1965-07-16 - Bike V Mercury
Summary: Guess who wins!
Related: None
Theme Song: None
tigra forge wanda 


The Brooklyn Botanic Gardens aren't exactly small. They sprawl across the heart of the borough like a cancerous, verdant mass full of fresh air, elevated oxygen levels, and bright flowers to adulterate the grim brick and concrete world. Buildings encroach upon the perimeter, as they always will in the world's premier Alpha city. Across Ocean Avenue are neat brick brownstones containing ridiculously pricy apartments, at least as far as Brooklyn goes. Fire escapes zigzag in front of the buildings, and many have open windows to allow the stultifying heat of mid-morning to creep in. Any hope of a breeze is laughable. That's why New Yorkers have summer homes in Bar Harbour and other places with a miraculous thing called natural air conditioning, surely.

A proud fence separates the park with its lush greenery, immaculate lawns and piles of blooming flowers under the sun, from the sidewalk and the traversed road. It's not the heaviest avenue in the city by any means, but it's respectable. The perfect place to have a cup of tea and a stroll on the inside of the gate. On the outside, a fine place for pedestrians to lug their way to the nearby subway station. It would be easy to do that, if there wasn't a Mercury land yacht colliding with a cyclist who abruptly stops in the middle of the two-lane road. Detroit steel versus Schwinn: this is not an equal equation.

Between the gardens and Central Park, there are places in this town where might almost forget one's in one of the largest cities in the world. Not completely, but close, and while Tigra grew up in a big city, she is a creature of two worlds, and likes to get in amongst the foliage at times. This being one of those times, she emerges from the subway station, wearing a light trench coat and broad brimmed hat to provide a degree of…not exactly disguise or concealment, but a lowering of the profile. Not that the furry legs and unclad feet sticking out from under it help much.

She pauses a moment to roll her shoulders after getting out of the crowds below ground…just in time to see a imprudent cyclist stopping in the middle of the street. "Idiot!" she hisses to herself when she realizes the rider is about to be gone with the Schwinn. She leaps forward, trenchcoat and hat left behind, bounds fifteen feet in one go, then another fifteen, then tackles the rider and tries to protect them with her body as they roll up onto the hood of the Mercury.

Forge is apparently in Brooklyn today. Long Island is usually a detour when getting from Washington to Westchester, but exceptions must be made. He's pulling up to the Gardens, when he sees this accident. Getting out of his car, the man stops oncoming traffic, running over to see what's going on.

The Botanic Gardens come close to forgetting population. Wanda might almost shut her eyes and imagine herself further away than twenty feet from a paved surface. Her hands reach out to trace the bark of a tree planted near the treeline, at a glance. Leaning upon that stout ash more than she ought to, she shuts her eyes to block out the sunlight. The screech of metal and the stink of rubber interrupt whatever communion the golden-skinned young woman has with nature. A pang of alarm passes too late from her, a cry of warning that's taken up by five or six other pedestrians on the other side of the fence. Too late. The car has already stopped, the bike sliding under its chrome bumper.

The cyclist is all uncoordinated flailing arms and bone-white face, making an 'Oof!' sound loud enough to be heard whenever Tigra decides to stop rolling. The Mercury's hood probably carries an impressive dent. The driver throws his hands up in the air and starts shouting. His cranked down window makes the string of startled, half-bitten off statements fairly audible. They range to the degree of 'Are you insane' and 'What—'. He throws the car into park and jerks his head out the window. "You crazy man! Didn't you see me?!"

The crowd drawn to a temporary standstill mostly stare from car to pile of fuzz and man, gaping. Like you do.

Tigra is not a petite woman, even without accounting for super-human muscles, so yes, there's likely a dent in the hood of the car, but thankfully the window wasn't smashed. After rolling off the car and seeming clear of other traffic, she stops their roll and sits up to check on the cyclist. "You okay?" she asks, before calling to the driver, "You okay?" A sudden stop like that, might've hit the steering wheel or something. "Anyone hurt?"

Forge is wondering the same thing as Tigra. "Good question," he chimes in. Going to his car, he pulls it away from the curb, and just drives it into the middle of the road, to block all traffic with his boat of a Ford Galaxie. Nobody's going to rush by while this accident is resolved.

The cyclist moans and a bit of drool runs out from his grimacing mouth. He's going to I have a shiner on his forehead and up his hairline sometime soon. A noise of discomfort rattles around in the back of his throat, and his fixed pupils aren't exactly convincing either. "Uhhhh…"

"You are a bad man. Your bike scratched up Betsy," the driver snaps as he circles around to look at the damage. Sure enough, there are scratches on the chrome and the bike is mostly under the car. He turns, waving at everyone in the crowd. "You saw him shoot out! He didn't even stop until he got to the middle of the intersection."

