8880/Jimmy Hoffa's Body in a generator. (Not really.)

Jimmy Hoffa's Body in a generator. (Not really.)
Date of Scene:	30 November 2021
Location:	Chelsea
Synopsis:	Barda spills the beans. Alexander gets hurt spilling his own beans. Vital paper is filled out.
Cast of Characters:	Alexander Aaron, Big Barda

---

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    On any given day there are over one hundred active construction sites in the great city of Manhattan. It is an ever-evolving metropolis, dynamic even when compared to the other large East coast population centers. It is a common sight to see cranes reaching to the sky, scaffolding is often in place along the brilliant mirror-like sides of skyscrapers, and to the chagrin of traffic there are often detours and obstructions due to the price of progress.
    Yet even though there are a mere hundred sites, the infrastructure that surrounds the business of construction work is even larger, for to support such endeavors there are unions, worker's guilds, and support as well as technology panels. All aimed to serve to keep things in order, keep things moving forwards. But mainly... to get some kickbacks so even people who are useless in construction work can feel like they contribute and belong.
    Which is why Manny is there on worksite #13, deep in the depths of Midtown near the end of the business day. Normally he doesn't come down to the sites personally. But he's been having a day of it, and about time he got some things straight.
    "Look, lady..." The small, (though everyone compared to Barda is small to be fair), balding man gestures with one hand. "Barda." He adjusts the term of address. "I don't care where you come from, or how much they're paying you. You don't get those insurance forms to me then yer off the site."
    The union rep puffs on his cigar and straightens up, despite the no smoking signs all around the volatile area. He folds his arms over his chest, looking displeased. "This is just how things work around here."
    Which likely doesn't go over well.
    And is, perhaps, the scene that Alexander comes in on. Though it takes him a little bit of time to smile to the man keeping watch at the main entrance, though he waves the young Aaron through.

Big Barda has posed:
Puzzled, Barda looks at all the forms stuffed in her hands. Shrugging, she thrusts them over to the union rep. "There. I have no more claim over them and transfer possession to you. Your procedures have been fulfilled. The forms are yours."

The pristine forms, aside from a little bit of crumpling and mild staining from the dirt in Barda's skin, stare up at Manny, seemingly mocking him with their blankness.

"I will now return to the pit. There are things requiring my attention. Your assistance in these matters has been noted for future reference."

With that she turns to leave, her mind pondering how best to move the massive boulder that would otherwise need dynamiting. Punching it to rubble, or wrenching it out of the earthworks? Whatever, it's challenging work for ... four year old her. 250 year old her it's almost rotework.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    The smaller man watches as the forms are presented to him and then so casually let fall that he instinctively reaches for them and suddenly, voila, he is indeed the keeper of the forms. But that doesn't stop him from trailing after her, gesturing with some of the now more ragged forms. "You gotta fill 'em out, Barda. You gotta /fill/ 'em /out!/" His voice cracks at the end as he takes that moment to ash his cigar while he's trailing after.
    But then he espies Alexander and lifts his voice, "Kid! Oh kid, glad yer here." As he reaches forward and tries to recapture Barda's attention. Which might, in turn, turn her back toward the union rep, but also to the newcomer who seems... not exactly similar to most of the other souls working on the construction site.
    The erstwhile college student stops, his features shifting toward a hint of annoyance but then back to a calm friendly look as he allows himself to be brought toward this curious gathering.
    "Hey, Mr. Clayton." Though that's when he shifts his attention to the woman whom he had been hollaring at. Which does cause a brief double-take, albeit a politely covered one with a smile as he looks toward Barda and Mr. Clayton.
    "Kid, you seen your dad around?"
    "I was hoping he was here?" Though as the twenty-something speaks he has such an easy way to him, calm, precise in manner that most would not notice. An inch over six foot, and with fairly broad shoulders, he has pale marble-like skin and a shock of blond hair, as well as a small beard that lines the curve of his jaw, trimmed decently.

