6817/Dill Pickles

Dill Pickles
Date of Scene:	06 July 2021
Location:	Katz's Deli
Synopsis:	Dill pickles are more trouble than they are worth. Michael Erickson tails Jessica Drew and likely regrets it. After adventures in the subway, keeping a young man from jumping in front of a train, an armored SUV slams into a car they are in and excitement ensues.
Cast of Characters:	Jessica Drew, Michael Erickson

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Jessica Drew has posed:
The deli has no flair to it, which gives it retro flair, especially with the photos of celebrities lining the walls of the big room. Instead, it must look like it did eighty years ago, Jessica muses. She orders a Reuben from a server behind the counter, wearing a peaked white hat, standard kitchen checkered pants, and a short-sleeve white shirt - straight out of the fifties of the last century. She likes its unpretentiousness.

There is nothing remarkable about the dark-haired woman pushing the tray down the line of deli stations. Precisely as she would have it, being quietly well-dressed in an aqua sleeveless linen dress that falls past her knees with open-toed sandals. She does carry a gun in her shoulder bag, but that's not obvious.

Today's lunch is a comfort food run to enjoy the luxury of the authentic food that the City offers. The previous night had left her as shaken as he has been since HYDRA's takeover of SHIELD. The agent is putting herself at risk for the best sandwich and dill pickles in NYC. As she reaches the end of the line, she makes a sudden decision to carry out her food. There is a limit to the risk. The cashier, an older balding man, frowns hard at her until he looks closer, then shrugs and bags her food. Comfort food parcel in hand, she exits the busy room and turns in the direction of the Astor Station subway.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Katz's Deli is a good way aways from where the man called Michael Erickson lives on Murray Hill, but business takes him across th city, and frankly so does a good sandwich. Odd, isn't it, that he might come to love food on this benighted backwater world as much as he might at home. No exotic food from across the galaxy, here - just a big pile of kosher roast beef between slabs of freshly carved bread, mayonnaise (mayonnaise!) and lots of onions piled upon. He gets it every time he's here; not the most adventurous selection, but he likes uncomplicated where his food is concerned. Uncomplicated means well known, and well known means not easily poisoned.

    He /was/ born to a noble house, after all. These things one has to worry about.

    Where Jessica is just emerging from the deli, Michael stands outside, tucking his sandwich into the leather messenger bag he wears slung across his torso. The appearance of the woman from the other night's raid gives him pause...and then gets his immediate attention. A thrill of paranoia runs up his spine, but this is snuffed out by the stronger desire to find out what the woman's all about. And so he waits until she's on her way, and direct himself to follow - blending in with the crowd, decades of experience and training informing his trajectory, momentary pauses, all the little steps needed to make him well-secreted and easily ignored. Even for a woman like her.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica pauses once to look surreptitiously behind her. She uses a storefront display that mirrors the street. The pale face reflected on the passing cars and pedestrians is solemn as she admonishes herself silently to get over herself. She doesn't see anyone particularly suspicious but then a good tail wouldn't be. Pretending to study the shoe display while she reassures her that no one is following, she slips a pickle from the bag to crunch. Spider sense still tingling, she slides back into the stream of people heading toward the stairs leading down to the station. It's not uncommon for her to feel paranoid of late.

She trips down the stairs to stand in line for the automatic ticket vendor. No passes to identify her, no credit card payments, she had bought her sandwich with cash. After a final look behind her, she grabs her change and heads to the Lexington Line North platform.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    And if he's nothing else, Michael is, in fact, a damned good tail. He hangs far back as he watches her course, plotting in advance every vector to follow. She's fast, she's strong. She flashes lightning from her hands. He does not want to be on the tail end of that, especially as he does not wear his armor to soak it; his jacket and clothes are not holographic constructs of the close-fitting battlesuit. This time.

