2024.04.21: A visit to Dr Cohen

The office of Dr. John Cohen M.D. is maybe a block from Chinatown, just barely inside the invisible borders that cut up New Albion into its various supernatural parcels. It's on the second floor of a building parceled out for office space and retail. A beauty supply store and a dentist's office flank the actual space allotted to Dr. Cohen, and his name is not the only one on the door. It also includes a Dr. J. Yost.

Both the beauty supply store and the dentist's office are closed. In fact, all of the spaces in this complex are closed right now. Some have lights on in the far back to dissuade would-be thieves. The light on at Dr. Cohen's office could be interpreted that way from the street. However, from the front entrance, flickers of movement can be seen in the dim light. While there is a back entrance, it's not a glass door.

The quiet caw of crows can be heard in the distance.

While you could call the man... impulsive in his personal life, that's less the case in his professional one. Balcésar has been staking out the office since early evening, sitting in his Nissan (don't judge) and quietly making note of the comings and goings. He doesn't exit until it's quite late, with less possibility of interruption. Step one is to see if he can actually get into the building without some casual B&E.(edited)

Dr. Cohen had been seen getting a coffee from the coffee shop downstairs just before they closed a couple hours ago. Lucky Balcésar: he's a regular, and the closing baristas know him by name. He went back into the office, and hasn't come back out, at least not through the front door. Right now, though, a black sedan is pulling into the parking lot and around to the back...

Naturally, this is the perfect opportunity to be a sneaky fuck and prep the camera he's brought with him with the right focus lens. He keeps his distance for now, keeping to the shadows and trying to angle the shots so there's at least enough light to make out faces. If there's not, well. He'll just have to get closer.

Faces are a little hard to make out; the lights in this part of town are the sodium yellow variety, and aren't great for getting fine detail. The license plate of the car is easy. The faces of the two men who come out is a little harder. They mount the steps to the back entrance that is most likely to Dr. Cohen's office. The taller and broader of the two bangs on the door thrice, and it echoes through the quiet parking lot.

It's always a risk to try and get too close, but with the help of a little Obfuscation (shh!), Balcésar seems to feel it's a still a measure in his favor. A few meters at first, behind bushes and columns or whatever architecture lends itself to spying.

Some poor soul did put some hedges back here so it wasn't all plain, flat, backside-of-a-building realness. The angle is not great, but at least it's closer. A few more knocks, firmly in the police-knock territory, and the door opens and Dr. Cohen answers. His face is grim, even from this far off. If Balcésar is fast enough, he might even be able to sneak in...

The man pulls quite a few things from his supernatural investigator toolbox. Naturally, with his Cloak active, he does in fact do his best to try and slip in. He also Auspexes up his hearing so he can catch as much of this conversation as possible in the process.

It's a good thing he's had a few nice meals since that evening of spirit-touching thongs.

Yes. Yes indeed. Those sweet old ladies were quite accommodating. As his senses heighten appropriately, he can catch the hum of the lights above, the crunch of gravel the two men tracked in on their shoes, and the heightened heartbeat of Dr. Cohen.  Right when Balcésar can just barely get in and out of the doorway, the smaller of the men gets annoyed with how slowly the door is closing on its own and yanks it shut. Whew.

"Another one?" Dr. Cohen grumbles. "What happened to the other pad I gave you? I know it's not getting used anymore. You think I don't know?"

"That's none of your concern, Doctor," the taller man grumbles right back. "You know your role in this. Stick to it."

Phew! Now just inside the door, the investigator waits, mentally recording the rest of this conversation and stowing his camera (for now). When it appears the doctor is heading back in, he'll step to the side and keep the shadows out of an abundance of caution, and then follow him up.

Dr. Cohen heads for his desk, sitting at it with a sigh that indicates how TERRIBLY PUT OUT he is by all of this. "You didn't answer my question," he retorts, pulling out yet another prescription pad. "If that gets out, I'm ruined, and then there's no more of this at all. It all comes tumbling down."

"We have connections to keep you right where you're at," the smaller man replies. "Don't you worry about that. And we do appreciate you. Never doubt that." He produces a large wad of cash from inside his jacket, probably concealed from his own set of sneaky Obfuscate powers! "As long as she gets what she wants. She is... mercurial, to be sure, but trust me. Keeping her in the style she is accustomed is better for all of us."

