2012 02 16 Apollo And The Python

Log Title:
Apollo and the Python

Morbius, NPCs by Mike

IC Date:
16 Feb 2012

Hell's Kitchen

Brief log summary::
Morbius comes across a freshly made victim by a certain post card dropping nut.


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-==[ Hell's Kitchen - New York ]==--------

Some people call this area the Lower West Side; some people who want to talk it up call it Clinton. A few particularly unwise types call it West Midtown, but they'd better not do that where anyone can hear. Everyone else calls it Hell's Kitchen.

The congested streets are dominated by flat-faced, boxy buildings, three and four stories tall. Between some of them run alleyways - some wide enough to park a car in, some too narrow to give space for anything but ambushing a passerby. The slow transformation of much of the rest of Manhattan into a playground for the wealthy has met its match in the underworld here, which has a vested interest in keeping Hell's Kitchen and its inhabitants poor and desperate as a cover for its own activities, and in the danger of merely entering the neighborhood. After all - though other cities are better known for them lately, Hell's Kitchen is one of the places where street gangs began.

As the evening hours come in, crossing over to the nearly morn and the decreased temperature makes the light rain unbearable for those who may have chosen Thursday night to start their weekend partying, Hell's Kitchen is very quiet. All of the law abiding citizens who aren't pulling some horrible hours at work have long since gone to bed and so have a number of the not so law abiding ones as well.

A dark sedan with the windows darkly tinted slowly makes its way down the street before pulling into the alleyway near a very, VERY run down excuse for an apartment building. It's likely not allowed there, but the driver seems to have little worry of the vehicle being towed away as the sound of the car shifting to park becomes audible. The slow churn of the windshield wipers give for a soft rhythm for a few more minutes before they die away, soon followed by the headlights.

Further back in the alley, another darkly clad figure lingers quietly, simply hiding in the shadows.

Speaking of horrible work hours, a man is walking home from a very long shift at the ER. No fewer then 3 GSWs, a GI distress, several flu cases - dehydration there, and the man known to his colleagues as 'Dr. Morgan Michaels' was lost in thought, got off a stop early, and decided to walk home to the East Village. Why not? He had to slip away for a second dose of his serum, but he had fed -quite- well recently, his body maintaining itself in its current state thought the entire shift and, it seems, for a bit more on top of that.

His success buoys his feet, even in the rain, as he takes in the night and the chill as a man, not a monster, and he is almost…happy for it.

Unknowing of the form waiting further back in the alley, the driver of the vehicle steps out. Dressed in jeans, a worn shirt and leather jacket, there's not much that really stands out about this man, with the exception of his height. He turns, bending to reach into the car for something.

In this moment the waiting figure moves quickly. Not in an inhuman speed, but quite efficiently. With the darkness of the alley his approach is not noticed, nor is there a glint of the object he jabs into the exposed back, burying it in deep.

There's a shout from the man in the car as he ends up falling forward from the force of the blow. His hand extends, reaching for the object he was going for, only to find another object slammed into his arm. Another shout is emitted, louder and quite pained.

Morbius (for that is who the physician really is, of course)'s head swivels as he hears the first sound, was that…? The second shout clenches it, and he finds his feet moving almost of their own accord, towards the alley. He may not be experiencing the deep throes of the Thirst, but dammit, he's a doctor, and it sounds like someone's in trouble. The knowledge that he is more vulnerable like this barely even crosses his mind.

As the man screams, the large, expressionless attacker fishes out a postcard from his pocket, gloved hand flinging it upon the body before he turns. Running back down the alley, he jumps onto several conveniently placed shipping pallets, using them to scale over the wooden fence.

As he rounds the corner of the alley, Dr. Morbius's eyes still adjust with unnatural ease to the darkness within, though not as perfect as it 'normally' is, he sees the attacker fleeing. He hesitates, mind racing, pursue or…firmly setting his jaw he instead moves to the victim, -this- one needs him. The other…can wait.

Unhindered by any good samaritans in the area, the attacker makes his way over the fence, vanishing from sight as he continues moving away from the scene of the crime.

As for the victim who is lying stomach down on the front seat, head turned to the side, the dark of the jacket he wears hides the extent of the damage, the slowly forming red tint to the postcard depicting artwork and the hilt of the knife embedded into him giving just a hint of the damage. The sleeve of the jacket also doesn't help matters of the visual, yet another knife handle potruding from there as well. Judging from the barely there movement of the arm, it is quite possible that is actually pinned to the upholstry of the vehicle. A gun lies just out of reach of the man's extended arm. Eyes widening, he turns his head, trying to stifle his screams. Maybe the attacker will think he's dead and go away, right?

The man isn't bleeding too badly, the knives holding in and pinning shut several of the damaged vessels. Even after some time, Morbius is somewhat amazed at how well he deals with the sight and scent like this, "Don't move." he states evenly, "I'm a doctor. Whoever did this to you had fled. Do you know who it was?" As he speaks, his ever-present trauma kit comes out of his shoulder bag, "I think your right arm is pinned to the seat, I'm going to get it loose, but the knife is staying in. Do you understand?" all professionalism, his voice is calm, composed. When you've seen as much horror as he has, this is nothing.