Big Barda has posed:
Once Barda has decided she has things to do, the concerns of lesser beings do not stop her unless something new is introduced. Leaving Manny trailing behind her as she strides toward the work pit, the introduction of a new voice does halt her rapid exeunt.

Turning in place on heel and toe, she looks over at the newcomer, giving a strangely assessing look, not even trying to disguise it. Head to foot. Foot to head.

A combat-experienced onlooker might note that her eyes pause at locations weapons could be stored and at bodily features that turn bodies into weapons.

Deciding that the situation warranted it, she walks again toward Manny and the new kid.

There's more than just shady forms here at work. She's definitively not dressed for a construction site. Cut-off jeans. A babydoll tee with the slogan "my eyes are way above this!". Cheap runners. Technically by safety regulations she shouldn't even be allowed on the site as a visitor, not to mention working it.

"I am Barda," she announces to Alexander. "I am pleased to meet you."

The voice doesn't indicate pleasure. Or displeasure. More rote recitation, like someone who'd memorized a phrase book.

More oddities: she's not got a tool belt on, but just has what looks like the handle of a tool stuck in the waistband of her cut-offs. A very fancy tool handle of uncertain origin and design.

"Are you in some position of authority here?" Manny's pseudo-deference to the youngling is noted apparently.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Hands stuffed into the pockets of his pea-coat against the Winter chill, Alexander rocks back on the heels of his boots a little, then forward again as he listens to Mr. Clayton. But when Barda's attention is regained the blond man tilts his head to the side to catch her cobalt gaze. For a moment as she might well mark what tales are told to her warrior's eyes by the way he stands, the small callouses beween thumb and index finger, the shift of his stance to instinctively present his profile to her at first... it might well give a mark of curiousity to the alien warrior.
    And, perhaps, after she makes that assessment, she might find his hazel eyes doing the same to her.
    Her voice lifts, those neutral words of greeting given. He responds, "Hello, Barda. I'm Alexander Aaron. John Aaron is my father." Which might be a name she recognizes from all those union people.
    Then, perhaps surprising, he extends his hand to her offering to shake. Should she accept his grip is firm, but not aggressive.
    If her words are neutral, he at the least does a better job of lending sincerity to his, and the way his features ease back into a faint smile might seem to indicate it's a normal look for him. "Not authority really, just grew up on sites like this. Kinda."

Big Barda has posed:
"The sites I grew up in were harsher," Barda says. No braggadocio. Just factual reportage, delivered bluntly and forthrightly. "I am no stranger to hard work. Just to this pointless shuffling of flimsy 'paper'."

Beat.

"John Aaron, the person who is master over these troops?" she asks. "His name is mentioned frequently among the 'paper'-waving drones."

Yes, the quotation marks around 'paper' can be clearly heard in her speech.

The tool handle at her waist gives a loud pinging sound, attracting Barda's attention. She stares at it a moment before nodding.

"This 'Manny' is demanding I 'fill in' information which is irrelevant. Can your John Aaron father cause this to cease happening?"

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    "I mean, he could." Alexander says at first, though his attention slips to Mr. Clayton. Quirking an eyebrow it's enough to get Manny to throw up his hands and then hand the papers over to Alexander who says, "Here, you take care of this kid? I'll owe ya."
    Which is enough to send the smaller guy waddlng away. Which leaves the God of Fear and Terror holding the paperwork. A slight grimace flits over Alex's features and if his eyes could shoot rays of death it's likely Manny would not survive this day. Yet alas, he turns back to Barda.
    "Just he hates paperwork too. I can..." One hand lifts to push through his hair and he grimaces, then he looks back. "I guess if you can take a break we can sit and figure it out. But..." He bites his lower lip then flips through some of the pages. "It's going to take some doing." He glances toward the entrance then back to her.
    "You hungry?" The thought flitting into his mind as he espies the ubiquitous food truck that floats ever near to any given work site.

Big Barda has posed:
"I am always open to comestible consumption. I was taught from a young age to consume as much as possible whenever opportunity presents itself."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a fistful of crumpled bills.

"I am given to understand that food can be produced through application of these. I am eager to learn of this process so I can replicate it myself."