"And if you don't..." the larger man intones. "...well, if you know, then you know."

Dr. Cohen shakes his head and continues his work, muttering something about 'that poor kid and his family' as he goes. "How much did he take?" he asks sullenly.

"Enough," the larger man snaps, ending the discussion.

Not wanting to risk antagonizing his Cloak, Balcésar doesn't try to swap out camera lenses at this distance, but does pull out his cell phone (with the flash off, because he's not an idiot) and snaps a few more photos with that camera instead, both at the good Doctor, and trying to capture more features of the Men In Question, including their faces.

Hell, he even turns on his video, because it's the future, by golly.

It takes a while, but Dr. Cohen finally gets through all of it. The other two men are eerily still. It's like they don't even breathe. Finally, Dr. Cohen tosses the pad across the desk with a huff. "There."

"That's better," the smaller man says, pushing the cash across the table. "We appreciate your cooperation."

"And we hope it will continue long into the future," the larger man adds, with no small edge of menace.

"How long?" Dr. Cohen says. "This can't last forever. You know that."

Both men smile uncomfortably at the good doctor, and it's enough to make him sit back in his chair with distinct unease.

The video rolls until the men have gone, most certainly capturing the exchange of pad and cash, just in case certain... leverage is necessary in the near future. That shit is quite immediately uploaded to the Cloud. In the interim, he watches the doctor for a few minutes, getting a gauge on his temperament and if he's doing anything in particular or just going about an evening routine.

And, how much guilt is apparent, because that will be important shortly.

Once the men are gone, Dr. Cohen just sits there quietly and dumbly for a moment. He stares at the cash, still on the desk, then with a wide swing of his arm, knocks the cash and everything else on that side of the desk in particular off in frustration. A pencil cup and a stapler bounce off the wall, which is not terribly far away. He then lowers his head into his hands. When his hands slide down his face to cover his mouth, there's the distinct sheen of tears threatening to fall.

The tears sell it, enough anwyays, that Balcésar decides on a different, somewhat more human approach (not humane, let's not confuse the two) than the sneakytown samba he had planned. He glances at a few photos of Jason he has stored in his phone, and then stows it. The camera and its bag he sets down momentarily, and then otherwise goes to work recalling all the images of Jason he's seen any any video Lizzy might have shared that would given an impression of the man's voice. In any event, he tries to make the full sensory image as complete in his head as possible--and he's quite the artist so let's just say it's a very robust image.

Allowing the magic of a Thousand Faces to do its work (and he takes his time), he then steps out of the shadows but also out of the doctor's immediate field of view and takes a posture he's reasonably sure the actual Jason might have taken. The mannerisms might not be perfect, but it's unlikely the Doctor is secretly a character a study enough to notice.

"Hey, doc," he says, evenly, other Obfuscation having fallen aside.

"Huh?" Dr. Cohen looks up, then confused. "Who are you, how did you get in here. Were you with them?" He stands, looking up, as the illusion makes him think that the man he is talking to is 6'4", which Dr. Cohen is decidedly... not. The edge of panic seeps into his voice at the end.

More fully stepping into the light, Bal-as-Jason slides his hands into his pockets and frowns. "I'd hope you wouldn't have forgotten me so quickly, doc. I... think you should probably stick to the chair, though."

Dr. Cohen frowns, looking more confused. "Forgotten? I am usually very good at remembering my patients... what is this about?" He doesn't sit down yet. The confusion is genuine, to his credit.

This is useful information to the investigator, but he's building a narrative as he goes, here, so he simply says, "Wow." And pauses. "Really?" So he illuminates things for the man. "Jason McCrory. You know," he says, thumbing after the pair of goons that just left. "The dead one. Suicide," he says, pointing to the entry wound of the gun, which he included in the Mask. It might seem cruel, but he was building towards something. "I'm guessing you preferred not knowing who got the pad then, huh?"

