Cry for Help

[sapphire]

~Takes place inside the Westchester Art Gallery~

The faint sound of a Nickelback song played in the background as the soft ticks of the keyboard were rhythmatically orchestrating their tune. It was quiet and dark with only the faint light of a desk lamp and the computer screen filling the small office of Samantha Carter. Since her arrival in New York, Sam spent most of her evenings busy balancing the books and researching possible clients for her and the gallery’s artwork. The higher the cliental, the better her chances of becoming a noted artist in the community. However, the constant fear of her mutant gene coming forth and her losing everything she ever worked loomed over her like a dark cloud.

A most reputable and upscale client from Virginia recommended her to the Westchester Art Gallery with a letter of recommendation and a personal phone call. A human was actually showing the act of kindness to a woman who despised them. But, it meant a greater pay and possibly a better life. Despite her hatred towards humans, she still found time to look for the good in those that demeaned her her entire life.

Typing the last of her journal entries for the day, she looked over her work one last time then closed her laptop. Sitting there for a few moments, she looked around the darkened office and quietly thanked the unknown who had given her a chance at a new life. She truly wanted to believe that there was some good in this world.

That’s when the phone rang. Samantha nearly leapt from her chair since it was well past the normal hours of the gallery. She thought possibly a wrong number as the second ring tingled in her eardrum. Picking up the phone, she politely answered in a soft yet firm tone.

“Westchester Art Gallery, how may I help you?”

Silence enveloped the room as no one spoke on the other end. Sam thought she wasn’t loud enough, so she raised her voice and tried to keep her patience.

“Westchester Art Gallery, may I help you?”

The voice on the other end made her hair stand up on end. It was resounding sinister man on the other end that spoke in a low maniacal tone. It was almost as though she was talking the murderer in a horror movie.

“I’m watching you mutant.”

A click followed the voice and she quickly hung up the phone slamming the receiver down. Her hands shook violently as the voice echoed within her mind. Who knew she was a mutant? How did they found out? Was it a random phone call? Could it be a prank, but not a good one to a real mutant? Samantha blinked and took in deep breaths. Her head darted from side to side as though someone was there, watching her. She didn’t want to lose it all, not now.

<Open to any mutant who'd like to save a damsel in distress>

[Primer]

Keeping a low profile- another necessary but extremely tiresome aspect of Dr. Sean Garrison’s new life as ‘Primer’. For weeks he’s been cooped up in the rather ramshackle Brotherhood headquarters with the unchanging company of his brothers in terrorism. Entertaining as said brothers may be- he smiles slightly thinking of Manslaughter and his tree climbing finesse- it isn’t the company or the life that he’s used to. With New York City so close by it’s been immeasurably tempting to simply head out to dinner, a lounge, anywhere with some of the essence of the life he’s accustomed to and away from the depressingly clichéd lair of evil he’s holed himself up in. Yet it wouldn’t do for him to be recognized publicly too much in New York when he’s supposed to be in his vacation home writing the psychology manifesto of the twenty-first century. Despite the condescending humor with which he views his celebrity with the general public as the ‘Dr. Phil of the mutant era’ he can admit to himself that he enjoys the recognition in the eyes of people he passes on the street, the preferential treatment, and admiring glances. Still more valuable is the respect he garners in the highest echelons of business and fame. The last time he checked his voicemail three executives, a senator, and- he smiles- a pop singer had left messages enticing him to come out of seclusion for one more session, just one more.

No, he’s not ready to give that up at all, but when he’d gotten the message from an employee about the painting he’d been keeping an eye on the market for- an early piece by some vile junkie or another who’d happened to show a remarkable talent for watercolor before he’d died of a cocaine overdose in his rat hole apartment- arriving recently at the Westchester Gallery…well one little field trip couldn’t hurt could it?

Well it might not hurt me, but if someone doesn’t scurry along soon I’m going to take this terrorist gig out for a spin and cause some damage he thinks now, thoroughly exasperated, as he waits in the main hall of the gallery for some sort of personnel to appear. He sighs, taps one leather shoe against the ground, and sweeps his gaze around the immaculate and well-appointed show room again, appreciating the aesthetic like a starving man would savor the aroma of a roasting chicken. Terrorists are not known for their interior decorating.

