1963-08-01 - Just Who Are You?
Summary: Peter Parker, man about town, gets stuck with the lame beat. Jennifer Walters just wants to take notes in peace.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
jennifer peter 

"It is not about us, or them. It's not about normal nor mutant. It is about humanity, all encompassing. Humanity! We all think and feel and speak and love and laugh…" A young woman stands upon a makeshift dais with about thirty other people around her, looking up at her, listening to her speak in front of an old civil building with a granite facade that looks like its seen better days.

"To deny these people their right to assemble, their right to organize, their right to representation… is to deny them their humanity. This is the United States of America. We're supposed to be the place where people go when the rest of the world wishes to deny them their basic _human_ rights."

She gestures to the people in front, "Edward… Edward Green is a hero. He is a hero for coming here today, despite the opposition of people that want to silence him. He's here at great risk and cost… and for that he should be lauded."

At that the woman starts to clap and good part of the crowd claps as well. It's enough to enthuse the young man known as Edward Green, who stands up to the dais and looks around sheepishly. He's short, standing on a small box to see over the podium. He has inhumanly wide eyes and he waves to the crowd. "Hi…"

As Edward takes the podium a few other people cry out with a boo, and then hold up a sign that says, // Mutants Are Dangerous! // Yet Edward starts on his speech, clearing his throat and nervously voicing his words.

And through the speaking, another young man is moving about the crowd, his small camera clicking and whirring as he moves from point to point. Sometimes he's kneeling to get a better angled shot on the speaker, other times he stands on a bus bench to get a shot of the crowd. Peter Parker avoids attention for the most part, though at times a few glances are sent his way.


A civil demonstration gathers a crowd. Where a crowd gathers, trouble could follow. Americans assembled in numbers larger than three bring different opinions, sometimes not friendly. In this day and age it pays to be cautious and open-minded.

Among the small group stands a brunette adjusting the glasses on her knows, pushing them up to sit more comfortably. Her black skirt-suit and white button-down shirt are the stuff of "professional ladies" everywhere. Sensible shoes, sensible skirt, sensible college-aged person pretending to be all grown up.

When the sign gets a little too close to her, Jennifer Walters gives the protester a small, tight smile. "Excuse me," she says. Not rudely, of course, but a gentle reminder a lady stands behind or beside him. She has a legal pad and a pen at the ready, certain to be prepared to take any notes in the cryptic shorthand inherited by legal experts everywhere.

Isn't this exciting? For the present event she isn't green. She isn't even memorable except for wearing heels with a leg tone that suggests someone never, ever misses leg day at the gym. Still, her attention stays fixed very much on Mr. Green. When applause is called for, it's given politely. Contained. Controlled.


The young man speaks haltingly about his own experience, and it is unfortunately a little embarassing for him. He tries to relate about the riots of the past, and how there are people trying to shut them down. Yet it's hard to catch a steady word from him without being in the first row of people.

"Not much of a turn out," A voice says from somewhere near that young woman with the legal pad. If she looks in that direction she'll see the young man with the camera, taking pictures. He looks the part of a press photographer, dressed casually in blue jeans and a buttoned down white shirt with an ill-fitting tweed jacket that seems like it serves no purpose beyond being a place for him to put his 'PRESS' credentials in.

But what attention she gives him might be split as the guy with the sign clears his throat. "Better step back girl, you don't wanna get your picture taken with the hippies."

Though, to be fair, this 'rally' really doesn't deserve the name. For some reason word must have not gotten out, or perhaps some people are getting more gun shy. Whatever the reason, it's barely fifty people total, a little more counting onlookers who seem to have no care for one side or the other.


"The timing isn't very good," Jennifer replies, looking up from the tangle of inked notes filling the upper third of the page. A faint smile touches her mouth, the pure essence of politeness. She's a bit of a waif, neat as a monochrome fountain pen, right down to the thin gold bracelet around her wrist. She strains to hear what Edward Green says and only gets so much done. "Smack dab during work hours. Moms would be picking up their children right about now, too. More is a pity. It's good to hear what everyone has to say."