The gunshot wound had not actually registered for Dr. Cohen at first, clouded by the panic of someone unfamiliar in his space. As it all becomes clear to him (or he's able to build enough from the conclusions he's jumping to), his face goes slack. "Oh. Oh dear God. I had no idea any of this was going to happen." He slumps back down in his chair, white as his coat. "They never wanted me to know who they fed the prescriptions to. Too many loose ends that way. I'd've welcomed the extra patients, believe you me." He then looks up. "But why are you here? What do you want? I can't help you. I never could." He sounds pained as he admits that.

The man is not calm. He is trembling, and his voice wavers with every word he speaks.

"I'll give you credit, doc. You're taking having a dead man walking in your office pretty well, all things considered. That's good. It'll simplify things." 'Jason' glances back towards the door as if to make certain they won't be interrupted. "But let's get a few things straight. First, I'm not here to hurt you. And second, I'm not actually Jason. That ship sailed when a bullet eviscerated his gray matter. Consider me like your personal ghost of Christmas Future."

He allows that to sink in and starts to gently walk over towards where the stapler had been knocked to the floor, and carefully picks it up. "I'm here to remind you that we always have choices.  Jason did not commit suicide; he was murdered, surrounded by opiates and stimulants and even some Xanax for good measure--all bearing your name. That makes you an accessory, doc. So you're right, his death isn't something you're ever going to be able to 'help'. But if you can muster up the courage, maybe you can help stop the next one."

Still crouching, he reaches up to hand the stapler to the trembling doctor. "There will always be some mysteries in this world that transcend what it means to be human. Faith is the tool we have to stare into those mysteries and hope that whatever looks back isn't just a flawed reflection of our personal darkness but is instead a mirror of all the things we wish for in others--things that are greater than ourselves: charity, mercy, even grace."

"You don't need to be a believer to find religion, doc."

Dr. Cohen can only stare blankly. Disbelief never crosses his expression, but the the 'not actually Jason' part shocks him a little. When 'Jason' hands him the stapler, he takes it slowly, setting it down on his desk. "...my God... I mean, I knew they were looking for drugs for a good time, but that's... that's almost part of daily business around a film studio. Usually there's so much more control over these things. But you gotta understand, they're always watching me. The minute I go cagey, they'll know, and I won't have the luxury of being able to find religion. Joanne, she..." Dr. Cohen purses her lips. "...she'll rat me out. I'm pretty damn trapped here."

The tears flow freely now, choking him, but he goes on. "I just wanted to save my wife. That's how all this mess started. Not even that didn't help, and now here I am, in the bed I have made. Getting out of it could very well mean death. I appreciate what you're saying. If there was a way out that brought me back to where I was before, I'd take it in a heartbeat, but I don't see it." His breath shudders in a pained sigh. "I wish I could."

'Jason' keeps his crouched position, looking sympathetic. "You're playing a very small role in a much larger, much more malevolent story than you realize, doc. But I want you to understand that I'm not asking you to be a martyr. You can't very well grow as a person if you're dead, now can you?" He begins to stand, slowly. "I'm not here to place you into an impossible position. I'm here to help find a possible solution. But I won't lie to you, doc. Every path you take from this point forward, even doing nothing, is going take you somewhere very dark, and very dangerous. There is no safe way forward." He hovers a bit, eyeing the doctor directly.

"What I'm offering you is the ability to choose."

Slowly, he turns around, making a display of exhaling slowly. "There are people looking into Jason's death who suspect the truth and are at least partially aware of your involvement. At this point, your exposure is only a matter of time, and we both know how your 'partners' will feel about that. Their overtures to your safety are contrivances, but we both know you knew that already."

He turns back around. "You need allies, doctor. And the best place for you to start are with the people who could bring this house of cards tumbling down. Are you prepared to take that risk? Or do you wish to instead do nothing, waiting for the inevitable?"

"What can I do to just... make this all... stop?" The last word out of his mouth is barely a whisper.

'Jason' steps forward and crouches again, resting a hand against the doctor's leg. It's not cold, but it's not warm either, which, bonus, probably just helps to sell the whole 'ghost' thing. "Virtue isn't easy by design," he says. "You can run away, but the shame will always haunt you." And then, most softly, "And I know you've considered ending it all, yourself. But even in life, the management of pain is but a rickety bridge over water. Until you deal with the problem at the source of the river, the floods will never stop."

