2021-01-26 - This Is Our Town

Team Rocket Vyv and Hyacinth are made aware that something is Strange at the Circle K when Vyv's employees called to report a shoot out apparently from atop his own building and had to evacuate the block. If they were smart they'd take snacks with them. Can't perish without perishables. Hyacinth discovered the dire news when it became the buzz at City Hall and heard her beloved buildings were in peril.

However they do it the domineering dashing duo found out their favourite gnome hitman is holed up in the hospital. There is a montage and they're just there. It was quite exciting. the problem with not quite having a grip on physical space is that you can't just know where your things friends are. Fine, they will ask for help. The poor lady at the front desk in vain trying to argue HIPAA laws to a woman claiming this isn't a zoo this is a hospital with her name on it. She so rarely pulls that card if ever but it is, in their own way using tyrannical grandstanding and threats to everyone's already long day, that they acquire a room number.

The sharp tak tak tak of Hya's shoes brilliantly offset with the smooth roll of Vyv's leather soles finding the bearing as to which spider-like labyrinthine hall to go down to get to said room. It is with victory behind them that they arrive... or Hya could have read a map. Letting Vyv know all the things is jsut easier in most cases and he's not sad about it generally. The truth is she really tries to spend as little time here as possible.

Ever passed out in a corner at some party where the keg stands were a little too frequent, the girls a little too willing, and the pot a little too available?

No, Ravn either. But he feels that way when he slowly returns to consciousness; as if he'd had too much to drink, gotten into too many fights, and -- is hooked up to monitors. There's an oxygen plug in his nose. The sheets are white, the walls are white, the light is white.

Oh God. I'm in hospital.

He resists the urge to rip the plug out and the wires off, and bolt.

I got shot. Pretty badly.

His body feels like he'd imagine he'd feel if somebody had taken a baseball to him for a couple of hours. Or put a bullet through his chest from the roof of the building across the street.

Ravn naps a little. Tries to sleep rather than think about where he is. Why he is there. What it was like to be trapped in a locked room for three months, surrounded by ever so polite and friendly medical staff who could not see the angry ghost shouting at him every night from the end of the bed.

He's relieved when the door opens and he cracks eyelids open enough to see that these are visitors -- and ones that he likes, at that. "Hi."

Vyv has a rather good grip of physical space, in all honesty, but somehow the powers that be have decreed that one's friends indeed do not properly qualify as things and thus are trickier to locate that way. Sending out tendrils to locate the right mind might work better, but this place is absolutely full of minds, and quite a lot of them are unpleasantly distressed right now. It's bad enough to be in a hospital surrounded by that sort of thing without actually tuning one's psyche right in to it. This is something the trio are in perfect accord on: hospitals are places one tries to spend as little time as possible. All in all, Vyv is more than happy to work with Hyacinth's particular range of applicable skills and advantages regarding the place to get them to their destination with as much speed and as little trauma as possible. Well. As little trauma to them as possible. That desk nurse may stiffen up at similar tak tak taks for a while to come. But that's not Vyv's problem, now is it?

Vyv's problem, more or less, is that another of the people he considers friends has managed to end up in this place. There aren't all that many of them, but having to come here at all is having to come here too often. He has, as it happens, brought snacks with him. After all, that's what one does: brings candy and flowers to invalids. Hyacinth's handily bringing herself, so he's simply holding a box of his chocolates as he steps into the room, giving first it and then the patient an appraising once-over. "Hello. Verbal is a good start, but you look terrible. If you're supposed to be the pop of colour in this place you're not doing a particularly good job of it, you know." Which is probably to say, hello, are you holding up all right? How bad is it?

Hyacinth walks into the room and slows her imperial march as the helpful little plaque that reads: 417 is located by one Marquis Vydal. Handy that. Stepping in, eyes wide with alarm - yes yes that Ravn is hooked up to machines- overwhelmed at the utter sterility of it all. "Hoooow are people supposed to rest and heal if they think they're being buried alive inside an Igloo cooler?" Thank you for that terrible thought now manifest. Her purse is unshouldered and set on the windowsill which she checks the view of and corrects one of the vertical blinds. Alright, acceptable, not that he's moving in. Swiveling her head back around she admits, "If you were going to get dressed down for us I'd prefer a less explosive occasion. We heard. naturally we had to come and say thank you for valiantly protecting Vyv's building I worked so hard on, and I guess those people too."

