1963-07-08 - East Village Sleuthing
Summary: Magneto and Crystal go into the city. Erik is searching for clues on the bullet that struck him.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
crystal erik 

Traffic was light on FDR drive, even for midday on a Sunday. A 1962 model Maserati Sebring, in wine red, pulls into the exit ramp to Avenue C, headed for the East Village. "Wild Weekend" by the Rockin' Rebels plays on the radio, as the Series I pulls off to rest at a traffic light, windows rolled down.

Behind the driver's seat, Erik eyes the red light for a moment or two, when a subtle smirk forms on his face. His eyes dash toward the electrical box over on the corner, and with a subtle bending of his mind, the metal switch inside reverts, and the lights recycle to green.


One of the best things about having a mastery of air: You can do the windows down thing without endangering your hairdo. Crystal's enjoying just that at the moment, a hand half-out the window to catch the flow of air by the window and direct the stream just so. She blinks in surprise when the car starts moving already again, looking over to the drivers seat with a laugh. "I'd protest, but I think you can handle it if someone else doesn't realize the light changed."


The smirk becomes laughter, and Erik glances over toward Crystal while the Maserati rolls onto Avenue C. "This is why drivers should always fasten their seat belts," he points out, before guiding the vehicle toward a cross street, where he's spied an open parking spot. "That's a neat trick," he comments, having noticed that the air flow only seems to be entering through his open window.

The song ends while the car rolls up to the spot, leaving room for the radio announcer to speak up. That one goes out to all you mutants out there, reminding you that if you're gonna have a Wiiiild Weekend, don't burn down city hall in the process! Now, stay tuned for the latest from Franki Valli and the boys from Jersey, after these messages!

Erik's grin is obviously stifled by the time he's backed the two seater into its space. "Much work to do, still," he murmurs, while the advertisement for Coca-Cola rolls on.


"Well, you spend a certain amount of time on your hair," Crystal grins over at him, though her smile fades as well at the radio announcer's words, brows furrowing as she shakes her head. "There's always more work. The casual comments are the hardest. We saw it often moving through Europe. The legacy of the war."

As he pulls the car into the space, she clicks open her purse, pulling out a pair of white gloves to tug them on. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but she's spent the better part of the last week with a cold, thanks to the hotbed of germs that is any school.


"I was there," Erik mentions, while going through the motions of parking the car and disengaging the engine. "At the massacre." He rolls his shoulder a bit; the would was still healing. "I was shot with a bullet I couldn't stop," he continues. "Part of why I came into the city is, I hope to learn how that was possible."

Erik steps out of the car, noting the heat. He wears a maroon polo shirt, fitting snugly to his frame, and a pair of light slacks. The bandage around his wounded shoulder is visible in how it pushes against the cotton of his shirt. A pair of aviators are set upon his nose once the car door is shut, and he steps around to open the door for Crystal.

"Welcome to the East Village," he tells her with a smile. "Ever been?"


"I haven't, no," Crystal shakes her head as she steps out of the car, tipping her head back to look around. A blue and white flowered blouse with a full, bright yellow skirt fits in with summer in the city, blue flats comfortable for walking. "I'd think the answer to your question is obvious, though."

Arching a brow, she steps away from the car to the sidewalk, looking down each side of the street. "The bullet must have been non-ferrous. The real question is, who would go through so much effort to be certain to shoot you in particular?"


Erik closes the car door behind her, and looks around. "An interesting neighborhood. Had something of a turbulent past, used to be thought of as Manhattan's ghetto. It's nicer now, though there's no surprise why mutant townwas settled on the eastern shore."

Leaving the car, Erik joins Crystal again, leading her down the sidewalk. He arches an eyebrow toward her, dubiously. "Could be coincidence," he counters. "Luck. Or, it means I specifically have been targeted. Either way, someone has done his homework. Someone was quite well prepared."

As they walk, they go past a bodega, a tobacco shop, and an abandoned storefront. Up ahead, there is a pawn shop. The sign hanging above, among other things, reads 'GUNS'. Erik nods his head toward the sign, saying, "Might be a good place to start?"


"Did you recover a bullet?" Crystal asks as she follows him, purse tucked neatly under her arm. "It might help to identify the gun, at least. I suppose someone could use a non-ferrous bullet for the purpose of being able to get it through a metal detector? But I understand that the riot was outside of the building, so I can't see why that would have been a concern. Unless they had to travel through another controlled checkpoint to get to the city," she muses.

As they approach the gun shop, she nods her agreement, glancing to her purse. "Every lady needs a bit of protection in troubled times like these, yes?" she smiles slyly.


"I did not, sadly," Erik answers. "There was simply… too much happening all at once. I went back to look for it, as soon as it was safe,but it's most likely been…"

He pauses, considering something. His steps even slow, and he glances toward Crystal conspiratorially. "Recovered by the police."