She gives a small nod towards the speaker on the podium, trying to encourage him to continue with a meager question and answer session. The pen is poised to capture any more information of interest, a limited set of pickings from a scanty meal. Win some, lose some.

The sign sways in front of her again and she carefully steps aside. There is room enough to accomnmodate her, but she ends up closer in to the photographer. Not enough to be in front of the lens, though neither is she hiding. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been on film for a rally, sir." That to the sign-holder and the photographer, maybe tacit permission given. "It's a free country, after all. Let's hope it stays that way."


"Free for humans, dollface." Though at least the sign doesn't get in her way again. "I don't remember the founding fathers guaranteeing the vote for other species."

That bit of wisdom gets his pal to say, "Good one, Frank!" And to slap his buddy on the back, though it's far from enough to roil much of the crowd, except perhaps the young woman with the pad of paper and all.

The photographer then steps to the side, bringing the camera up to focus on Jen and the fellow beside her with the sign, "Mind if I take your picture, miss?" He asks her with an entirely friendly tone that's so optimistic. "Already have a title picked out," He gestures to the man first as he speaks, then to her. "Goofus and Gallant." With her naturally being gallant.

The camera clicks if she gives the ok, and then he dives back into the crowd, perhaps to put some distance between him and the rather a bit larger guy with the heavy paunch and the sign.

Other than that, however, the speech continues in a similar pace with the speaker trying to speak up but always dropping back to less than audible levels as his self-consciousness takes him.


"I don't recall the founding fathers enshrining women's suffrage or voting for anyone who wasn't a white landowner, for that matter," says Jennifer. "Yet here we are in this wonderful sixty-third year of nineteen hundred, your mother and your sister and any daughters you might have free to participate in our great and glorious democracy."

She puts her pen to the side of the pad of paper. "The poor aren't prohibited from the ballot box just because circumstances stopped them from owning a little lot of dirt in the back hills of Appalachia, and why, those forward thinking men acknowledged that slavery was wrong. Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, Franklin, Adams, Washington, they all made an argument against it even so."

She gives Frank an encouraging smile anyways, the sign-holder and his friend. "I'm sure to your grandfathers, a lady voting was terrifying. Funny thing is, women in New Jersey had been voting since 1790. Not so new, was it? This country was founded on ideals and natural rights, and it goes with everyone, doesn't it? I don't see anywhere in the Constitution or Declaration or Bill of Rights they exclude genetic changes. All 'men' are created equal. That means everyone by current definition. You don't like it, you go asking the Supreme Court to redefine it and a conversation for it, like everything else including drinking beer and marrying your cousin."

Smart girl. Smart smile. She raises her chin for the camera, lowering the legal pad to her side. Peter gets a bit wider of a grin for that title, in spite of herself. She might normally hide, but Jen tries at that moment to stand up a little straighter in her position. There are reminiscent traces of another giant green lady who stands in the harbour a couple miles away.


/Click/ But then he's gone once again amongst the crowd.

Yet her roiling dialogue aimed at the Frank fellow serves only to annoy him as he snaps halfway through her speech. "Yeah yeah, they also figured with how things changed if enough people think it sucks then they got the right ta carry, just in case we need to overthrow the government. Funny how that works, huh?"

But then he turns away from the young woman and tells his buddy, "You hear this, chick? This is what you get when they let lesbians think they're people."

Raucous laughter is heard but perhaps not wanting to risk a further tongue-lashing the two men and their sign step back towards their side of the street even as Edward finishes up his speech.

The crowd applauds politely, though a few people towards the front are more animated in their efforts, hands clapping together animatedly.

The young woman who has been speaking earlier steps back to the podium. "Ok, we had another speaker lined up but they're a no show" A few boos are heard but the speaker quickly reacts, "Hey, no. It's a big act of bravery to come up here and speak, we can't fault someone who is still trying to gain the courage to speak out. Give them time." She smiles, pained, then continues. "I wanted to thank everyone for coming… keep fighting!" She lifts her fists into the air and is answered with a few cheers, though after that the crowd starts to disperse.