A beat. "I know you don't want your legacy to be one of pain. So help fix this. I can't help you until you're ready to help yourself."

A long moment passes. Dr. Cohen doesn't look at 'Jason.' At this point, he probably can't. He swallows, then spits out "Fine. This ends here. Now. I should have done this sooner. This is not the man Georgie would have wanted me to be without her."

'Jason' retrieves his hand and nods. "Ok." Then he stands. "I'm going to give you two options, and I can't help you choose. This is a matter of your conviction." He takes a breath.

"Either you can take what you know, right now, gather up everything you think might be of use, and go to the people who can help you use it, or you can stay, continue to play the game, and mine it for as much information as you can muster while feeding it to the people who can do something about it." Another pause.

"I wish I could give you more time to think on this. But things are moving quickly, and your safety depends entirely on committing to a singular path of action."

"No more of this. I can't stomach another day of it. Where can I go? The police?" He looks up at 'Jason.' "Do you know? Did Jason have family? Where am I taking this vile pile of shit?"

The 'specter' nods. "There is an investigator who is putting together the pieces. He has allies who can make use of everything you know and keep you safe. But that safety will come at a price. You're committed to this now. You'll have to remain with them, help them. I don't know for how long. Your future at this point could walk many roads, but I can promise you that if you have faith in your own sense of righteousness, you'll never regret which one you choose."

"Are you ready?"

"No." He answers plainly. "But I don't think I ever will be, so no time like the present."

'Jason' only nods, his mind quickly putting together how he's going to pull all of this off. "Gather together everything you think can help tell a story about these people. Folders, hard drives or laptops, stored chemicals, memos. You have a good sense of how to deal them a heavy blow." He points to things he thinks might be helpful to grab.

"But you need to be quick. There is a reason I came tonight, now. Your escape route has been staking out this building for hours, trying to find a lead. He's outside in the black Nissan. Once he's gone, I can't guarantee you'll get another chance like this. Also," he takes a deep breath.

"Once you walk out that door, you're a target. I'm not omniscient, they may have eyes on you. But if you can get everything together and run it out to that Nissan, then your path will start to become clear. You'll be out," he says, gesturing broadly. "Of this, at least. Quickly, now."

You don't have to tell Dr. Cohen twice. He rummages through his files, picks up the cash (because that's practically a smoking gun), and snatches up the laptop as fast as he can muster. He dithers a brief moment, as if taking stock of where something else might be but seems satisfied with the items he has gathered. He shoves them into a leather satchel, looking around to make sure there's no one else present. Then, he heads for the door with a hurried "Thank you!" to the specter that visited him.

Phew. Someone's gonna need a drink after this. But he also has to continue to SELL this narrative, so Balcésar nods to the man, and then vanishes in the Obfuscate sense, blinking out, just like you might expect a ghost would. Immediately, and under the auspices of unseen presence, he grabs up his camera, and then uses the speed of Celerity to whip past the doctor when he opens the door, and speed back to his car, so the 'investigator' can be precisely where the 'specter' said he would.

That said, Balcésar listens to his own advice, and keeps his senses primed for any sudden interruptions, lest he turned out to be more prescient than he thought. He's going to make sure the doctor gets to his car, one way or another.

When Balcésar gets to his car, there's a note tucked under one of the wipers. From afar, it looks like a parking ticket. The note is written on one of the prescription slips. The message is only one word: "Hello."

Dr. Cohen is now at the base of the stairs. While he's not running, he's power-walking like a motherfucker.

In the distance, the cawing grows louder…

Yeah, Balcésar is taking no chances. He immediately bolts from his car, speed dialing a number from his phone. "Hey. Yeah. I need a pickup. Yeah, one of those kinds. Bolton and fifth, near China. Double pay if you fucking speed." He hangs up and zooms towards the doctor, and will link arms with him forcibly given the opportunity.

"Private Eye. Don't ask, we're made. I hope you jog because we're running. Now."

"What?!" Dr. Cohen blurts out, stumbling to keep up, but he follows.

A bird swoop down and makes a dive bomb towards Dr. Cohen. The flapping crow was clearly insufficient to do more than utterly terrify the mortal. The detective would realize immediately that one little crow wasn't going to be a problem.

