nexus_crossings | The Start of the Storm

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event

The Start of the Storm

The god hosted Yule party left the Nexus in the state of beautiful Winter Wonderland. With the snow falling softly and steadily, and the beautiful festive lights twinkling in the darkness, the Nexus is left with a sense of serene nostalgia hanging in the cold air. This peace and joy clings to the streets for several weeks, buoying everyone’s mood as they look back on the past year and forward to ringing in the new one.

It starts in the Wilds, and the outskirts. The cold air suddenly feels like it freezes everything it touches in an instant. Light doesn’t quite pierce the gloom. Gentle snowfall becomes thick and falls hard. One or two people looking for shelter from their uninhabitable homes isn’t too noticeable. People can still enjoy their pretty Winter, blissfully unaware. Pipes freeze solid, paths become impassable, power cuts out, simple walks become baffling in the poor visibility. Soon it’s not one or two people, it’s many, it’s families. There are people coming in, bloody, bruised and scared, saying they were chased. Eventually the kindness of friends and strangers becomes strained. Spare rooms are packed to the brim and the storm that stays just shy of the bizarre torches somehow seems to have a slow, but unmistakable march closer towards a point where the Plaza, Industrial sector and Downtown meet. On top of that, people are complaining about PINpoints acting up or portals freezing over.

Streets are becoming packed full of people with far more problems than solutions. Huddling together and whispering about ghosts and monsters moving about in the shadows. In a place with no government, no organisation, no collaborative emergency services, chaos and confusion reigns supreme. And with chaos, comes panic. With confusion, comes frustration and anger. The Nexus is a powder keg waiting to blow.

That’s certainly how one Durant sees it. As a manager, Isidor is keen on organisation and order. Both things that are lacking in the Nexus at the moment. Groups pop up to help, but struggle to communicate effectively, or work together. Some people get free food twice, some people are still waiting for some at all. It’s madness, and Isidor can’t stand it. Particularly because she, her brother and sister-in-law are stuck here. So, when nobody else takes the mantle, Isidor Durant takes it upon herself to inject some order into this scrum.

In her fur hat and long coat, leather gloves and thick boots, Isidor can be seen directing people this way and that. There’s something about a confident person taking charge that means people instinctively defer to them. She becomes the point of contact quite easily, with people soon taking her direction regardless of whether or not they know her. Under her instruction, people are directed to a building that has tables set up, queues in front of them, and volunteers behind them taking names and telling people where to go. It might still be chaos, but at least now it’s organised chaos.

The question is: Where will your character go?

❅-❅-❅-❅

((Below are comments for each desk. Tag any of them, threadhop, or post with your own character. I suggest putting your character’s name in the subject to help keep things clear. Comments marked with a snowflake ( ❅ ) have been coordinated with the mods and I as official event comments. The OOC Post is here! If you have any questions, feel free to message me or one of the mods!))

Threads of Note
Medicine/Illness | Shelter/Heat | Food | Security/Crime | Lost items/people | Misc resources/Donations | Volunteers | Expeditions | Planning Table/The woman in charge | Drulb's Deelz | A Ship in the Outskirts

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Cricket's coat is perfectly modern, but he has a tendency to choose trousers appropriate to his time period, and he's basically stuck with shoes the style he always wore, because that the only thing the braces will fit in. He has some ice treads strapped onto them, which is incongruous because the rubber straps that fit them are neon orange, against the battered brown leather of his shoes, but it's a good thing he has them or he'd have tasted ice several times over on the way here.

Now, rushing back is about the last thing his legs want to do, but the rest of him is dead determined, and he nods to Steve. "Yessir. I ain't much of a runner, sir, but I'll do what I can--i-if you need to go on ahead of me I don't mind."

Same offer he made to Caspar on Hallowe'en, but this is a different situation. There are a lot of things that could happen to him between the Plaza and Harley's place.

Regardless, he's relieved already. Maybe the man he shot can be saved and maybe he can't, but at least no one can say he didn't try.

He pivots carefully and starts to head right back the way he came, in his own tracks. Steve will get to see just how uneven his gait is firsthand, now. Worse than usual, because he's pushed himself already today and how he hurts, but he's going to go as fast as he can: what would be a brisk walking pace to most people.

