2013-01-05 CSI: Westchester

It was the dead of night and the waning moon was high in the sky, illuminating all of the little slice of suburban paradise in a pale glow. It'd be considered very 'dark' for anyone coming outside from a brightly-lit space, but for those who spent a few minutes letting their eyes adjust to the soft illumination, it was quite enough to see by. Unless one went into the woods over there, where it got suddenly darker with the plentiful shadows.
Life in this particular area was a bit subdued since the attack a day or so ago. Things of that sort just didn't happen here! People didn't shoot at cops, didn't kidnap and execute patients at a hospital, even if they were mutants. The whole thing was being labeled as a terrorist attack by an anti-mutant cell and federal authorities had been called in to try and locate those who were officially labeled as missing.
Of course, according to The Book, the chances of finding them ever again diminished catastrophicly with every hour that went by.
The three-story building where the attack had taken place stood silent and stoney, ringed by yellow police tape printed with 'Police Line - Do Not Cross'. Part of the roof was in rubble, a corner blown clean off, part of it collapsed into the third floor. Pieces of bricks and cement were scattered about the street and rooftop, blown off vents and torn up air conditioning units are snarled about. The front doors stand blown off their hinges, and bloodstains line the sidewalk in random splatters.
The place had already been canvassed for all evidence by the authorities, but of course they were only human, and there's always the chance some things are still intact which they simply hadn't gotten to yet...
Faith, Kurt has. Faith in his fellow man, well.. he has hope, at the very least. He is heartened, however, with the fact that there has been some token investigation attempt at 'Mutie General' by the authorities, even if perhaps proper protocol hasn't always been followed. Who knows?
Dark night, which is perfect for a certain blue-furred teleporter, particularly if dressed in dark clothing as well. All that could possibly be discerned in the evening air is the subtle sound of *bamf* as air fills in the void left behind as Kurt moves forward and into shadows cast within darkened, unlit rooms. He's easily got anyone who wishes a 'ride' into the clinic itself; he's been there a few times over the years. Not necessarily as a patient, mind.. so has a pretty good idea of the basic layout. To see it in person, however...
The name 'Kwabena Odame' is known throughout the tri-state criminal underworld, even if that name doesn't exist in any official government records, both domestic and international. It is a name that is not only known, but feared, ever since the downfall of regional narcotics trafficker Michael Slean. However, in the past forty eight hours, word amongst crime organizations has heated up. From street gangs to the mafia, the whisperings spread faster than a deep summer wildfire.
Odame is back, and with a vendetta.
Shift was well versed in the language of the criminal underworld, for it was a place he'd lived in for many dark years. It was an ugly dialogue, sprinkled with violence, braised in vulgarity, and peppered with very real and very cold threats. Most chilling to these criminal targets, however, is not the threat that comes from the cold steel of a loaded .22, for Shift had no desire or intention to kill anyone. No, most frightening to these lowlifes is the proven fact that, if willing, 'Kwabena Odame' is capable of not only destroying any of these organizations, he can also destroy those behind them, exposing their leaders to the police and destabilizing the money-making operations of their allies.
An odd juxtaposition finds itself in the way Kwabena mutters a silent prayer under his breath while spilling the nicotine laden smoke of a cigarette from his nostrils. In a shadowy place somewhere deep in the Bronx he waits, watching until the black Excursion rolls up to the curb and begins disgorging a collection of well dressed men, both white and black, escorted on every side by ladies clad in short skirts and impossibly high heels.
With a flick of his cigarette to the frozen concrete beneath, Kwabena slips into an alleyway bordering the building into which they've entered. The darkness remains his shield as he searches for the locked door that provides access to the room. And then, with the crackling of a fist and the hardening of his flesh, he throws a single punch that is powerful enough to throw the solid metal door right off its hinges. It skids across the floor inside of the warehouse, leaving him silhouetted by the dim light of a flickering streetlamp outside as he enters, waiting for the well dressed men to send their armed thugs to investigate the disturbance.
