1965-01-08 - Project Gemini: Happy Hostess, Happy Home
Summary: A tragic house fire in Queens kills one and injures two. But don't blame us for the misuse of a toy unsupervised. Always read the instructions.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
skye rogue 


0745 hours. Near 32nd Avenue. Astoria, Queens.

Just off the main drag through Astoria, and 32nd Avenue is home to detached single family units and brick three storey walk ups. The somewhat upscale middle class neighbourhood would normally be bustling with students running off to 30th Avenue elementary school or St. Demetrios around the corner. Instead, smoke calmly rises from a two storey house clad in clapboard siding. In front, the driveway is empty, gate slightly ajar, suggesting the man of the house has already departed on his way for some job in the city (or the Moon, really).

One of the local teenagers has dropped his book bag onto the ground, and shouts, "Hey! Hey, Bruce! Anyone home?"

Because the smart thing to do when a building is on fire is shout at it.

It was a long walk back to Wing Sing. But Daisy (read: Skye) really didn't mind it all too much. Bookbag slung over her shoulder, a pair of ratty jeans worn that looks as if she could have gotten it from some ol' Johnny Boy greaser and combat boots that were issued by her dad. The leather jacket was the same. The hat? Much so. She looked like a beat up homeless girl who really wasn't much for nothing, street rat. Bruiser, whatever they would call the girls these days.

Birthday fresh past. Town even more fresh. Sullen, near tired.. didn't care if someone gave her a look or wrinkled nose. Though her own does much of the same as she turns down a certain block.

A fire. A fire that has her picking up in space, boots hitting the ground as fingers dig into the strap of her back ready to sling it off and land it upon the ground next to the boy. A glare, a glint of authority, even though those kids are close to her own age.

"HEY! Did you see anyone come out of that house?!" Skye asks, noting the ajar gate. Were there lights on? Did she hear any screams? She attuned her ears to listen.

The main drag through Astoria is only two blocks away, with its big railway station to usher people onto the subway lines west into Manhattan. Might as well be in Georgia.

The teen startles when someone yells at him, and he turns in Skye's direction. Acne riddled cheeks are red polka dots on pasty white and he immediately lifts his hands. "I didn't do it!" Not dressed in a nice coat like that he didn't, too clean and no smell of gas. "I just saw the smoke. And moving by the curtains!"

He points and indeed, the ugly front curtains on the second floor windows stir as a furry body presses up against it. The smell is growing, thick and plastic and burnt. "I think the Landerskis got two or three kids? I dunno, Bruce lives there, that's all I got!"

There aren't any loud sounds. That's worrying. Only the dull crackle and hiss of flames. Definitely on fire.

It was a mess; even while the kid panicked and begin to tell what he heard, saw, and probably did, Skye was already peeling off her hat and dropping out of her jacket. Scarf was pulled aside and dropped onto the pile that was hers, and with a kneel and a tight lace of her boots quickly. "Alright kid. Go get some more help. When you get back here, you watch my stuff like your life depended on it."

Skye nods at that. "Cause it does. Any of my shit goes missing kid, and I will eat you for dinner."

Skye was a cute thing, but when her game face was on, she was frightening. This is what you get when you've dated the God of Fear for.. well.. whomever knows how long that shit lasted.

Hair tucked in ponytail.

Mad dash towards the house.

Hand struck out as waves of vibrational damage kicks the door down for her and she heads right in. This after taking a quick breath of fresh, fresh, nasty Manhattan air.

Poor kid, he's not even fifteen. He scoots on his heel, running down the bare pavement back home. He skids up to the front door of a walk up, fumbling keys and banging his way in.

"You're supposed to be at school, Petey!" calls someone inside, probably Mom.

The house is burning from the back and upper floor at that. There isn't a backyard of any size to mention, just a fence and another house clad in wood happy to burn if the embers get there. They're running down the back for certain.

