2008-05-15: Bus Stop

Starring:

Bekah_icon.gif Church_icon.gif Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif Mikhail_icon.gif Sophie_icon.gif

Summary: A bus stop should be a every day occurrence. Until a certain bald man is the reason it stopped.

Date It Happened: May 15th, 2008

Bus Stop


Greenwich Village

A corner a few blocks from the New York University Campus between normal hours of the walking commute still has visible activity. A few people wander down either side of the wide street, going into restraunts and cafes. It's a nearby coffee shop that a dingy bald man stumbles by, slamming into a poor waiter who spins and drops his tray, spilling some iced tea he'd been about to drop off on an unsuspecting customer. "Hey watch it," the man yells angerly, before beginning to apologize to said soaked customer.

The bald man doesn't pay any attention, even as other people watch him, follow him with their eyes, and a few angry words are tossed his direction. Traffic moves along, lights green one way, crosswalk open the other, while a group of people wait patiently for the light to turn and stop traffic that actually moves at a descent speed at this hour, so they can go. The traffic consists mostly of taxi cabs… and the occassional bus.

The wheels on the bus go round and round…

A city bus like any other joins the traffic near the corner. Number 93, destination … not Greenwich Village. It's on its way to Canal St. where it's bound to continue on from there.

The bus driver, a rather elderly New Yorker, taps an off-beat rhythm on his steering wheel and whistles a tune while slugging through the traffic. The bus is ready to move and eager to lurch ahead on its journey.

Bekah is seated on the bus, leaning back in her seat. She's dressed in jeans and a Red Sox t-shirt, getting dirty looks from a man across the aisle. For now though, Bekah is ignoring them. Instead she's skimming through a medical journal. Such exciting reading. A backpack leans against her leg, one strap looped over it.

The noise the abruptly erupts from the doused patron initially sounds like a shocked and horrified hiss before it melts away into a string of foreign-tongued profanity. Mariska holds both arms out away from her soaked shirt — yeah, it was ice cold, too. The waiter's run off and hopefully soon to return with a towel or a whole heap of extra napkins or something. She looks utterly aggravated while she waits — so, uh, it's pretty much business as usual in the facial expressions department, eh.

Things have been more than a little rushed for the college student lately. Considering it was finals week, it's pretty self-explanatory. Mikhail's stride matched the pace of the other students wandering in and out of University grounds, the messenger bag at his side bumping against his right leg as he makes his way toward the bus stop. So he procrastinated on one of his projects too long and found out he was short on supplies. No big deal, right? He just needs to go and get the stuff. The bus will save time, but not money. However, the artist has been doing enough walking as it is. Logic for the bus ride wins out here.

So he waits, adjusting his jacket, hat, and bag strap. Good timing? Maybe.

If this were a movie, the man limping his way patiently down the sidewalk towards the bus-stop might be content to mutter 'Alms, Alms'. But, it isn't a movie, and he doesn't seem to actually need any of those. While he looks rather homeless, the astute observer(or possibly the man that keeps appearing at the cafe when the other one appears) of this street will realize that he only started showing up within the last week, off and on.

Under the layer of facial hair and tattered clothes, and behind the pair of dark glasses, he might seem familiar to some, though never many. One of those faces, y'know? His brown hair is combed back and somewhat long, looking generally greasy, with little effort on his own part. The limp on his leg seems to be from a cast on his lower leg, and the man supports himself as he comes to a halt at the bus-stop with a wooden cane in one half-gloved hand. He stands there by Mikhail for just a moment, finding a seat on the bench by the stop itself, grunting himself into a sit.

Sophie walks up toward the bus stop. She must be pretty warm, dressed like she is in this weather. She has on long sleeves, pants and even gloves. She fans herself, sighing as she turns to look at the posted schedule. She glances around quickly, and then strips off a glove, wiping what is likely a sweaty hand against her jeans.

"I am so sorry, Ma'am," the waiter tries his best to apologize to the woman cursing in Russian, looking embarassed towards the bald man who just keeps moving toward the street. While some people are waiting to cross, he doesn't seem to have the same worries, muttering something under his breath as he brushes by people at the bus stop. A rasped voice, deep and frustrated says something very distinct, though difficult to make out over the movement of traffic, the honking of cab horns and various other sounds…

"Can't die. Can't die."