One of the individuals tagging along with the resident teleporter is doing so under the fictional persona of Jacqueline Gauge, a post-teen British anarchistic punk sort. It's all leather, fishnet and spikes for this pixie-cut pink haired girl. The accent is obvious, and very well emulated considering that it isn't genuine. Being teleported is still slightly disorienting to her, quick to place a hand upon the nearest wall upon entering the hospital. After one brief look around, she only has one thought to share with the others.
"Ooo, spooky."
There has to be some reason for her to be here. Kurt knows this persona. Logan's met it once before, as well. The mind behind it doesn't offer anything beyond what can be seen upon the surface, the guise concealing the identity of the metamorph some know as Mystique. "Alright then," she states while popping knuckles around ring-saturated fingers, "let's get this ball a-rollin.'"
EARLIER
"Don't suppose the boys up on the 'carrier let you keep a badge, did they?" a gruff-voiced Wolverine wonders of the half-Kree on the other end of the line. "Either way, if you can scrounge one up, I'm gonna need a hand with a sensitive situation'; nothin' too stressful. All you gotta do is knock on a couple'a doors..."
NOW
"Keep an eye out for cameras," Wolverine murmurs as he tries his best to ignore the scent of brimstone in his nostrils. "You know the drill," he adds with a sidelong look in Nightcrawler's direction.
Hospitals are not Wolverine's scene; the antiseptic smells, the swish of long, white coats, the pained groans of the sick and dying... the Canadian has had few positive experiences in hospitals, and fewer still with men in white coats. Add the heady swirl of sights and smells and - to Logan's chagrin - tastes lingering in the aftermath of the Reavers' assault into the mix and it's all the man can do to keep from pacing the tiles or checking over his shoulders every few seconds; all of his senses tell him that something awful is lurking just around the corner--nevermind that disaster has already visited this place and left.
"We got a man workin' the criminal angle," he continues, eyes shifting towards Ms. Gauge. "An' witnesses are bein' questioned; our job is makin' sure there ain't nothin' else worth findin' here." He keeps his attention focused firmly on the Brit for a moment or two longer, then, before turning his eyes forward to begin creeping through the wreckage.
"Got my SHIELD ID. Just... suspended, not fired." mutters Carol as she leans forward on the sofa, hair down over most of her face. She shakes her head as she holds the phone to her ear. What she -wants-, is a bit of.. Hair of the Dog, but.. she has this sense of responsibility that won't let her say no to a person in need. Especially when -Logan- calls for help.
She shakes her head again, like a punch drunk boxer trying to clear the cobwebs, and mutters, "How soon you need me, and where?... god, my mouth tastes like someone poured drain cleaner in it." She's getting to her feet, one hand coming up to her head as she ambles towards the bathroom, "I'm gonna need a shower, some coffee... but I can have that done in a few minutes and be out the door."
When she's given a time frame, she goes to brush her teeth... twice. Then showers real quick. Military style... not luxuriating in it or using any frilly stuff. Just quick shampoo and such. She'll get a natural blow-dry.
Then the coffee which is already brewed and waiting thanks to her autotimer.. she grabs a full thermos of the stuff and is out the door, changing into her costume on the fly, to take to the air....
The inside of the hospice is in just as bad a shape as the outside. At least, the first and third floors are. The first floor is utter bedlam, and is also where the majority of energy scorch-marks along the walls and floors are from firearms are located. Chalk outlines and blood splatters can be found here, along with overturned desks and equipments. It seems as if most of the staff were shot outright on sight, or perhaps bludgeoned to death in a few cases. The first floor was definitely the sight of the biggest massacre, with destroyed copy and fax machines, telephones with holes in them, papers strewn everywhere. An administrative center that had been thrown into horror and chaos in those first few minutes of the attack.
The second floor fared better, structurally, than either of the others. Most of the patients had been housed here, and overturned hospital beds and gurneys were in abundance. There appeared to be fewer numbers of outlines showing were people had fallen to never rise again, but judging from the general mayhem of the equipment, many people had certainly been disturbed from their rest. The offices on the second floor are more or less intact, including their equipment, screensavers of lit monitors casting cold glow over the small office spaces. Yet even so, the filing cabinets seem to have been overturned and strewn about.
