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The day's in full swing. Lunch time means there are people all around, taking in the last days of 'Indian summer', or so it was called over the radio for the last week or so. Now the temperatures are settling in to something a little more seasonable; jacket wearing, though for the menfolk, it is actually comfortable to wear suit jacket and dress-shirt. (That is normal attire, after all!)
It's really no different in Harlem, other than the fact that most of the faces now on the street are darker; there is very rarely a white face to be seen. And, sadly, the area is a depressed one, both economically and emotionally, so those sitting outside really don't have a place to go 'back to work' once lunch hour is completed. There is a small gathering outside a shop on East 78th; it's a known small press that has risen from the lack of coverage the negro plight is getting in the major papers. Civil Rights, their Civil Rights, is being pushed aside, what with all this 'mutant' talk, and 'demons walking Central Park'. Hell, there's no need for demons beating their folks; not when there's police officers claiming any violence was merited.
There's a new stack of papers, tracts really, that are 'hot off the press', and Tyrone Waters exits the shopfront with a pile, ready to hand out to those standing around (he'll pay anyone who takes a pile of them $3 for their efforts to hand them out!). The men laugh, a slap on the shoulder, and as Mr. Waters turns to go back into the building, in the next second, there is a small bit of wood coming from his back, with a couple of feathers attached. It's a heart shot, and the man stands for a full heartbeat, or attempted heartbeat, and falls forward in -silence-.
At first, there's no reaction, then one begins to realize, and two.. then five.. and the panic begins.
*
Heather is on the prowl for a certain type of elasticized fabric that no one in upscale shops wears — not for a few more years, anyway — and Harlem is the place she's most likely to find something like that. Upscale ladies do not sew their own clothing so the area around the Baxter Building is useless to her.
She's edging around that crowd when the shot zips past and the man drops. Unlike the people around her, Heather doesn't panic. She takes in the victim, crumpling, spins and tracks the likely flight of the arrow back to whatever vantage point seems most advantageous, slinging her satchel across her body so it won't interfere when she takes off in pursuit of the…archer. Well, that's new.
Careless of her own safety, Heather takes off in that direction at an all-out run. On her way, she pulls out her SHIELD radio to update any actual agents in the area of the event, the location, and where she's headed. She's only one person. Armed, yes, but hardly dangerous.
*
Even with very little skin exposed Sean manages to look like hell. He has bandaids on his face and a black eye, lovely reminders of a wild night. But even worse that the bruises, the cuts and internal damage, is the lack of alcohol. Somehow he is still expected to run down a few leads for another agent's investigation. So he finds himself shuffling down the street in the Upper West Side grumbling to himself.
The crackle of his radio gets an enraged "Shhush!" before he realizes what it is and fumbles it out of his pocket. As he hears Heather's report, he glances around at the limited options for getting uptown quickly before launching himself up into the air with a yell.
A grid street system is quite handy, particularly when you are trying to navigate from up in the air. Sean lands on a nearby roof, and watches the scene to see if he can figure out what is going on. He's looking for people fleeing the scene, or anyone still shooting … wait, he calls back into his radio "Did ye say it was a bloody ARROW?! And Agent Cassidy responding on the scene, up above ya lass."
*
That shot comes out, and while other people may scream and run away.. there's a blonde running towards the victim. Hair held back by a shiny hairband, bouncing against the dark wool of her coat, the bright blue of her dress peeking out from under it. Low heeled shoes still click against pavement as her bag is drawn off over her head, opened to expose a first aid kit. But even without touching the man, the clear fact he's dead dawns on Thea's face. Still, she'll reach out.. lay hands on him as if to try and see if he can be saved. One hand grabs for the arrow with distaste.
*
It's heart shot, dead aim. Arrow's punctured one of the ventricles through and through.. and it'd be surprising if the tip of the crossbow bolt, as that is what it is, didn't somehow poke out the other side. There is a surprising lack of blood, though maybe not so much as it is a puncture wound and the arrow is still within. Should Thea pull it out, however, that is a different story! (If it is pulled out, there will be that seepage of bright red blood. Right ventricle.
There's no panic from the man who took the shot, one Barney Barton. This is old hat to him, and once that trigger is pulled and the contact goes down, he's putting it back into it's case, "There goes my $20." While there isn't any panic from his side, there is that sense of urgency. No sense sticking around, and once it's in place, the lanky man in a suit picks up the case and moves around in the second story apartment area. He's through the kitchen into the 'living room', such as it is, and over to the fireplace. There, he works for a couple of seconds to secret it into the chimney flue, up past the stop, and once it's there, checks himself. Hands, clean.. check.. and it's a casual stroll back out.. locking the door to the apartment, and heading downstairs in a casual pace.
On the way, he gives a once-over and finds a likely looking cover, and pulling out his cigarette, he drapes an arm over a young black man, offering a cigarette at the same time. And, onto the street in this way.