    Down the stairs he follows, still lagging behind, and takes a different course to get to a parallel vendor and get his ticket. Through the turnstile, and soon enough he is at her platform, though a car or two ahead. Just this guy, tall, white and blandly handsome. Like a ton of guys in New York.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The platform is crowded with a mix of day-trippers and people heading back to the office. A classical trio is setting up to play mid-platform, probably out-of-work Juilliard students from how young they look. The guy next to her, a middle-level manager in insurance judging from his off-the-rack clothes, gives her the once over, approving of the lines under her dress. Jessica gives him a look that she hopes will provide him with a serious case of heartburn from the lunch staining his tie.

Her sense of impending danger ramps up the moment that the trio begins the first note of Bach's Sonata No. 6 in G Major. What she doesn't notice is the young man standing at the entrance to the station. Sweat soaks his shirt as he rocks on the edge of the platform.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Music. The Shi'ar consider it a mark of madness, dischordant warping of natural tones. Of perception. And though the client cultures are not denied the arts, even the most beautiful music still seems eerie to him, beckoning one to slowly destroy their minds in emotional excess. Eerie, yes...but after forty years he has come to like it, in the way one likes a hurricane or some other dangerous, natural force.

    He, too, does not see the young man at the station entrance. He's too busy keeping track of Jessica, taking out his smartphone to outwardly appear to squint at its lit display. For just a moment, he wonders if she'll punch that man in the tie that ogles her.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Breathing through her nose, Jessica decides that hitting the man with her lunch would be counter productive. Instead, chin high, she looks up and down the increasingly crowded platform. The music fills the upper reaches of the tunnel, covering voices and muting the approach of the train. Instinct tells her to move toward where the train will enter, putting her on the last car.

Insinuating herself between people, she meanders toward the entrance. People are fanning themselves. Everyone is hot. The subways of New York never handle the summer heat well. It smells but she catches an odd odor. She has no word for it except someone is not right. Ill and off-kilter are the words that skitter across her awareness. Like a spider surveying her web, she looks left and right, then centers on the young man in a faded t-shirt and beltless jeans teetering on the edge of the tracks.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Happily enough, Michael's people thrive in the heat. It does not ruffle him, the humidity, the press of bodies waiting for the train - he sees her position for the last car, and begins sto move that way to take the other end of the car from her. But then he sees that young man, the way he wavers on the lip of the patform. He heads that way, expecting an unfortunate under the spell of some narcotic or another.

    "Hey, man." His baritone voice can likely be heard, her attention directed his way. American, native to the city from the accent. "Take a step back, man. Careful." His hand reaches out to rest upon the man's shoulder, seeking to guide him back a step, but he is wary. Wouldn't be the first time he aimed to help someone in this city to find them exploding in his face.

    Not literally, of course.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The man stiffens and flinches under the stranger's hand, mumbling unintelligible words. Jessica's eyes widen as he shuffles closer to the edge trying to get away from the stranger's voice and the pressure of the hand on his shoulder. Her sense of danger redoubles but she is too intent on how to get keep this boy from jumping in front of the train to give it creedence The high pitched warble of metal twisting under the weight of a full train adds its note to the music; it is seconds away from them.

With a nod to the man holding him, a whole conversation in the penetrating look she throws at him, she says loudly enough to be heard over the din of the approaching train, "Pull him back." She steps in front of the boy to block him.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    She comes this close to him - this close. The day he chooses not to wear his armor with its disguise matrix, its advanced vision sensors through which he could scan her body. Stupid. But there is no time to curse himself. He is there, and she is there, and between them this unfortunate. "Yeah," he offers in simple answer, taking a step back, seeking to draw the boy back with his natural strength, irresistable for the common man and even many superhuman individuals. He does not make a show, just...pulls back as much as he needs to. Resistance is futile.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The train rushes into the station, pushing a miasma of hot fetid air, quintessential New York. It is dizzying to feel clothes plucked by the force of the air displacement. Jessica gulps, filling her lungs and makes herself turn to face the young man.

Something clicks for her, she is smelling crazy. A glance into the young man's eyes confirms the misery that he exudes. She is both deeply sorry for him and glad for her brand of invulnerability which would protect her from it.