Ravn manages to not laugh at the obvious fretting of the corporate conquistadora as she tries to rearrange the room, somehow make it hers. "I hope you'll excuse me for not getting up," he murmurs, and tries to not pay too much attention to how nasal his voice sounds, with the oxygen plug in his nose. "I'm very much not decent. I think. I haven't actually checked."

His sense of humour is intact, at least. As is his ability to make himself feel awkward. And besides, it's not like he's naked -- bandages make you not naked. He tries to sit up slightly and quickly regrets it. "Let me just say though -- Hotel Addington here is not my idea of a dream resort."

"I've seen hospital gowns. There's virtually no way you're decent. Regardless of what may or may not be covered." Vyv gives what's visible of Ravn another assessing look and makes a bit of a face. "What is that, little blue flowers? Mn." He does not approve. "Doesn't suit you at all. How is anyone supposed to recover looking like that? Although I guess one could consider it incentive." A small pause, and he sets the chocolates down gently on the bedside table-surface. "...yes. Thank you for that. And for not dying; please continue that. How badly were you hurt?" It's a genuine question, to which he does want to know the answer, but that doesn't prevent there being an aside to Hyacinth: "He's right, though. If it's going to insist on using your name it really does need to step up its game."

Hyacinth gives the good place a once over and starts texting her PA stat, there's a pause and she peers at Vyv, glances to Ravn, and back to her bestie, "Point received." Drawing a breath she looks to Ravn, 'You like a nice brick red yes?" Looking to Vyv her hand circles window-wardly, "I'm thinking a couple accents here, minimalist. Small little Bodhi statue maybe?" Looking back to Ravn she promises "This," her hand flaps at the curtain and then the blanket, "We'll fix. Vyv's got you on gown. My assistant is getting you a more exciting throw so you're not covered by a damn pall when you're sleeping like esteemed roadkill." Vyv asked the most important question already and she turns to await the deets on this. "Don't be shy on our behalf about being indecent. We will neither complain nor judge you...and I promise no pics on Friendzone."

"I'll stay under the covers," Ravn promises and lifts one hand to point at the tube in his nose; might not be a good idea to pull that out and take a stroll around the room. Then he glances at his hands and looks slightly disturbed -- possibly at the fact that he's not wearing his gloves. The glimpse of panic in his blue-grey eyes is probably quite genuine as the Dane realises.

He takes a few deep breaths (with the help of that tube, probably) and then looks at Hyacinth. "You don't need to re-design the hospital, 'Cinth. I don't intend to stay here a minute longer than I have to." A glance to Vyv and the downed folklorist adds, "I wasn't planning to die. I was also not planning to get shot in the first place, but that didn't work out so well, either. The shot in my leg wasn't so bad but the bullet through my lung was pretty serious."

Ravn smiles weakly. "I got lucky, though. I went down next to August Rřn. Turns out he's a pretty skilled healer."

"I understand decent tailoring is out of the question, given the gowns are not only intended for easy access but, nng, worn by multiple people, but really, what is with the patterns they choose? Just because someone's granny may have higher odds of ending up here any given day doesn't mean everyone should be doing their best impression of her ottoman. And no one can really handle those ties properly, especially hurt. A handful of sizes meant to be worn loose," Vyv muses, studying Ravn, "... mn. More like proper robes, maybe. In deep solids and the occasional pastel. Certainly for now we ought to be able to find you something more suitable."

Maybe it's the studying that has him properly notice the hand-glance and resulting reaction; there's no visible response from the chef, but as he's looking over to Hyacinth and giving her a nod for her first-round plans, he's also sliding a hand into the folds of the coat draped neatly over one arm. It emerges with a pair of relatively light leather gloves -- it's not too cold and wet out there today, so they're not the warmer lined ones -- which are set wordlessly atop the box of chocolates. They, too, are a chocolatey colour rather than black, but beggars can't be choosers, mm? Probably also not a perfect fit, but perhaps good enough.

