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Nov. 6th, 2007

This community is now closed and inactive. You may want to try the knock-off nearly-a-clone community not_my_new_york, because a misunderstanding that included apologies is obviously a heck of a lot worse than a deliberate snub and nearly wholesale theft of a community premise.

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Preliminary case report on Roger’s FLAG email (cc Kitt), marked with the appropriate date;

Time: 1400
Location: Pennsylvania Station, Manhattan, NY.

FLAG operatives Michael Knight and AI vehicle KITT were requested to lend assistance to contacts of another Agency. In that capacity both operatives proceeded to the 31st Street entrance to Pennsylvania Station and remained in reserve while the contacts undertook their operation.

During the course of that operation difficulties were encountered and a call for backup was made. FLAG operatives responded to the call, but were unable to reach the contacts due to access difficulties. The situation was apparently contained, but it is understood that there was a considerable amount of property damage and a fire, causing smoke to circulate through the ventilation system and the station to be evacuated.

FLAG operatives remained to assist NYPD and Station Security in this evacuation and in restoring order.


Following, there’s a rather sheepish addendum tacked on the end of the email;

Roger, we really need to talk to you about this. ~ MK.

A huntin' we will go...

The same time as this is taking place...

"Brin, you're not usually such a chicken," Sorcha pouted, leaning against the corner of the gatepost that led into Central Park. She started making chicken clucking sounds as she poked him in the ribs with a finger.

"I'm hungry, and it's not like they expected us to starve to def, now, is it? So.. when we've finished wiv 'em we'll make sure they're never found, hey? C'mon, you can't tell me you didn't like how nice it was to 'ave a clean, fresh, hot feed for once!"

Brin shook his head at her, scowling, pacing back and forth but throwing worried looks over his shoulder. "You heard 'em, and saw 'em, Sorcha. Came outta nowhere, disappeared into thin air. Could be bloody well listening right now, couldn't they?"

"Can't be everywhere at once. They was just lucky, I'm tellin' ya, and we were unlucky. But they let us go!"

"It wasn't for our sakes," he returned, "but something to do with them others. Like a show of good faith or somethin', I dunno. Not like we got given a bloody rule book or anything." He shoved his hands in his pocket and continued pacing as his partner whined some more, taking a few steps into the park then coming back to drag him with her.

Just as he crossed the threshhold of the gate there was an almighty crashing sound, like a vehicle hitting something at high speed, but without the prewarning of squealing tyres that usually heralded a crash. The explosion that followed sent the two hightailing out of the park and straight to the stairs down to the subway, all thoughts of hunting in the Park well and truly vapourised.
 (directly following the events here)

The shadows fell from around them, and Calvin saw the familiar surrounds of their balcony high above West 26th Street.  He looked down into Ceri's face in the moonlight.

"No, this won't do, I'm afraid."

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and he gently brushed the backs of his fingers across one pale cheek.  "You're almost translucent, Ceri.  That much Auspex, not to mention the shadows and Presence?  You need to feed, my darling."

Not giving her a chance to protest, as he was sure she was going to, he wrapped them once again in shadow, and visualised the darkness of Chelsea Park.  That much was within his reach, barely - she wasn't the only one who needed to feed.

Ship Ahoy

Dean dumped his luggage beside him and stared up at the large cruise ship currently docked at the pier. They could not afford, even with a fake credit card, one of the most expensive ships, but they had gotten a pair of cabins. Dean figured Sam should have his privacy, especially since Dean seldom slept much anymore. And who knows what they might get into over the trip?

He leaned against a post and looked at Sam. "So, what do you think of her?"
(From here.)

An outdoor table, to Zylyn's reckoning, was an excellent idea. In the first place it removed the group from the worst of the cafe crowd, which was favourable to both their various scattered emotions and the discussion which would doubtless be taking place. It also kept him at a distance from those who might mark his appearance should he be too closely observed.

Of the others, Spike was remarkably quiet, lost in a halo of pale smoke. Rakj'a and Arusha had mostly shrugged off the reaction to what had occurred and were now exchanging nervous glances as they tried to find a place for the explanation to Nikita to begin.

For himself, he was feeling nothing so much right now as wry amusement. A stroll with the basic intent of relaxation  had ironically turned to anything but. No doubt he would be called upon at some stage to explain himself to their friend, but for the moment he was content to sit quietly with his back to the rail and one hand resting unobtrusively on Rakj'a's thigh, and allow the others to do the talking.

All units, all units. 510 in progress.

Forever calm. Dispatchers seemed to be forever calm. It's almost as if she didn't fully comprehend the gravity of the call she was making over the scanner. "All units, all units. 510 in progress; Code 3.  Be warned, this is a 10-79. Suspect in a yellow Mach One Mustang traveling west on the Long Island Expressway, mile marker......"

RoboCop was near enough. His most immediate concern instantly became "Uphold the Law" as the mechanical side of him gave it's cold, nigh-irrefutable suggestion. The pedal of his police cruiser hit the floor as he entered the highway, activating the sirens and lights to cut through the traffic. The bright high beams cut through the dark, moonless night, guiding the vehicle down the road at 120mph, very near it's top speed. At 3:00am, most police would have been rather dull by this point.  Probably the very reason this attempt was being made.  The cyborg police officer never tires, however.

