17416/Zebra Stripes

Zebra Stripes
Date of Scene:	14 March 2024
Location:	Rise N Grind
Synopsis:	That coffee is bone-rattling.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The idea for getting a custom latte is about as adult as you can get. Illyana is an adult; she wants her fancy-ass latte.

So trotting across the sidewalk to reach Rise 'N Grind starts off reasonable enough. Bit late in the morning - because it's noon - to be running for a coffee. The drivers should be awake around here, the bus pulling away and causing traffic to rumble along slowly in a long column. One person is just too impatient.

They try to rush the lineup. Impatience will get someone everywhere.

Impatience gets you running into the Demon Queen of Limbo, mid-step.

Stephen Strange has posed:
If there is one thing that Stephen Strange knows, it is never get in front of a Rasputin when there is need of caffeination.

Granted, Stephen Strange knows a good many things. Like the proper methodology for making a surgical incision to minimize scarring, how to set a compound fracture, and how to suture blood vessels to prevent internal bleeding. He also knows exactly which relics to use in a ritualistic banning of malevolent entities, the proper (and improper) use of summoning portals, and what really is in the fridge that resides in the basement level of the Sanctum Sanctorum.

Yet, the most important, at least for the moment, is to not stand in between Illyana and her latte.

As far as the impatient patron, there is little hope for that person. Strange himself occupies his time by taking in the sights. Particularly, neon and zebra-print. And the 80's soundtrack. "It does make one wonder why anyone would have such a strong fondness for a particularly irksome decade as to garnish a business with as much fashion folly from said decade as humanly possible." A brief pause before nodding to the purple neon and zebra-print bricks. "It is as if I have walked into a pack of that fruit-stripe gum. The one were the flavor lasts about three minutes, if lucky."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A Rasputin after their coffee can be a bit like a wrecking ball, albeit with demonic, metallic or warped features. They like those beans, no reason why.

Her latte is apparently a stratagem to deal with the dangers and vagaries of being blonde, Russian, Zennial, and probably a touch on the cranky side. Having the masses howling for blood sport will do that to a woman. Or maybe a *book* howling for bloodsport. Rude books in the Sanctum are a thing.

Stephen's tastes aren't forgotten. If he prefers tea, then Rise 'N Grind probably has something like that. His drink won' t be neglected, truly. He might have question about the awful bricks anywhere outside, and why someone chose those matters.

Illyana doesn't, because the car that decides to run through the intersection and get far, far too close to the curb does so as she's crossing.

Brakes squeal. The blonde curses, black language of the Russian sort. *Crunch*.

Stephen Strange has posed:
There need to be no reason for coffee. Other than the fact that it is desired. Even Stephen has partaken of the beverage before.

Caffeine, in whatever form, is usually desired to handle the rigors of life. It may not be essential to the existence of mankind, but one could argue that it is essential for the survival of it. Especially if it is the go-to for those like-minded individuals that are a touch on the cranky side. Caffeine does wonders for health. Particularly the health of others apart from the coffee connoisseur.

Surely, the good Doctor will get his own drink in time. Tea would be expected. Or perhaps a splash of exotic, with a chai tea latte. Oh wonder of wonders.

With Stephen just a little ahead and to the left, he does not see the car running through the intersection. Nor does he see exactly how close that vehicle gets to the curb. He does, however, hear the brakes squeal and the dark curses from the blonde. His first instinct is to turn around, quickly, as hands automatically raise to casting positions. The second? Grey eyes shift, to find Illyana, even as her name sounds out from his throat.

A flitter of hope. This is the Demon Queen. Surely she will be okay.

Yet, still, a flash of dread, even in this split second. And that dread causes a reflex action. A flash of amber light. A wall of mystical energy, razor thin but stronger than steel.

It all happens in an instant. But was he fast enough?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Coffee exists; tea exists. One is necessary for worldwide diplomacy, and one is necessary. The other, it's simply a pleasure, as noted. Illyana might take a dim view on anything getting in the way of her favourite morning source for overcaffeination, but to her credit, she is up and about without it. Strange lives with a monster, but one shaped by limbo and not a beast that needs refreshment from ground beans to be sufferable.

The vehicle is an SUV, albeit a small one, bane of existences everywhere. The driver shouts and curses behind the wheel, taillights flashing red. Speed isn't as terrible a factor as it would be -- certainly giving time for reactions.

The split-second decision to unleash a spell or deflect. A woman hitting the hood of the car and going under presumably has choices. Curl up. Drop out of sight. Literally rip and curse reality with a litany of black spells, except there's no pull on any magical energy to speak of.

An alarmed shout from another pedestrian roundly criticises. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Slow down! Pay attention, you dirt bag--" and choice words besides.

The shockwave doesn't let the car move further. Strange's will is inviolate, here, second to none. Doom alone might question him, Merlin stand as near equal, and not with the Eye.

Plating on the grille bends in, and the SUV's front end with its plastic bumper bears a fancy imprint, not that expensive to pop out no doubt. The undercarriage might be another story.