There's a camaraderie Steve feels deep in his chest that he knows will feel insincere if he said as much to Cricket, looking the way the soldier does now. But the real Steve, the one with the bony elbows and hearing damage in one ear. The one with the scoliosis and the asthma and the weak heart...the Steve Rogers he's been his whole life up until recently? He wishes he could be here now.

It's a pointless twist in his chest. Impossible and even if it were utterly useless for the situation they're in now. The cold might be a bad place for Steve's memories, but before it was flirting with very real death. How many winters did he spend in hospital or laid up in their drafty apartment with every blanket and coat in the house laid over him while Bucky was so sure this would be the last time Steve was sick, riddled with fever and coughs that rattled his bones?

"It's Steve." He tells the young man. Polio, or something similar, must have gotten to him. "Are you serious about trying to save a life right now?" He's sure the kid is. He can see it in his eyes. He needs to invoke that determination to do right before he suggests something he knows would have earned him a glare and possibly a fight from the Steve he no longer can be anymore.

"It will be faster if I carry you. You know the way, and we need to hurry." He doesn't say it will be safer for Cricket this way. No coddling, no pity. Practical reasons and an urgent goal in mind.

Edited 2019-01-20 15:22 (UTC)

If that other, earlier Steve were here, he'd be shorter than Cricket, but otherwise the parallels are impressive. And Cricket would still be politely calling him 'sir' and hoping to god he could help the way he's acting like he can, because he's deeply shaken right now.

"I'm Cricket," he says. "Cricket Pate. I...I recognize you, sir. Steve."

That was meant as a correction, right, not just an introduction? Not using 'sir' and 'ma'am' as a default is so counterintuitive to this kid.

"Carry me?" He slows and stops, trying to picture it for a moment, and he's got to admit it's not an idea that thrills him. Except Steve definitely looks strong enough, and every step Cricket's taking hurts worse, so after a couple seconds of thought, he presses his lips together and nods. "A'ight. Yeah. Do it."

The man's been bleeding out, presumably, since Cricket shot him. If he's not dead already, they don't have a lot of time to save him.

Any other time Steve might have made comment on the correction. One more piece of similarity between them there is no time to comment on right now. Another detail to file away for the next time they meet under better circumstances if a Next Time every indeed comes.

"Good man, Cricket." Steve's there the moment the kid agrees, one hand supporting his back as the other tucks right at the back of his knees and swiftly picks him up in one fluid motion without breaking stride as though the other weighed nothing at all. "Tell me where to go."

Steve's got a good sense of direction and crucially with his gear on he doesn't have to go at a sedate pace. It's not as quick as he could go at a full sprint (he really can't in these boots without ripping them apart and probably falling on his face) but it's it's probably a full sprint for most normal people.

The wind prickles and stings and Steve puts the icy grip of its bite out of his mind. A life is on the line right now. It's all that matters. Cricket gets set down carefully when they arrive at what he points out as Harley Quinn's home. Steve can see where the entry has been forced open. He's going to be looking for tracks above Cricket's when he ran off to get help before he lets the kid back in.

'Good man' is the kind of thing that could sound condescending coming from a lot of people, but strangely it doesn't, out of this guy's mouth. He gives Steve a crooked smile, and stabilizes himself by gripping his shoulder when he's picked up. (If Jack could see this, he would laugh and laugh. Actually, Loki might, too, although for all Cricket knows he might also politely demand Steve unhand his human and turn him back over to him. There are some things they haven't covered in their budding relationship.)

In any case, he murmur his directions and points, and his tracks haven't quite been erased, either, so they should make good time back to the house this way. As they get closer, Steve will certainly be able to see the tracks and blood trail the escaping burglar made, leading away from the building and between some of the nearby houses. It's possible the stranger thought shelter there. Maybe someone else's place has already been ransacked and taken for use as a den in the interim. It doesn't look like anyone else has come into Cricket's home, though.

The door that's been forced open is pretty spectacularly busted. Either the burglars had exceptionally good tools or they're stronger than an average human. Cricket takes a step toward the threshold, and he's all set to go in first if Steve doesn't hold him back.

Later--much later--Steve might question the coat Cricket is wearing and how familiar it is. Might twig on to descriptions of this second younger Asgardian god of mischief and wonder. Right now he's doggedly determined to do right by Cricket Pate to the best of his abilities however and that requires all of his attention.

The home doesn't look like its had more visitors since Cricket left, but Steve's hand is still at the kid's shoulder when he tries to move inside.