Jennifer doesn't even respond to the comment about lesbians nor other preferences, shrugging her shoulders. Let them think the words aren't slipping under the surface. She's heard worse.

As another speaker fails to manifest, she adds to the applause. Then it's slipping her legal pad back into her… missing briefcase. A simple and cheap rectangle of fake leather with a pair of locks should be by her feet and it's not. A quick look around suggests the dispersing crowd ought to give a clear line of sight but other than a dropped flyer, a flattened can, no dice.

"Of course. It's a Monday." Her eyes roll behind her glasses and she shakes her head, headed for the podium in case the organizer of the event might have any inklings. "Excuse me! Ma'am? You have a few moments? I was going to ask you whether you'd heard of Goodman, Limber, Kurtzberg, and Holliway?"

A business card pulled from her jacket is held out. "We're a law firm specializing in representing mutant and superhuman clients, as well as their families and friends."


The organizer looks up as Jennifer approaches her and seems to give her full attention, but then there's a shout behind them both as a woman screams and suddenly there's a person face first down upon the pavement with a bloodied chin and looking completely knocked out.

Three men in yellow painter's suits had emerged from an alleyway, darting into the makeshift crowd, one having knocked over the person currently on the ground. They quickly pull together and look around hurriedly, their faces covered by gas masks of a sort.

"What the fuck, man? You said there was a rally and shit here?"

"Fuck if I know! Was supposed to be a big one!"

"Fuck it, stick to the plan!" And as those words are uttered the three men start to run into the crowd even as they pull off the yellow painter outfits and the masks, discarding their disposable paper clothes as they push through the anemic crowd.

Underneath their uniforms they're wearing what could only be described as traditional beatnik garb. Ripped jeans, tie-dyed shirts, head bands, beads, sandals. It'd almost be funny if it wasn't for the man on the ground bleeding or the way each of them have a pistol in hand.

"The fuck out the way!"


Beatnik garb and a nasty look. Pistols are the accessory of the day for tie-dye. Jennifer whirls and steps back, forgetting entirely about the legal pad and the business card. Her eyes narrow at the shape of the gas masks and the hidden people behind them.

Really, a bad idea to make this particular woman in this particular city angry. Not the smartest of moves. Her hands close and she backs up to the podium as well as everyone else, probably eager to get away while the going is good.

She really did like that jacket. It gets slid off her shoulders with a sharp little shrug, slithering the sleeves down her arms. A moment of vulnerability when it happens, but those are the breaks. "Hide," she hisses behind her.

A few more seconds. Just a few more seconds. No help for the skirt or the heels, but the coat is tailored!


One woman in a nice suit isn't enough to deter nor distract them. The trio of men rush through the crowd, shoving another young woman out of the way and knocking the flowers from her hand even as the attacker brandishes his gun, "What are you fuckin' deaf? Outta the way!"

The trio are making their way to the edge of the crowd and finally break free into the opening, starting to hide their pistols into their vests and pants and blending in partially with the people that are starting to flee the scene. The reason for their actions becomes apparent shortly as through that alleyway a police officer emerges with his gun drawn, "Which way did they go!?"

In answer to the police officer, some of the people in the crowd point in the general direction where the men went… and all the man sees is a bunch of damn hippies.

Yet if Jennifer had been paying attention she'll see them disappear down an alleyway on the opposite side of the street.


The wiser side of caution says stay put. Tell that nice policeman what he needs to know. Go look for her briefcase and read those briefs waiting for attention because case files don't read themselves.

Jennifer looks around searching for anyone else she knows, any signs of injury. Her gaze lies on the fallen person with bloodied skin, measuring if anyone helps. If not, she hastily crosses the open space and looks for the officer. "They injured him." It's a man, one hopes. "Knocked down. I didn't see the assailant but a woman over there witnessed it."