The third floor is an absolute mess. More patients had been housed here, as well, and it's in the general same state as the second floor. Except for the aft half of the roof, near the stairwell, had been collapsed inward, forming a sort of ramp of debris up to the moonlit roof. Furniture is piled against the stairs, as if someone had attempted to make a stand here. The crushed destruction and thick fallen debris is the heaviest here in all of the building, with signs of combat so obvious a blind man could see them.
All throughout the little building are, literally, hundreds of numbered markers showing the position of gathered evidence, among the debris, in the offices, the patients beds, the front help desk. Fingerprint dust is found in the obvious places, door handles, keyboards, etc, but given the traffic that passed through here, it was doubtful the cops would find anything meaningful for AFIS.
"Ja.." is given in response to Logan's reminders. Not that it's needed, but it's nice to know that both are 'on the same page'. Kurt's brows rise at the utterance from 'Jacqueline', a soft chuffed sound exiting. "I do not know how they chose their hostages, or why." He looks around the clinic's main room, perched on a wall, clinging sideways before he pushes off and into the doorway of the corridor leading further in, trying desperately to ignore the sights of carnage around him. Each chalk outline is a soul lost, and he can't help but mourn. His tones are soft and sad, but hold a firmness beneath them. "I have identified a few of them, but they are civilians." People who just want to live their lives quietly. Bothering no one. "There does not appear to be any particular reason for their choices." But at least they are not nameless.
Kurt teleports down the administration corridor, *bamf*bamf*bamf* before landing on the floor, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the greater concentrations of.. mess. "It is horrible back here."
Two well armed thugs run into the room in which Kwabena has entered. While they have assault rifles slung over their backs, they have elected to wield silenced handguns. When they see the mismatched eyes of rumor, each one seems to grow visibly more tense.
"It's him. It's Odame!" A silence lingers between the thugs as they stand still, weapons aimed at Kwabena. Neither one of them fires, for they'd heard the rumors of Odame, the 'Invincible Man'.
"Shoot him!"
"Pointless," answers one with a trembling voice. "He can't be killed!"
"You stupid son of a..." The second thug's voice goes silent as he squeezes the trigger of his pistol multiple times.
However, the bullets go straight through Kwabena, piercing holes in his black leather jacket but passing right through the places where his flesh and bone have turned to black smoke. Bullets ricochet off the cement floor, paired by the sound of silenced pistols firing from both thugs, but Kwabena just keeps walking right toward them.
Suddenly, Kwabena rushes them. He grabs the weapon from one thug, ripping it out of his hands and bashing him against the temple, sending him to the floor in an incapacitated heap. He begins disassembling the pistol, leaving it in pieces on the floor behind him while walking toward the other thug, who backs away in fear until his retreat is stopped by the wall behind him.
Kwabena feels no remorse for what he's doing, not after reading the reports of what happened at the clinic. A few brief moments later, the African is walking into the main room of the warehouse, preceded by the second thug. One gloved hand holds the thug by the shoulder, while the other holds the thug's own pistol, which is now aimed properly at his temple. His eyes look about while following his hostage into the room, eyes glaring toward anyone who makes eye contact with him.
Before anyone makes a move, however, Kwabena gives the thug a hard shove, sending him staggering across the floor until he loses his balance and falls. Kwabena raises both of his hands into the air, as if in surrender, pointing his stolen pistol upward. "Go ahead," he calls out. "Start shooting! Not a singah one of you degenerate fucks will leave dis place until de cops arrive!"
Nobody shoots. Seems the mob isn't interested in getting busted today, and it seems Kwabena's reputation has remained intact.
"Vince Harley! Considah dis your once chance to have a conversation with me, or else your operation ends tonight!" As he shouts out his demands, Kwabena spins about slowly, a daring expression in his mismatched, mutant's eyes.
"Naturally," Jacqueline almost curtly responds to Wolverine's instruction. "Bad people doing bad things, in need of some correction." Or capital punishment, as far as she's concerned. While infiltration and spywork is more her game, having so much experience in those fields has given her a definite advantage in the investigative scene as well. Tracking people is easier than machines, but with so much blood lying around, so many different strings of DNA... Why, with a little touch here, a brush of a knuckle there, she could get reads on everyone that died in this place. Who knows, maybe one of those personas could come in handy at some point? As long as she's here and all, no harm no foul. All on the sly, of course. Don't need anyone here to start asking questions.