"Where did you leave the gun?" He whispers urgently over the wind. Let Steve go first, please. Of the two of them here, the soldier has a better chance of disarming or blocking any kind of fire. But he's not going to linger outside, either. Time is critical right now, and chances are the man Cricket shot is unconscious yet.

It's been well over half an hour since Cricket limped off toward the Nexus. He grimaces a little as he gets his feet, and pauses when Steve grips his shoulder, blinking up at him. "...it's a revolver. Weren't no shots left in it and I keep the extra bullets locked up in my trunk. Left it on the...bed, I think?"

He pauses, racking his brain, and then nods. "Yeah, on the foot of the bed. But it's empty. I know it's empty."

It's a good thought, though, and it sparks another vital piece of information in Cricket's brain. "But Harley has one, too. Hers is a semi-auto. Beretta. Got a lot more rounds in it. She's got a lock on it, too, but..."

But. If the man was less badly wounded than Cricket thought, there's a possibility he could have found it.

There's a moment where Steve runs through the possibilities but ultimately he nods before heading inside and beckoning Cricket to follow him. The risk is low enough that he'd rather have the kid inside and out of the worst of the cold already sinking its teeth into this house with the entrance smashed in like it is.

This home won't be much of a base, now. Another thought Steve will have to deal with soon, but not immediately. He's following the trail of blood through the entryway and down the hall until he comes across the partner to this crime.

"I need bandages or something we can rip into them. We're going to do what we can for the bleeding before I move him."

Cricket is pretty sure he can board up the door, at least, but he's not going to be as keen on staying there as he was when he first started. Like Steve, he's consciously set that bridge aside to be crossed later. He makes an uncertain face as Steve precedes him into the house. It feels a little weird to be letting a stranger in here willingly after being attacked in the same place less than an hour ago. Rationally, sure, he knows this is an ally, maybe a friend, but there's a feeling of worlds colliding when he points him toward his bedroom. Maybe it's just the fright. His heartbeat is quick, and he has this strange thought, watching Steve move ahead of him, like maybe Cricket is in two places at once, instead of one. Like the house is here, and empty, and the broad-shouldered blonde is somewhere else, walking ahead of him, and Cricket's just seeing the two scenes layered on top of one another.

He feels a little nauseous.

Shoving that aside, he hastens into the room after Steve. The man is on the floor, not quite where Cricket left him, but only three or four feet away. The kid scans the room, trying to think if there's any kind of weapon he could have grabbed, but aside from books, his beach-snowglobe that Adia and Caspar gave him, and maybe some lint, there's not much. The revolver is undisturbed on his bed.

The burglar is still breathing. He looks human to all appearances, and his eyes are closed, but he might just be playing dead. There's blood pooled on the floor and smeared across his coat, but it's hard to tell if it's still coming.

For a moment, Cricket finds himself wondering if it might've been better if the man did die. Because treatment won't be easy, and dying of sepsis won't be pretty...

Then he snaps out of it, nods to Steve, and hastens toward the communal bathroom. Of course they have a first aid kit, and it's a big one, in a case, well-equipped for this kind of emergency. Harley's in a violent line of work, even if she heals exceptionally well, herself.

He brings the case to Steve, hesitates a second, and then sinks to kneel beside the man, jaw clenched between nerves and pain. Steve said 'we', and Cricket's not great with triage or anything, but he'll pitch in, no question.

Cricket needs attention too, though not really for any physical kind of illness. This sort of thing is traumatizing and mental shutdown is a real concern. Steve's only one man though and this isn't the sort of problem his enhanced body makes him especially better at fixing. His time in the war though, that's reaching with icy claws out of the wind and snow to remind him quietly what he needs to do almost without him even thinking about it.

There's a still a pulse so there's still time to try.

"Okay, here goes." He'll tell Cricket where to press and hold while he gets bandages wound tight to staunch what they can for the bleeding. It's not a great sign that there's this much blood about the place and for the first time it dawns on Steve that this is someone's bedroom. This is where Cricket should have felt the safest in all the world. And it's full of this man's blood for trying to break into that home.

"Can you climb onto my back? I need my hands to carry him back to the base but I don't want to leave you here." Not sick with guilt over a life he may have taken. And not with a gun that could be reloaded in this broken place of supposed safety. He doesn't want Cricket to be alone right now.