Gently but firmly laying her hands on his shoulders, she guides him further back from the edge under the strange man's power. She locks eyes with the stranger, realizing that he is quite handsome, something that she wouldn't normally note but they are sharing an unusual moment, and that there is something odd about him, as well.

Groping for words, wanting to keep their would-be jumper calm, she asks the young man, "Is there someone we can call that can help?" Her expectation for a useful answer is low.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Handsome, but interchangeable. The sort that people make memes on the internet about, how their features all blend into one another. Grim, though. Serious. And the eyes, sharp and blue, seem to pierce. Same stare that every detective and spy in creation have developed over time. His hand is already slipping into his pocket. The other hand firmly on the man's shoulder, still, like a velvet vise. Crazy he might be, drugged, whatever, it doesn't matter - in the moment, he's not a threat, just unfortunate. She, however, remains fixed in his gaze.

    "I'll call the police," he tells her, his voice a rich, crisp baritone. Local accent. Manhattan. "You all right?" Silly thing to ask, if it's for her. Or it could be for the kid.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Dismay shows on her face. The police are guaranteed to set the young man off, they will be preemptory and rough. It's like the handsome man pressed a button.

The train doors open, letting out a stream of people that jostle them as they surge toward the tunnel exit. The young man's protest begins quietly, "No. No. No. NO. NOOO. NOOOOO."

Passengers begin to stare but no one wants to get involved in this. They are too busy. As his voice rises to a scream, someone stops to take a picture, the last thing that Jessica needs. She does not want to be on anyone's social media feed, not with HYDRA and the government on her trail. Abruptly, she grabs the yelling man's shoulders and shakes him, keeping her back to the phones recording them. "Quiet down. QUIET DOWN," she commands. Intently staring into his wild eyes, she asks again, "Who can help? Who will be good to you?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He frowns, but he takes a deep breath. Leans down, into the young man's ear. Says...something. Something her superhuman ears could hear.

    "You're all right, son," he murmurs to him, his grip strong but easing gently. "I'm not calling the police. You got family? Just tell me. I can find them. Just take a deep breath with me. Try and listen. In....out. In...out. Like the bay, son. In. Out." Gentle, but firm. Like a big brother, or maybe a father. Much older than should probably come out of that mouth.

    Then, to her, his voice raises, equally firm and gentle. "Hey. Don't shake him. Ease off."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Green eyes hard as obsidian, Jessica says through gritted teeth, all too aware of the cameras behind them, "You ease off. I needed him to stop shouting."

Turning her attention back to the young man, she says, gently, "No police. No police. Who can we call that can help?" The gentleness in her voice is belied by the daggers she shoots at her erstwhile helper over the boy's shoulder.

"Friar Lamana, ah, Joseph," he mumbles. "He'll be so...yeah. Mad. No, not mad, sad. Yeah."

Jessica's eyes soften. The people behind them move on now that the spectacle is at an end. "Give us his number. Maybe we can take you there. I mean, I can take you there."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I don't mind helping." The words toll out, firmer still and certain. "Could get wily again." Then, to the young man: "In and out, son. Concentrate. We'll get you back to him, just think of his number." Her discomfort, beyond irritation, is noted. Who is she hiding from?

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica shoots the handsome man a speculative look, her eyes closing briefly on the thought of dill pickles, unwanted attention and strange strangers. The boy needs help. He doesn't look over nineteen at a stretch. She suspects that he has begun the long sad voyage into schizophrenia that can begin for boys at his age.

"Do you mind using your phone? Ah...you." She nods toward her helper. The boy mumbles a number. Jessica watches her unnamed stranger put it into his phone.

Behind them the doors close on the train. "Subway or taxi? Friar Lamana, does he work in the city?"

"Yeah. Chelsea. St. Nicolas's Shelter. You know, on the Hell's Kitchen side."