Jackie's also got a good eye for ballistics. Impact marks, scorch patterns, shell casings if any happen to exist. Maybe she could get an idea of who was shooting what or where. If someone managed to land an attack on their foes then there may be some material left behind. A bit of metallurgic investigation might help point them in the right direction. It all boils down to chemicals, really.
"I been in nicer places," Wolverine mutters as he slowly follows a splatter-trail along one corridor. His nose is maybe a foot away from the dried gore, just to make sure he's getting all he can of the intermingling samples. With so much blood from so many bodies - most of them staff or patients - he has to fall back on the hope of uncovering the scent of spent coolant, or oil--anything that could have come from an injured cyborg.
Surely, Cyke and Bobby managed to get a few good licks in before the latter went and got himself killed.
He isn't as focused on the ballistic evidence as Jackie is, but the process of trying to stick his nose into every last puddle of blood he can find rather naturally involves moving past shell casings or impact marks, so eventually, his path coincides with Jackie's such that he's able to shoot the British woman an arched brow in passing--that and a lowly voiced comment.
"Can't say I've ever seen you around," he murmurs as he gingerly steps over a crimson smear on the tiles, "Or heard'a you; lucky us, stumblin' over a kind soul like yourself, eh?"
Three minute shower, coffee thermos, and costume for the trip. Yep, Carol is ready... she even dressed in normal civies for her door knocking routine, before she did the power clothes swap.
Hair dried by her flight, she lands about a quarter mile from the hospital, switches back to her civies and begins the lowly job of... canvaser. It helps that she's hung over, as she seems a bit... put out by being here, doing this in the first place. Grumpy... that's about right for a federal agent doing this job right?
Well, a SHIELD ID card should get some mouths working she hopes.
-knock knock-
"Yes, Agent Danvers, SHIELD. Sorry for bothering you this evening, but... I have a few questions....." yeah, she'll be doing as Logan asked her to, but she's definitely going to make the little furry short stuff buy the drinks next time they get together.
People shot in their chairs, at their desks, running for their lives. The outlines Kurt observe never really stood a chance, most not even realizing what was happening until it was too late. Unfortunately, it seems as if virtually all equipment on this level was destroyed. A few pieces of glinting metal scattered about the refuse of destroyed furniture and electronics, burn holes in walls and floor and cieling. One can almost imagine the path the invaders took from their black SUVs outside, stalking down the center hall, cubicle to cubicle, exterminating anyone deemed unnecessary for their goals.
Meanwhile, somewhere far away from that moonlit nightmare...
Vince Harley didn't get to where he was by being pushed around or easily bullied. Of course, he didn't get to where he was by being overly-stupid, either. He had his own metas in his employ, several of them, in fact. But they were the strong, bend-crowbars, punch-yer-lights-out kind, not the 'punch a guy who can turn into smoke' kind. A door opens into the room from another and the man himself steps in.
Vince Harley was almost as round as he was tall, having grown gluttonous and corpulent since his rise to the top, though it appeared he had probably been in shape at some point in his life. He had a handle-bar moustache, a cigar as large and thick as his sausage fingers, and entirely one too many rings on his stubby fingers. One hand hooks the smoke-stick out of his lips, flicking the ashes onto the floor, the other somehow finding his belt buckle under the overhang of his gut and hooking a thumb into it.
"What is it, eh!?" The smoking crook blusters, scowling distastefully. "Ya lookin' fer ya cut or somethin'?"
Back at the hospice...
What ballistics are found inside the building all seem to have been shot from the outside. High-caliber fire peppers here and there on the third floor, at least .50-cal, weapon far too big to just have been carried in here. On the ground floor a few 9mm rounds can be recovered, having been shot from outside, likely by police. But the attackers all seem to have been using energy weapons of some kind. In fact, ejected heat-sink cartridges discarded here and there can confirm it. There are no obvious markings on them, but every manufacturer marks their products in some manner.
