Johnny Storm (flameon_) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-07-09 20:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, johnny storm / human torch (movies) |
Who: Johnny Storm
When: About 10 p.m., Wednesday, July 9, 2014 (and about eleven that same night)
Where: Harlem; specifically, W 123rd Street and Mt. Morris Parkway
What: Johnny had a run in… with a woman.
Rating: Eh, PG-13 for mentions of violence, injuries, and language
TRIGGER WARNING: Vague mentions of the possibility of rape. And mentions of vomit.
Johnny didn’t blame the woman. Really, he didn’t. She was being attacked, he dove in (literally) to help her, and it wouldn’t surprise him if she thought that he was just another gang member, there to hurt her. Just the thought of what so many men could have done to her made his stomach turn over, and from there the pain took over. He rolled onto his side and managed to push himself up a little before he lost his supper. Son of a bitch, puking hurt. No doubt he had a few broken ribs and a broken nose; only a doctor and an x-ray could tell him what other damage she’d been able to do. God, it smelled. Johnny retched again, just as a police officer knelt beside him, well out of the way of vomit. He asked questions, his voice a little tinny, like he was talking from far away. Johnny nodded, unsure of what the question had been, then passed out. He awoke a few hours later, his head splitting, his ribcage on fire, and his right wrist in a splint. A nurse was peering at an IV bag, just by his head, and smiled reassuringly when he tried to speak. A few minutes later someone was spooning ice chips into his mouth and telling him that he had a concussion, a broken nose, two broken ribs and a third one cracked, a sprained wrist, and multiple contusions all over. He’d be moved into a regular room in an hour or so, when they had one fixed up for him, but there was no way he was walking out of there tonight. “Where am I?” Johnny asked, strangely relieved that he wouldn’t be expected to actually move for awhile. Moving hurt. Hell, thinking hurt. “Oh, God honey, I’m sorry,” the nurse said, turning and pointing at the badge he wore. “Mount Sinai. We’re gonna take good care of you.” The nurse -- name of Cary -- came around to fix Johnny’s pillows, and chatted at him, a pitter-patter of words meant to calm more than really ask anything. He checked Johnny’s vitals once more, then continued with real substance. “I’ve got some paperwork that we need you to fill out, and there are a few policemen who need to talk to you. I’m going to send them on in, and I’ll be back in a little while with that paperwork.” Johnny nodded, wishing they could give him something for his head, but he also understood that would have to wait until he could sleep uninterrupted. The police officers came in, made a few jokes, and then asked him what had happened. Johnny sighed -- he was a refugee, and it was anyone’s guess whether he would be believed or his efforts appreciated. “I was… fuck it, dude. I was patrolling. I’m Johnny Storm, I live at Pott’s Tower, and I was patrolling because that’s what I do on my down time, you know?” The officers looked at one another, the shorter one rolling his eyes and gesturing for Johnny to get on with it. “Anyway, I was just out seeing what was going on and saw a bunch of guys about go jump all over this woman, so I thought I gotta help, right?” He reached for the plastic cup of water beside him, took a sip -- small sips, he’d been told. Small sips. Then he continued, “I went in, tried to pull one guy back and then the next thing I knew she was goin’ after all of us and then she was gone. Then you guys were there and I passed out.” Johnny paused. “Think I puked on somebody’s shoes. Sorry about that.” The officers looked at each other and turned away to confer privately for a minute. “Your story corroborates with what the other guys we picked up had to say. Hard not to, since there ain’t no white boys in that gang. We’ll keep you updated on what we find out, Mr. Storm.” The other stopped to give Johnny a lecture about letting the police do their jobs, and then they were gone, replaced by his nurse who had page after page of paperwork for Johnny to sign, and a bag containing the small personal items that Johnny’d been carrying -- his wallet, phone (miraculously unscathed). Well, at least he would be able to let people know where he was. |