Giving those hasty instructions and given the organizer has her business card with nom de guerre on it, the young woman stalks as best one can in very sensible low-heeled Mary Janes towards the alley. They have a headstart. It's only sporting when she can trot along at a much faster lope.

She veers inside the dark, narrow jog between buildings and looks around for signs of the beatniks, but not exactly hitching her stride either. Two buttons on her shirt inevitably get opened. This whole business isn't about being a centerfold, though you know the editor has those lovely images in a collection for the right time, no? You should. Come out, come out wherever you are…


She runs into that alleyway and the acoustics help her as she hears hurried footsteps rushing down and around the left corner, heading off and away from the crowd. It's enough to give her an angle of approach and to move on them, but then over her shoulder she'll hear a voice of several people shouting.

"Look out!"

"It's Spider-Man!"


"Everyone get down, he'll shoot venom at you!"

Should she look back she'll not see him, but then there's a /thwip/ from above and she might be able to catch the flicker of a red and blue silhouette above that alleyway, just for a split second as this seemingly lithe figure flips past… in view, then just as quickly out of view, but moving towards the same place where she heard that rush of footsteps.

Further on down the alleyway, the three men are gathering around a large dumpster as they reach a garage door in the back of an apartment building. One of them reaches down and yanks the door open with a metallic whir, while a third is checking the loot they'd gained in a big canvas carry-all bag with two leather straps.

"I make it two twenny, maybe two forty K."

"Good, two forty splits three ways way easier."

"Yeah, c'mon man, not much time left. Gotta get to the meet."


Spider-Man, the nemesis of the Bugle, the cause of downed weather balloons, rising property prices, and all the woes of New York!

Doesn't have the right ring, does it?

She totally isn't humming a tune under her breath, mostly because the excessively tight clothing is already becoming a hindrance. The weird sway of fabric pulling at range above her requires a look up, fact-checking whatever that would be. Jennifer doesn't slow down, proving that Jurassic Park sprints in heels are only for the supernaturally endowed. Got that? No normal woman runs in heels without risking a torn calf muscle, Achilles tendon or intertarsal. This one knows and she can handle 6" platforms like nothing.

The jade tone is already bleeding into a formerly pale complexion. Slender limbs bulk out and the loose, but tidy blouse essentially becomes strictly for show, though not the much more pliable white bodysuit underneath. And Mama said girdles were going out of style. Glasses fall, the pins in her hair spilling free under the thick hunter green locks waving away like a kelp bed in a storm. So much for being put together.

Jen Walters, green monster. With any luck they'll scream and run, familiar with The Hulk. "Bit late for a deposit, boys," she calls out in a cheery voice. "That looks so heavy. Drop it and you'll get to the meet much faster." A curve of dark lips widens, the freckles on her nose incongruously American Girl Next Door meets The Wild Hunt. A girl who plays volleyball with decapitated heads.


The reaction of those three men is probably rewarding to her in some way. First there's that look towards her, all three eyes snapping in her direction like meer cats perched upon a hill and having heard something out in the brush. Then their eyes drop and give her that once over that most of the male species finds itself doing when she is around and green. But then the look back up, to each other, and suddenly they shout.

"Take her down!"

As one they pull their pistols, taking aim and pulling the hammers back on the pistols…

Only for that 'thwip' sound to be heard several quick times as three short sharp _splats_ are heard with wads of webbing hitting their hands and gluing the guns to their hands yet fouling the firing mechanisms as well.

"Take her down. Is that the best you guys can come up with?" Abruptly there he is again. The Man, the Menace, the Legend. Landing in between all three of them in a crouch, one leg forward and his weight on the toe of his foot, his arms are splayed to the side with fingertips raised as if holding his stance there…

But only long enough for the three men to panic. One takes a swing at Spidey, the other forgets that huge bad of money and darts into the garage… and the third one just beats feet.

"I mean, you guys had how long to plan this caper and you didn't even bother to write up some possible options for repartee?" He slips around wild haymakers of punches that the three men make, each trying to brain the Spider with their heavy pistols held in their hands by webbing.