Wolverine's nose would take him right to the third floor where the concentration of 'cyborg scent' is the strongest. It seems that if any of the mechanical beings had fallen during the battle, this was the place where they had done so. In fact, in the part with the collapsed roof, a heavy piece of cracked cement reinforced with metal resides, under which can be glimpsed a small patch of synthetic skin.
The Nose would also lead to the roof, where the telltale signs of Cyclop's optic blasts seems to have wrecked a helicopter. The main rotors are sheared off and the thing is on its side. It had once been a military transport model, and does not appear to have any weapons attached to it. All electronics aboard appear to have been fried.
The door opens for Agent Danvers as a non-plussed-looking and slightly-tousseled teenaged girl stares blankly at her. Then she just turns away without so much as a word, going back to whatever texting she was doing in her PJs as she half-calls, "Daaaaaaad. ...S'fer you." A short moment later a balding male in his mid-fifties and wearing a sweatervest, looking like he was having a nightcap before shuffling off to bed in his fuzzy slippers appears at the door.
"Mmmuh, yes? SHIELD? Can't you have gotten my statement from the police?"
-Bamf-
Kurt's back around after making a quick glance at the downstairs. Nothing that is even remotely in working condition on the ground floor. He lands on the side of the wall, hanging there a moment (eat your heart out, Spidey!) before, "I am going upstairs to see if I can find anything. Computers, the security room." Where they had surveillance cameras? Though the chances are good that any tapes were pulled by the authorities. "Do either of you wish to come?" He doesn't have the sniffing ability, thank goodness, but the least he can do is to act as an elevator?
Coming or not, Kurt makes the trip up.. straight up, giving a little hop off the wall to underscore the direction. Places like these makes him want to keep moving, and with that *bamf*, he's up to the second floor. Jumping from wall to wall, pushing off at the moment he lands, Kurt's searching for a room where there may be a working terminal at the least. Something to get into.. or at least something he can pull for later review.
Turning to face Vince Harley, Kwabena takes the first initiative. The clip is ejected from his pistol, clattering to the floor before he tosses the weapon in the opposite direction. Keeping his hands in the air, he begins approaching the corpulent mobster, speaking as he goes.
"No cut," answers the Ghanaian. "Business proposahl. Clinton Jackson and Tennis McGuiness, two of your competitahs, will end up out of de picture. In exchange, you make a few calls and get de information I need from you." His eyes glance around, keeping vigilant for any of Harley's thugs who might want to create some problems. "De fastah we make dis, de fastah you can get back to your bitches and blow. Deal?"
He stops a fair distance from Harley, and slowly begins to lower his hands, keeping them quite far from his jacket or pants pockets in a sign of temporary peace.
"I get around," Jackie cryptically replies to Wolverine. Her own research is interrupted long enough to look back at the other mutant, grinning slightly as she does so. "Really fascinating how people can have friends they never knew they had, isn't it?"
Pause.
"You don't trust me. You have your reasons, I'm sure," Jackie offers while letting her fingertips, momentarily devoid of any identifying patterns, settle upon the splotch of gore between the two. "It comes with the presentation." Yeah, because looking like a punk is the only reason for people to have trouble trusting her. "Don't let it concern you too much."
Goodness, Kurt hadn't exaggerated. It's a massacre in here. The spent heat sinks from the energy weapons is a dead giveaway, those should hold all sorts of useful scraps of info once picked apart. Jackie will lay claim to a couple of those in passing, since the authorities are obviously done with them and all. "Little bit of a firefight, this one," she says, probably only for Wolverine's benefit. His nose seems to have a good idea of where to go, so for now she follows along. Behind him. Where she can continue to do her own slightly shady business upon the scene.
The call from Nightcrawler is received with a curiously friendly smile from Jackie. "I believe we're on our way up, already. Your buddy's got quite the nose. Do be careful."
"A couple," Wolverine flatly agrees as he watches Jackie dip her fingers in blood. "Probably right, though; must be that generation gap thing gettin' to me." He doesn't announce it once it becomes apparent that the trail is leading upstairs, but if Jackie wants to follow, he won't stop her. As long as she doesn't make a mess of his evidence, it's all the same to him.