The front door opens to allow smoke out and yes, it smells like burning carpet and paint, wood spurs going up in charred flames. It's thickest on the stairs opening off the foyer, such that it's hard to see up there. No sounds of little feet or moaning, at any rate. Not good.

|ROLL| Skye +rolls 1d20 for: 2

An arm lifts to cover her nose and mouth as she filters the air with the cloth upon her shirt. And skin. It wasn't much, but it was as good as it gets. She crouches low as she looks left and right, her eyes already stinging, a cough drawing up but she tries to get it out.

"Is anyone here?!" She screams as loud as she could, thank goodness the fire wasn't roaring too quickly, but she set out to clear the first room, keeping that lowered crouch, practically crab-walking and looking damn ridiculous doing it.

The cat comes flying down the stairs, fur burnt in places. With a terrified meow, Fuzzy is out that front door now off its hinges in a grey blur. It hits Skye's leg in the process. Admire the cat's restraint.

She doesn't get anyone calling back. The lower floor is mostly arranged in the typical 50s floor plan: ugly foyer, proper family room to the left complete with hideous paisley couch, and dining room to the right where the wedding china is displayed by a table no one uses. The kitchen links the two. There's no one down there by sight, no stocking legs sticking out from around a corner. Upstairs, then, the carpeted stairs lead to a hideous metal railing and a smoke-filled hallway with doors. It's hot up there. Fire eats through a wall.

"AUGH!" Skye screams out, falling upon her belly and immediately reaching down to her leg to pat the fire.. well.. there wasn't a fire. Just a goddamned cat. She slams her hand against the wall, then continues to do her crawl through. She was fast, attempting to be effective, coughing up just a bit until she hits the kitchen proper. Nothing.

Cloth was ripped from the curtain and doused in the sink, soon wrapped about her shoulders as she rushes through, arm up, seeing through said arm and hitting the stairs. It was a low belly crawl up, and still she thinks she's taking more time than not.

"IS ANY*cough*ANYONE HERE?!" She screams out again, attempting to add a bellow to her voice. It was hot. She was sweating, and by the gods she could probably smell her hair on fire due to the heat. Could she knock down a wall? Yes.. but who would be on the other side outside? Can't risk it..

No answer, yet again. Maybe the house wasn't locked up. But why would a cat be upstairs and not running out a cat door somewhere into the cold? How would a fire start on a second floor? Questions not only for the fire inspectors if Skye wants to live.

Upstairs is a morass of smoke. Best to crawl, and the first thing she encounters is a torn package. Only the top and it reads Ooey-Gooey Caramel Chocolate Balls with a bright pink logo in the corner torn off as Happy Hos. Further down, her knee bumps on a metal car, a '63 Mustang for that matter. Die-cast vehicle gives way to a sock. A sock attached to a leg. That leg is still pudgy with youth, and the body is very much sprawled on the ground. Further along flames rip up the hideous wallpaper, doing the world a favour eating brown and orange polka dots and spots. This is clearly the bedroom land of children and parents. Three doors; the back left is completely consumed, the door closer to it home to one unconscious or dead preschooler, and the right side probably for the parents.

Judging by the heat and seeing nothing downstairs, the fire itself originated on the second floor. Skye was at a low belly crawl now; definitely getting upon her clothes what wasn't vacuumed up earlier, if it had at all. It was too late to tell now, but the armed crawl through landmines was taken, and her body was tense, gasps of clean air low.

Food. Keep crawling. More food. Crawl. Metal car.. ow.. almost like stepping on Legos (if they were made in this era), move.

Hand grasps the sock, tugs. The pudgy kid was gathered up within her arms as she quickly shuffles backwards, afraid to turn around, but eyes were on the prize. It would be tempting to roll the kid down the.. yup. She was going to do it. Pile of bodies at the bottom floor is what was going to happen, and once she slowly reached the top of the stairs, she eases the kid down, who ba-rump-ba-dump-la-bump's down to the extent of her outstretched arm could go and lets him down easy. (Five more steps unassisted would -not- hurt.. hopefully!) And back to the hallway she goes!