Cricket is going to have a nice quiet breakdown later, no question. But for the moment he's calm and aside from the moments of nausea and mild disassociation (not that he knows that term), he thinks he's okay. He knows he's more okay than the man bleeding out here, and so he sets his jaw and tries his best.

He's done some first aid. He patched Jack up after Rakes beat the living hell out of him in Cricket's yard, but that's a memory that still makes him want to scream or cry or break something, so it's not useful here. His hands are shaking. He takes in air and breathes out through his nose, and thinks about Aunt Winnie, instead. Washing up her swollen legs and bandaging wounds there. Helping her out of bed and cleaning up the sheets she soiled, washing her clothes, helping her into the tub and back out. It's just a body and the things that come out of a body, and maybe he shouldn't have had to look after her the way he did, as young as he did, but he got used to it. It's a memory of resigned drudgery, not rage and hurt and terror.

It's better. He stops trembling and follows Steve's instructions without complaint. Maybe the man will live, maybe he won't, but they're trying.

He scrubs his hands clean a little too hard after they're done, but manages to lever himself up from the floor without help. And then, as a reluctant afterthought, he crosses the room and picks up his cane from the corner.

"...Climb onto your..." Cricket looks him over uncertainly. "You can carry that much? You'd go faster without me, either way--I--I'm a'ight."

He's in no frame of mind to argue if Steve insists, though, really.

"I can carry a whole lot more than that, trust me. I'm not..." Steve struggles for a moment on how to phrase it, what to say, that will make this make sense. There's no time for this though, so instead he sucks in a breath (the scent of blood is strong and Steve wishes so badly he was unused to it) and sets his gaze.

"They'll need you to file a report, in case there are more. Let's go." No arguments, no time to waste. It's not even technically a lie even if it's not the reason Steve wants to get Cricket out of here and back to the base where at least there are other people and some shelter from the cold.

He'll take Cricket and the injured would-be thief back to the base, straight for the Medical station.

Luckily for the patient, the Medical station is currently being manned. Unluckily, it's being manned by Azwel, whose procedures would not exactly garner the approval of any kind of medical board. Still, he directs them behind the desks to where beds and supplies await.

"How long ago did this happen?" He pulls open the man's clothing to expose the wound, taking in the treatment already applied.

Cricket's not sure what's left off the end of that I'm not, but even with everything else going on he's acute enough to see it's something that's hard for Steve to articulate, maybe hard for him to think about, and...and he's been kind, protective, exactly the kind of help Cricket needed in this debacle, so the least he can do is accept.

"Yessir," he says, almost gently, and puts forth no more arguments, hanging his cane off his own belt and clinging obediently to Steve's back on the way back to base.

There'll probably be questions later, but now is not the time.

Cricket and Azwel haven't talked a lot, but he recognizes him, and it's kind of a relief to see a familiar face. He gives him an uncertain smile, arms folded across his chest as if to protect himself, and answers, "'Bout an hour and a half, I reckon? Maybe a little less. Two bullet wounds. Chest and belly."

Steve's standing aside once he has the man laid out on one of the cots, only moving when he needs to help move clothing or lift the man gently for Azwel to do what he needs to. He's a looming figure and never strays far from Cricket's side. His worry about the kid is very real. It's too much, too soon, and it's taken away the sense of safety Cricket has had up until now.

Steve can't just let the boy alone now. He needs someone. Steve might not be the best for this, but until someone better comes along he's decided he'll be there.

"We didn't have time or the tools to disinfect the wound, but both shots passed cleanly through the body at least." The risk for infection if they had to go digging bullets out of a guy would be astronomical. Especially given their meager setups. "We've staunched the bleeding as best we could but he lost and awful lot before we got there."

Azwel's used to that sort of presence--it doesn't faze him at all as he smoothly peels open one of the injured man's eyes, listens to his pulse and breathing, and, interestingly enough, presses the man's fingernails. He frowns.

"The cold managed to slow the blood loss somewhat. But he's lost rather a lot." He looks at the supplies. Realises they have no blood and scarcely anything to hydrate with. There's a pause.

He clearly makes a decision, as he snatches up the strange golden gauntlets from the nearby table and slips his hands into them. Ralts squeaks in alarm.

"Noffin ell forrit," he says, tightening the straps with his teeth.