Oh to hell with this. He straightens from the wall he’d been leaning against and strides down a hallway that opens from the far end of the room, evidently containing offices of the gallery’s employees. A soft light glows from under one of the doors and pauses outside it, rapping his knuckles lightly against the wooden surface.

“Hello?” he calls, baritone voice pleasant and lulling for all the impatience evident in the tone. “The gallery is still open is it not?”

[sapphire]

Taking in deep breathes and trying to control herself, Samantha keeps looking around the room. Slowly she approaches the window, but not allowing herself to be seen outside. She peers around looking to see if there's someone on the sidewalk with a cell phone or at the phone booth possibly playing a prank. But the streets were empty with occasional figure walking by on their way to different destinations in their lives.

A small tapping noise spins her around like a top as her feline senses somehow kicked in to hear what was outside the office door. Her heart again began to race wondering if whoever was on that phone was outside that door. It was closing time and it would make for a great opportunity to get Sam alone. Her whole body seemed to shake from fear and anxiety. But, her feet seemed to stay planted on the carpet below. She became more terrified hearing the footsteps come closer to her office.

Then a voice rang out and she nearly jumped out of her skin as she listened carefully to the tone.

“Hello?”

It sounded differently, but she couldn't tell with only one word spoken. She remained silent waiting for more words to come forth and they did.

“The gallery is still open is it not?”

A sigh of relief came over Sam as she realized the voice was definitely not the one that called. She took in a deep breathe and approached the door. Her body was still shaking from the energy exerted through fear so her hand trembled turning the door knob and opening the large wooden frame.

Mustering up a smile, she spoke in a gentle yet shaking tone.

"I'm sorry, I was just closing up the gallery and didn't hear you come in. Is there something I can help you with Mr.....?"

[Primer]

Primer restrains a sigh as the door is opened to reveal a tall, tremulous looking woman. Of course. The fluttery female alone after hours. If you’re scared of the dark don’t pull a night shift sweetheart. The dismissive thought flickers through his mind even as his face adopts a charming smile and his stance straightens in an unconscious attempt to make up for the four inches she has on him, a little habit of posture he’ll never quite overcome for all his poise. Poise is one thing he can tell himself truthfully he has more of at the moment no matter how lacking he is in height at 5’7”. His appearance doesn’t so much scream money as whisper it in a smug undertone- his casual clothing looks comfortable in the way the clothing of the nouvelle-riche never does but to the trained eye obviously costs more than the average man’s best suit, and his face is perfectly kept with not a hair out of place or bit of stubble visible. To top it off he’s sporting a natural, healthy looking tan even in midwinter. They are the subtle marks of care that the uninitiated mistake for natural beauty on television and when seeing them lift their hands to their own normally blemished, pale features with despair.

"I'm sorry, I was just closing up the gallery and didn't hear you come in. Is there something I can help you with Mr.....?"

“Garrison.” he supplies smoothly, a bit surprised she doesn’t recognize him as she seems the type to watch the mid-level news stories about his appearances, and of course the shock of one of the country’s most visible human sympathizers of the mutant cause being attacked three months ago had made headlines. She was probably getting her hair done that day. “I’d arranged to be shown the new Grier piece you got in? The owner said I could stop by any time I liked and,” he spreads his hands in front of him with another little smile playing on his features, the expression seeming to humbly inviting her to share in the little joke he’s about to make “I like this time just fine.”

He considers her for another moment and raises his eyebrows slightly, “Though perhaps there’s someone else in who could show me the painting? You’re looking rather unwell but I’ve made quite the trip to view the piece and I don’t think I can come another time.” He could calm her down with pheromones too but he rather likes seeing how far he can get with people on his own charm before he resorts to that tool. Beauty in simplicity and all that. Besides, if possible, he’d rather foist the nervous woman off on someone else and get his painting in peace.

[[Grier is an arbitrary name and the painting’s a made up water-color so if the thread turns round to describing art go nuts, s’all fictional]]

[sapphire]

After hours, the lifted up nicely neat bun in decorative barretts and pins usually became a somewhat wrangled mess. By now, her hair would have been let down to reveal the very suptual sexy woman that lies within the timid fearful face of Samantha Carter. She gave her visitor a glance about and almost immediately saw that he was not a burly street guy ready to jump and maul the mutant behind the office door. Instead, her eyes feasted upon a handsome young man who appeared to be in his mid 30's with the most stylish of casual wear adorning his body. There was no apparent noticeable features to denounce a physically fit body underneath, but the apparel on the outside showed his richly potential. His coy smile was a instant turn off as she realized this man was only putting on a face, not revealing any true nature about himself at all. And the scent. Everyone she comes in contact with has a certain body aroma about them. No two individuals are alike and she can usually remember a scent once its been placed into her memory. He wreaked heavily in men's cologne, but she got a faint musky odor that she admired but without visual confirmation.