Indeed, she does know it. Her apartment, closed now, unapproachable to her is a few blocks away from the Cathedral and the Shelter that adjoins it. "Taxi. I don't think I can do the subway right now."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Taxi, no. Car service." The kid is an unfortunate, yes. No threat save for the conventional, nothing either of them could not handle. He takes a few minutes while she holds the lad steady to dial up a car service, one that he uses for select services - pausing to add, "Unless you've got a problem with that."

    

Jessica Drew has posed:
Waving her hand, palm up, she makes a standard New York City, her adopted home, whaddya whaddya gesture to him. "Whatever works." Jessica pauses and adds, "Thank you."

A thought occurs to her just as someone walks by with a Katz Deli bag. Half-heartedly, she takes a step toward the person, "Hey!" With a resigned shrug she turns back to the two, "Well. I'll get something later. Let's get upstairs."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Uh-huh." He dials the service, reaching into his bag as he does so - the sandwich comes up, wrapped neatly in its own Katz packaging. This is handed over to her as he murmurs into the phone, and keeps his eye on the two as he then dials the shelter. "...yes, all right," he finishes, nodding to nonexistent figures. "We'll be there in about an hour or so. No. He's fine. Thank you." Back to the lad, over whom he bends again, murmuring a quiet 'Come on, then, Friar Lamana's waiting' before he jerks his head toward the exit of the station entrance and the street beyond. "Come on, then. Car'll be there in fifteen minutes and the shelter's waiting. Let's go."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Nonplussed, Jessica accepts the sandwich, looks at it in her hand, then hands it back, "No, that is very kind of you. But no. Let's get...I never asked your name...back home. I'm Jessica. Call me Jess."

"Hey," the boy answers with a shy glance at her, "I'm Stephen. Steve."

"Nice to meet you. Let's all go upstairs."

Another train roars into the station as they walk up the stairs.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It's Mike." The sandwich is tucked back into his bag, and he helps her walk the lad back to the street - nobody's thought to bring transit police into the situation, so they make it cleanly there. After a few minutes a black Lincoln shows up, and opening the door ushers Jessica inside, then the boy, before sliding in himself.

    And then they're off, the older man who drives the car giving the kid a dubious look before glancing to Michael and then shrugging. "Midtown," he instructs the man. "Saint Nicholas Shelter, please." No need to rattle off an address, of course; the driver knows the way.

    Unless she speaks up, or the lad has an episode, Michael will remain quiet as the car heads through Manhattan traffic - but it isn't terribly long to get there, as far as driving through the heart of the island is concerned, and soon the dull brick facade of the shelter awaits. "And here we are," Michael says as the car pulls up to the curb; he ducks his head to address the boy gently. "You ready to go, son?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
A young man with a closely trimmed beard in black pants and a black shirt with a white collar waits for them at the top of the steps. He bounces down the steps to the car and opens the back door after bending down to look through the window.

"Go ahead, Steve. It's alright. I'm glad you've got someone looking out for you." The boy climbs out of the car to stand sheepishly next to the Friar. Jessica climbs out, glancing at the two. Laying a light hand on the Friar's upper arm, she invites him to talk to her privately. They have a whispered conversation concerning how they met Steve. The exchange is over in less than a minute.

"Take care, Steve. I think these folks want the very best for you. Good luck." After a nod to the priest, she hesitates, looking up and down the street before getting back in the car. If she had been tailed, she no longer feels the tingle of pursuit.

"Well, thank you for that. If you wouldn't mind dropping me a few blocks from here, I'm going to get something to eat. That was very kind of you taking care of the boy."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He stands by the car, does Michael, overseeing the exchange that has the kid ushered back into care. When she peels free to get back into the car, he nods, telling the driver to head off to her chosen destination. Then there's a moment of quiet that passes as the car pulls off the shoulder and back into the street.