Something /loudly/ hisses.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
And it's not the woman. Wires and hoses generally do not do well over spikes.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Too late. Too damn late.

The wall of force seems to have stopped the vehicle...but there isn't an Illyana standing that Strange can see. And the driver has the audacity of shouting? Oh....that is not going to do at all. A handwave...and the driver finds herself out of the SUV instantly, sitting on the walkway besides her SUV. With a rather irate sorcerer standing over her. The voice directed to her is not heated, but cold. Frosted.

"You will be wise to curb your tongue. You are at fault."

Stephen doesn't even gives the driver a second look. Instead, he takes it upon himself to get the SUV out of the way...off of Illyana. A flick of the wrist and a golden line encircles the vehicle. Stephen raises his hand up...and the SUV follows suit, lifting up effortlessly to free the other Sorcerer Supreme from underneath. On a whim, Stephen spins the vehicle on its axis, tilting it to see what happened underneath.

Oh...that undercarriage is all sorts of torn up.

The sorcerer takes the vehicle and drops it, rather unceremoniously, down a few feet away. He seemingly ignores it and the driver, turning instead to Illyana. "Are you okay?"

Though, a flick of the fingers...and the driver will find herself unable to get up from the walkway. At least not until the police arrive.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The driver no longer has a cage of steel for protection. There should be some, but the mind has no way of catching up to the reality and beating it at that footrace. Shock, fear, and confusion collide into a crumpled ball of tinfoil.

The driver's hands squeeze around a wheel that isn't there. The angry look slowly fades with the colour in her skin -- an achievement, given how warm her complexion is -- and the mouth opened to spit out some sick accusation or beats turns into a wheeze.

Traffic has come to a dead stop and a confounded look from the pedestrians at this balletic display reveals even New Yorkers get surprised momentarily sometimes. Oh, Stephen still gets yelled at for blocking traffic like some fancy Spider-Man. "What a menace to the neighbourhood!"

Congratulations.

Crunching down, the Jeepsysler SUV is still a mangled mess and the woman underneath it flattened to the ground. Not a particularly nice way of landing but SUVs and their larger truck kin are murderous on pedestrians. Broken bodies and collapsed lungs are common enough. Few pedestrians end up covered neck to toe in dented, gleaming silvery armour with a hedgehog's assortment of spikes, though a good many of those are distorted by their formation. The gorget does what it can to guard the neck, and Illyana's face is utterly covered by a rather frighteningly unfriendly helm that might resemble the last thing someone sees when a dark paladin rides down on them in a thunder of murderous silence. Broken hands are Stephen's curse.

Broken ankles are probably hers.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Menace to the neighborhood. If Strange wasn't expressly concerned for the person that was struck down, he would truly show how much of a menace he could be.

As of the moment, he could care less about the SUV. Or the damned traffic. Or the driver. Though, the driver gets a front-row seat to the show. And....even the driver can sense the dark waves that radiate from not necessarily the woman struck...but from the man that extricated said driver from her metal cocoon. She should be grateful that he is not directing his attention to her.

The sight of armor greets Stephen. And...no more silly questions escape from Stephen. No. His wife is most likely injured and now is the time to act. The SUV is an afterthought as Stephen steps down to the street, to examine Illyana. Hands do not reach out to assess. No, he will not move her with his hands. Instead, he uses his senses, both mystical and mundane, to assess her injuries. The ankles, arms and legs are particularly concentrated upon, at least from what it appears on the outside, while internal injuries are also reviewed. All while the driver of the SUV watches on, helpless to turn away.

Stephen kneels down, dipping his head low so that his face hovers close to that foreboding helm. His voice is soft, betraying none of the fear and panic he himself has to be feeling. Instead...it is soft...caring. Nothing like the voice he used before with the driver. "Illyana. I am here and I will take care of you."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The vehicle isn't so damaged as to threaten the safety and welfare of others. A pedestrian hit by a vehicle isn't, unfortunately, a rare occurrence in the city or even this neighbourhood. People stand around gashats or continue on their way. Always lookin-loos, the bystanders who mill around waiting for some kind of direction that isn't pointing their phone at a target and hoping for a few hits.

They could be afraid. They might be. Laughter at the driver's expense for now sitting in the street, a state of shock and the sweat beading her face indicative of a deeper existential terror caught for their viewing amusement and that of many, many others. Questions will be raised later about how that happened, what Photoshop wizardry or deep fake AI technology made that happen.

Someone probably spares a thought for Stephen, rushing to the other woman's aid. They might spare a thought for the victim, groggily splayed out with none of the dignity afforded to a normally happily walking woman. Or a tremor of fear might percolate in a few more sensitive souls, since the shadow on cracked pavement might be very dark indeed. Given the low speed and Illyana's general not-quite-humanness, it's fairly easy for Stephen to determine she is not dead or fatally injured off the start. But that armour of hers, though tremendously useful for stopping swords, spiritual attacks, and fire, isn't resistant to being crushed. She, unlike Colossus, *can* be affected by pressure or blunt-force damage. Whatever the armour does to mitigate that doesn't overcome the fact something bends, something gives, and the various hurts that Illyana endures contain a fractured tibia and other bones besides.