That seems to be what he's saying, repeating it every couple of steps, as he quickly walks directly into the street, not seeming to care, though very much aware, of the fact he's walking right in front of a bus. Even slowed as it is, the sudden steps give little time for helpful reaction as he turns to face the oncoming bus.

What's more, Bus 93 is just starting to get a break in traffic. The way is clear, and it can mosey on before the light switches, it's golden. With a nearly identical bus behind it angling in to pick up folks at the bus stop, Bus 93 lurches, rumbles and picks up the pace across the crosswalk. A few passengers sit up and peer out the window, murmuring with urgency at the out-of-place pedestrian, but it all happens so quickly. The bus driver just whistles and taps a liver-spotted hand on the steering wheel jauntily.

The wheels on the bus go round and—

THUD.

To the bus driver, the bald man came out of nowhere. Too fast, too sudden— the bus comes to a sudden, screeching, hissing halt…

Bekah is worried more about her journal than whatever is going on out the window. Or at least she is until there's a big THUD. She reaches out to grab a pole as the bus lurches to a stop. A few choice words escape her mouth as she doubles over in pain. But then, well, that thud couldn't be good. She's grabbing her backpack to try to make it off the bus, biting her lip against a sore stomach.

Fussing with the waiter wasn't really on Mariska's agenda for what was supposed to be a 'date night' with her as-of-yet-still-absentee husband. It's just as well. Bathing in ice tea and then wearing it around town for a bit probably isn't the sort of thing that screams from romance. But, uh, speaking of screaming… the Russian woman just so happens to have her head turned in the direction of the bus stop when the muttering man walks right out in front of the oncoming 93 and — insert another dose of Russian-flavored exclamation marks here.

Blue gray eyes flick over briefly at the man, a dark eyebrow quirking slightly at his appearance. Like he's one to think such. Catching a glimpse of Sophie also distracts him from his train of thought, recognization setting in slowly before someone else walks pass his line of vision. More distraction. Mikhail turns his head to watch the man mumbling to himself, giving the same expression. Where exactly is this man going?

…And what…is he…

The sudden WHOMP of pain is unexpected. It brings him to his knees quickly as he leans forward, arms crossing tightly over his stomach. He bites back anything resembling swearing, making it draw out into a rising groan. "Auuuughhhhrrrwhattheheckwasthat!?" Mikhail coughs, squinting before glancing back over at where the bus and the man met.

The raggedy man on the bench doesn't so much as flinch at the man running out into traffic- maybe he is blind? But when the THUD goes and he feels that slamming invisible gravity over his body, he does stumble up off of the bench with a surprised gasp, almost looking like he is liable to fall over if it wasn't for that cane he wields so well. Fuuuuuuu-

So that is what she was talking about. Goddamn supposed- hobbling into a pivot, the man with the cane takes off skillfully for the direction of the stopped bus.

Sophie turns slowly as she hears the man muttering. Just in time to see the man standing in the street, bus heading toward him. She has no more time to take a step to try, likely, to 'save' him (and probably get herself hit) when he is slammed. She is reaching out, when she grabs her stomach, falling to her knees as if the wind were literally knocked out of her.

As the bus comes to a sudden stop, there should have been a crunching or worse. Most of the people in the immediate area of the bus stop react similarly, but the man who actually had been hit by the bus just lays there, staring up at the sky above with blue eyes. A good dent in the bus might be visible upon close inspection, but as things settle, there doesn't appear to be any blood on the man. Any sign of trauma to his head or his face. Dirt from the asphalt aside, there's little sign that he just got hit by a bus.

"Why, why, why, why, why."

The voice can he heard muttered through thin lips, confused, anxious and without real recognition. But as the sudden pain like slamming into a pool after jumping off of a diving board passes, he's beginning to sit back up, pushing himself up with his arms.