It's a lot of crumpled bills.

Decision taken, without waiting, Barda strides off in the direction of the food truck, expecting Alexander to follow. Many eyes follow her. Some appreciative. Most ... unfriendly.

"I will cause the production of food for you, Alexander Aaron, as a sign of goodwill."

Such camaraderie!

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    And once again, Barda is left marching forth with others trailing in her wake. Though Alexander's stride is checked a little as he's organizing the forms, trying to put them back into some semblance of order and then digging into a pocket for a pen that promptly is placed above one ear. "That's nice of you, thanks!"
    hough the young Olympian, as he follows, is scanning the area and nods to himself. The picnic table in that dog park will serve as a place to eat and a decent writing surface. Yet then they're at the food truck and he says, "Just some sandwiches and sodas, Joe?"
    To which the proprietor of Joeswich Joestar's Food Truck answers to as he gives a nod and looks toward Barda as she sallies forth with her wad of money, but leaves her to figure out the denominations as he heads into the back to start assembling the food.
    Which leaves Alexander there, thumping against the side of the truck and leaning there as he holds up the pen and presses it to one of the papers, "Ok first, is Barda your first or last name?" A beat, then he tilts his head, "Or both?" Since he's... somewhat savvy to the craziness of New York.

Big Barda has posed:
"It is a short form," Barda says, once the sandwiches--a prodigious quantity thereof since she decided it was easier to just put down a bunch of money and buy things until the money is covered--have been properly secured and she's taken a seat. "My full name is Big Barda."

You can practically hear the stock footage face palming.

"It is the first name I have ever had, however, and the only. I have never had a need for another name, though perhaps I may be fortunate enough to have that if I find a husband worthy of me."

There's that stock footage again.

"When I tried to explain this to Manny he got very upset," she adds as an observation. "He seemed to wish a simple answer only, but I was unable to provide him with such."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Joe, at the least, is an honest man. Perhaps, however, moved to that moral stance by the simple fact that Barda is indeed Big. So he calls out before she wanders off, "Hey, Lady! Don't forget your change."
    But if she's already gone, Alexander will scoop it up and bring it with him toward the designated picnic bench over in that nearby dog park area. At least it's a fairly nice area, though the Fall has stolen the leaves from the trees here are a few pine trees that offer a hint of green.
    Once the sodas and sandwiches are settled, Alexander for now ignores the food as he places the forms on the tabletop. "Alright. Big Barda." His lip twists a little as his inner monologue has a few things to say about that. Which also spurs him to look at her and give her a once over again. His raised eyebrows seem to show that he accepts the name as fitting.
    "So..." The other things she offers gives him more insight, "I imagine you're not from around here, where are you from?" Yet he doesn't ignore the other bits she says, the information about a husband gives him confidence to tick the box, 'single', when it asks if she's married or not.
    "And were you ever in the military?"

Big Barda has posed:
"I was raised in Granny Goodness' Orphanage shortly after my removal from the Inception Labs," Barda says promptly. She pauses a moment and frowns. "But of course you know not of these things. The Orphanage is on Apokalips."

A sandwich disappears into Barda's mouth, with her eating it like it's just something she crams into her body for sustenance, not really paying attention to flavour, texture, or other such niceties.

"The food units are peculiarly shaped," she opines as she reaches for another, rustling plastic bag and paper wrapping announcing the next victim. "But they are pleasant."

The opinion piece delivered, she continues with her primary narrative, waving away a pesky fly. So fast that the impact kills the fly and drops it to the dirt at their feet.

"I served Lord Darkseid for many years first as an orphan Lowlie, then, with Granny Goodness' training as one of his Female Furies, then finally as leader of the Female Furies."

Either she's living in an ornately-constructed world of delusion or the world just got a whole lot stranger. The obvious note of pride in her voice, however, gets the notion across that she was a Big Deal. Capitalized. In italics. And bold. With double-underlining.