The little preschooler, a girl of about four and a half, doesn't weigh much. She's dressed in her school clothes, a skirt and knee-high socks and a sweater. Her head lolls; she breathes, but that's about all one can say for her. Rolling her down stairs is like a ragdoll, thud, roll, slide, nothing at all difficult.

Back to the hallway: the same bedroom is shared, obviously, smoke-filled and a pair of feet from the bunkbed. The second child there, a boy of seven, has slumped over on a vent on the floor. The curtain is still in his hand, clearly he was trying to get up or get to the window. His colour is red, the heat getting to him, but he is breathing if somewhat burnt around the fingers. Skye has to pull it double time to get him out, if only for the awful heat bubbling against the wall. The last bedroom on the left holds its fiery secrets well.


Back into the hallway again and onto the floor, the quick crab crawl sees her into the room where the seven year old lay. He was in bad shape, but thankfully, the curtain he had in his hand was quickly wrapped along the boys body haphazardly and messily. He was a lot heavier, it seemed, and for him to do a roll and tumble down the stairs, it needed a fabric assist.

Out into the hallway again, her elbows were paining her, the harsh thumps of her limbs against the floor told of the speed that she possessed. At the end of the stairs, she extends herself, and was careful about the roll. First few steps like the previous girl, assist on the way down. The rest, a quick whip of the curtain and the boy was free from it's binds and.. probably unhelpfully piled atop of his sister. And hopefully at a safe angle.

Back into the hallway she goes, moving faster still, coughing even heavier, her eyes stung and hurt, and in desperate need of water.

Why couldn't she be a water inhuman that squirted water from her orifices.. thanks genetics. Thanks a bunch!

The little boy weighs more, sprawls out more. He wears pants and a sweater similar in appearance to his sister's, his hair flat to his head. He makes not a moan when Skye grabs him. His limp body is heavy as hell, but he goes sprawling down and down again into the girl's body. The two of them sprawl as the carpet curls. Up there, the poisoned air hurts the Inhuman woman. Ugh, lead paint and ugly curtains and horrible wallpaper, no doubt full of horrid carcinogens.

Water won't be coming from up there in the popped hot holocaust. Through a cracked window, she might hear the wail of sirens, the shout of voices.

"Is anybody in there?" yells a firefighter.

"I see bodies! Get someone in there, Marksen!"


There wasn't time to look and see if the boy landed right, she had to trust gravity on this one. Back into the hallway she shuffles, low crawl, coughs, spittles, and right up to the end of the hallway, where the door was closed and the firelight flickers between the cracks, she lifts her hand to press against the wood to feel for heat. Then with the quietest of motions, she sends a carefully directed vibrational blast to shatter the door already under stressful conditions.

No use calling out to see if anyone could hear her. She needed to get whomever out and -fast-.

|ROLL| Skye +rolls 1d10 for: 1

The shattered door allows in fresh oxygen to the girl's room. It's smaller than her brothers' by a little. Pink and white dominate the decor, unlike the hideous brown and orange. The entire back wall is aflame and the toxic chemicals and heat roar over Skye.

Clearly, not a place to linger long. Incredibly dangerous, the flames and cinders make a hellish maelstrom to avoid at all costs. Hair might start burning around that point. Through the ruins she can make out a burnt, curled up figure of a larger child, probably a tween or early teen, and the crackle of black does not suggest things are good.

The roof and window have caved in, the floor isn't safe, and the vibrations might just resound along how unfortunately decayed the ground is. It hurts to even approach, and that draft isn't good.

Thumping footsteps below indicate fire crews entering the scene. Hookups to a nearby hydrant are following, but the spotter hastens the removal of the two kids by waving at paramedics running down the middle of the street. A piteous cry erupts from the street: "My babies! My babies!"

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