The problem that he did see, however, was seven or eight more crows beginning to circle overhead.

"Nyah! Shoo!" Dr. Cohen flails at the crow to bat it away, but in his terrified state, it's not terribly effective flailing.

Balcésar looks up and nearly growls as he tries to calculate his odds of buying time for the escape vehicle and trying to find somewhere that's not crow-adjacent. He doesn't explain to the doctor other than saying, "Focus doctor, keep moving. Don't look back. Just keep moving." He scans around for trees, canopy, overhead arches, anything to shield or shadow their egress. He'll run through backyards if they have to.

Thankfully he doesn't need to breathe while he speed-dials Doris' number. "Fucking crows?" is how that conversation will begin.

There is a small bus-stop with an overhead nearby the street, a parking center with rows of concrete, and what appears to thick treeline leading towards one of the freshly installed parks. The crows take turns with the repeated bombing, now throwing themselves upon the Doctor, pecking and snapping and biting. Just as one gets their brittle bones crushed, another one rushes down.

Dr. Cohen is not a fit man. He's panting and panicking as he tries to flee the crows, but also trying to follow his unknown-to-him savior. He clutches the bag to him and flails about with his free arm, but his jacket is now likely shredded, and the smell of fresh blood rises from him from a myriad of cuts from sharp beaks...

This isn't working. "Hold this," he tells the doctor, handing him the phone-on-speaker, "and hold tight," then bodily, and with an impressive amount of strength, quickly lifts the man into a one-man front carry, as a fireman's carry would leave him too exposed to the birds. At least this way, Balcésar's body is in the way. He swerves chaotically in and out of the parking and under the trees, trying to force the birds to regroup and circle.

"What?" Doris' voice echoes from the phone.

"Got POI. Very I. Made. Crows attacking. Need safety," Balcésar grunts.

"Where?"

"Driver en route. Need safehouse."

"Where are you?"

"Headed to Bolton and 5th In BA near China for arranged pickup."

"Nearest subway stop is two blocks north. Can you get there?"

"Yes."

"Go there. Take second service entrance. Wait at junction."

"Roger."

He then suddenly zooms north instead, towards the service entrance.

"Keep yourself covered, doctor."

There are roads underneath the asphalt of New Albion for those who may need to move in shadowy and obscure ways during the day. Currently, two such individuals are traversing a series of them towards the beleaguered duo.

Dr. Cohen takes the phone, scared and bewildered and wishing he'd worn his brown pants today. His response is pretty much just relegated to panicked wailing. He's less concerned about his physical well-being and more about the precious cargo in his satchel.

As they enter the subterranean path, Marcus withdraws a compact submachine gun from within his jacket attached to a sling over his shoulder. As the two kindred make their way forwards, he quickly, expertly checks and readies his weapon, leaving the safety on (for now), and replacing the gun under his jacket.

There is no indication of where Doris is leading him, but at least she seems to know where she is going. Everything looks the same, eerie, featureless walls in endless progression. After a few yards, she begins jogging, then running in the tirelessly mechanical way someone who does not have to worry about breathing any more might. Muffled screaming leaks from her pocket, disturbing the otherwise silent passageways.

Apparently tireless, Balcésar does not make it easy on the birds as they quickly approach their new destination, zig-zagging like a man accustomed to trying to outrun bullets. There's also a broad back now between the little raptors and their prey. If they sully the man's jacket though, he might have a small vendetta against crows for a cool year.

"Almost there, doctor," he says, with an evenness of tone (however gruff) that might be considered calming, in its way.

Marcus has no trouble keeping up, his long legs striding alongside easily as he watches for signs of trouble.

Dr. Cohen doesn't seem much more reassured, but at this point, he's just along for the ride. Er, run.

And then they're there. There's no pause in movement as the investigator zooms into the subway station and then kicks open the second service entrance, rushing for the junction. Surely the crows can't follow him in here? Surely.

The wailing from Doris' phone becomes all too real as the two men come through.

Doris does not pause or glance at the men going the other way. She does, however, snap "Secure the room" in a manner that suggests choosing otherwise is a terrible idea.

Then she is off towards the outside.

