6878/The Ghost of Edward Hopper

The Ghost of Edward Hopper
Date of Scene:	11 July 2021
Location:	Empire Diner
Synopsis:	Interrupted meals end in fleeing into the dark.
Cast of Characters:	Jessica Drew, Michael Erickson

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Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica likes the heft of the thick white ceramic coffee cup and the aroma of the upscale coffee, freshly roasted, complex and chocolatey. She sits at a long counter on a high stool. It's late so she has the counter mostly to herself, sharing it with a young, hip couple covered in artistic ink and piercings. Tilting her head back slightly, she can watch passing traffic in the overhead mirrors, part of the cafe's esthetic of polished chrome, linoleum and leather. The cafe is empty enough for her not to be concerned about co-opting the stool next to her with a modish leather bag and a linen jacket.

The mirrors reflect back a woman in her mid-twenties, fit only in the way that someone who works out is. Her dark hair, shoulder length, parted on the side has a slight wave to it. She has large green eyes framed by dark lashes and a generous mouth. Lowering her eyes from the parade of lights, she nods at the waitress who places a plate in front of her, containing two perfectly cooked eggs over easy, cheese grits and three strips of bacon. Solid comfort food that she indulges herself in after a few action packed days, full of stress.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    This is Jessicas neck of the woods, of course, but Michael's been coming to the Empire Diner for decades now -- it's the only place he voluntarily leaves Murray Hill to dine at on a regular basis. Tonight is one of those periods of visitation, and for a very similar reason. This week he's been shot at, blown things up, helped save the Lincoln Tunnel, and now...he returns from having crashed a drug deal while trying to get a computer that, apparently, no longer existed on the scene. It's been a bit of a wash, tonight, though he did gather more data on the Spiders.

    Presently he enters the beautiful diner, so chromed up it reminds him of home, with hands in pockets and an expression of someone who's tired themselves. Because he has. Punching people through walls. He sidles up to the counter, noting yonder gorgeous woman, and settles on the other end of the counter to hold it up whilst waiting for the server to get to him.

Jessica Drew has posed:
She vaguely notes that someone now counterbalances the other side of the counter. But, she is hungry. The plate has her full attention. And, nothing has ticked her delicate sense of danger. Picking up her fork, she cracks the yolk on the egg, enjoying the viscous slide of gold dammed against the grits. They can cook in this cafe. It was a fellow SHIELD agent who had introduced her to the soothing creaminess of grits, a new food for the child of English parents. She eats with poised gusto.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    They absolutely /can/ cook in this place; getting the attention of the guy behind the counter he puts in an order for a pile of grilled ham and scrambled eggs, juice, black coffee - nothing like capping off a losing night with a cholesterol bomb, and so that is what he's getting loaded in the rack. His coffee comes with juice already, and so he sets about sipping the java while peering down the counter at Jessica, who's digging in with all the abandon of someone whose stomach has a hole in it.

    A smile plays on his lips. It's not /entirely/ pleased. It's the smile of someone who thoroughly expects that the Feds are going to crash in any minute. It would be about right for his night.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The first egg is gone. The second will top the remaining grits which she will eat with alternating bites of salty bacon, perfectly crisp. The edge off of her hunger gives her time to look around the cafe. Mug in hand, she casts a glance down the counter, past the young couple. Her gaze stops dead on the man at the end.

No way that he is in here without having followed her. Or, so speaks her paranoia. Exhaling slowly, she thinks furiously, glad for the gun in her bag. Now, she has reason to watch what is going on in the street. Rightly or wrongly, she associates the man, Michael, with the grind and shock of steel impacting steel. She supposes that he has seen her. How not if he is following her.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Yes, yes. She is the greatest of prizes, always to be followed, to be chased. Paranoia, some say, is just the other side of vanity. He salutes her with his mug, but does not otherwise call to her - after all, she could be watched herself, armed men could be somersaulting out from the kitchen in moments from now. But there's certainly no reason to not be friendly, and so salute her he does in that little way before turning to take his first deep, lovely, caffeinated sip from his coffee mug.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Hrumph, she snorts into the coffee at his salute, takes a sip and raises her mug to him. Whatever is about to happen, at least, she will have had her coffee. She can feel her shoulders tensing at the idea of anonymous black SUVs screeching to a halt outside the cafe, releasing thugs or agents, depending on your point of view, from all the doors. She imagines the screams of customers ducking under tables at the first barrage of bullets that destroy the perfection of the cafe's retro decor. Jessica sighs before taking another sip.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Yes, it would be a battle royale all over again, and him without his armor - but he did not come unarmed, and it would take more than a few of the solid-matter slugs these human primitives use to bring him down. And so he is content to sit there at the end of the counter, watching the tattooed lovers, and the lady with the big green eyes that got the Feds latched onto his arse for a couple of days. Happily enough, he long learned how to deal with that.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica sneaks a look at him from under her eyelashes, then takes another bite of her pile of egg and grits. Next, a mouthful, then a look outside, she even surreptitiously examines the other diners sitting at tables. So much for having a pleasant meal. Before her next forkful, she frowns at Michael.

There is movement from behind the swinging door leading to a prep area. Something falls in a clatter of metal insert pans and utensils. Before the door opens, Jessica is under the counter with her purse, regretting the rest of her food.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    His eyes track the way of the but he does not react the same way that she does; in fact, he slides off the stool and walks across the way to where she hunkers, squatting down next to where she is. "Hello," he says to her, a faint if rueful smile lining his lips. "We've got to stop meeting like this. You okay?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
The cook flying backwards out through the door ruins the killing look Jessica shoots at Michael for his comment. "Yes? I think the two of us in the same spot at one time is just damned dangerous," she says through gritted teeth. The gun is already in her hand.