    "I'm not a cop," he says once the car is under way, loud enough for just her to hear. "But if you're in trouble, miss, I can direct you to someone that isn't police. If you want."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica is a good actress, working for SHIELD requires it. She feels her heart accelerate as she scrambles to appear surprised, she clutches the bag in her lap, hoping that she won't need to use the gun she carries. That is her first thought as she turns slightly in her seat with an ingenuous questioning rise of her eyebrows, "Why would you say that? I mean, thank you." Facing forward again, fingers still tight on the top of the bag, "Why wouldn't you call the police if you thought that? I mean, who would /you/ call?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He shrugs. "Depends on who you would be running from, I guess. You just seem...avoidant. Especially of scrutiny." He looks out the window now. "I'm a security consultant. If I spoke out of turn, though, I'm sorry."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Who do you work for?" The seemingly casual question, masking her instant preparation to spring into action. She closes the bag with a glance at the driver, gauging how she could take care of him and her fellow passenger without wreaking the car or getting into an accident that would cause more attention on her than she wanted.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Oh, just private clients. Corporations, stuff like that. Above board." He looks back at her, lifting his brows. Quite aware that she is pumping him, however subtly. Who does /she/ work for? "Sorry. I don't mean to be forward. You might have noticed that I like helping people ."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Still on high alert, Jessica smiles, shifting minutely in her seat in case she needs to elbow him in the face and get out of the car. The doors are still unlocked but that can be controlled by the driver. What was she thinking getting back into the car?

Swallowing, Jessica considers his words, reviewing the last hour. Katz Deli bag, same subway platform, just a helpful guy. Right. "Were you following me?" She, against her better judgement, gives him another chance to come clean. Killing someone will not make her day.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Not at first." He shrugs. "Saw you on the platform, thought you were being followed by...I don't know. Mugger, abusive boyfriend. Something." Michael lets out a snort as he looks back out the window. "But that's all. I'm sorry to be problematic. I forget myself, sometimes." Michael leans forward a bit, then, squinting out the windshield over the driver's shoulder. "Won't be long."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Not at first? I know I don't look that nervous. Michael, is it? Something is up but I can't quite get what it is." She slides sideways in the seat to face him. "I'm not someone you would like to cross. Michael. Nor do I make idle threats. I dislike people that do that or that brag. Do you understand?" She puts a hand on the back of the driver's seat.

At that moment a black sedan driving fast out of an alley t-bones the car, pushing it across the intersection into a fire hydrant. The hydrant instantly turns into a fountain. Jessica rips the headrest from the driver's seat in an attempt not to land in Michael's lap. Up front, the driver slumps into the airbag that has gone off.

        -----POP-----POP-----POP------

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Ahhh, now he's getting there with her. Her anxiety is peaking, and either she'll give something away or he'll break a few ribs. Either way, he's learned a great deal from the association already. "That's not necessary, miss," he begins, but then the side of the car is stoved in and the world is an explosion of sound and impact. There's a woman halfway in his lap, blood rushing in his ears, and all is the echo of carnage.

    Didn't wear the armor. Did /not/ wear the armor. Had he worn the armor, he would be perfectly fine. But in the moment, though uninjured, he is rattled, blinking slowly as he frames the back corner of the driver's side. A muddy, slow glance to Jessica to make sure she's not dead - very likely not, considering, but one must check. Groans something quietly to himself that sounds like nonsense. "Pra'ii," he manages, rolling her off him and opening the door; he falls out of the car onto the sidewalk. He /should/ probably be injured, or at the very least a good deal more shaken up than he is - but hollow-boned though he might be, his people are leagues hardier than humanity, and he is coming to very quickly now indeed...

Jessica Drew has posed:
The world slows down. Jessica sees the side of the car cave in and feels the centrifugal force simultaneously launch her into the air and pull her toward the oncoming car. She knows this is no accident. Things speed back up as she throws the headrest aside and recovers her purse with lightening fast reflexes. The pop of gunfire only confirms what she knows.

She crawls out of the car behind him, "Stay down. Stay behind me," she says, brandishing a gun. The hydrant gushes water, wetting them both, while people on the street scream and duck for cover. Carefully, she quickly duckwalks to the back of the car to peer at their attackers. There are four of them in anonymous black tac suits, carrying big guns. Shades of last night.