Another sandwich disappears into the sacrificial altar of her teeth and tongue.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Her first few words are enough to draw his attention up from the paper before him, brow furrowing slightly. Then a little more. Those pale hazel eyes meet hers even as she's starting in on the sandwiches. For a moment he worries at his lower lip, then leans forward and writes in Apokolips as her point of origin. And then he marks out the bits about family medical history.
    His eyebrow quirks as his gaze drifts to the sandwiches, and his lip twists upwards for some reason. Then he shakes his head and murmurs, "Do you have any prior health issues you'd like to tell them about? I'd say no because if you say yes then they'll try and screw you out of benefits." At least such is what his father has told him, and of course, his father is always right.
    Yet he's still recording, still scribbling. After a moment he pauses and murmurs, "Though, you seem very... healthy."
    "The Furies?" He asks about, then half-smiles, "What are those?" He asks directly then says, "I mean, this is more my curiousity, not for the forms."
    As he says that he reaches for one of the sandwiches himself.

Big Barda has posed:
"We are," Barda starts saying, pride in her voice before she stops dead in her tracks. "..."

She goes silent a moment as she grabs another sandwich to make disappear (and to give an excuse for silence, it seems, since this disappearing act is taking longer than before by an order of magnitude).

"They are," she says, her voice now more muted and distant, eyes travelling to the skyline of the city, following the unfamiliar--alien--silhouette. "The elite warriors of Darkseid's armies. Granny Goodness commands. I was field leader. Bernadeth, Lashina, Mad Harriet, and Stompa were my followers."

The voice grows curt, dismissive. Colder than even the November winds of New York City. "That is in the past," she says, eyes focusing now on Alexander. "I have no medical conditions."

High above the construction site, in the workings of the massive crane lifting a diesel generator into its place on what should be the 24th storey of the building under construction, a flaw in the steel cable suspending the generator causes one strand to break. This isn't a problem, naturally. Steel cables are made of multiple strands specifically so that single breaks don't cause everything to tumble to the ground.

Unless there's a cascade of breaks, naturally, because the load being lifted is outside of the official ratings of the cable...

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Unaware of what goes on so high above, at least for now, Alexander watches her as she speaks, his head tilting subtly to the side as his curiousity twins with perhaps some hint of concern. Her manner screams to him in its subdued way that there is a story to tell and perhaps one that would be more forthcoming under other circumstances.
    But then she clarifies about her health and he nods, eyes lowering a little as he fills out that part of the form with the scrape of the pen across the cheap paper. Slowly he goes from section to section, swiping through sections that don't fit, marking others to reference other points. His lips part then he asks...
    "Do you have someone you'd like to make a beneficiary in case something happens, or a next of kin? Like a loved one?"
    Yet even as he says that, so far above, there is that steady metallic squeal at the highest point of the construction site even as the crane that's carrying the generator sweeps to the right in its slooow arc, the generator jostling, shifting slightly. The squeal turns to /twang!/ that sounds like a slinky drawn to its breaking point, the straps around the device shift roughly. Another line twists and breaks after a loud complaint.
    Far below the sound does not carry enough, even as some of the men start shouting high up near the top floor closest to the crane. Yet what does carry is that sudden bout of cold sweats, that burst of fear that surges into the minds of each man as he witnesses something that is always the dread of any of the iron workers. It's a fear that grows, and then sharpens to a knife's point when the cabling breaks...
    And that generator starts to fall, some of its cabling snapping free, and the framework around it cracking open.
    Down in that area off site, Alexander suddenly furrows his brow and sits up. Then turns his head and unerringly looks up toward the shape of the distant falling device that seems heading straight down... to Joe's food truck.

Big Barda has posed:
The first twanging sound raises her head, but its lack of repetition prevents her from isolating its source. Barda's eyes return to the task at hand.

"Beneficiary?..."

The baffled face is more than enough testament to just how alien the very notion is to her.

"There is one I love, but he ..." She makes a face. A complex of emotions flitting over her.

"He is not here on your planet."

Another outing. Or very detailed fantasy world.

"Is there some kind of group dedicated to the eradication of orphanages? I would have this go to them."

Wait. What!?