He will, however, remark, "Just warms my heart, knowin' there's people willin' to dig through the muck just to make sure these mutant-killers get what's comin' to 'em; seems like I'm runnin' into more like you every day," as they head up the stairs. The second floor is quickly bypassed in favour of the third, where he'll make a bee-line for that patch of synthetic flesh... and crouch down low enough to get his nose /right/ next to it so that he can breath its scent in.
"You get a chance, Elf," he says to Kurt without looking up, "make sure you get a look at the roof."
"Sorry sir. Apparently the right hand and left hand aren't talking. Plus, they just told me to go ask around. For all we know, there's some sort of new information or whatnot. I'm just a grunt you know." Carol shrugs... she's not in costume, her hair tied back in a severe and progessional ponytail and all. "If you could just please go back over whatever you told them. There might be something they missed in your statement." She offers a bit of a smile... the charming, I'm just doing my job.. smile. "And I'll get out of your hair and on to the next house."
Unfortunately for Kurt, it seems the 'security room' they had consisted of a single cubicle with a monitor that showed the inside of the front doors and nothing else. With the tape indeed having already been yanked by authorities, there is nothing to see here except for a live feed of the motionless entrance.
The computers and equipment on the second floor all seem to be more or less in working order. And upon moving the mouse, they all read the same thing, apparently hooked into the same network: 'DOWNLOAD COMPLETE' in one small alert window, and in another, partially overlapping that one 'DELETION HALTED: 82%' 'Hacking' the system proves to be a joke, as it's already been hacked and accessed! In fact, nothing stops Kurt from activating the last files accessed: patient manifests. Most of it has been deleted (eighty-two percent, in fact) and all of it had been downloaded to some external device. None of the patients names on this particular client history list match those who were here when the facility was struck, and all thirteen names that weren't deleted are mutants who live within the state according to their last known addresses.
In his seedy little hideout, Vince Harley narrows his eyes at the sudden intruder into his business. The cigar goes back into his mouth as he chomps on it and rolls it around in his mouth a few times. A few of his bruisers look like they'd LIKE to try and cause problems, but even ones with so little brains as them knew enough to wait for their employer's say so. Finally, Vinnie hacks and spits on the floor with a garrumph.
"All b'ness, I like it. Fine. You don' deliver," he shakes his half-depleted, smelly cigar at Shift, "We never does business agin' and I hurt someone important ta ya. Like... yer ex-wife or somethin'." A huff. "So what ya want tha goods on?"
The patch of faux-skin Wolverine smells definitely isn't human, though it's very close and at least part-organic. But then, that's the nature of cyborgs: part human, part machine. Lifting up the heavy piece of concrete would reveal not just some smooshed skin, but an entire hand and part of a forearm, obviously torn off, either from the crush of the rubble, or in whatever explosion had caused it. Regardless, the owner is gone, leaving behind a slightly-twitchy extremity with circuitry-lined nerve endings.
"All right, uh..." The man scratches at his eyebrow with his thumb, before looking off into the next room towards his daughter. Then he sighs and leans against the door handle. "I didn't hear much, I was just hiding under my desk for most of the time up on the second floor. I heard a man and a woman talking, most of it in some strange... mumbo-jumbo. Sounded oriental, I guess. Spoke some in English, asked Jacob about patients who weren't here, where the information was stored. He told them we keep patient history on the computer. More mumbo-jumbo, and then they shot him in the head. That's all I know until the police came in and told me it was okay. Is that all you need? It's very late, you know."
And, if no further questions are forthcoming within about a second-and-a-half, he shuts the door right in Ms. Danvers' face!
"This wasn't just killing. This was executions," Kurt offers softly before he nods his head in acknowledgment, ready to hit the rooftops, but only after.. Hello? He *bamfs* into a room where a terminal is working, and can see the overlay. Perching in the chair, he leans forward and looks through what he can, calling softly, "I have found something." He pulls out a little thumb drive (he came prepared!) and downloads what information he can; screenshots, the works, before he unplugs his date store and puts it back into his pocket.