"Vase?" he suggests to her, "Something that looks sculptural enough on its own but can also handle the inevitable flowers. And the lighting really must have something done about it." Though that's less this room and more the whole hospital. There is definitely a contractor someone should be yelling at, judging by the hallways. His phone emerges as well, a text or two zipped off; this is after all why they have PAs. All right, among the myriad reasons. "Well. Do better with the not-dying plan, then," he instructs, apparently to the phone, before he looks up to focus on Ravn again. "Is it enough? The healing so far. I have it on good authority continuing to breathe is mandatory for that particular ambition."

Hyacinth is really torn. So much room for improvement. He speaks in delirium. 'Fine'?? She frowns and looks to the leg- well the blanket, and back up to Ravn admitting soberly, "It's a noble thing you did for Vyv's place. His employees... those tiny little tart...things with the fruit on them and that glaze- Vyv what are those?" Frivolous but important. When Roen is mentioned there's a small frown and it's Vyv she turns to, "Which means he's likely injured. we're sending him something." There's a pause and she adds, "Not plants." She'd have to get them from his nursery to begin with and it'd seem... weirdly pandering. Finally Ravn wins out and she sits. "How are you? Are you okay? Bored? Why's it smell like Bacitracin in here?" It's a hospital Hya. "You have someone to stay with? We have guest rooms so you don't have to stay in the hillbilly deathtrap. I just imagine with needing to take care of the leg a proper shower you can maneuver around will be helpful."

The look of relief in Ravn's blue-grey eyes is obvious as Vyv solves his glove problem. He reaches for them, and the fact that the chef's gloves are neither black nor the entirely correct size seems entirely secondary to the fact that his hands are now protected against unwanted sensation. He visibly relaxes a bit, much in the fashion of someone who didn't realise that something was bugging them quite a bit until suddenly, the bugging stops. "I'll come return these when they let me out," he murmurs. "The nurses no doubt put mine with the rest of my clothes somewhere, didn't occur to them that I might need them indoors."

He mourns his shirt briefly. It was a good shirt. Black, too.

"I have a friend -- my neighbour in the hillbilly death trap, as it happens, he's a healer. He'll give me very sad looks if I don't text him later and ask him to come work his voodoo," the folklorist murmurs and falls back into the pillow; sitting upright is surprisingly tiring. "And given that the man is a literal street performer, I suspect that his sad looks can be very sad."

With a small amused smile he adds, "I haven't had time to be bored yet. I hate being here. I hate hospitals. But, I'll be out soon enough, and at least this one's only haunted in the fashion you'd expect -- nothing personal. I'll be back in my hillbilly death trap before you know it, moaning about how a sniper ruined my shirt. Being very manly and joking about it all like I haven't just realised how close I came to making that whole 'I'll probably die here' thing come true forty years before I expected."

Vyv makes a small, dismissive gesture to the assurance that the gloves will be returned when Ravn gets free of the place; an implicit you're-welcome to go with the implicit thank-you. Really, if there's one thing not that difficult to find in a modern hospital, it's more gloves, but the leather does feel rather nicer than nitrile.

"She's right about the guest rooms," he notes, "...healing still takes time these days, even if with your friend's help it's probably less of it. I've seen the thing you're staying in; I suspect the shower in there requires yoga. At any rate. The invitation is extended." Twice! "Continue not to die. And aim higher, while you're at it. Seventy or eighty more years, never take the first offer." A flicker of a smile, just at the corners, just for a moment, and then a glance toward Hyacinth. "Dinner, though. I doubt they're letting him flee before then. And last I checked la spécialité de la maison was Jell-o."

Hyacinth flips her hand over, "As a person speaking with multiple residences it's really not putting us out. We're just concerned." About the hobo-trailer truly but, "about what's best for you. Healing is one thing but really if you need amenities can you just ask. It's not dependency, it's reason." It's concern but we've not worked the new definitions of 'concerned' into the lexicon yet. Still, Ravn's earned a part of the 'give a shit' that extends well into the minutiae of the life convenience process. Some call it throwing money at the problem, but she's no healer and money is a weapon against unadorned boredom. There's a squint as she parses Vyv's point of contention here, "Is it orange?" Bad Hya! Looking back to Ravn she says, "We'll take care of dinner. You get me an orange jello. You need the nurse? Revenge? Vyvvy brought you tiny things in a box to make this place less... here for you. Also did they ever get that asshole?" Again, pinkies out when one is swearing. Manners count.