The bus driver, his little song cut off by the sudden crash, clutches the wheel and doubles over it, wheezing. Once he gets ahold of himself, he struggles to peer through the windshield, down on the street. "Sir? Sir?!" Then, over the speaker for the passengers, "Everybody please remain nice 'n' calm and hang tight." Letting confused passengers out into the street might not be the best idea, and so the doors remain tightly shut (emergency doors not withstanding) save for one, by the driver's seat, which the bus driver shuffles out. He's a little unsteady, the earlier slam shaking his elderly bones up even still. "Sir? Sir, are you okay? You came outta nowhere…"

Bekah slips through the crowd of people with mutters of "Doctor, let me through." And if the driver's door is the only one open? Well then, she'll work to slip through that, with the same ploy. "You okay?" She calls, before she's really made her way out that door. Well, it's worth the try.

While the gut-wrenching sensation wasn't nearly so strong for Mariska (or the other patrons seated on the sidewalk) as it was for the folks closer to the bus, she (they) still felt something unpleasant. Oh, yeah. Lookit those faces! Plus, some guy totally just got nailed by a bus! The buzz of startled and gossiping mouths has already begun to clutter up the air and the Russian woman has now completely forgotten about whatever it was that brought her here and stares off at the scene in ill-assuaged curiosity. She leaves her table behind and approaches the little crowd of rolemodel rubberneckers against all sorts of better judgement.

He stays in place, catching a blur of the ragged man zooming past to go check on the other guy. The dent in the bus is something he's hoping is just a visual trick or some new bus front design, but another thought is overriding it. Buses don't have those sorts of things, and people don't usually go out into the street like this. Mikhail's jaw set as he shifts, trying to get back up. Hurling would not be good right now. "Crap," he mutters, swaying a bit before following. Bystander effect, indeed.

The homeless man gets closer now, coming around the front of the bus at the same time as the driver. The only difference is that instead of asking the guy if he's okay, or offering to call an ambulance- as soon as he is close enough the man behind the dark glasses lifts his cane to THWACK the man on the ground on the side of his arm. Is that guy for real? Hitting a victim of an accident? Maybe, maybe not. The onlookers off to the side of the road are either muttering or using camera-phones to record the aftermath of the bus-hit, and at least one specific man is on his cellphone speaking.

The call of 'doctor' is enough to convince the bus driver that letting Bekah out is a good idea, even though the man on the street doesn't look hurt; as he hurries toward the man on the ground, he ushers the doctor out. "Come on out now dear, you're a doctor? Well— " He's quite derailed by the other man hitting the would-be victim with a cane, but the good old bus driver can't stop this nonsense; he, like many others around him, clutches his arm. "Damn arthritis," he exclaims. "Now give the man some space, huh? Sir?"

Bekah rubs at her arm with another wince as she steps out of the bus, climbing over the driver's seat. "That stop must have been harder than I thought." She mutters before she looks to the driver. "Doc, yep. At Mount Sinai ER." And she's sticking with her credentials as she steps up to the man. "The bus hitting you didn't hurt? What did you take? What are you on?" She questions, looking from the man to the dent in the bus and back. Must be drugs.

What the…? Mariska momentarily flinches as the smack on her arm temporarily distract her from making it all the way over to the bus stop. She looks down at herself and then — oh, right — she suddenly remembers that she's sporting a silk shirt that got drenched in ice tea earlier. Brilliant. The uncanny shenanigans afoot smack of badness and, on second thought, maybe she doesn't really need to be right here right now.

Mikhail pauses. Did the man really- ? Seriously??? This is not how one usually approaches a situation! It definitely looks like everyone else is quicker than him today. The bus driver needs some help getting the man with the cane to stop. "H-hey, man," the artist tries shouting, but barely gets to a normal sound level. "Dude, don't do that!" The feeling he gets makes him seethe, the hand that reaches out to pull the ragged man back now grasping on his own arm. "Ow…what?"

Late Felix is late. Very late. Doghouse, ahoy. All of his sheepishness is instantly forgotten at the sight of that bus, and New York is treated to the spectacle of an FBI agent moving with absolutely unseemly haste in his stupid goverment-man shoes. Something might've happened to Misha, and even the prospect of that is enough to have Felix's heart in his throat. He's already pulling out his cellphone, dialing her number.

"Yeah, I know. You got yourself a problem, don't you?" Hobo guy moves to stand in Mr. Vehicular Suicide's way when the man moves to stand up, rather obstinately- though with a prying laugh. And he ends up, therefore, mostly in Bekah's way. The voice and mannerisms will be familiar to the Doctor (and Mariska if she happens to get close enough). "He's fine, Doc." Here we go. Buckle up, kids.