He seemed a bit perturbed there in the doorway as though she was the maid and he was the master of the mansion awaiting his morning coffee and newspaper. But, she was trying to get a name for herself and the customer was always right, even if they were a scumbag of a human with loads of cash. They still paid her bills.

“Garrison.” , he answered looking even more shocked than pissed that she didn't recognize who he was. She had seen the television and knew of a Sean Garrison and his efforts with the mutant community. She indeed had better things to do than watch the television and see more mutants slain or demeanored. Never did she see a story that actually uplifted a mutant in high regards. The only one she had ever heard about was a man by the name of Charles Xavier and his efforts to bring humans and mutants together in a civilized world. Yeah right. Like that's ever going to happen. And didn't this Xavier die anyways?

Samantha may have not known who the man before her was, but she surely could persuade a stream of water to flow upstream if she needed to. It was all part of her job and to bring in new cliental. So, she bit her lip at this man's apparent rudeness and listened to his explanation of being there.

“I’d arranged to be shown the new Grier piece you got in? The owner said I could stop by any time I liked and,”

Yes, the Grier piece, piece of junk in Sam's mind. She prefered the glamour and elegance of a more serene and soft toned painting. She didn't like to brag, but her wildlife oils were very well detailed and much more calm than the radical paintings of a drug addict. She knew what statement was coming next. They're all the same. Human rich bastards who think they can just snap their fingers and we'll jump. Just a few minutes. Give a speech and show him the painting..

“I like this time just fine.”

She started her introduction with an apology that would hopefully deter any more grief between her and her headache forming in the back of her skull.

"Garrison? Thee Sean Garrison. Why I've only seen your photos and snapshots on television and in the paper. You look nothing like those photos. They don't do you any justice. Hmmm, the Grier painting, yes. Mr. Padelecki did mention you would come and see the painting. His schedule is so full with meetings and client dinners and charity events, it probably slipped his mind to tell me that it would be soon and at any time."

“Though perhaps there’s someone else in who could show me the painting? You’re looking rather unwell but I’ve made quite the trip to view the piece and I don’t think I can come another time.”

Unwell? What I oughta have a nighttime snack, she thought as her fear turned soon to aggrevation. She held her own and appeared unaffected by his coarse words. Going through a lifetime of people like him, she almost became immune to their insults.

"I'll be happy to show the painting. Just let me get my keys. This painting is kept in a secure location." Although I have no idea why.

[Primer]

"Garrison? Thee Sean Garrison. Why I've only seen your photos and snapshots on television and in the paper. You look nothing like those photos. They don't do you any justice.

“Well thank you, that’s very kind.” Primer responds graciously enough to the saleswoman-like flattery, giving the little nod of someone who’s accepted such conventional compliments too much to be affected one way or another by them. Step one, flattery.

"Hmmm, the Grier painting, yes. Mr. Padelecki did mention you would come and see the painting. His schedule is so full with meetings and client dinners and charity events, it probably slipped his mind to tell me that it would be soon and at any time."

Step two, polite chit-chat while you search your scuttling little brain for where you put the keys etcetera, etcetera. By the numbers, delightful, really. “Ah yes, I believe I did stop by rather sooner than he expected. The world can be an inconvenient place for us all. I hope Mr. Padelecki is well, he’s the best dealer I’ve ever had the pleasure of doing business with, and you can tell him that if you like.” he counters with his own light social remarks without really thinking very much about it. The woman is beginning to bore him already- he’d thought with her height and sophisticated good looks she could interest him but so far she’s been rather typical. The fact that he’s given her all of a minute to make an impression doesn’t register with him as unfair, she’s a baseliner after all, no more significant than a pigeon on the street in the grand scheme of things, and as one’s eye passes over a pigeon it’s forgotten as quickly as he intends to forget this woman unless it does something truly spectacular.

"I'll be happy to show the painting. Just let me get my keys. This painting is kept in a secure location."