"Winter's over soon," Ravn murmurs and looks wistful for a moment. "Before you know it, I'll be out of Hufflepuff Trailer Park and back on the marina, trying to blend in with the other yachters, the weekend sailors from inland, and Joe Cavanaugh. Not going to pretend I don't miss being on the water -- the Vagabond has even less space than the trailer, but she feels more like home."

Somebody with a grudge against the upper crust, perhaps, might call these two visitors superficial, shallow even, as they fret about the uninteresting design of the room and the boring hospital food. First world problems doesn't begin to cover the privilege; at least there is medical aid available, at least there is food, at least there is a tomorrow rather than having bled out in the corner of a dance studio while hot lead was distributed generously by Santa Reyes' little helpers. Ravn smiles in quiet appreciation; the fussing isn't about food or lodgings at all. Born and bred in a demographic that speaks the very same language, he appreciates the gestures; fretting over insignificant things in order to keep up appearances, to not have an Emotion in Public, keeping a stiff upper lip. He knows how to read the subtitles. He also knows that in order for somebody as polished as Vyvyan Vydal to use the epiteth 'asshole' means that the target of said epiteth truly has pissed him off.

"I don't actually much like Jell-O," he admits, being after all a very European gentleman to whom wobbly, coloured puddings are things you stuff into the faces of small children in order to shut them up. "I think I'll stick with Vyv's tiny things in boxes. And yes -- I don't remember, personally. I was a little passed out in the corner. But the jungle drums tell me that somebody pumped Reyes full of enough lead that he's likely occupying a room somewhere around here too. If you walk past a room with armed police officers standing guard outside, toss in a grenade for me and run?"

Vyv gives Hyacinth a sidelong look, brow arched. "If you're that desperate for an orange gelatin dish, I could make you one that's been introduced to actual oranges in its lifetime, you know." A good number of his desserts do in fact have gelatin layers, the various entremets in particular. None of them involve Jell-O, thank you. Standards. But as for what he's actually brought to Ravn today, "And that's a good choice. They're rather good tiny things in boxes." He doesn't much believe in false humility. If they weren't rather good, he wouldn't let them out in public. "One or two may even have a jelly layer," though again, definitely NOT a Jell-O one, "if the healing process requires."

There's always something a little calming about interacting with people who speak Vyvlish (or at least strongly related dialects, like that of Ravn's demographic of birth), and given the situation of 'friend has been shot, with actual bullets, twice', things a little calming are welcomed. That includes Ravn's own flippancy about the situation; they all know how serious things were, and could have been, but that lighter touch reminds the latter hasn't happened. "I've not got one on hand but I can certainly make a note of the room number and see whether they're taking deliveries," he replies in turn, one corner of his mouth twitching upward just slightly. "Seems a deserving recipient. ...I'm glad you don't expect to be here long." I.e., not dead and not irreparably harmed. And, all right, also probably not requiring him to spend a lot of time here. But the implication that it otherwise might is its own quiet proof that Ravn's been claimed.

Hyacinth shifts her weight to one hip giving Vyv that look when he starts getting judgy of her indulgences. Still, her agitation in the minutiae seems undisturbed. There are more than a few concerns, though greatly in part, no doubt, to having put almost 20 people int eh ground in the last year and a half and not wishing to do that again anytime at all soon.

There's a pause and she considers the application for a grenadier. Looking back to Ravn she cautiously asks, "Does he do the thing do you know? He got the shine on em?" Her eyes shift back with a squint. Something she CAN do. "Fine, Vyv, you are in charge of food. I'm going to work on making this room more...bearable and less trauma inducing for you but really please let us know? This is not the time to stand on ceremony. We're... concerned."