"Optimists," she mutters to herself and brushes the water from her eyes. Her hand comes away reddened with blood. Someplace in that slow motion tumble she hit something or she has already been shot. No matter. She's alive and planning on staying that way. Leaning against the rear end of the car, she returns fire, the ICER bullets quieter compared to the bullets being sprayed at them. Sirens already wail above the noise of traffic and rush of water.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The world is back into effect with the roar of water. With it, the roar of blood in his ears. Anger. Alien instincts fire, and he is up on his knee, bullets spanging off the side of the car. "They're going to kill the driver," he growls, and snapping to one knee snatches up a chunk of dislodged concrete broken from the curb. He hurls it at one of the armed men with the terrifying strength given him by biology and gravity, sending it through the air like a meteor. The chunk whistles into the man's armored shape, striking him squarely in the side of his head; the helmet saves his life, but he goes down like a sack of bricks. To the outward viewer, it's a very skillful throw - the victim, however, will be spending some time in the hospital with a bad concussion and a torn neck muscle.

    It would appear that scary men in big guns has next to zero effect on a man who's trod the soil that he has, faced what he has. These primitive monkeys will not bring him down.

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Good shot," she exclaims, popping up and shooting the man following the guy that Michael beaned. He drops to the street clutching the side of his unarmored neck then falls unconscious.

"Try to get the driver out while I cover you. I can't hang around for the police to question. You might not want to either. The police will take him to the hospital."

Questions crowd her head, an unnecessary distraction when she needs to focus on getting them both out of this alive and make her escape. That throw was no ordinary throw. The man has an arm on him that Big League baseball scouts would kill to have. How was she followed? Who the hell are these people? HYDRA associates seem more and more likely. The two gunmen left are warier now. Their assailants hear the sirens as well as she does. With a leap, she fires four shots off quickly then ducks down to run to the front of the car through the fountain of water filling the gutter. They won't expect her from this direction.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The thunder of the guns keeps his blood surging, and he's on the car again. /Careful, old bird, careful,/ he tells himself as he opens the door, ducking as a stray bullet splinters the windshield. He's got very little worry about government involvement - that's for later, and the feds aren't likely going to be shooting at him. In the moment, he doesn't care who these people are with the guns, only that they are the enemy. In the moment, honed military instincts demand that they must be killed.

    Only they must not be.

    Gritting his teeth, Michael gets the driver's seatbelt undone, and is in the middle of pulling him out of the crashed sedan. Save a life first. Then worry as to if another must be taken.

Jessica Drew has posed:
While the shooters are focused on Michael, Jessica comes around the front of the car and leaps to the roof of the car that hit them. She shoots the gunner firing at Michael. He drops straight to the ground. Police cars wail through a traffic light two blocks away. Jessica is out of time. She stitches the other gunman with the rest of her clip but loses sight of him as he drops to the ground.

Without regard to being seen, Jess jumps to the roof of the wet, wrecked car. "You staying or coming? I'm out of here!" She yells to Michael.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Damn it," he hisses, "I'm going to have to deal with this later - you owe me answers, /woman/!" To his feet, then, the driver tucked safely behind the car. He vaults over the hood of the car, muttering the whole way, stealing after her.

Jessica Drew has posed:
"We'll see about that." Bleeding from a head wound, linen dress soaked and stained from the water and car jumping, Jessica punches the gun into her purse and takes off down the side street not blocked by incoming police cars. She runs at first, only looking back once to see if Michael is following her. Surprised to see him, she notes the speed he runs but has other things on her mind as she takes the first right, skidding to a stop in front of a store selling sports clothing and shoes.

"In here. I need something that will be less noticeable." The kid who had waited on her before and flirted with her, comes out from the backroom, takes a look at her and motions her to the dressing. Kids from the hood get it.

"Dude," she hears through the dressing room curtain, "what happened to you?"