While still crouched under the counter, an man carrying an odd-looking pistol follows the unconscious cook out through the same door, accompanied by the screams of diners as they scramble out of their seats and duck under tables. Two men come through the front door at the same time.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Oh, so there /is/ a reason for her to be so twitchy! "And here I just wanted breakfast," Michael tells her as screams and shouting herald yet another episode in their apparent chronicle. Up on his feet he goes, with Jess still stuck under the counter, and snatches up the first thing he can -- in this case, a fork. Which he hurls at the man, a gleaming, stainless steel dart, projected at what he assumes to be a gun-wielding nutbar with that arm of his, as lightly as if he might have flicked it their way. The ton-lifting arm. Guy's gonna need a hospital if he's hit.

Jessica Drew has posed:
It was an excellent throw. Blood sheets down the man's face from the fork lodged in the orbit of his eye. The gunman claps a hand to his face; his scream added to the chorus of voices in the cafe. With luck, it will only need some careful suturing.Too occupied with his injury, he is effectively out of the fight, leaving the two who entered through the door.

Jessica notes the inked couple has made it to the shelter of a table that they crawl under. Good thinking.

There is only the thin stem of the cafe stool between Jessica and the incoming men. Still crouched, she tugs Michael, "Come with me," and rounds the end of the counter to hide behind it.

She steps over the groaning man with the fork in his face and kneels beside the cook who is still breathing. Looking up, she meets the eyes of the terrified waitress who had been working the counter. With a reassuring nod, she gestures for the waitress to stay down.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He's lucky that Michael didn't throw harder - it would've gone straight into his brain, and there would be /plenty/ of questions then. Around the counter he goes with the lady with the big green eyes, apparently utterly fearless; he gives the waitress a wink as he dips beneath the counter, going for something else to throw. Would that he had brought his microwave blaster, but that...would be suspect, too. Plenty of horribly maiming things to hurl, though - in this case, a coffee pot. Empty, but that matters not to him. He gestures to Jessica with it, nodding toward the incoming fellows on the other side of the counter. Shall he?

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Too bad you didn't grab the full one," she whispers then points toward the front door. "On my count. Ready?"

Sirens sing the song of the New York night in the distance - one of the diners having busily dialed 911. The precinct is not so far from the cafe.

"Alright, here goes!" She pops up from behind the counter, the years of HYDRA and SHIELD training keeping her steady in the face of having her late night breakfast ruined. She aims, her pistol using ICERS, a technicality that will keep her from the police if she doesn't get out of the cafe before they arrive. Jess has no desire to leave casualties behind. A shot whizzes by her head, lifting up and cutting off a lock of hair. Simultaneously, she fires dropping the first gunman.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Don't need it," he says in reply, already ready to move with her - and up he pops, hurling the coffee pot into the face of one of the gunmen just as Jessica's ICERS drill the other. It hurtles toward him, a glass cannonball, smashing into his skull with more force than is healthy. He goes down with a splintered glass facial, his face streaming with blood, clutching and screaming as he gets only the finest Glaswegian treatment by way of another galaxy. Does he see the lock get clipped? Who knows? In the press of combat anything can happen.

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Good one!" Jessica comments as she surveys the room for injuries or more incoming assailants. "We have a choice here. Stay and explain ourselves or as you Americans say, get the hell out of dodge. Who do you think they belong to?" Jessica gestures with her gun at the two downed men, looking back over the waitress's shoulder as she helps her to her feet. "You okay?"

"I have a carrying permit and that was self-defense as these good people can attest to. There are just other complications. Maybe. No time to explain."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Don't know, don't care, don't have any interest in dealing with the Feds again this week." Yes, /her fault/. He's up and jerking a thumb at the kitchen, then, leaving the men on the ground to scream and twist as the cops are on their way, pushing open the door so that Jessica can head out first.

    He's only a gentleman, after all.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Giving him a nod worthy of a palace ballroom, Jessica tucks her gun into her purse and swings open the door. The police lights turn the night blue outside the cafe. Michael and Jessica have already found the door leading to the alley that will take them out of there. If need be, Jessica will climb a building, still not certain whether she will leave Michael to fend for himself or not.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    What he doesn't do is let her take off. When they exit to the alleyway, safely (at least for the moment) on the other side of the diner from New York's finest, Michael closes the door behind him and stare at the woman for half a second, lips set in a line. "Right," he says, "You need some place to go? I live on the East Side, we could get there before the cops start looking."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Living on the run has been her reality for months now. She no longer trusts the police or her adopted government to protect or succor her. It's a reality that many people have had though she had never thought that it would come to her in the United States. It has eroded her trust in everyone new she meets. Jessica covers her flinch at his offer.

"I don't think it's a good idea," she says, keeping an eye on the end of the alley where the police have begun arriving.

"Let's not talk this over here. Come on." As she walks rapidly away from the backdoor of the cafe. "Every time we are in the same place everything goes sideways. I have a place to go. Thank you for your offer."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He frowns in the moment, but then he shrugs. "Well, it's up to you," he says, following her, hands tucked into his jacket pocket. No need to fight her on it, especially if she's got a place to go. Assuming that she actually does, of course, but he's not going to push on that score, either. So he follows. Silently, for the moment. Letting her take the lead.