To the roof is next, both as a point to search and a spot to meet and speak to the rest of the 'team'. Kurt stands with the rubble of the chopper, yellow eyes looking it over with a mechanic's eye. "It is a mess.."
The only people Shift considers as friends, of course, would most likely be able to handle anything Vince Harley could throw at them. "Good," he answers, then reaches into his pants pocket to retrieve a cellular phone. There is a brief touch of relief when he recognizes that it had somehow avoided the bullets that had been fired at him earlier, and brings it to life.
"Dese are cyborg mercenaries," he says, showing the first of the Reavers pictures taken from the Blackbird's computers to Harley. Next, he shows the mobster photos taken of the villains' cars, with photo enhancements to the license plates, and a photo capture of the helicopter they used to escape in. Finally, a photo of Lady Deathstrike is provided. "I need names and addresses for de ownah's of dese cars. GPS data on their whereabouts. Information related to the woman in de photo and who manufactured de cyborgs." He offers the phone to Vinnie, for he had no further use of it. "Details are very important to me, Harley."
More people willing to help, or the same one under a different personality on multiple occasions. Jackie hides the resulting urge to grin, even though it seems like Wolverine just might be figuring her out. He did manage to catch her sampling from that bloodstain. Observant little rascal. "It's good for us to stick together. Time of need, and all." Oo, he's onto something. "What'd you find there, boy?"
How about most of an arm?
Jackie whistles low as the damaged limb is recovered, now looking as amused as ever. "Not sure how them boys in blue managed to miss this one. Your tax dollars hard at work." With what could well be -the- discovery within this place she heads off in search of Kurt, curious as well about the state of their local network. Good timing, too. "Indeed?" she asks, her interest genuinely piqued.
All it takes is a hand upon the teleporter's shoulder to catch a ride up onto the roof, gone and back in a poof of acrid smoke. "Looks like someone could have spent more time on the simulator," she remarks to the downed chopper. Were the other guys smart enough to strip the ruined bird of evidence, as well? Time to go black box hunting.
Actually recording the notes of the interviews, Carol strolls back towards.. well not her car. She didn't drive out here. But towards the hospital as she triggers her bluetooth and says, "Call Short Stuff." Yes, she nicknamed Logan that. When answered, or when voicemail picks up, whichever one... she says, "Got some... generic information. Nothing really useful though I have no idea what you are looking for and the devil's in the details. You so owe me a few rounds of drinks. But as long as I'm here... what else can I assist with?"
Wolverine's adamantium-reinforced body is up to the task of getting the concrete out of the way, even if it involves a goodly amount of grunting and straining; his back will be sore for a whole thirty seconds when he's done(if that), but it's a small price to pay. As soon as the evidence is free and clear, he gives the concrete a final shove, allowing it to crash back to the ground with a grey cloud and an echoing *THOOM!* as he takes the cyborg's hand into his own.
"Reckon they did the best they could with what they had," he offers as he heads towards Kurt. Un(?)fortunately, there aren't many cops with advantages like Logan's to fall back on; missing things like this is only somewhat their fault, he figures.
"Us, too," he says once they reconvene with Kurt; he sticks the stump out in the elf's general direction for a second, just so he can see it, then lowers the grisly thing and sets his other hand on Kurt's shoulder to get ready for the jump.
When the smoke clears, he just watches Jackie make for the helicopter for a little while, until a little silver object on his belt chirps and prompts him to grab for it. The thing is held up to his ear for a little while, and then he lowers it to conference Kwabena into the call.
"You're on speaker," he then says, holding the phone out so that Jackie and Kurt can speak and hear their fellow investigators a bit more readily. "We found a couple'a things over here, too; best bet's to met up a little ways away and see where we're at."
The mobster just grunts acknowledgement as he takes the phone and looks it over. "You," he points his cigar-hand at Shift. "Wait here." Then he goes back into his secure money-room and closes the door. The thug/guards all around Kwabena make peaceful enough, if watchful and unpleasant, company, until the mafioso returns with a fat guy's swagger and the smell of his cheap smokes.