"Hakeem, take care of my friend. Get me a towel, if you don't mind. I need a hat, a t-shirt, and, um, some running pants. Size six. Some shoes, size eight. You pick them out. I don't want anything too flash. I've only got a couple hundred on me, right now. Oh, yeah. Just a thing. Some people don't like me."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He's running fast, but not at some inhuman speed - he's athletic, very well-trained, but perhaps disappointingly human. He keeps pace with her, as best he can, and that puts him in the back.

    But soon he's caught up as she stops, tucking into the shop alongside her. "I've got it," he says as he enters, panting slightly with exertion of the moment - it's a show, of course, but it's a practiced one. "Good...what the Hell is this? Who the Hell are you?" Not angry, but grim as he leans hard against the inside of the store by the doorway, hands on knees, bent over. "I /knew/ you were running from someone, damn it!"

Jessica Drew has posed:
In her primmest accent, she demands, sticking her head out of the dressing room door, "Would you get in here and not talk in front of the children? Sorry, Hakeem. He doesn't seem to like being shot at." Outside the store, a police car corners and races toward the scene of the accident.

Hakeem grins at the man as he returns with a selection of clothes for Jess to try on, topped with a towel. He hands them through the curtain, giving Michael a proprietary smile.

"Oh, good on you, Hakeem. Nice selection."

Five minutes later, Jessica emerges in loose breathable black running pants, a pair of black and red New Balance shoes, a white t-shirt that does nothing to hide her curves and a black billed hat with a New Balance logo on it. Middle of the road clothes for a middle of the road girl looking to disappear in the crowd. Eyeing Michael, "Do you want to change, too?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "No." Michael gives her a withering, stony look, bringing himself back up to his full height as Miss Sass over there coems out in new running gear. "I'm going to have to go back. I ordered the car, and they're gonna want to know what the hell happened. So I guess i'm going to have to cover for you." He makes a face. "Don't...tell me anything. I really don't want to lie to the authorities and say I don't know anything when I do." A glance between the boy and the lady. "Are you gonna be all right, at least?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
Mouth pursed into a moue of disapproval, Jessica shrugs. "Suit yourself. Witnesses will have seen me. The driver saw me." Concern breaks her icy act, "Was he alright?"

She looks sideways at Hakeem who points at himself. After a decided nod from Jessica, "Ring me up while we talk this out, Hakeem. I won't forget you." He leaves.

"Look, I can't go back because I'm wanted by the government." She takes a quick breath, shaking her head. "I won't say more. Suffice it to say that I'm a white hat in all of this. Whether you believe me or not."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Yeah I figured that." Right, right. Of course. "Driver'll be all right. But..." His eyes tighten. "You still owe me. My name's Michael Erickson. I really am just a security consultant, but I'm open to listening to what you have to say." He moves to the door, now. Will he see her again? Probably. Her curiosity might trump good sense like his own did.

    His hand rests upon the doorknob, then, not yet departing. "Those gunmen. Bad guys, right?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
"As bad as they come if they are who I think they are. I'm ninety percent sure at this point. Did you notice their guns?" She gives Hakeem a high sign as she walks Michael to the front of the store. "Give me your business card. I'll be in touch. Thanks for taking this so well. This certainly didn't look like your first rodeo. Where did you learn to throw like that?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I was too busy trying to get shot." He makes a face as he says it, and then shakes his head. "Combat training. Grenades and knives and baseballs on Saturdays for a long time." Now Michael turns the knob, opening the door and giving the woman one last once-over. Taking in last details. "...you know," he says after a moment, "You probably want to wear something looser." He makes a vague gesture at her, all her toned roundedness. "Kinda stand out, you know?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica touches a finger to her head above her ear and winces. "Yes, well. Not good guy guns, then."

Drawing herself up to her full height, Jessica nails him with her green eyes. "Not in this hood, I don't. Don't make me think less of you, let me preserve the mirage of a gentleman." She breathes a laugh, nearly smiling, "Bye, Michael. Don't let them keep you down at the station too long. I'm sorry for the scrutiny this will put you under."