A few of the pedestrians with better things to do hurry along. Others rubber neck at the fairly slack figure and the cat lady. It's a cat lady.

Wanda breathes out through her teeth and cracks her eyes open a little. Bad idea. She shuts them and puts her hand over them as a precaution, slowly walking over the grass to the fence.

"Yeaaaah, better call an ambulance for this guy," Tigra suggests, standing up and either leading or carrying him to the sidewalk as necessary. "Nobody's blaming you, sir," she calls to the driver. "Give me a moment and we'll get that bike out from under…Betsy." The guy's in the right, but it's hard to not want to look for reasons to put him in the wrong with that attitude. "Let's just be glad nobody got -killed- here."

Forge gets out of his car again, and goes to each side of oncoming traffic. Gesturing with both hands in an authoritative way. "Turn around, accident scene, take another route," he tells drivers first one one side, then the other. Then he comes back to check on the bicyclist and the driver. "You two had better stay here. Has anyone called the police? I can handle that." He'll then jog off to do just that.

One of the pedestrians stares. A few stare. No one is rushing to bang on doors, but they nod in agreement at this idea of calling. But it's hard not to stare.

The driver frowns as he rubs the dent on his hood and no doubt counts up the damage to his beloved bit of car. "We'll get you over to D'Angelo, yes we will. My god, he's got a death wish, that one. Is he on something? Those longhair kids…"

Drivers going down the street are having a time but Forge organizing traffic helps ruin the lunch time commute of near everyone. Fortunately the man won't have far to go to bang on doors to see if anyone is home, though he gets a real hard look from one man of the house. "I ain't buyin' anything from you."

Wanda rests her head against the rather warm metal of the fence. She opens her eyes slowly again, shaded still, and winces at the wrecked bike and man. Whole lot of good she's been, but then most of the New York crowd isn't running to help.

Most people in New York would see this as a show to be watched, rather than a situation needed help. That's the Big Apple for you. Tigra's grateful that someone's going for the police, and doesn't notice Wanda's distress, unfortunately. With the cyclist set aside for the moment, she steps back to Betsy and her owner. "Alright, let's get the bike out from under there," she says, bracing herself, intending to lift Betsy up by the front end. Rawr.

Cue a few shocked sounds and a rare "Ooooh." Betsy is heavy as a car, but she has solid axles. Lifting her up by the crumpled bumper reveals the crushed Schwinn that will never be fully straightened out, by the looks of it. On the other hand, the damage to the vehicle is fairly minimal other than for a few fresh scratches and the damage on the chromed front.

Forge returns. "Arlight, i called the police. told them someone was hurt," he comes back from a pay phone to say. They're going to send a car over, but we'll see how long it takes."

The cyclist is still a limp noodle of a man, staring and mumbling to himself. He puts his hands to his head, the collection of scratches over his knuckles nothing too severe. Road rash in jeans is fairly low, especially with a feline woman absorbing most of the blow. He's not going to be getting up and shaking that off any time soon.

"You be nice to my car," the driver insists. "I'll need to get her to the garage and out of this." Poor guy is trying to keep it together, sweating profusely. He nods absently to the news of the police. That will make things better, surely.

Wanda herself isn't exactly collapsing, more leaning against the prison bars watching. Watching in the way that people observe birds, in an air of distraction. "He

…. "Is alive, da?"

Tigra's leg muscles flex impressively as she heaves up on Betsy, using the rear wheels at the fulcrum. Out comes the bike and then she gently sets the Mercury back on all four wheels once more. "Hopefully not long," she says to Forge. "Thanks." She glances around briefly. "Okay, think we can get out of the road now," she suggests. Wanda's question draws her attention, and a little bit of concern at the woman's appearance. "He's alive. Shook up, maybe a concussion." She glances over to where he's stirring a bit. "Nothing broken, I don't think."

Forge nods to Tigra, taking her instruction. He considers offering to help move the biker, but sees that Tigra's got it. So he just gets his car to the curb, and starts getting traffic going again. Then seeing about getting 'Betsy' to the side of the road, he goes to the driver. "Look, you don't like that your car is scratched. But a man could have died. Cool your jets."

The brunette nods. She takes a smart step back from the fence, breathing measured and controlled, the better not to sound like she's having any trouble with the world at large. "Good. I think he will be well, then?" Somewhere in the distance the whining strobe of police siren alerts all and sundry that someone is coming. Help on the way at fifteen miles an hour, woo! They won't have to wait long for that.

Further into the thorny thickets of conversation, the pedestrian traffic breaks apart. They'll have help from the police pushing them on, a patrolman taking control of matters. The driver of the Mercury curls his lip in disdain under that luxurious mustache and says, "I sincerely hope no guy comes flying out of nowhere in front of you any time soon." He waves off further comment. And so the world prepares to go on as he'll give his statement.

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