Sophie is, however, not so ok. Not after her fingers brush the victim's skin. She tenses, eyes slamming shut. She twists, not needing to touch the man to keep the flood of images and feelings rushing through her head, eyes opening now, but unseeing. Words, meaningless to many, perhaps, tumbling from her lips. Hands over her ears, then one grabbing her neck. She mutters, "Food, money.. get that needle away from me! What did they do to me?! Got to get away, away, away.." shaking as she pretty much goes fetal.

"Fine, fine— I'm fine. No problem. Don't want anything. No drugs. Don't want drugs. Stay away from me," the man says in a rather… deranged voice. The bald make keeps trying to get up and move away, though a certain other hobo is slowly intercepting him. Many people were being addressed, especially as the poor girl curls up and mentions something. Needle. Eyes widen, looking down at her, and he says, "They're coming. They're coming…" All those crazy homeless guys on television, this guy seems to have them all wrapped up into one. His words make little sense. Not even the sirens have begun to arrive yet…

On his feet again, he starts to move, trying to get away, though he'll have to go through the hobo who smacked him with a cane to do it.

The bus driver, suffice to say, doesn't have a clue what's going on. Everything has gone insane. That's par for the course given he drives buses in New York, but Sophie's pained ramblings overlapping the bald man's paranoia just about does it. "I'm going…. to make sure someone's up and called the police…" And the psych ward? Horns honk impatiently behind the immobile bus, uncaring of the dilemmas at hand. Hurriedly, the old bus driver shuffles back into the bus.

Bekah blinks over at the scruffy man with the cane for a moment before she mutters under her breath, "Where's a nurse to tie someone down when you need them." She's not moving to touch Mister Hit By the Bus for now. "And some haldol. What I wouldn't give for haldol in little tranq darts." She mutters dryly.

From somewhere not so far away, a jaunty little tune plays on someone's Nokia cellular phone and Mariska momentarily mimics the iconic image of that puppy seated next to the phonograph with its head slightly tilted, listening. Is that her pho— oh, crap, it is! She'd completely failed to recall that she actually brought a purse along for this little rendezvous and so she's darting back over to her table in order to fish around frantically for her phone before she finds it just in the nick of time. "Allo?"

So the crazy hobo man is done swinging the cane around. For now. Mikhail blinks, his viewing darting over toward Sophie. This does not look good at all. Two, three crazy people? He goes over to the woman, hovering for a while to see if he can help. Or something. He's probably not suppose to move anyone who's in such a state, but it's a thought! "She'll be all right, right?" he asks Bekah just as she mentions something the other deranged man's leave. "…Be right back, then," Mikhail murmurs, shoes scuffing against the pavement as he goes to round up Mr. Out-Of-It.

"<Darling, where are you?>" demands Felix in their native language. The worry in his voice is universal. Relieved that she's there to answer, and doesn't sound like she's in immediate distress, he slows to a walk, trying to keep out of the chaos long enough to figure out where she is. "<What happened?>"

The man smirks as he hears Bekah. Not so tough without your nurses! A glance is spared to Sophie, and a curious arch comes to the mystery man's eyebrow as the girl curls up to herself. Some other time, but not now. Shaded eyes move back to the bald man, and the cane moves out to stop him from moving past.

Based on what the man has been muttering as a whole, there is a guess being made. "You need somewhere to go, man?" Yeah, Cause trusting other weirdos is easy, right? Reaching under his coat, it seems mostly as if he is simply scratching at his side or something equally mundane. In reality, there's a phone down in his pocket, where he pushes at one of his speed dials. It rings on a phone over on the walk, though only as call-waiting. The man whose phone it belongs to has been watching dutifully the entire time. Talk about an interesting internship, amirite?

Sophie slowly comes out of it, on her own. Not such a new experience at this point, she comes to not so much gradually, but scrambling away. She looks at her hand, almost horrified, and she scans the ground quickly, finding the glove and, unless stopped, picking it up and slipping it on. Her eyes are still somewhat distant, as if in thought, or memory.. processing things.