"That's the problem with thugs these days, no professionalism."

He plants a hand upon the wall as he flips up, avoiding the punches and ending behind one of them. He's able to grab the fellow by the lapel and /throw/ him straight up into the air, five stories up only for there to be another /thwip/ as a net of heavy webbing suddenly arrests his fall.


"Oh, look, she's green. Get her! Trip her. Timber!" The slightly mocking tone is met with a sigh. "There's just no call anymore for creativity, now is there?"

Jen grinds to something of a halt when three guns are now three cocooning mittens. Her lip curls at this turn of events, and she can make do figuring out who spoils a little game of snakes and ladders. They're the snakes, and the ladders have yet to show up for whacking them over the head.

"This is why girls don't date anymore. You know?" Her smile widens, though it lacks much in the way of warmth, and an -awful- lot of pearly white teeth being shown.

"The boys play with their food and dash out when it comes time to pay."

Maybe it's a bad idea to stalk right by a man popping a would-be assailant into the air, but her purpose is going for that bag of ill-gotten cash, seeing as how picking it up causes her absolutely no difficulty to even speak of. They aren't going to be in much position to fight, for any punch thrown to her is met with an outstretched arm just to block it. A nudge to shove them back towards the man in his fancy pyjamas.


he reaction of the two remaining men is to try and put distance between them and the guy in the red and the blue, scattering back. One just so happens to step back towards She Hulk and catches himself by spinning around and saying, 'Ahck!' He mindlessly brings up his pistol… befouled though it may be, and takes aim. "Back off lady, I don't wanna pop nobody but I ain't goin' back!"

Yet as she hefts that heavy bag like it were an empty grocery bag, his eyes widen. "Frankie, she got the loot!"

"Fuck I tell you about usin' names!" Though Frankie steps forward, "You made a big mistake, freak!" As he unloads a rough haymaker square at Spider-Man.

The accomplice, however, looks up-up-up at She Hulk and holds up his hands, "Look, lady, I don't want none-a this." He backs up again and then turns to break into a run.

Even as that fellow is running by, the masked figure ducks underneath that wild punch, dropping low with one leg sliding to the side and kneeling. He flips back onto his hands, a clean athletic shift of momentum as his arms tense and he /pushes/ himself back up to kick the guy in the chest with both feet, sending him flying and into the large trash bin with the accompanying rattle and ring of metal on metal. The picture is completed as the fallen man sits up in the garbage, a banana peel slipping off the side of his shoulder only to have the lid of the bin slam down onto his head.

Spinning to the side, the Man Spider fires a single webline from his wrist, /thwip!/ that catches the foot of the runner. He yoinks the man off his feet and conveniently towards She Hulk as he comments lightly, "Heads up, Broccoli."


The jade giantess may be a small member of her species, not much taller than the average door, but the concentrated density of muscles and bone hidden inside that frame gives her all the force a girl needs. She swings the bag up to her shoulder, hefted where it might be comfortable in case she needs her hands free. "Chuck, don't even bother. I'm not that kind of girl." Her curling green hair sways around her waist as she advances a step, reaching out towards the gun and the hand holding it like she's going to brush it aside to the ground.

A nice toy. This is why robbers aren't allowed nice things, because annoying dames who don't know their place in the kitchen like to take them as evidence and yank them out of someone's hands, assuming they aren't covered in a sticky web.

"Should've thought about that before you laid out another person, you know? I have a lot of trouble havin' sympathy for the devil or guys who didn't put on their big boy pants this morning." She utters a low snarl that could be a laugh, except contained within the look of a California girl gone horribly awry. This is probably what the tree huggers imagine Mother Nature looks like. There's a thought…

In the meantime though, she doesn't try to immediately pursue the last vigilante fleeing out from the alleyway because the Nuisance of Queens, the Manhattan Mayhem, seems to be doing that just fine by himself. Sometimes a person doesn't need too much help, and far be it from her to assuage her pride or such by throwing a fist when there are neater things to do. Like hold onto the evidence from the crime scene with the skill of a person used to submitting evidence, as it happens, in baggies with yellow labels no one appreciates. When the runner collapses, she walks over towards him and plants her foot on his wrist, light enough to pin it. "This is where you put your hands up and say 'I surrender.' Cause if you don't say it, Pajama Man here is going to glue you to the ground."