The room is a sort of squaring out of a t-intersection. There is an exit light over the doorway Balcezar and the good Doctor Cohen barreled through. There are no other pathway indicators. The little singer has quickly vanished out of sight.

Marcus his weapon out and ready as Mr. Cruz rushes into the room. At Doris' command, he takes aim out the door towards the crows, firing in short bursts towards the birds as they move towards the door.

There is a lilting warning hanging in the air for a moment that only two of the three men can hear*: I would cover my ears...*

Balcésar-with-doctor bounded down stairwell to get to the tunnels proper, and only once they're firmly at the t-intersection does he finally let the doctor down and take a rest.

"Close your ears; she's gonna throw a flashbang or something." Honestly, he's not entirely sure what she's going to do, but he plugs his ears anyways.

Dr. Cohen quickly finds his feet, covers his ears, and clenches his eyes shut.

There is a violent bang as the door at the top of the stairs is flung open followed by a slightly less violent one as it crashes shut again. In the moments between the two sounds there is angry cawing. Some of it seems incredibly close and from an unpleasantly large bird. Unfortunately for the men at the bottom of the steps and down the hallway, most of their view is of shapely legs silhouetted against the sodium lights of the street above for the brief moment the door is standing fully open.

Silence reigns on their side of things.(

Balcésar never really stops being paranoid and keeps an eye on things at the T with his ears plugged without otherwise moving.

There is entirely too much silence now, like the silence of the access hallways in a mall that is closed for the night. No Doris. No swarm of homicidal crows. Also, no indication as to the correct way to go to get back to the bar. The stairwell is open. There are two passageways to take.

Decisions, decisions.

Dr. Cohen is bloodied, but not so terribly injured that he can't move under his own power. He's got the leather satchel still clutched tight to his chest. He looks at Balcésar like he did at not-Jason earlier: stricken horror. "My God, what have I gotten myself into."

"Believe me, doctor, it would have eventually been much worse had you decided to stay. What had you running out of the building anyhow?" This, naturally, to continue the narrative illusion he's already built. In the meantime, he's fishing out his keys, which of course has a small compass and pocket knife. At least he can get a general idea of what direction they need to be moving. He calls over his shoulder, "Hey Marcus, do you know how to get back to the bar?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'm not entirely sure I believe it. But between seeing a dead kid talking to me about redemption and getting attacked by crows, there's definitely something bigger at work here. I've always believed in God, but this... this is way above my pay grade." He shakes his head in disbelief.

"This way, Mr. Cruz." He points in the direction they had come "Through that passage, wait for us. Do you have a gun?"

There is a soft thump from the top of the stairwell.

He signals a closed upraised fist to Cruz, readies his weapon and slowly climbs the stairs. "Wait" are the only words out of his mouth.

Someone is humming as they saunter nonchalantly down the steps. It is only humming, no singing...but it is still uncannily pleasant. The melody is "Call Me Irresponsible" and eventually Doris hoves into view. Her suit is rather the worse for wear and her face is scratched up a bit. She looks dead, but then again, fluorescent lights make everyone look at least a little bit dead.

"Hullo, boys." She grins a grin that is all teeth and no warmth. Her hands are shoved into her trouser pockets.

After ensuring that she is alive and well, Marcus goes to check on Mr. Cruz, and the package - whatever he/it is. "Back to the bar?"

"...ohhhhhh my god..." Dr. Cohen mutters, looking at all of them a little terrified. "Who are you people?!"

"Mr. Cruz, will he be a problem?" The customary cheerfulness is gone from his voice.

"Surely you have heard of me, my good sir...everyone knows Lady Nightbird..." This way, darlings." She saunters off in a sort of predatory lope.

Balcésar didn't really intend to leave his charge anyways, so he simply nods and also answers Marcus' question by drawing a concealed handgun from beneath his jacket. It really served no real purpose to draw it before now.

"There's some bizarre shit in this world, doctor," he says, rolling his head and stretching his neck a little. "But *Dios tarda, pero no olvida*. God catches up with all of us eventually, even if it's to remind us to believe in redemption."