“Of course.” he leans against the doorframe and waits. Step three, show me the painting and I’ll be on my way and you’ll be none the wiser about having just shown a terrorist around the gallery. Funny old world we live in isn’t it?

[sapphire]

Striding to the desk, she knew exactly where the keys were. She never laid them anywhere else. For some reason it had become a habit of placing them near the table and on the note pad underneath. Something bothered her about this Mr. Garrison. She had no idea why, but he surely wasn't fooling her. Psssh, some rich bastard thinks he's all that, when actually he's all not.

Samantha didn't even bother to place her navy jacket over her blouse. She didn't even bother to button her white silken shirt back up. Why not? He's probably not into women anyways.

If there was something about Samantha that didn't need to act out, it was relying on her feline mutant gene to allow her to walk with the grace of an elegant cat. No practice was ever needed, it just happened. And with heels, it only made her body look extremely more sensual with grace as it glided across the shiny cement floor.

As she reached the door, she smiled again at Mr. Garrison and shut the door behind her. She left the light on knowing she would only be back there finishing up what she had started. That was if no one else decided to interrupt her routine.

"This way Mr. Garrison", she shot at him walking in front allowing her gracefulness to allure his attention. Not that she was doing it on purpose and it sure didn't look as though she was by far. It was just something that lured men to think differently about her, usually not in a most dignified manner.

But whatever works.

[sapphire]

((I'll just continue this thread but at a different night and time))

It was well past closing time and Sam was in the office again balancing the books and setting up more potential clients. Interviews and presentations were also on her schedule to place appropriately in the date book. Having them stuck all over her computer screen on small fluorescent notes wasn't working out that well.

Her mouth was dry and she reached for her water bottle. "Empty already? Well time for another drink Samantha. Too bad it wasn't laced with an umbrella", she coiled talking to herself and rising from the desk. Slipping on her low grey heels, she kept her hair half up in a bun and grabbed some loose coins she kept in her top drawer for the vending machine.

The timer on lights had already expired and all the lights in the building were off except for the outdoor ones beaming in through the windows. A normal human being would need a flashlight to scurry their way around the building and find anything, but Samantha relied on her feline acuity to walk around. Plus, she had been to that vending machine so many times, not only could she buy stock in Avian, but could probably make it there blindfolded.

She took in a deep breath putting the coins in the appropriate slot and hitting the numbers. When the bottle didn't drop, she looked inside the machine.

"Oh damn, it's stuck."

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Brad Michaels thought he was a pretty good guy, overall. He loved his wife and children, and he worked hard at the office Monday through Friday to give them everything they needed. He even went to church on Sunday. I am a good guy, he thinks defensively as he sneaks into the alley with Rob. This just needs to be done. To make a statement. When the info had been passed on from high up, he’d been initially hesitant, but had eventually understood its necessity. A good guy, except for one thing, that is…

He hated mutants. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s nothing about the way they look, or even their powers. Brad shakes his head underneath the black ski mask. He’s not that shallow. No. It was the way the ones that made it into the media seemed to think they deserved special treatment. That Magneto guy, for example. Word had it that he thought that mutants were a new species, one that was destined to take over the planet. If that wasn’t enough to give Brad the chills… nothing would. He’d seen the X-Men on TV a couple months back, too. The feds had it all set up that the X-ers would protect everyone from the ‘bad mutants’… but what could stop people like that weather chick from doing whatever they wanted? He shudders, and hefts his aluminum bat.

So the higher-ups made the decision that mutants were going to start turning up beaten to a pulp. Alive, if possible, so they could tell their story, and make other mutants fear for their lives. Hopefully that would prevent more occurrences like those people killed in that fireball at the Baxter office building downtown.

Rob slips the side door to the gallery open. Disguised as browsers earlier in the day, the two of them had taped the lock open while their target had been getting something out of the gallery office. He steels himself and creeps in, making sure to remove the evidence of their illegal entry.

Josh wraps his coat a little closer around himself as he hurries back to the car. To his complete surprise (and seriously, keeping secrets from him was getting more and more difficult) Warren had made him dinner for Valentine’s Day, instead of going out. He’d pointed at their disastrous trip in December to the Taillevent, and Josh had to agree. So they’d decided to cuddle up with a movie and some ice cream afterwards… but they’d forgotten the cherries. Josh had bought them from the store and was on his way back…

Something’s… not right. He stops short, and an irritated couple maneuvers their way around him on the sidewalk, making a beeline for the Starbucks to his left. Josh looks around for a second, extending his telepathic senses. There. Two men in dark coats are making their way into the alley next to the art gallery.

