The Order Part III: A Quiet Night in the Kitchen

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Brief Title:
A Quiet Night in the Kitchen

Characters:
Ambrose

Scene Runner/Watcher:

IC Date:
2010/05/02 22:00

Location:
Hell's Kitchen

Summary:
Ambrose comes across a creepy guy and a grisly discovery (time jump converted)

Social or Plot:
Social

TS:
Yes

Log:
-----==[ 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.



==============================================================================

Evening has long since set over the city and for a Thursday night. It is peaceful in Hell's Kitchen. The lights of several residence buildings are on, showing signs of life within. This is not the case with the burnt remains of one apartment building which has recently left the list of viable living options. Perhaps the quiet has to deal with the fires. But rest peacefully tonight citizens of Clinton. There is no smell of smoke tonight. Hopefully that will remain the case.

Ambrose strides along idly, his feet tapping on the cement. He was sleep deprived, and not quite DRUNK anymore, although still a little bit tipsy. His shoulders hunched the teacher was on a short break from the school as he huddled against a bit of a nippy wind. He stifled a yawn and shook it off. Then a halt and he sniffed, smelling the burnt in the air.

It's been days since the apartment fire, the last tendrils of of smoke long since died from the Storm and Firefighter's waters. But indeed, the scent lingers, making the immediate area of the apartment building less than pleasant to be around. And yet, a thin man lingers nearby, cap pulled down low, looking at the remaining floor of the building.

Glancing up and over, Ambrose slows, a little nervous in this part of town. He stares at the thin man a long, intense moment, and then to the building again, and then back, frozen to the spot in indecision.

Seeming to notice he's being looked at. The capped man slowly turns. The cast of what little light obscuring the identifiable features but giving an eeire glow of teeth as he smiles. He shakes his head and turns, walking away from the scene, and aware from Ambrose. His hand shifts to his pocket as he moves past the alleyway beside the burnt building. And with a quick movement of his arm, the hand leaves his pocket, flicking out something light and retangular. There's a laugh as the man keeps going, leaving the papery object fluttering to the ground, drifting a little bit into the alleyway.

Eyes following the paper, Ambrose stands a long, frozen minute. He shivers at the laugh, and the memory of the man. Glancing this way and that, he approaches the alleyway, every muscle in his wiry body on edge as he crouches to peer at the card, wiping his hand on a corner of his jacket before picking it up

As Ambrose approaches, the other man's strides lengthen, managing to put some good distance before disappearing down another street, leaving the teacher alone near the alleyway, reaching towards something on the ground instead of looking up.

.

.

.

Man, that's a way to get mugged right there. But, there are no men jumping out of the shadows brandishing guns. Although, the alleyway is quite dark indeed and hard to see down all the way. When Ambrose picks up the card, it turns out to be two postcards stuck together. Upon one side, is one of the many art depictions of Cadmus slaying a dragon, spear being driven towards the inside of the dragon's mouth as the bodies of the Dragon's victims lie below it. As to the card on the other side, a depiction of St. George, high upon his mighty steed as he sticks his lance into the mouth of yet another dragon, in the process of killing it as it makes it's last firey breath. Although the cards are stuck together, it appears that there's a bit of text peeking out from in between, but it's hard to read like this.

Ambrose frowns, faintly familiar with the imagery as he backs out of the alleyway quickly, relaxing his hand on the mace in his pocket. He flips the card over a few times, then peers at the seam. Then he eyes the burnt builting, and then the firey imagery, not liking this connection as he wedges a fingertip into the gap to peer inside "... I hate being a pawn."

The postcards are stuck together but with a bit of the right leverage, they give a bit of crackling as the dried reddish substance gives way. The text turns out to be the narration, describing each art piece and with a simple logo advertising the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Nothing else. From the alleyway, there's the sound of something sliding and a faint murmuring.

"GAH!" shrieked ambrose, spasming so badly that the cards go flying everywhere. He flailed a moment, then started to rummage quickly through his pockets "oh! ugh! gah!" he stammered, finding a wipe. He falls silence just as he hears the sounds and groaned inwardly, turning that way "... Who's there?? I have mace!" he warned, wiping his hands off so vigorously they were red.

"...hel-"

Ambrose squeaks and sighs, and starts to inch down the alleyway, mace in one hand as he made his way down. Then he remembered he had a flashlight and flicked it on, focusing it all over.

Oh what the difference directed light can make. The portion of the alleyway that could not be seen early is now clear as- well, a light fog. But it's more than sufficient to find the figures of two men down the way. Are they lying in wait ready to attack? Nope! Instead they lazily lying on the ground. Man, some people pick weird places to take naps. But as Ambrose gets closer, colors become apparent. Red flecks dotting the ground as his flashlight beams hit it before leading to a larger collection of it near one of the men. Glassy eyes stare back from one face while the other set rest on a very, strained face. "hel-" The sound dies away yet again before he can complete what he was saying.

Going ashen, Ambroses hand trembles badly, the light quivering as he stares at the scene. He flicks the light this way and that, erratically as he steps up to the other one, the one still alive as he crouches "Its okay... I think. Oh man.." he grimaced at the sight and shuddered "Hang on... hang on." he looked over the wounds, trying not to freak out

The man's positioning is a bit odd, lying mostly on his side while his legs are twisted, knees angled towards the ground. "Ba-" Although his voice doesn't seem to have the energy, his eyes seem to as they shift to his left, seemingly looking behind him. The lids lower a bit as a the side of his lip quivers. "Th-"

"I.. I dont think this is a good time for a bath. But let's see." he looks over for wounds and winces, seeing a dark spot on the mans' back "Wound to the back. Not good. Still bleeding. Hold on. This will hurt. " he states, and finally strips off his jacket, folding it, and then turning the guy onto his stomach gently, to press down on the wound "There. Now for a cellphone. We'll call nine one one and get you to a hospital. That would be good, yes very good. Inj case they come back. Sorry about you r friend but oh my is that more blood? I. I. I. I..." he started to faulter.

Yep. There's lots of blood. Likely more from the other one than the one still sort of talking. Ambrose's mistaken guess to what the guy was trying to say earlier does get a hysterical laugh from the man. Or at least it would have been hysterical if he had the lung capacity to even finish a syllable "hE-" He's not the worst conversationalist out there, but he might be close.

Ambrose looked rathe rgreen as he held the compress in place, making a note to have the hospital burn the jacket afterwards as he dials the phone now for nine one one. After that, he just babbles, talking abou anything and everything to keep his mind off the warm blood on his hands and stuff, and to distract the victim from his own injuries which no doubt hurt as well. After a short time, realizing his captive audience couldnt talk too well, he just talked, mostly about Fossils and evolution. Poor guy.

As the ambulance starts to come nearby, the injured man is on the verge of falling asleep. It could either be from the injuries or the conversation material. Hopefully this can be found out later.

Ambrose sighs in relief, and sidesteps as the experts take over, quickly running out of wipes for his hands as he scrubs and scrubs obsessively, finally ofered some saline fluid to help rinse by one technician now as a police officer also arrives to take down his account of what was going on.

And so ends a peaceful night in Hell's Kitchen.

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