"He does the thing," Ravn confirms. "Bloke was like a furnace, walking in. I could feel it radiating off him, like a lit torch in a snowdrift. His guy Liu -- the bloke who shot up the precinct last week -- was the same. Not quite as strong but both of them definitely have the shine. Both of them manipulate minds. If I didn't know that de la Vega does too, I'd be terrified. But we have to assume that the captain's got them contained, whatever that takes. Sedation, tinfoil hats, hell if I know. He's not going to let them explode the heads of the officers guarding them, or reduce them to teary breakdowns about some imingary crisis, and walk out like nothing. De la Vega's got as much as interest in putting those assholes away as the rest of us, look at what they've done to his city and some of his people."

The dead officer(s)? Maybe. Joe Cavanaugh? Probably.

The Dane shakes his head (and is reminded that he's got an oxygen tube in his nose). "The Veil might try something, if somebody on the other side likes those two pieces of shit enough. I don't think it will, though. Human scum isn't in short supply in this world. Finding new toys isn't hard. And that's assuming that there actually is something on the other side, enabling them. They might be assholes all on their own, lots of people are."

Vyv can withstand That Look. He's Right, after all (just ask him). She gets a Look in return, another featuring an arched brow and hint of challenge (#6 in a set, collect them all), though the argument isn't going any further aloud right now. "Of course I'm in charge of food. And I suppose," more directly to Ravn, "if you're bent on getting out of the hospital and thus the hospital gown at the absolute first moment you can force it to happen..." But he still doesn't approve of that thing and the prior remarks regarding healing and incentive stand. For the record. "But yes. Grenades aside, please let us know."

It's not entirely clear whether that means grenades aren't an acceptable request, or merely that it's already being taken into consideration.

"...mn. Well. I certainly hope he isn't overestimating his means of control." And that's all Vyv's going to say about that, at present. "I don't know how attached the dolorphages get, whatever they exactly are. If this is making those two suffer I suspect it tastes just as good as anyone else's, and ways to make people unhappy isn't a particularly finite resources. Do we even know whether they could take any sort of direct hand in helping them get free?" It's an immediate concern, yes, but it's also a fascinating question on a bigger level.

Hyacinth throws shade at the door, the hall beyond to the nasty little man....wherever. This is the look that can wither a CEOs and city councilmen alike at 80 paces. It's also very much the look of someone that is going to 'inform' and very much not one that might 'discuss' something. There is a slow draw of a breath in, a narrowing of her eyes. There you are you little cockgnome... Her chin picks up and a stunning smile of tranquility returns. "I wouldn't worry much about him. He'll not be contacting his benefactors to be a problem. Just rest. Eat the Vyvvy box. It's like a bento box but better. It's good for the soul. It will sort." So certain she is.

Ravn leans back in his hospital bed; the oxygen tube in his nose and the hospital shirt aren't exactly his idea of comfort; being surrounded by people who care, on the other hand, is. And oddly enough, that look on Hyacinth's face doesn't seem to frighten him in the slightest -- if anything, the Dane finds it reassuring. Reyes no doubt has a fancy lawyer backing him somewhere. Hyacinth Addington probably owns that lawyer.

Sucks to be you, Reyes. Go have a cry about it to the men whose deaths you caused, the lives you've ruined.

Vyv quite likes that look of Hyacinth's, at least as long as it's aimed toward their mutual adversaries. He, for his part, looks fleetingly pleased, shoulders shifting up and back a touch. The posture was perfect already; now it's just a little more... dangerous, maybe? Perhaps not the word most people would come up with there, but there's a confidence and subtle malice to it that those present have the background to recognize for what it is. A corner of his lips curls up faintly, and he tilts the ghost of a nod toward Hya.

"We'll bring you a proper dinner," he assures Ravn, "but for now--" a tiny gesture toward the box. He's not about to argue it isn't good for the soul. "Rest and recuperate until then." A tiny smile, and he moves toward the door, holding it for Hyacinth, and heading out behind her. Nullifying that room is all her, but he's set to back up any more mundane moves they may have in mind, even if they're probably more argument than ordinance. It might even be more effective. But whether he finds himself of direct use or not, he's certainly going to watch.

Reyes wanted this town? Well, Felix isn't the only one with an ownership stake in the place... or the people. And present company takes care of what's Theirs.

Now via glimmer and words. Later, with sushi.