That she makes no sound of pain is telling only of the suffering that Limbo bore upon the child who learned never to cry out. The helm melts away from her face as he conducts his inspection, proof of conscious intent. Though her eyes are narrowed and focused on a point on the ground. "There will be problems if you get hit," she mutters. Traffic is, naturally, trying to get around them.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"You're right. There will be problems if I get hit. For them."

The soft murmur of the words, given so matter-of-factly, seems rather normal for Stephen when talking to his wife. For others, that almost casual nature might be just a bit terrifying. Certainly, for the driver who gets to watch, it would be. Strange is not in the mood to quibble, certainly.

"I am going to move you. It could either be to the walkway or to the Sanctum or where ever you wish to be. But, you will remain motionless until I have the opportunity to revert the harm that has befallen you." Nothing about setting bones or anything of the like. Just 'reverting harm'. It is apparent that Strange has a remedy in mind that would be certainly more than the usual medical affair.

He does show some kindness. At least, in the manner in which he moves the driver from the street to the walkway, free of the threat of traffic. And...as for the SUV, that may remain in the street...or conveniently ported to a parking space. It doesn't really seem to matter much for Stephen. Just as long as it is no longer blocking traffic. He just may transmute it to a balloon and let the driver hold onto it. He really doesn't care.

What Strange does care about, however, is the individual in armour. And...he starts to lift Illyana in much the same way Strange lifted the SUV. Being very careful to keep movement isolated as to not aggravate the injuries, he slowly lifts Illyana from the street. With the power to go anywhere and do virtually anything, he chooses to at least vacate the street, moving both him and his paramour to the walkway, if not beyond.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The demonic side would heal itself faster than the mortal, but Illyana has no issues taking a licking and ticking. The only thing probably holding her in place might be her propensity to listen to the wiser judgement of a literal medical doctor, Strange. How many of those benighted AMA-issued seminars and soirees have they attended, which puts paid to the fact other working professionals recognize his prowess as an actual student of the healing arts? Never mind he's a neurosurgeon and not an osteopathic doctor, it makes no difference. Listen to the wise ones, a lesson learned hard in Russia and America, keeps her still.

Mostly. When a vehicle nudges a bit too close for her liking, which admittedly is a rather broad distance and now all cars are blamed, she isn't actually supposed to shift. But she /can/ hiss a little under her breath. While he moves the driver, she talks to something that really isn't there. Until it is, and one mischievous camp appears with a pop through a portal. See, she didn't move.

The demon promptly hops up on the driver's side mirror and shows rows of teeth. Many, many rows of teeth. The guy trying his damnedest just to get to work gets a terrifying visage grinning at him like he's just been selected to be on a game show in Hell. He squashes the brakes and howls; the imp runs off to the next problematic driver to cause more sparks of terror or reallocation of what lane to stay in while the demon queen, very much a battered and not-happy rolled under the SUV but got spared worse queen, is left floating wherever Strange takes her. In fairness, she /would/ walk.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The sorcerer looks back towards the street. Or, rather, into the street. And yes...sees Illyana's little follower causing havoc. Yet, he doesn't seem all that eager to stop it. New York City could use a little demonic traffic cop, perhaps.

Instead, Strange turns his gaze towards Illyana. With a sight twist of the hand, he sets her down upon her feet. Another flick of the fingers and the broken bones that he was able to sense are at least set and stabilized. Strange should have known that he was being just a smidge overprotective. "Yes, yes. I know. I overdid it." At least he can admit to it. "Medical training kicked in. I suppose medical school would be proud I remembered my rudimentary knowledge." Bone setting rudimentary? Perhaps in comparison to neurosurgery, perhaps.

Strange lets Illyana walk. He also frees the driver from his hex, to let her actually move. Though, perhaps a single look back to her from the Sorcerer Supreme reminds her that it would be best to report the incident. There might be a bit of forgiveness there...but it only goes so far.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The bones hurt and yet she doesn't seem to wish to show that fact. Illyana wordlessly drifts in a floating state and she glances at Stephen through pinpoint pupils, eyes a burning blue. "There would be no city for harm done you." Russian, of course, she isn't relying on English when concentration demands she keep hold of the rebellious darkness in her aching to get out. Dying, even.

No, Illyana. Not now. Don't do that.

The slow, careful walk even if the bones are set and managing to knit, eventually, is expected. Braced for, even if it isn't there. "You do well. You heal, I stab. Balance, eh?"

On an election day in another realm without freedom, people suffer the aim. Vote or hurt. Here, she is safe, watched over. She doesn't have to be a stiff-legged, angry creature because a better person than her watches out for her. Cares for her. He is the sum and the whole of what is good in mankind, guarding the edges of the realms.

"I do not deserve you."