718/KO!!! ...Where am I

KO		! ...Where am I
Date of Scene:	23 March 2020
Location:	Mercey Island
Synopsis:	IMP is found by the Question, who heals him and demands 2 favors
Cast of Characters:	Vic Sage, Alton Schmidt

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Vic Sage has posed:
    Darkness beckons. It's the long winding nasty corridor with fleshy barriers that promises an existence of nothing but pain. Pain that one feels as they walk through that tunnel, wending and writhing their way toward that seemingly infinitesimal intensely small staggering limited window upon creation that comes from being a pile of meat hidden behind two small organs one might call eyes. It's a darkness that only fades with the brilliance of pain, knots lashing out against the nerve endings that aren't scored or broken or bloodied.
    Until those pin pricks of light evolve into something mildly less like daggers in the eyes and slightly more resolved into 60 watt bulbs hanging from a dingy ceiling with orange wired extension cords connecting illumination to illumination. It is all horrible, the entire situation being trapped inside a meat sack. Especially this one now that it's all broken and tormented.
    And that is when the faceless man leans over, the only blessing given being the way he stops the stabbing lights from shining into those eyes. Then his voice raspy and rumbly as he murmurs, "You're awake. Good. Get out."

Alton Schmidt has posed:
"...Where am I? ...Do I even wanna know what day it is?" IMP (he's in his superhero outfit) is clearly in some pain. And...a look out the window tells him he's nowhere near Happy Harbor. Doesn't look like New York either.

"What kind of injuries do I have?" He's not entirely sure...he's studied some medicine and anatomy, trying to learn about injuries and how they heal, but it never occurred to him to study his own injures and how they heal. New course of study.

Vic Sage has posed:
    The windows are dark, some are soaped over, some are broken. The place has a chill to it but it's warm enough considering the recent weather. The roof does leak, however, its splish-splash of pattering water in a bucket might well wear on the patience of others. But for now it at least provides shelter.
    "You're in Gotham." That eerie voice is heard, calm and reserved and uncaring. "Mercey Island. Fitting."
    That building he's in looks like... a warehouse? A storage facility? Bare of walls, no decor, just come cots and a hodge podge of supplies spread around and a chemical shower that looks like you'd suffer more damage taking it than trying to wash off hydrochloric acid.
    "Found you. Atop a train. Of all things."

Alton Schmidt has posed:
"...a train? Must've been trying to...errrrgh..." He's having trouble remembering. Maybe holding the rails in place so the the train could pass? But that wouldn't explain the fact his outfit's got blood on it, and the blood is definitely his.

"Gotham? ...that's no small trip. ....Feels like I've been out for...I don't even know." He doesn't bother asking about the Prom, if he's in Gotham, it's in the past. How far in the past, he doens't know.

"...What day is it? What time is it?"

Vic Sage has posed:
    The man without a face stands up straight, snapping an arm out to the side and bringing the wrist into view of... well he has no eyes. Yet he sees enough to be able to tell him, "2:47 AM, Monday. March 23rd. You've been making free with my supplies the last twenty four hours. Roughly."
    That strange man is there wearing a trenchcoat, a hat, gloves. Definitely does not seem to be at ease with this presence. Yet he continues, "You have a concussion. A broken rib. And your wrist is sprained. I engaged the services of a street doctor. He aided you for a favor. Which means you now owe me a favor."
    His arms fold over his chest as he says in that eerie voice. "Maybe even two."

Alton Schmidt has posed:
Son of a bitch. "...Still gonna have to fly home. Don't have money on me." He doesn't seem inclined to get off the bed right away. He's feelin' that rib, now that it's mentioned, and his wrist does seem the worse for wear. The concussion explains why he doesn't want to get up so much.

"Favor...and what do you want, exactly?" He shuts his eyes again. Moving sounds like an entirely un fun proposition right now.

Vic Sage has posed:
    "Don't know now." The Question says, arms folded over his chest. "But I'll let you know when I need it from you." He taps fingers upon the bicep of his coat, then nods. "If you're not well enough to travel you may stay here. For a time. You're welcome to the supplies."
    He starts to walk over and then produces a card as if out of nowhere and sets it on Alton's chest with a casual flick of his fingers. "My card."
    A glance at the card and it seems like just a plain white business card. With a single 14 point font '?' on it.
    "If you try to fly, crash, and die. I won't get my return on investment."

Alton Schmidt has posed:
IMP grumbles..."Wallet's probably with that company...I'll have to pick it up later...ah..." It really is hard to think right now. And he probably shouldn't try flying just now. "...I'm gonna have to return to NYC...and I can't exactly pay for a taxi like this." Because, well, he doesn't really have access to his civilian ID under current circumstances. "...Don't suppose you have a trenchcoat I can borrow? I'll need to look, well, not super to pick up my stuff."

Vic Sage has posed:
    For a time Question seems to just stand there. Blankly. A few heartbeats pass. Some more. Then he murmurs. "Maybe."
    With that said he rounds, stepping away with a quick even stride toward a plastic bin that he tears the top off of with a rip of the vacuum seal being broken. From within he produces a heavy coat that is not quite like his own, but similar and darker of color. He tears the plastic wrap off of it and then tosses it on the bed.
    "Definitely two favors."

Alton Schmidt has posed:
"...I'll send you a new coat." But what Question has given him is plenty for the moment. With that and taking the mask off, he can pick up his discarded wallet and keys and other such things from the limo company he was going to use to take Christine to prom. Wait a minute. "...Send it here?"

IMP tries to sit up...and his body is telling him that's a terrible idea, so he lays back down again. "...Yeah, moving appears to be a bad idea just now. Sorry."

Vic Sage has posed:
    Taking up a place nearby, leaning against one of the metal pillars that holds up the storage facility's roof, The Queston folds his arms over his chest with those faceless features focused upon Alton for now. "Stay. Recover. Walk a block. Call."
    He lifts is head and adjusts the brim of his fedora with the sweep of two leatherclad fingers, then murmurs. "If I must burn this as a safehouse then I will be very displeased with you."
    That said he motions with a nod to the mini-fridge against the wall. "Supplies." He points to it, then points to another set of plastic bins. "Supplies. Use them if you need to."

Alton Schmidt has posed:
IMP nods, at the offer of supplies. "...Thanks. Soon as I can move I'll probably grab some food or something..." Cause...he hasn't had anything to eat since Lunch on Saturday. Hasn't had anything to drink unless Question forcefed him water. "...I might need water now, though. I last ate like...36 hours ago. Maybe a little more."

IMP kidna wants to go over and get it...but once again, moving appears to be a stupid idea, and he's forced to stay put.

Vic Sage has posed:
    A nod is given, "Under your cot. On the left." That said The Question pushes off of that pylon. "I will be back later. Try to survive." That said he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat and walks over toward a door that looks like it has seventeen different locks on it, though it only takes him the undoing of five particular ones to get the rest to fall into line. Once that's done he pulls the door open which leads into a dark foyer.
    "Don't die." He points, and then he's gone.