"Mixed inta some baaaaad stuff, m'friend." He chuckles mirthlessly. "Reavers don't come cheap fer nobody. Somebody paid a pretty penny or it was direct from within their organization. Donald Pierce runs that particular outfit, n' g'luck findin' 'em! Slippery as an eel that one, with thrice the bite."
The mobster's fat finger shifts through the photos. "That little slice of asian cutiepie is known as 'Lady Deathstrike'. Works with the Reavers sometimes, sometimes on 'er own. Ever time she shows up, there's a'killin'. They say even 'er knives got knives, 'touch o' death', or some such. Cars got fake plates, fake registers. Chopper's one nice piece o' work, military grade, built to last and blast. Ain't no run o' the mill punks can get their hands on that, but these Reavers, they ain't no local talent. Overseas is where you'll have ta find more answers, pal."
"As for who makes 'em," he spreads his arms wide. "I can't say. Just showed up outta nowhere seems like. If yer lookin' fer them, best ta carry a big stick an bring plenty o' friends. I hear they ain't quite done with whatever job they done pulled at that hospital. Nasty bit o' work, that. Heard there was kids involved. Ya didn' hear none o' this from me, ya hear?"
Unfortunately, the chopper is next to useless as far as information goes. It has equipment salvageable on board, sure, but its expected military hardware. Electronics don't even turn on, whatever trashed this thing did its job well, and in addition someone went to the trouble to make sure the onboard computers would never work again.
There comes a look of disgust at the cyborg arm as it's waved about, and he grits pointed teeth. "A murderer's hand," is spit, but if any information is to be gained? He's all for studying it!
At that last teleport up, taking along both just because it's easiest for all involved, Kurt exhales as he looks at the destroyed helo as the other two do what they will. "There is nothing. It won't have a black box. That is only for the authorities, und I would dare say the FAA had no information to register this." Gesturing at the wreck, he shakes his head. "If it was disposable, there is nothing there." They'll only be //so// sloppy. Yellow eyes move back to the rest of the roof, and he teleports to a damaged edge to look down before he's back at Logan's side for the phone call. "There is nothing more that I can think of to be gained here."
While waiting, Kwabena lights up a smoke and enjoys it without engaging any of the thugs in conversation. Once Harley returns, Kwabena reviews the information, paying close attention to it all and filing it away in his memory. He looks at the mobster and slowly develops a rueful smirk. "Nice work, Harley," he answers. "Your friends will be out of de picture in exactly three days. You find out -exactly- where ovahseas, send de info to dis number."
After providing another cellular phone number to Vinnie, he adds, "I'll throw in a little bonus if you get me dat info." Then, he offers the mobster a slow nod of approval. "Enjoy de new turf, Vinnie."
Soon thereafter, he's back on his Harley Sportster (irony?) and racing out of New York City, headed for Mutie General and the rendezvous point. He wears a helmet (even though he doesn't need to), mostly to keep road noise from the earpiece connected to his cellular phone. "Sounds good," answers Kwabena. "I've rustled up some few things, will go ovah dem when I meet you. Text me de address."
"Really, not much. Aside from folks looking for patients who weren't there. Anything about patient transfers in the computer, or on -any- sort of log? Or... any evidence of such things?" asks Carol over the speaker phone as she struts towards the building. Always act like you belong, isn't that the rule? She has her hands in her pockets as if she were actually affected by the cold. "Also, witnesses said they thought they heard some asian language speaking... man and a woman. Oh, one of the people was named Jacob apparently, or at least he was -using- that name for the op."
Jackie frowns in short order, abandoning the chopper to return to the others collected upon the roof. "The whirlie's got nothin' for us. Scrapped good." But, they won't have to leave here empty-handed. She's gathered some intel of her own, and then some. It's always nice being able to gather some useful info to work off of, especially when no one else knows what the heck she's up to.
"Christ," Logan mutters when he's asked to text; the way he hesitates to turn the phone over and glower disdainfully at the thing might be somewhat familiar by Nightcrawler, because it certainly wouldn't be the /first/ time that the old man has disapproved of a piece of modern technology.
"Asian cyborgs," he mutters as he pecks at the keys. "Kurt handled the computers," he adds a second later. "All I got was one'a their forearms."
Category:Logs
Category:RPLogs