The crowd around is doing one of two things… some are running, calling for the cops, and others are staring, looking at the body of Tyrone Waters, Civil Rights activist, lying face down on the street. "Give 'em air! Give 'em some air!!"
*
"Arrow. Actually, maybe a bolt," Heather reports. She grew up where people still hunt with bows. The two sound slightly different. "Apartment building ahead of me is the only good shot past the crowd, I think. He'll be on the move." Most likely male, most likely white. The bow is an arrogant weapon for an assassination, especially in an urban setting — arrogant or archaic. She's guessing the former. "Someone else listening call in, get a line on anyone who uses a bow for kills like this."
Now, she sounds out of breath — but giving orders does seem to come naturally to her. She pulls up on a corner across from the apartment building to scan the streets, leaping lightly onto the hood of a car parked in front of a barber shop.
"Lady, are you crazy?" Someone shouts. Like she hasn't heard that question before. The answer is probably yes, but it's an organized crazy, so people overlook it.
*
Sean tries to scan the crowd, but it's mostly just the normal panic. He scans the rooftops, but didn't see a shooter or anyone up there on his way in. That leaves the five hundred or so vantage points in the buildings. He's not a trajectory master, but an open window on the second floor close enough to have fired a crossbow from seem his best shot.
Sean makes his way, loudly as usual, over to the fire escape of the same building. As he is opening the window in the living room to let himself in it strikes him that he probably has no jurisdiction to be doing this… oh well. After a quick scan of the apartment both visually and with sonar, Sean picks up his radio again and he reports in "I might have somethin'.. an open window in range of the shot. But the place empty.. I think NYPD will want to investigate it all the same. I'm not touchin' nuthin'…" Okay, the last part isn't really true, but at least he's using a handkerchief over his hand as he carefully noses around for any hint of an assassin.
*
Blood would gush.. if she let it. Blood not being pumped by a heart anymore is much, much easier to control. The arrow is pulled, her other hand slapping over the entry point. Thea knows most people will be too panicked, too much in shock to think about the implications. But that blood stays in his body, and the blonde woman trying to help the fallen man looks pale with sweat starting to show along her hairline.
*
"Hey, man…" comes in minor complaint until white teeth flash in gratitude in the cigarette. "Man, you okay.." and the pair, a black man and Barney wander out into the street. Barney's getting his own cigarette readied, a light for each of them, as blue eyes look over the scene, tracking faces, maneuvers. He's playing 'spot the Fed' and so far, he's got a few possibilities.
That one over there isn't acting like a good Samaritan.. nope. And.. radio..
The man with him, Henry, goes wide-eyed at the display going on before him, and he breaks off from Barney to go sprinting across the street. Barney goes with him, only a few steps, however.. not quite clearing the street. "Hey!" is called out. "What— man, what the hell is goin' on?" As of yet? No sirens… all is quiet.
Upstairs in the apartment, it is empty, but looks lived in. Newspaper on the table from the morning, percolator coffee pot on the gas stove cleaned, but used this morning, obviously. A couple of coffee cups settled on a drying rack. It's not well furnished, but from the appearances, what is owned in the place is well taken care of. Pictures on the wall are of a black family. Husband, wife.. kids..
*
Heather is cautious, hops down from the car. Henry goes sprinting past her and she discounts him immediately. The other man, though, catches her interest. She doesn't linger long, turning back briefly to give her attention to the man she already knows isn't the problem. Looks are deceiving, actions are everything. The man she isn't sure about needs to do something more; looking away for a moment is a good way to give him a little space to pick a direction so she can follow.
Adjusting her satchel more comfortably, radio in her hand down at her side, she heads toward the apartment building where Sean isn't having much luck. Her pace crossing the street is slow, she scans both ways almost lazily, gaze catching on Barney again before counting heads down the rest of the block. For the moment, she's catching her breath in case she needs to run again.
*
Still pacing the apartment, Sean is trying to shake the nagging feeling that this does not look like the place someone would be able to access and take a shot from. He goes back to the window and positions himself as if he were taking the shot himself. He extends his arm and nods to himself "Yea.. that's certainly possible."
Over the radio he asks, "Do we have those bow people back yet..?" Wait, did the secretary request that? That's a damn fine idea. "I'm thinking this apartment 'ere is very likely the place. But I don't see anything. Unless we have a damn good reason to trump 'em I t'ink we ought t'leave this to the NYPD." Sean is dreadfully used to not stepping on the toes of local police departments.
*
Thea has the blood contained, even moving still, as she turns the body over. She'll start CPR like any normal person would.. while trying to mend the damage to his heart. She's definitely sweating now, doing her best to try and fix him, while hiding what she's doing.
*
For all intents and purposes, Barney standing on the opposite curb is pretty much where he needs to be. Blue eyes watch the scene intently as a hand rises to push unruly brown hair from his face and eyes in supposed agitation as to the goings on on the other side. Henry's left his side, and the cigarette burns in his left hand. Finally, he seems to remember it's there, and he pulls on it for a moment, draws in the breath and lets it out as he turns away, shaking his head.