Once it's clear the sound was probably Doris and not an enormous crow-monster from the mind of a B-horror writer, the man reholsters his gun and rolls his eyes a little. But, he is grateful, and he does say as much. "Thanks for the save, Doris. Marcus. This is Dr. Cohen. He's going to help us blow a hole in some of our problems." He gently nudges the doctor with an elbow. "Aren't you, doctor? I'm Balcésar, by the way. I was hired by Jason McCrory's sister."

"Oh... hello..." The color drains from the man's face as he realizes how deep things are going and how quickly.

"Oh fer fuck's sake..." At the end of her tether, the Irish lilt escapes the confines of her Southwestern Ohio nonaccent. She ambles back, attempting to marshal her face into something resembling not a terribly hungry monster wearing makeup and blood like it is no big deal. "Gentlemen, stop alarming the good physician. Come along, Doctor Cohen. Walk with me a little while."

From the unpleasantly cheerful to the soft and comforting, the tonal whiplash is a bit disconcerting, but she seems sincere in either role.

"Dr. Cohen, Marcus." He extends his hand towards the Doctor, though his smile is less than friendly. "I think you need a drink - so do the rest of us. If you'll be so kind as to follow the nice lady who just got you out of hot water..." His tone does not broker disagreement from the mortal.

"A drink would be nice. So would a burger. And a nap. And maybe some new underwear, but let's not get too greedy." He doesn't take Marcus' hand for a handshake. He's too busy clutching that satchel to his chest.

"One of you has a flask on you." Pragmatic Doris. She gently rests a hand almost against the small of Dr. Cohen's back.

Balcésar, for once, appears to be the less Intense of the three. He pats the doctor on the shoulder. "Sorry, doctor, you're deep in the shit now. But word of advice, Doris'll keep you safe so long as her good will outweighs her annoyance, and her good will is pretty hospitable, so keep doing the right thing by helping us help Jason and you'll be fine."

Naturally, he does have the booze, which he SIGHS and draws from his coat to hand to the doctor. "Whiskey," he says, with a short grumble.

He takes the flask and knocks back a healthy swig before handing it back. "So. Does this girl know anything about..." He gestures toward them all vaguely. "...whatever this is going on here?"

Marcus, seeing Cruz pull his flask, keeps his own under his coat, instead reaching for his cellphone. He punches a few digits before speaking softly. The other hear "burger and fries." followed by "fifteen minutes." and then - louder - "Dr. Cohen, how do you take your burger?"

"Medium. No cheese." He answers, but a bit distracted.

Marcus repeats the order into the phone, followed a few minutes later by the words "old fashioned", "manhattan" and "bourbon neat."

"You can safely presume she knows a lot more than you," Balcésar says flatly. "And," he leans in, conspiratorially, "the more you treat her like the queen she thinks she is, the more she'll appreciate you for it." He lifts up his flask and tosses a little back. "Just saying."

"Since you are talking to her, do tell Miss Lizzy she can have the rest of the night off with pay."

The investigator indicates to the doctor that he was talking about Doris, in case that was confusing.

"I... I think there's been a mixup. I was asking about the sister."

A few more muffled sentences, and he replaces the phone, withdrawing his flask and taking a good sip, and offering the flask to Doris.

"The sister knows some. I'm intentionally keeping some information from her for now so she can deal with her grief. You should do the same," Balcésar says. "She'll get the download she needs in time."

The woman's face softens ever so slightly, and she does not snatch forth the flask but instead manages to take it civilly. She takes a few healthy swallows and a bit of...for lack of a better word...humanity seeps into the set of her features.

"All right." Dr. Cohen sighs. "Let's... let's get this moving, I suppose." He sounds more resigned than snippy. He doesn't have it in him to be truly snippy right now.

The taller man takes his flask back, offering the drinks to the other two as needed, before replacing the flask under his jacket with his gun. "Mr. Cruz, would you care to fill me in?"

Balcésar indicates the doctor with a short incline of his head and says to Marcus, "Later." i.e. not in present company. "Doctor, once you've had some time to recover, we can talk about the information you have and go from there."

Marcus nods silently in response,

Fortified with a safe-for-her drink, Doris begins leading the trio back through the maze of equally blank and meaningless corridors to the door that leads into the conference room under the basement of the Blue Devil.