Before there's any chance of follow-up, however, the generator starts its initially lazy-seeming descent before it picks up speed heading to the sandwich truck. As Alexander's sensing of the fear strikes, Barda's body is in motion. The picnic table crashes as its middle is torn out by her leg's speedy withdrawal, knee impacting the edge and shattering wooden construction. The bench portion goes flying in what would be a death-dealing arc were it anywhere near people. (It gets perilously close to some. More fear for Alexander to gnaw upon.) Faster than anything human could possibly move, Barda streaks toward the truck and, with a mighty leap, intercepts the falling generator in mid-air, smashing into it with such impact that it gets sent sailing a good twenty metres away from the truck into the ground, leaving an impact crater that it pokes itself out of.

Well much of it does. A slight misjudgement of the fragility of the item leaves a sizable, still-lethal chunk in a spinning, whirring mass heading down to the truck. What it lacks in removed mass it makes up for with slicing torn metal; what was once an agent of flattening has turned into a smaller agent of mangling and tearing.

But it's the thought that counts, right?

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Though he is not as fast as Barda, not able to generate such height, Alexander has had a hand in a few small ways in the past being able to do what he can to help. And sometimes he can even do it subtly.
    Which is why when she breaks into a run he does as well, though she quickly gets ahead. He tucks in and while Barda makes that fantastic /leap!/ into the sky to intercept that large portion of the generator, the youth maintains his place level and rushes... rushes... looking upwards.
    He sees the other piece descending. No time for him to intercept or knock or come up with something. Even as the mass of metal falls straight toward the food truck and... to poor Joe looking up and up at his fate hurtling down at him.
    Alexander closes that distant almost instantly and /plants/ his shoulder hard into the side of that truck, causing it to roughly slide and skid to the side with the force of the impact. Enough?
    Just enough as the metal /crashes/ into the ground a few feet from where the truck now sits...
    And a few feet from where Alexander lies on his back, his pea-coat torn, and with him grimacing as he holds a hand over his shoulder. Even as the dust settles, even as people look around to try and see what the fuck actually happened?
    Alex lies there and groans, "Ow."

Big Barda has posed:
Barda hits the dirt shortly after the main bulk of the generator does, rolling and bounding to her feet, tee (tastefully, within the limits of the CCA guidelines) artfully torn by the abrasion.

Along with the cuts and abrasions of her skin.

Popping to her feet and looking around, ready to do whatever was needed next, she seems a bit baffled momentarily with the movement of the truck. Seeing Alex on the ground, however, answers the question for her (though likely not for anybody else). In sub-second time she is by his side, kneeling.

"Are you hale?" she asks. "I apologize. I did not understand how fragile the machinery was."

Because that, of course, is the real issue here, right? Fragility of the machine, not strength of the woman who hit it.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    For a moment the sunlight is obscured by the presence of Barda kneeling over him, the haloed iris behind her granting a hint of the angelic to the tall woman even as the youth lies there grimacing and holding his shoulder to its socket. His eyes narrow slightly, and his lip curves upwards. Perhaps it's something about the moment. Or just the angle. Or the way she seems something entirely else he says quietly.
    "You are..."
    The word hangs there, the smile remains with a hint of a look to it that in a more charitable moment one might consider just ever so slightly smitten.
    But then propriety causes him to clear his throat and he murmurs, "Alright. You're alright, I'm glad." He eases himself upright, seated as already the joint mends, enough for him to extend it slowly, stretch it, then draw back. "I'll be fine soon, just need a little time."
    He'll try to gain his feet, though if she offers a hand he won't turn it down.

Big Barda has posed:
The hand isn't offered. Barda stands, looking down, arms crossed, the very picture of someone refusing aid ... yet there is concern in her eyes in strange, contradicting counterpoint.

"I am gratified you are well, then," she says, ignoring the cuts and abrasions on her own person as if they didn't matter.

Beat.

"And you as well, purveyor of sustenance," she finally adds after realizing that the sandwich man is still in the truck and standing, stunned and staring. "It would be a poor reward for nourishment to be destroyed by my own ignorance, would it not?"

