f (foundling) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-04-01 20:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, cristián martin-argüelles, sam alexander |
Log, Marvel: Sam A & Cris M
Who: Sam Alexander & Cris Martin-Argüelles, an audience of NYC npcs
What: a foot chase
Where: Marvel, NYC; MoMA→down the street→Manhattan SVS precinct→hospital
When: after this & this
Warnings/Rating: language, sads, drug use, suicide mentions, self-harm, ptsd, mild violence/blood to be safe: ALL THE TRIGGERS
This part was familiar. Heartbeat thrumming hard, blood rushing in his ears, breath deliberate, repetitive through teeth, the impact of soles on winter-blister concrete reverberating up through bones and working muscle, and arms scything hard in a swish of waterproof material, and his own voice there, some distance away, as if through water, telling everyone to get out of the way, police, police coming through!—This was the familiar part of the play, and Cris sunk into his role completely, with all the comfort of a horse at the bit. His sunglasses had skittered from the V of his polo when he took off from his position—a good spot for loitering with a visual some ten feet behind the bench the guy, Russ, had sprawled out on—and he left them, glass, plastic, metal, probably picked up by some sharp-eyed kid. Around the stone-and-slate bench that was miniaturized by the architecture and overwhelming height of the museum itself, past stick-black trees with their ribs poking through, tearing over clodding grass put in to spruce the landscape up in the middle of a city that had to make its own greenery, and he didn't stop once to think it over. Cris had followed Sam to the museum. Generic clothing, aviator glasses that sat large, and a baseball cap he had on backwards, he'd stationed himself by the door, behind the bench, where he'd clocked a white guy he thought could be Russ, and he staked it out. He exercised self-control—in that he didn't go over and punch the guy out from go. He waited until he saw the burnished blonde bouncing toward him, and he watched, journal out, as she jittered, bones clacking together, exhaustion blue on her face with the energy eking out of her something that came with the rancid smell of burning plastic, something like tinfoil, toxicity in a little glass pipe. She'd detoured somewhere, probably in Vegas, and Cris blamed himself for that. He knew it wasn't just him. But, he felt it all the same, and when she went from foot to foot, taking tickets from Russ, he waited for his chance.—He couldn't let her go into a museum, a place where Russ could drag her somewhere semi-private, high as she was, and do what he did before.—Cris estaba listo. Then Sam turned, and she fled. Dios. Zigzagging, distraught and confused, she threaded loose through the current of people jostling toward attractions, weaving once or twice too wide and near the riverbend of traffic that pushed by just one step away. Cris' heart was in his throat when he tore after her. Yelling, badge out and glinting on his hip, and they'd gone almost a block by the time he closed on her heels.—His arms went around her shoulders, the inertia carrying them both. But Cris dragged himself from the role of cop before he rode Sam to the sidewalk. He grabbed her hard, and he knew it would scare her. But, after five or six steps, he was able to stop them both, just at the edge of the crosswalk, where taxis went by blaring their horns.—He turned her around toward him, fighting her if he had to. "Sam—" His breathing was a little labored, but he had his hands on her shoulders, bringing one up after a second to touch her chin, if she let him. He looked down at her, and if she struggled, he brought her into an embrace. |