He hesitates. Warren is going to kill me. The whole reason they’d stayed in was to have a relaxing, peaceful evening. Even if it was just some men knocking off a store, he’d have had a hard time ignoring it. More to the point, though, he could see a single window lit, meaning someone might be working late. And I definitely can’t ignore that.

So he makes his way across the street, tucking the jar of maraschino cherries into a coat pocket. As he peers around the edge of the alley, he sees the door shutting behind the men, and heads quickly towards it.

[sapphire]

Sam was getting more frustrated by the minute. First she had a run in her hose this morning, not to mention the pounding headache from her exertion the night before. But, Sherridan was a gentleman and took her home after she had indulged herself with one too many. A kiss on the cheek and stare into his beautiful eyes sealed her night last night.

But today.....was a nightmare from the moment she woke up. Spilling coffee on her new carpet was her inclination that she shouldn't have woken up that morning. The run took place minutes before work which she was running late to. That never happens to Samantha Carter, but there was a small power surge and her alarm never went off. That, SHOULD have been her first insight, but she put it off.

While at work, she nearly broke her neck when the custodian washed the floor but did put any baracades up. Luckily, she was the only one falling and not a customer. Lawsuit!!!! No job!!!!! Her paperwork tonight was endless and she was tired. Not a good day. And now at night, the water bottle she wanted to quench her dying thirst, was stuck in the machine with her last coins.

"God bless it all!" she screamed kicking the machine and then realizing how much it hurt to do that in tiring shoes with barely any padding. So now, she was hobbling around on one foot moaning while punching at the machine like a sissy when the bottle finally slipped off the metal hook and she was able to grab it.

Opening the small metal slit, Sam reached in and took the bottle then began her walk back to the office. That's when she heard something. Her feline acuity picked up on something since there was no one else supposedly in the building. Her heart began to thump and then she realized. Maybe it's Mr. Garrison again.

She walked a little slowly holding the bottle like weapon. Like this is going to stop a bullet Sam. Peering around the corners using more of her feline senses, she yelled out softly,

"Mr. Garrison is that you?"

[Jackson Greco]

Jack had spent a great deal of time in the area lately. He was getting more and more used to this whole 'spending time away from the mansion' thing. Who would have thoguht? He was broadening his horizons and all of that after all. Starbucks had become his second home, as much as his fellow jocks would laugh at it. Who cared though? They weren't his real friends anyway, and he was really an adult now. The rest of them? Well they were going to fall by the wayside and probably end up in the brotherhood. Terrible to think so low of people, wasn't it?

So he continued to walk along the sidewalk, picking up a trash can that had fallen in the snow and tossing his empty paper teacup in it. It was made of cold aluminum, not the most pleasant thing to touch, especially when there was frozen garbage delights littering the rim. Then, something tingled in his brain. The shadows had just moved, even if ever so slightly, and he consciously tried to stop his brain from analyzing it. Great, a headache. Damn, I should get back. He looekd down at his watch, trying to think of every reason not to investigate.

Then he saw a somehwat familiar face crossing the street, and questions began stirring in his head. Josh seemed determined and focused on the alley beside the art gallery.
"Hey," Jack motioned to the alley, "I guess you noticed it too?"

Jack's face grew stern and he stood behind Josh, following him inside the door in the alley.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Brad steps silently through the darkened gallery, taking a moment to steel himself behind an accordion wall in the center of the main room. Rob takes hold of his brass knuckles and looks over, as if to say, Ready? Brad nods. They’d been told their target had enhanced senses… so silence was the best option. With any luck, their two compatriots were closing in on her from the other side of the room. Four against one… good odds. I hope this one’s not any trouble.

> Hey, I guess you noticed it too?"

As Josh reaches the alley door, a voice registers behind him, and he jerks his head, staring backwards at the other boy. <Jackson! Damn, you scared the crap out of me. I don't know what these guys are doing... but I think an employee's still inside...> As he projects the greeting, he turns back to the locked door, and presses the lock mechanism in from the other side with his powers. Josh slips the door open, letting Jack catch it as he moves inside.