Joe blinks. Smiles reflexively. Laughs nervously. Then faints dead away as Barda turns her attention back to Alexander.

"Is there more of this 'paper' to fill?" she asks, acting as if all of this either hadn't happened or was just not worth mentioning. She looks back to the table and makes a disappointed noise at the back of her throat, seeing the damage done to the sandwiches from her explosive exit.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Rolling that shoulder slowly, Alexander's eyes drift back toward the picnic table where the papers were left, hopefully not lost to the wind with their rapid departure. His lips part as he responds, "I think we got the majority of it,"
    Then he looks back at her and does notice the cuts and the tears that her efforts cost her. His eyes rove her form and he frowns slightly though he speaks still to the paperwork. "If needs be I'll make sure it gets done." A curious subtle change to his tone, not that of the casual overly nice normal person who wanders through his day. It's the tone of someone speaking of orders and matters handled.
    He looks up to meet her eyes and then says, "You're injured, though I imagine it's of little concern to you. Do you want to have it seen to?" A hand lifts slightly as if he could bandage it now, but instead he lowers it once again.

Big Barda has posed:
"I'm wounded?" The bewilderment on her face speaks volumes as her hands begin a very thorough check of herself for wounds, fingers passing over (and in the case of one cut, in) the injured parts of her body without her registering anything.

Despite looking at it.

"I don't feel any wounds," she says, her voice dubious. Then she guffaws. "Oh, you wished to perform jocularity." The tone of her voice is that of someone who THINKS there's a joke and is pretending to laugh along. That slight hint of nervousness gives it away.

"No," she asserts, brushing stray hair out of her face and tying it behind her back with, of all things, a very girly scrunchie, "I am hale. It takes more than this to wound me."

Blood from where a torn shred of metal cut into her side drips down her lats, playing peek-a-boo from behind tattered fabric.

"I am happy to see you whole as well," she then says. Happy, not 'gratified'. "And I thank you for the assistance with the paper." Curious eyes look across to the sandwich truck. "I fear that I have not recompensed you for your efforts, having destroyed the sustenance packets. Should I acquire more?"

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    "If you'd like," Though at this moment there are no small number of onlookers and people gathering, some who are relating each bit and piece as to what they've seen, and others motioning in the direction of Barda and Alexander. It's clearly attention they're going to draw, and more in the mean-time. Which has him looking sidelong in their direction before he looks back to her.
    "Though, we should leave. My own abilities and identity linking the two aren't known to most people and I'd prefer it to stay that way." Curiously mirroring the pattern of her words in some ways, an instinct to put one at ease? Though as he pulls his coat a little tighter he frowns and sees where it's torn from the impact into the truck. And for some reason /that/ gets to him as a frown darkens his features. "Oh man this was my favorite coat."
    But it's a momentary thing, brief before he motions toward the picnic table they vacated as he murmurs, "C'mon, let's get the paperwork if it survives, then grab something more to eat. There's an all you can eat crab shack near the river?" He offers that, perhaps knowing that the all you can eat might well spell DOOM for that crabshack.
    Yet as he walks he adds, "Though I would appreciate if you'll allow me to see to the cut on your side, if only to help me feel better and discharge the obligation I feel when I see a comrade injured."
    A beat, then he phrases it more to perhaps fit her world view.
    "However small that injury may be?" That said he begins walking.

Big Barda has posed:
"If it will ease your mind, you may inspect the scratch," Barda says. Looking around at the people as they gather the papers, she adds, "If you were brought up with the fragile likes of these, I can understand your concern. I am not so fragile, however."

There's just a ghost of pride in that. In much the same way that the movie Ghostbusters had ghosts. And a slight hint of a sense of superiority. In much the same way that the Pacific Ocean has a slight hint of wetness.

"All you can eat or all you'd care to eat?" she wonders aloud as the pair proceed to the fiscal ruin of the crab shack.

Somewhere by the river, a poor entrepreneur feels an unaccountable chill run down his spine. It must be from a passing November zephyr, right?