"I surrender." The man says as he looks up at the tall green woman, holding his free hand up and looking nervously between the brightly coloured vigilantes who just gave him an all expenses paid trip to a state resort for the differently ethical.

Landing with his feet making a faint thap upon the wall, Spider-Man perches there above the dumpster that now houses the other fellow. He reaches down with his fingertips and pulls the lid up to look down into its depths. He asks ala Senor Wences, "S'alright?"

Then he tries to throw his voice into the bin, fails, as he says in counterpoint. "S'alright."

That done he slams the lid back down and webs it shut with a short spurt from his web-shooter, then he looks over towards the tall greenazon. "Not bad, High Tower, not bad." He rests his hands on his knees and even though he's kneeling on the wall perpendicular to the horizon he seems entirely at ease.


"See, now wasn't that nice and easy?" Easy, breezy, beautiful Cover Girl. Jen grins even as she rolls the sole of her foot against his arm, a subtle and simple reminder of what could be done. Then she steps back, making good on her word. A state resort for the liberally minded sounds about right.

The bag of cash on her back notwithstanding, the most she has to show for the little affair are a very, very sorely tried pencil skirt and a wisecracker. Her eyebrows arch. "What, are you asking me if it's all right? Bit late for that, isn't it?"

Turns out he wasn't asking her anyways. Well, win some and lose some. She shrugs her shoulders, rocking off her heels again. "Not bad. There's a cop out there and they can round this lot up pronto. And I'm guessing this is where you jump over a wall and get spotted running for the Five train, which will only annoy the Bugle editorial staff to no end?"


"You know, there's actually a funny story about that," Spider-Man lifts a finger to point at her as he starts to talk, but then his mask lifts a bit upon his face as if he were raising his eyebrows. He turns his head and then there's an out of breath cop rounding the corner.

"Freeze!" The man brings his service revolver up, taking aim at the two silhouette in the alleyway. But then he blinks and his eyes widen. "Holy crap, Spider-Man freeze!" He braces himself in the classical firing position scrunching up one eye.

"Speaking of which…" Spider-Man starts to climb up the wall but halts for a moment as he hears the police-man. "Whoa whoa, take it easy there, chief. You talk to detective…"

For a moment it seems like he might say something else, but then the cop doubles down and the trigger finger squeezes as he shouts, "I said freeze!" And then there's a /bang!/ that echoes up and down the alleyway. There's a quick flip, faster than the eye can see, and a faint tearing as a wisp of red and blue fabric flutters through the air like the first snowflake of winter.

And suddenly Spidey is moving _fast_. He crawls up the side of the wall, hopping, flipping, then leaping up the last distance in a zig-zag pattern even as that police officer rushes forwards.


"You're firing on unarmed civilians!" No, this is not something that Jen enjoys saying and her voice cracks in a thundering boom down an alley. She steps into the line of fire, tall enough and wide enough to be a tempting green target.

The gunshot rolling through the air may not do much but the pulse of adrenaline that logically follows the hammer beat fills her veins, hardens her worse than she was to this. Her breath fills her chest ruggedly for a moment, memories clawing their way out of the back of the brain. This is not not convenient, not at all. Somehow her skin hardens just that bit more, her hand opening and shutting around the bag. Calm, calm Jennifer Walters…

"You've got two subdued suspects here. Your partner's back there?" He's probably having a doughnut, and muttering about paperwork. The bane of lawyers and police everywhere, the paperwork of the US justice system. Her voice grits, and then rises. "I'm going to put this bag down, Officer. Okay? Nice and slow and easy. I don't have any weapons."