Cricket is so very, very used to dealing with things on is own, is the thing. Had Steve just taken the wounded man and headed back to the Plaza, leaving him alone, Cricket would have quietly boarded everything back up, swept and cleaned, and probably hidden under Harley's bed for the duration of the storm. Or at least until she or one of the Lokis came back for him.

He feels cold right now, a little too calm, like the part of his brain that tells him to move and speak is functional, but the rest is locked up and silent, emotions more or less flatlined.

He's pretty lucky to have someone looking out for him, and the way he's shadowing Steve is instinctive, rather than deliberate, but he seems to feel some relief from his presence.

"That happened to Forrest," he says a little vaguely. "When he got his throat cut. It was cold. Doctors said he mighta bled out otherwise."

The gauntlets make him wary all over again, and he sidles closer to Steve, until they're practically in contact. "What'chu gonna do?"

Steve's hand falls onto Cricket's shoulder, easing him back and away from the cot as Azwel pulls tight the straps of his gauntlets. He saw the look that flickered across the supposed healer's face. Steve's been aware since even before he saw the man's body that there wasn't a good chance of saving him with the supplies they've got on hand. Without a stocked medical facility there wasn't going to be much they could do.

Relying on magic-based healing is all they can do now, but it's so hard to trust something like that. Sure, he's met beings (and people, people like Wanda) that can do some strange kind of magic before. Carried powers within themselves that Steve had no answers for. Usually, they ended up being folks Steve had to fight. Makes it a lot more difficult for him to stomach seeing it being used on someone this weak and unable to defend themselves.

It's the circumstances that lead them here, ultimately, that has Steve backing up to give Azwel room to do his work. He pulls Cricket back with him before glancing up.

"Should we be here for this?" And by 'we' he means Cricket, but well. It would probably upset the kid if he phrased it like that.

Edited 2019-01-29 02:51 (UTC)

His eyes flicker over Steve and Cricket for a moment before he returns his gaze to the patient. "You might need to stay--I've only used them in this capacity once before." And that's all he's going to say about that, considering how Grøh turned out....

Over by the supplies, Ralts squeaks again, unwilling to leave her post but distressed at what her human intends to do.

That intent becomes clear as, with a huge surge of primal magick and an oddly musical tone, the blue and red settings on the gauntlets flare brightly. But this time, instead of forming weapons of hard light, the glow swirls and then arcs. It wicks into the patient's body and coruscates around it.

And while it does that, the essences of Order and Chaos dance in the atoms around and in the injured man. The tone stretches out, becomes something almost like a song, harmony and dissonance somehow weaving into a cogent whole. The sound can be heard throughout the room, the magick felt throughout the base and its surroundings, flickering in glass in abandoned buildings, humming in the magickal (or even subconscious) senses of everyone sheltering within the ring of torches.

Someone, somewhere, might have called it the Music of the Spheres.

It rings and warbles and all the while Azwel's mind works furiously, darting amidst the numbers of creation; a digit here, a few more there, all changed to tweak reality ever so subtly, to pull water and other elements from the air and match them to blood and flesh, to restore them, to seal the wounds shut.

All this for a stranger. But if not him, then who?

Blue and red flow and flicker, and the song grows louder. Azwel, himself, is still save for small movements of his fingers as he holds his hands over his patient. A twist or a pull or a flick. His gaze is intent on something only he can see. Behind him, Ralts curls in on herself, keening softly.

Colour rapidly returns to the injured man's face and his breathing grows regular again. And the better he looks, the worse Azwel looks. Whatever this energy is, it is literally draining him--his already pale complexion goes ashen and blood glistens under his nose.

And then, as though it had simply run its course, the sound and the lights die down. Azwel leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed, wheezing. A couple crimson drops fall from his nose.

"He'll live...." He steps back and drops heavily into a chair. "Do not wake him. The mind is... fragile in this state."

"...um." Cricket says softly, like he kind of wants to object, to question, because this is partly his responsibility, and since the man on the table can't say yea or nay to whatever Azwel wants to do, it seems like someone should at least try to understand what's about to happen. It's not that he distrusts magic in particular. He's fascinated by it, especially after meeting Caleno, after getting close to Loki. It's not for him, the same way pole-vaulting isn't for him, but he can admire it.

But there's always a price to be paid for a miracle.