The man turns his head, pressing his face against the seat cushion, muffling some loud obscenities. After this passes, he eventually turns his head. "No…not a clue who it was." He lies, starting to turn his head enough to see the doctor, causing for his back to start to lift a bit. He glances back to his arm, giving a nod before adding in a bit of a hysterical laugh, "A doctor. lucky day."

"So it seems." Morbius replies dryly. He knows enough to recognize criminal activity when he sees it. Innocent people are seldom injured so in reach of a gun, "Will there be any…issues if I call for an ambulance?" he asks, diplomatically. He applies a pressure bandage to the arm, "This is going to feel uncomfortable, but I suppose that's better than bleeding out, hm?" he asks.

The man grimaces at the reminder, "Any chance we can move this away from the car? Kind of borrowed it, friend be pissed if it got impounded."

Again, a dry response, "Of course, we'll get it detailed while we're at it." Not the patient one, is this physician? But he has his duty, and he takes it seriously, which is ironic considering that, under different circimstances, he might very well have cause to kill this man, "You still have a knife in the small of your back. Seems to have missed anything major. I'll support you." He flips out his phone and dials the hospital, "This is Dr. Michaels, I have an assault with several impaling wounds…" he lists of the cross streets, "Applying first aid, make sure they're got some whole blood, just in case. One's a bit awkward, near the lumbar, just missed." To the man he notes, "Come on then." Not the best beside manner here, but considering…

As the phone is dialed and the information is relayed, the victim gives a groan and a shake of the head. When the good Doctor offers his help to get up, he gives a weak nod and smile, "Th-thanks…" The bloodied post card shifts, falling off of his back and flutters down to the floor on the driver's side, exposing a picture of an old illustration of Apollo slaying a Python via bow and arrow.

Dr. Michaels's eyes flick down to the card, but he says nothing, filing it away. The myth of Python isn't too commonly known anymore. Points for a classical education. In Greece. He makes a note to go back and get it later, "I'm doing this under protest, you understand." he explains to his patient, "and the hospital is obligated to report these kinds of injuries." He isn't making a threat, but best the man know what's coming.

"Yeah yeah, double thanks." the man dismisses as he very much uses the doctor for support, giving a nod before looking around, "Two buildings down should do it."

"Now you're just taking advantage." the doctor notes, but he acquiesces. After settling the man down he says, "Wait here a moment. Left part of my kit on the car floor. Call if you start to lose consciousness." Quite the black sense of humour, this one. It's a half-truth, he left a few opened packages on the floor, but may as well retrieve those, too. He takes a moment to retrieve the card as well, his curiosity getting the better of him.

The man allows for himself to be left behind, his head turns, making sure that the doctor is walking away before he reaches into a pocket with his good hand, pulling out a cellphone. Flipping it open, he makes a phone call.

The blood tinged post card doesn't have anything written on it. Well, beyond what was printed on it. There is a small caption on the blank side of the card with the basic information on the piece as well as an obligatory plug for the Metropolitan Museum of Art where it is presumed the piece is kept.

"Curious." Morbius notes, obviously a message of some sort, he will have to make some inquiries, it seems. Organized crime sends messages, and there should be many evil men to slake his thirst on, to protect the city from…in that order. He heads back to his patient, "Ambulance should be any moment, slow night, fortunately. You'll likely need surgery on that arm."

As the Doctor starts to return, the stabbing victim's free hand drifts away from a bit of the shoddy masonry that makes up the entrance way for this building. He gives a bit of a nod, frowning, "I can't afford that." He shakes his head, leaning back, only to be reminded painfully of the stab in the back. Oh yeah. OUCH. "Thanks…uh." He gives a tilt of his head in inquiry, seemingly prompting for a name.

As the ambulance sounds start to come into hearing, there's the sound of a car door slamming and an engine reving from the alley the pair left. The car drives out and makes a turn, heading down the road away from the Doctor and impromptu patient. HOW CONVENIENT.

"Dr. Michaels," Morbius notes, the false identity coming more easily as of late, "Don't worry, it's an ER, if you have insurance, it'll be billed, if not…well, we cope." He takes note of the car being moved, obviously -someone- managed to set this up in the little bit of time he had. He calls out to the EMTs, "Over here." instructions and information is given, the man is loaded, and Morbius says to them, "No, no, it's fine. You can handle it from here." As the ambulance pulls away, lights and siren starting up, he drifts back to the alley to give it a once-over. He glances at his watch as well, making time, mentally. He fishes in his pocket for a small recorder, in his mind, far safer than a phone for notes. When the CIA often looks for you, it's a boon to keep certain things low-tech, "Note: serum efficacy seems tied to stabilization of condition and lack of stress. Duration: 11 hours with supplementary 'booster shot', 13 CCs. Will experiment with small quantity banked blood as soon as I get home, check duration afterwards. Side note: see if possible to acquire second sample mutated-slash-irradiated blood. Might hold possible means for increasing duration. Prediction: current dose will not last past this afternoon. Fortunately, I am off the board for next 2 days." He clicks it off, and walks back to the alley.

The alley is quite an empty place now. With the exception of the dumpster and moving pallets, there's not a soul in the alley way. Even the exit doors to either building are closed shut.

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