…I'm just seven feet tall and green, nothing odd, bog standard Earth mother…

Her breath scoured clean becomes a touch rougher. She waits, seeing if he'll let her put it down. But on the other hand, Pajama Man can scootch away at speed with someone else blocking a clear line of shot.


Disappearing from view, Spider-Man's long gone even as the policeman finishes trotting over, still breathing hard and looking upwards as if he might still get a glimpse of the retreating vigilante. The man lowers his hands to his knees and breathes hard, wheezing a touch but then he looks up at She Hulk with an incredulous but wide-eyed gaze, "Unarmed my ass, you mutants got crazy lazer eyes and junk. And that Spiderguy ain't exactly a harmless civvie…"

But then he stands up and pointedly takes a step back from the giant amazon and shakes his head, "But…" He looks at the webbed up container, and the one guy on the ground with his hands still up. And it's in that moment that one of the thugs speaks.

"I didn't see nothin', man. Just don't shoot me."

That causes the police officer's face to sour moreso. He looks towards Jennifer and says roughly, "I got this, lady. And…" Again he surveys the scene and finally adds, "Thanks."


"And you're an officer of the law with a gun, sir. I'm not going to be questioning your authority or stepping over your right to bring in these two." She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the webbed pair. The green giant frowns a little. "I'll give a statement if you need, but I really want to see this money properly handed over. It's not my bag, and I don't want some grandma out of her rent payment because of them."

Letting the fear and unease go is difficult, but she manages to focus on the sticky web painted on a brick wall. That will be something to puzzle over later, even as she takes mincing steps hoping her skirt seams are up to the challenge. Thank the stars no one actually required her to run.

New York isn't so friendly for the bathing suit competition portion of the show, you know?

She drifts back towards the central square where the podium is no longer occupied by a speaker, and hopefully someone called up an ambulance for the guy knocked out cold. Her briefcase is probably still missing, unless someone netted it, but she's got 40 K on her back and not a space elf in sight. Even before she's reached the mouth of the alley the green tone is sliding away from her skin, and that substantially denser weight on her back not swung about like a yoyo. Reclaiming her tailored jacket can wait. She's after the nearest officer, dropping the bag at his feet. "Attorney Walters. Took this from the three assailants who pulled a gun. My prints are on it, as well as theirs."


The officer nods to her and accepts the bag by placing it on the hood of his vehicle. He gives her a nod, "You have a card, Walters?" He then looks up from his notepad and looks at her, blinking a bit as he murmurs, "You alright, Miss?" He perhaps notices her disheveled appearance and frowns for a moment, and it's curious how she shifts from Walters to Miss.

As for the crowd there are still a few around though a large portion of them ran off once police started to show up. The guy with the sign is long gone, and for now peace is at least in part restored.


Of course she has a card, in her jacket. The much slighter version of herself is prepared, even if she's more than a touch disheveled and no longer pristine. Jennifer Walters, girl held up in an alley. She recovers her coat and sweeps it around her shoulders like the embrace of an old friend. She does up the buttons in order, hastening to recover the proper shield against the world. She pulls out two cards, each of them with their own set of data for her office. Not like she doesn't share an office with the typing pool, but at least she has a number.

"I'll be fine, Officer." She extends the cards, hand slightly shaky. Nothing at all to look at oddly, even if it's the exciting time for her. "Not every day you see criminals coming out bold as brass, threatening others. I'm glad that the police department showed up and can set things to rights." She offers a bare smile, her shoulders hunched a little. "Please call any time if you want further information. I can come down to the station for a statement. I'm on the side of the law, after all." Comes with being an attorney, even one of the barest ones in a city and society that don't trust them to make sense. It's not like they want ladies anywhere near the real firms. But so it goes, and she does a circuit to find her briefcase a bit dented, left on a bench. This she takes, carrying it off as she heads back to the office. The cobbler is going to hate her again, and that tab for her shoes never seems to go down. Another change of clothes in the closet, exactly the same as her black skirt set and white blouse, sets her back to rights.

From there, it's down to a bagel shop for something involving cream cheese. Lots of horrible cream cheese, and maybe even a tote.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License