking this whole damn time," grits Gun through his teeth, aggrieved as though he is a totally blameless party here. When Scott shoulders into the fray, Gun is trying to wriggle free of James's considerably stronger grip. These motions are getting considerably more frantic as the sirens get closer. “ I just wanted to help. Ok? I didn’t think it would get this out of hand!” He said to Shades shakily, laced with strong emotion. It was now that he finally let Gun go. “ Someone could have died, I was going to leave when I saw.. but I knew if I didn’t at least try it was going to haunt me forever. Knowing I could do something about it. I wasn’t trying to be a hero, I just wanted people safe. I didn’t come up here to start trouble, I just needed some fucking Day Quil alright.” He looked at Shades, pleading for him to understand. At that moment he could hear the sirens getting louder. Scott lets out a huffy sigh through clenched teeth when James lets go of the robber -- "Next time you feel like helping," he says, before he seems to decide to curtail whatever this train of thought was. "If this kid shot someone," he says instead, "That's on his shoulders, not yours." His gaze falls, slightly, toward someone else's abandoned basket of purchases -- he picks up a bottle of cold medicine and tosses it across to James. Maybe this isn't actually DayQuil. At least it's orange. Gun is not waiting around for further conversation. He doesn't seem particularly interested in getting the last word, either. He's scrambling to his feet in a hurry once James lets him go -- starting to peel the crisped sweatshirt sleeve away from his arm but then, instead, just leaving it. "-- Dion --" he's calling as he races for the door, injured arm curled protectively against his chest as he books it outside and away after his cousin. The sirens were getting closer still, and now he could see flashing lights in the distance. Scott watches Gun go with an odd expression of -- well, who can ever say? He, too, is getting the hell out of Dodge, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he pushes open the door. James momentarily panics as his only chance of defense against police was heading out. “ Hey, wait—“ He blocked the entrance to get his attention. “—look, don’t turn me in—please. There’s cameras in here and you’re the only person that could possibly convince them I was here to help. He inwardly cringed as desperation creeped into his voice. He did NOT want to be arrested. What if they took him to some secret lab, what if they tortured him? What about Billy? Scott's panic button call has barely gone out when there's a blip at his side. The man who has just appeared does not look dressed for the cool New York autumn, in (damp) board shorts, a quick-dry tee, flip flops. He's looking at Scott -- then looking at the doorway to the Duane Reade and the large -- gorilla? person? blocking the entry -- then tilting his head to the sound of approaching sirens. His brows hike, high, which only serves to make his perpetually jowly expression look a little more skeptical. It looks like Scott does not have any explanation for Joshua -- perhaps he thinks this situation is self-explanatory. He, too, is looking to the doorway at the gorilla? person? -- "I'm not turning anybody in," he says, with polite bemusement. "I'm getting out of here. You want to come with?" James jumped, his back knocking some loose door-window glass to the ground. His mouth hung slightly open with surprise at this new guy appearing out of-nowhere? It was odd seeing someone in flip flops and shorts in this weather. He was certain that if he didn’t have fur he’d be a lot more susceptible to the chill. “ Uh—“ he didn’t really give himself the chance to sort out the whys and the hows. As he looked back out he could see the blinking blue and red lights, at this rate they’d be surrounded in a minute. He rushed to meet them awkwardly. “ Yes-YES, Please get me out of here.” Scott looks at Joshua. Probably this is supposed to be beseeching, but -- well -- the glasses. He just looks the same as he ever does. "I need evac," he says, as though this is a very satisfactory explanation. "Then -- you game to help me track down a couple of kids? Were you --" his eyebrows are pulling into a tiny, guilty frown -- "busy?" Was Joshua busy? He's not answering that question. He is, instead, digging his phone out of his pocket (damp pocket, it turns half inside-out as he prises the phone from it) in order to let the panic button know the call has been answered. He seems eminently unbothered by the approaching sirens, but then, he hasn't been involved in any kind of Drugstore Shenanigans, here and probably isn't carrying an illegal firearm. It takes him a little poking at cloth to shove his phone back into his pocket. Only then -- police cars screeching up to the curb outside -- that he claps his hands to Scott and James's shoulders. The damaged Duane Reade vanishes. The sirens go abruptly silent. Whatever's on the other side, it's probably less chaos than this. | |