Josh knew Jackson was a student at the school, but he'd not had a great deal of contact with him. He knew, for example, that Jackson had enhanced strength, and vaguely remembered Ororo saying he could be a master tactician, if he only put his mind to it. Whatever that means. What's he like in a fight? I doubt these guys are here to buff the floors. Damn... should I have left him back in the alley?

Josh crouches at the archway leading into the main gallery, and glances at Jack. He can barely see the two men through the moonlight, but after reaching his senses out further detects a solitary woman. Jeez, lady… you picked the wrong night to work late. Something doesn’t quite line up, though. Josh has no experience running an art gallery, of course… but one wouldn’t think they’d be carrying much cash after hours, especially a high-dollar one like this. If not a break-in for money… then, what? Art? Most of the pieces seemed especially awkward to walk away with. <Any bright ideas?>

[Jackson Greco]

Jack crouched down across from the telepath, and nodded at the harsh greeting. He pressed one palm to the floor as he looked on, and his mind started taking it all in. Unfortunately, the intricacies of the art were holding his attention more than the scene at hand. He was getting a migraine trying to focus.

Seeing the scene begin to unfold, he looked to Josh, then ahead once more. Even to someone that had his skin, which was barely penetrable, it was scary. After all, you could always get shot in the eye. Then, there was the off chance these guys were serious business and had a mutation. A shotgun could be trouble too, he'd never been hit with something that strong before at close range. Concern was not fear though, Jack didn't have fear right now, he was all business as soon as he got a grip on his own thoughts.

But concern could factor in much more than fear could. He was concerned that despite his mutation that he could do little to help. Something would surely go wrong when it counted the most. Okay, so it was fear. Not a fear of getting hurt, but a fear of failure.

Still, he had the benefit of having a telepath nearby. As his concentration and resolve grew, he started creeping forward, keeping his big self in cover as much as he could.

[sapphire]

Her steps were more silent as she kept peering around the corners. The main gallery was a large room so she'd half to step in the middle exposing herself to anything, to get back to the office. As she walked, her step lightened as she realized she must just be paranoid.

However, just as she relaxed, a hand came around and grabbed her by the throat. Her reaction dropped the bottle of water and she grabbed instantly at the hands suffocating her windpipe. She heard him mumble obscenities to her and she knew now, that the phone call previously wasn't a prank. It was very real. Her mind traveled a mile a minute darting to his evil intented eyes to around the room. She heard footsteps of more than one coming and knew now that it a group. Of how many thought, she wasn't sure.

Pulling at his hands, she felt her face turning blue. That's when something hard hit her in cheek and she found herself almost in the air and backwards before landing on her back. She curled in reaction, not even realizing she somehow managed to get back to her feet quickly, like a cat. Her first instinct was to run, but they had already surrounded her. Her face tingled and stung from the blow and she knew tomorrow it would probably look mighty pretty in different shades of purple, green, and blue.

That is, if she stayed alive that long.

"Come here you little mutant freak", one commanded.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about", she tried.

"Oh don't even", another one snarled coming at her with a kick. Somehow, she managed to evade that but not the punch to the stomach sending her to the floor once again.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

So far, so good… Jack was surprisingly good at this kind of thing. He wasn’t trying to talk or be friendly, which was a plus. One peep could give away their presence, and he had no idea what the men were capable of. He also seemed rather light on his feet for being such a tall guy. After a moment, Josh steps slowly along the edge of the room. He takes care not to walk through any of the squares of moonlight angling their way in through the windows. As he feels his way along the wall, he encounters the light switch panel. Okay… good. I might need those in a minute.

Now! Brad whirls around the divider wall, brandishing his bat. “Take this, mutie scum! Your kind isn’t welcome in this town!” As he hears the others arrive at Sam from the opposite hallway, he takes a swing in the dark at Sam.

At the same time, Josh also hears the sound of a hand connecting with flesh, and the woman’s panicked reply.

“Let’s go. Be careful… Have you done much of this before?” Josh whispers this briefly before taking off in a run. After a few seconds, he telekinetically triggers the light panel, washing the area in brightness.

As the lights come up, the scene is readily present. The woman is surrounded by four men, two of which have bats. She tumbles to the floor as he watches. Josh grimaces. Four against one? Let me even the odds a little… One appears to have a gun, although it’s holstered for the moment. Josh throws a hand outwards at that one as he charges at the group, and the man flies off his feet, hitting the back wall with a thump. He collapses at the bottom of it, groaning.