On the other hand, the man clearly has no chance without some major intervention, so Cricket opts to shut up and let the sorcerer do his work. And what a work it is! Cricket was already a little shaken up, but the light and sound and the thrum at the base of his spine makes him feel like he's about to pass out, and potentially vomit in the process. He sways and takes a couple hasty steps backward to drop into a sitting position on a crate, letting his head hang between his knees.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath. And it's a mercy it ends when it does, and he's spared any further embarrassment.

He looks up woozily and is immediately concerned that Azwel looks about as sickly as he feels. "Y'a'ight, sir? You best sit..."

His gaze goes to Steve, then. He's halfway checking to make sure he's okay, and halfway hoping he can drag Azwel to a chair ASAP.

Steve's got no sense for the magic or arcane. But just because he can't pick up on magic doesn't mean he can't see what's being done. The effects themselves and the almost-melody that ring through the air feel like they're messing with his sense of balance. Like his inner ear has been damaged or he's experiencing the mother of all seasickness. He moves back when Cricket does, though not quite as far and is honestly startled by how unsteady he feels on his feet.

As though they'd give way underneath him at any second.

Okay, he feels a lot more woozy than he thought he would. Steve's actually gotten used to the way things hit him now. Not as intensely (unless they're things that are meant to be fatal to ordinary folk), and never lingering for as long as they should. Flashes of pain that dull away rather than chronic lingering pain he's known all his life.

Right now, in this moment? Steve feels like he's both at once. He's clearly in his altered body but he's shaky in a way he hasn't been since he was in his own. He doesn't like it one bit. But whatever else the magic has done, it's clearly done good for the man on the cot.

Steve looks up with a gaze as shaky as the rest of him when Azwel tumbles back into a chair. Turns slowly so the room doesn't spin to look back at Cricket and make sure he's alright. And then, to Azwel.

"Will you be okay?" A beat. "Should we restrain this guy?"

Azwel swallows hard, rubbing one arm under his nose and blinking at the blood there. Well. That's new.

"Might be best... for his own safety." Later, he'll examine the fellow thoroughly--with the absence of any kind of supernatural injury, it'll be interesting to see how he weathers these energies.

For his own part, though, Azwel leans bonelessly back in the chair. "...need something to... eat or drink...." Looks like his blood sugar plummeted, the fool.

It's not really Cricket's place to put a value on a stranger's life, even one that's tried to do him harm, but he can't help wondering if saving him is worth the cost Azwel's just paid. He worries his lip, patting his pockets until he comes up with about a third of a chocolate bar left over from Christmas. It's the only edible thing on him, but he pushes it at Azwel firmly. "Here. Ain't a meal, but it's somethin'. Gimme a sec, I can get you somethin' hot to drink once my head stops spinnin'."

Because Steve is the better choice for restraining the unconscious burglar. No question of that in Cricket's mind.

For his own safety? Well, considering the circumstances that lead to him breaking in to Cricket's home Steve can sort of understand how if the man wakes up stable he might try to seek out revenge and that would end badly for everyone. Especially him. It hasn't occurred to Steve yet that something Azwel did might have affected the man's mind.

He's too busy trying to get his feet steady underneath him.

"Right. Cricket will get you sorted. I'm..." A deep breath, then two. He feels a little bit better now that the magic isn't being wielded anymore. He's got this, right? Right? Yeah. "I'll handle him."

Captain James Kirk has plenty of rope over by the expedition station and once Steve murmurs what it's for he'll be allowed as much as he needs to carefully bind the man's hands and feet securely. It's not ideal but he'll have to talk to Lyall about where they're holding anyone that's captured. A makeshift jail is better than being exiled to the cold.

"Hm?" He blinks blearily at the offered chocolate, then smiles. "Ah, that'd be perfect, thank you." He has to lean forward a bit to reach out a hand to take it. Once he has it he leans back again, unwrapping it and popping it in his mouth before looking back at Ralts, who pets his hair with a sad squeak.

"I'll be fine," he says, reaching up to gently scratch the back of her head. "Don't fret."

Then the notion of Cricket's own condition makes it way through is rather sluggish thoughts and he looks at the younger man, head tilted. "You're head's spinning? What's wrong?"

He'll explain to Steve what he means once he's sure nobody is going to fall over.

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alittlehinky - 2019-02-01 02:43 (UTC) - Expand

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