The headline, if there is a headline rather than a notice on page 10, 'Civil Rights worker killed in Harlem', and no doubt it'll be in the middle of other city goings on- Sanitation strikes, traffic detours..
Sean, being skilled in espionnage AND detection, would see this either as a vision of harmony in Harlem, or a really, really well thought out safe house. It has all the trappings of a home except for flowers on the table, things in a pile for laundry day… and if the refrigerator is open? No milk, no butter..
*
ROLL: Barney +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 18
*
ROLL: Sean +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 94
*
ROLL: Barney +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 53
*
ROLL: Heather +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 46
*
Thea eventually gives up. The damage was just too extensive, she can't fix the heart in time for it to beat and him to not have brain damage. Her hands lift, covering her face as if to hide shame.
*
Heather is unnaturally calm in the chaos and she knows why — training. She recognizes it in others, too. She didn't do her job for twelve years without learning to recognize all the tell-tale signs of a true professional.
Heather slips her hand into her satchel, trades the radio out — flicks it off — for the gun David gave her from his weapons cache. She doesn't pull her hand out, yet. She does cross the street, heading for the man who caught her eye coming out of the building.
This is probably a bad idea but, lately, she's had a few of those.
*
Miming the shot, Sean focuses and has pretty much assumed that whoever made the shot is long gone, he would be. He stands up, mimes putting the rifle (he's never shot a crossbow) into a case. He turns and looks around the room. To himself he asks, "Do I take it..?" He takes a few steps "No."
Scanning the room Sean walk slowly towards the door looking for any place to shove the case. Ceiling? No it's solid. Any panel? False floor? Ooooh fireplace! Sean kneels and takes off his jacket. Placing it around his arm, he gingerly reaches up and sure enough.. something's in the flue. He pulls it down, again careful not to touch it with bare hands or handle it too much. He pops it open, and nods to himself with a wry smile.
Into the radio "We're dealing with a pro. This whole apartment is a fake, a cover. I have the weapon. I'm calling this as beyond the cops." He stops, normally he could count on being backed up on that by his superiors. Right now? Who knows?
*
Right arm drops heavily and his cigarette gets some attention once again. It's the change of pace, however, from one of the 'feds', so identified by, yes, the calmness in the chaos, that causes Barney to raise blue eyes to meet her own before he turns away, flicking the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. He's moving out, pacing seemingly unhurried against a flow of traffic, but there is intent to his step. He's getting some distance between the scene and himself now, but there's no hope of blending into a crowd for another couple of blocks.
Two buildings down, Barney picks up his pace a little, moving such that he's now into the flow of pedestrians, and those that hadn't yet heard about the death only at the end of the block.
*
ROLL: Heather +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 79
*
ROLL: Barney +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 79
*
Thea will eventually pick herself up, dusting off her knees and skirt. She'll move away, getting ready to leave him to paramedics. She'll try to get out through the crowd and disappear.
*
"Hey!" Heather is willing to risk being made if it only makes this guy stop. Someone with nothing to hide will probably turn around. "Hey, mister?" She breaks into a jog to close the distance, speeding up to match his pace if he picks it up to outrun her. She's increasingly sure that this is their guy.
*
Making the executive decision that this is now his investigation, Sean wraps up the case and heads for the door. He absently radios "Heather.. c'n ye 'ave this apartment sectioned off?" He waits a bit and then some more "Heather? D'ye copy?" Well gee, that's weird and slightly disturbing. Sean hurriedly makes his way down to the street, the case wrapped in his jacket under his arms. He's far too late to see Heather in pursuit of Barton and without her radio, she's out of touch.
Frowning, he radios back to central what he needs and also asks for a status on Heather…
*
Looking back? Nah… not likely.
Barney isn't doing one of those panicked sprinting rallies that are often seen in movies, but rather, he's being smart about it. Using cover, moving so that things, people, lamp posts, trashcans and the like are in between himself and whomever is following him. He doesn't need to see behind him to know the sort of distance; he can tell the way the crowds move about him.
He does pick up his pace, however, and block one is taken before he's down a side street, headed towards the downtown area. In a half a block, there's a train station, and Barney is more than willing to jump a turnstyle and be the hell away.
*
It's too crowded for a shot. Heather drops the gun into the bottom of its pocket in her satchel — never even got the safety off. She grabs her radio, switches it back on.
"Sorry, thought I might have a chance, but…" She's still moving, if nothing else she's going to drive him down into the subway so officers working the streets and subway lines can be alerted to his general whereabouts. "It's too crowded."
She rattles off a description, for what it's worth, and the subway line where they're headed. She's going to be on his heels all the way to the turnstyle. After that, she's not getting caught in a closed space with him. Her options are too few and involve too much risk to others around her. Besides. She doesn't have the right credentials for this anymore.