Memories are sometimes difficult to focus on. Sophie can vividly remember a feeling of immortality, and desperatation, before suddenly walking straight in front of the bus she sits on the ground near, scrambling to put on a glove. The pain that should have followed such an impact never registers, just the motion of being knocked down. Almost as if pain doesn't exist in this memory at all. Instead, there's just a sense of being moved away, pushed. Must be how it would feel to be one of those rubber punching bags. No sense of feeling, but easily moved, but always bouncing back…

"No needles, no tables, no doctors," he suddenly says, spotting the hand going into the pocket, blue eyes widen and he shifts as if to punch the fellow hobo with his fist. A rather desperate motion, but the stability of the crazy man has already come into question. More than a few times. And for good reason.

Bekah looks over to the crazy man again with a shake of her head. "Definately needs to either cut out the drugs or start some good anti-psychotics." She mutters before she moves towards Sophie, giving her a look over. "How you feeling? Doing alright?"

Mariska delivers her reply in kind, chattering into her phone in Russian. "«I'm at the restaurant,»" You know, the one you were supposed to meet her at a little over an hour ago, Felix? "«We had a table on the patio.»" Which means the sidewalk. "«Someone just got hit by a bus! I saw the whole thing! Where are you??»" Despite the apparent agitation underlayed in her voice, Mariska doesn't sound too terribly upset for someone who apparently just witnessed vehicular manslaughter up close and personal. She's facing away from the restaurant again, trying to discern what's going on over by the bus stop, though she can't quite see much of anything from her vantage point behind the crowd.

Oh crap. Mikhail's eyes widen, his steps faltering while the crazed man is about to swing at the hobo. There's no way he can stop the man like this; crazy people have a tendency to be much stronger than he is. Unless…

Fingers flex slightly as the artist starts forward again, brow knitting. "Oi! Stop it!" His voice is shaky, but he means what he says. Getting control of the man's motor functions is hard, but he's doing what he can. Pulling invisible strings, more or less. He just goes forward to grab the man from behind, hands set firmly on his arms as the mental/verbal command is given. "Easy!" That's it - Mikhail just looks strong.

Oh, there. She's there. Felix does the harried husband hustle right over to Mariska, tucking away his phone. "Right here," he says, coming up beside her and reaching out a hand to touch her gently on the arm.

Over in the crowd, the man talking on the phone can be heard saying something about a ride, just before moving off to cross into the street, the phone clicking closed. As the phone goes away, a pair of silver handcuffs comes out, and the nondescript, apparent lawman approaches the group from behind. "I have a warrant for that man's arrest." And in the other hand is a badge, flickering into vision.

The more ragged of the two strange men does not flinch when the man looks like he is about to take a swing at him, but does reach out with his free palm to hold it up just in case the guy starts swinging for certain. "No needles, man." Well, that is a lie, but-. His eyes behind the glasses watch Mikhail pop into sight with great apprehension.

Sophie looks up almost blankly at Bekah, the question coming through. She scrambles back instinctively as she pulls on the glove, a too bright smile flashing. "Fine, I'm fine." she is caught by something once again.. more things only she can see. She works it out in her head, unknowingly muttering aloud, "Wait.. tasers.. needles. Captured! But he escaped. Not the same, though. No pain.. he was.. they changed him. But who.." her eyes widen as she whispers, 'Pine..' then, snapping out of it, she slaps a hand over her mouth, coming to her feet as she tries to rush away, disappear into the gathering crowd.

The shift as if to punch gets stopped before it becomes a full punch, whether the man recognizes what stopped him or not. An arrest pending. Many of the people in the street have stopped watching the miracle man who got hit by a bus, and are read to go about their own business when the badge appears. "I don't— they won't get me. Didn't have badges," the unstable man says, no longer struggling or looking as if he's going to start punching. Maybe the prospect of being arrested actually has some kind of attractive appearance to him for some reason.

Jail does provide food, shelter, clean clothes and other such things, right? Little does he know what he's getting into, but the handcuffs are put on him with little further signs of struggle, and he gets taken away, with little more in the way of residual pain for everyone else.

The bus driver takes note of damage to his bus, and then starts to motion everyone aboard. They're already going to be late getting to the destination.

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