Thoughtfully, Erik leaves that line of thought for a moment. "It's possible the shooter had intent to enter the police station, but reconsidered when everything went down," he agrees.

Stepping forward, Erik opens the door into the pawn shop, smirking at Crystal whole gesturing for her to enter. "Second Amendment," he answers. "Beautiful thing."

A bell on the door rattles as its opened. Inside, the pawn shop is darkly lit, it's shelving strewn with everything from oil lamps to guitar amplifiers. At the back of the room there is a locked door, and a window covered by iron bars, beyond which is the owner's office. A haze of cigarette smoke flows out from the window, and the owner looks up with a hesitant frown.


"Well, I imagine they're confused about what they've recovered, if that's the case," Crystal laughs softly, stepping inside the shop to take a look around. Her finger twitches slightly as she gives in to the urge to clear away some of the cigarette smoke, sending a breeze worth of air through the open door, around the room, then back out, taking the haze of smoke with it and leaving behind the faint, sharp scent of ozone.

Smiling comfortably, she moves toward the barred window. "Good afternoon, sir," she calls toward the man behind the bars.


Erik manages to stifle a grin when Crystal clears out the cigarette smoke, but just barely. He follows along, removing the aviators as soon as they are out of the bright sunlight.

The shop owner narrows his eyes when the smoke clears, and sets the cigarette into a nearby ashtray. "Can I help you folks?" he asks, while scooting up on his chair to face the barred window. He's not an attractive man; his hair is receding but combed over to cover a sweaty forehead, and there's a slight odor that comes from him. The office is a mess; lots of cigarette butts, a few cups of old coffee, and a half-finished bottle of liquor on the rear desk. An air conditioning unit sticks out from the wall, but it's broken.


"Goodness, it's warm out." Crystal fans her blouse a bit as she approaches the window, still smiling politely. "I don't know how you manage it back here. But we saw your sign outside, and I was wondering, do you really carry guns?" she asks. "I wouldn't know the first thing to do with it, but with the way things are in the city right now, I'd just feel safer if I had one to carry with me, isn't that what you suggested, honey?" she smiles back over her shoulder at Erik.


It would seem that Erik has busied himself with some of the items nearby, looking at them with curiosity. There's an item in particular thatcaught his eye; an old Captain America comic, upon the cover of which, Cap is swinging his arm at Adolf Hitler. This draws a quiet laugh from Erik, and also explains why he's a bit slow to respond.

"Hmm?" He looks to Crystal, surprised at first when she refers to him that way. It's dark enough in here that he hopes she won't notice him blush. "Oh. Yes," he recovers, and steps up to join her at the window. "Something small, precise, and…" He frowns, looking toward the clerk. "Well, I was curious if you carry munitions that might be of a non-standard variety. I hear there are mutants out there who are bullet proof, and…" He looks to Crystal with worry.

The clerk snorts. "Well, got plenty of firearms. Small pistols are easy. Never heard of no… non-standard munitions though." He looks at Erik with a funny face. "Bullet proof? I heard that, too. Goddamn muties. I dunno what's worse; a nigger on the dope, or a bullet proof mutie."

Erik's jaw tightens.


Crystal reaches a hand for Erik's forearm as the clerk growls back at them, putting on a worried expression. "Bullet-proof? Goodness, that just sounds terrible. Can you imagine, walking through a dark alley at night and even though you have a gun, it doesn't matter? You didn't tell me that before," she chides her companion, fanning herself with one hand as she looks back to the clerk.

"I'm so sorry, I don't mean to make a scene, I just hadn't even thought of it like that. Are you sure there's nowhere that carries something like that? I just don't think I'd feel safe with normal bullets knowing it might not even matter."


"No such thing," the clerk answers, indignantly.

"Are you sure?" Erik is tense. He doesn't like racism. Of any sort. However, he's not about to make a scene, especially if this clerk has any way to help them. The thought does cross through his mind, however, to pay this pawn shop a little visit at some point in the future.

The clerk sighs. "Look. Let me make a few phone calls, okay? If such a thing does exist, you ain't gonna wanna buy a piece until you know the bullets 'r gonna fit."

Erik looks to Crystal, and rests his free hand upon hers. "It will be fine, darling," he tells her, then looks back to the clerk. "How long would you need?"

"Couple hours, give or take?"


"Oh, thank you so much," Crystal smiles gratefully to the clerk, setting her hand to her chest. "You really are a gentleman." Telling people they're much nicer than they actually are is a key part of diplomacy, after all. "We could go and look at that restaurant you were telling me about?" she suggests to Erik. "That way when we come back we can do everything at once, and we won't have to go and look at any other shops."


"Best bagels in the city," Erik agrees, before looking back to the shop owner. "I will take this, though." He sets the comic book down on the counter and reaches for his billfold.

"I hear they dug him up, somehow."

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