He was closing in on the suspect rapidly, given his intercept computations and the fact that he was actually approaching the subject vehicle head on. In a sudden maneuver that flesh police officers dare not attempt, he swerved through a restricted access break in the median (at around 55mph) and put the hammer down in the opposite direction.  The poor tires of the thing struggled feebly to keep up with RoboCop's inputs, whispering loudly to one another in protest at every sharp movement of the wheel.  And yet, as close as they came, none ever broke free.  His car began to get back up to speed just as the suspect passed at 110mph. 

510 in progress.  The....flesh... part of him already knew this was a speeding vehicle.  But it was the 10-79 that....concerned him.  The suspect was threatening to have a bomb, and there were two very obvious targets ahead, at the end of the expressway. 

Police HQ and City Hall.

Waiting . . .

(Follows on from here)

Ceri made her way down the stairs from the apartment to her office.  Cantilevered over the floor of the club, with its darkly tinted glass, patrons assumed it was some kind of super-exclusive VIP room and no one disabused them of this notion.

The office offered a handy view of almost every part of the club, and a quick glance told her Calvin was not there.  A tiny frown crossed her forehead and instantly disappeared.  He was most likely out roaming the streets, and would no doubt return soon enough.  After all, the night was still young.

She took a seat at her desk and made a start on the inevitable paperwork in the in basket.  The club was owned publically by a corporation headed by two people who looked very different to her and Calvin, people who had identities that quite legitimately dated their births within the last half century.  

A necessary fiction, of course.  After all, the passports under which they had entered this country were in different names altogether.  Not to mention dating from a time earlier than either of them wished to admit to.  A good lawyer who knew how to keep his mouth shut could supply them with identification that more closely matched their apparent ages.  Still, it didn't do to have their faces too well know - a talent for changing their appearance saw to that.

On paper, Ceri and Cal owned nothing, and did nothing.  Their means of support was a stream of income that had been thoroughly sanitised through overseas banking institutions that specialised in that sort of thing.  Another set of names paid the appropriate income tax on it - today's governments were a bit more sophisticated than those of earlier times, and it wouldn't do to fall afoul of them.  That would cause questions to be asked - questions she would prefer not to answer.

Tossing the last item of work into the out basket, she gave the club another glance.  More patrons now, as the night progressed, and still no Calvin.  For a brief moment she considered reaching out to touch his thoughts, to find out where he was, and quickly dismissed the notion.  He was obviously up to something meant either to surprise her or not to worry her, and she didn't want to spoil it . . . whatever "it" was.

She left the office and descended to the club via the wrought iron spiral staircase, the heels of her stilettos making tiny clicks on the metal treads, and headed towards the booth in the back of the club's real VIP area.  The table bore a small gold "Reserved" sign always - after all, she and Calvin should always have the best table.  This one too gave a view of almost all the club, and kept their backs to the wall while they could see the door.  One didn't get to the age they had by being careless, after all.

One of the waitresses arrived soon after she had sat down, with a glass of her favourite red wine.  Another perk of ownership - all the wait staff knew their favourite wine, from a tiny obscure vineyard in Europe, and Calvin's preferred brand of scotch.  

She sat back against the padded booth and sipped her wine, watching the club and waiting.

A nice day and a shady tree

Having left Kaycee and Wes at the hangar, Kitt drove slowly - at least, slowly for him - back to the Foundation, thinking along the way. Kaycee had offered to let him stay in her apartment while she was gone, and he was hoping to take advantage of her offer, but he needed to speak with Michael first for a number of reasons.

Pulling onto the grounds of the Mansion, he headed immediately for the spot set aside for him in the massive garage, but decided at the last moment to veer off, driving instead around the circular driveway to park in the shade of one of the large trees just to the side of the grand entryway staircase - a rare moment of indecision while driving. It was too nice of a day to spend in the artificial lighting of the garage, surrounded by the busy hustle and bustle of the technicians. He could scan for Michael just as easily from the driveway.

Only a Year to Live and Nothing to Lose

Dean opened the door to the motel quietly, checking on Sam to make sure he remained asleep, and snuck out into the night. He took a deep breath of the cool air and tucked his hands into his pockets. A few more silent steps, and he walked more freely, on the look out for a bar.

Dying made some things easier. Like shrugging off injuries (he glanced at his still slightly sore arm), rushing into dangerous situations and picking up strangers for quick sex. Not that he ever had much of a problem with the last.

He does regret, though no demon could make him admit it, that he never had sex with someone who loved him. Cause, that's supposed to be even better. But the only person who loves him is his brother. And with a year to live, you can't go making someone fall in love with you just to experience better sex. Even Dean isn't that much of a dog.

So, copious sex with strangers will have to do.

And on a night like this, when sleep eludes him and the walls press in sex with a stranger becomes a necessity.

He looked up and smiled a little at the sight of an all night bar called the Purdy Lounge. Somehow, he doubted there was truth in that advertising, but he walked in and headed straight for the bar. "Tequila," he ordered and then openly surveyed the bar's patrons through the smoky haze.

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