http://house-of-mystiq.livejournal.com/ (
house-of-mystiq.livejournal.com) wrote in
elseworldexiles2007-05-23 12:41 am
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Entry tags:
House Call
Raven perches on the edge of a stool, fascinated by a local newspaper. It's like something out of another era. There's no AP wire, no Reuters. The local news section is the thickest part of the paper. New York is a big town, but the paper is full of small detials: local middleweight boxing matches, the Shriners hosting a benefit circus, a Catholic church potluck, the death of a dockworker's union boss.
She keeps an eye on the front desk. People checking in, checking out, asking for directions. Finally the little crowd dies down. Before the clerk takes a breather, she slides up to the marble desk.
"Excuse me." Her voice isn't quite a whisper. "But where can I find a discrete doctor?"
She keeps an eye on the front desk. People checking in, checking out, asking for directions. Finally the little crowd dies down. Before the clerk takes a breather, she slides up to the marble desk.
"Excuse me." Her voice isn't quite a whisper. "But where can I find a discrete doctor?"
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She scrawls down an address.
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"When do you check out."
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The stack of bills under the note grows. It's almost everything Raven earned busking other than the coins.
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That poor girl.
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"Thank you."
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He's nervous. The Wundagore is an unusually nice hotel for this kind of house call. Most of the time, he's called to the ironically named Grand Hotel or, worse yet, to Madame Pomfrey's Home For Wayward Girls. They always try to pay him in trade.
He knocks on the door. At least here he knows he'll be paid in cash.
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"Hello, dear. There's nothing to be afraid AAAGH!"
The doctor staggers back against the door, aghast at the sight of Sarah.
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She blinks a couple times, then manages, "Are you ok?"
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"Your arm's broken." It doesn't take a medical doctor to tell that. "And..." His training takes over. He's at her bedside in a second, turning back the hotel's fluffy comfortors and deftly examining the girl's injuries.
"Does this hurt?"
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It'll take a while, but there's signs of deep bone bruising, an only partially set dislocated shoulder, and, worst, a torn tricep.
But on the upside, no burns... that's the other arm... and shoulder... and the right side of her face.
"I think I've got a couple broken ribs too, but I think that's it for actual skeletal damage." she replies, once the pain fades a little.
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The broken bones. The dislocated arm. The battered body.
All of it above the waist. From there down, just a little minor bruising. Someone wanted to keep the good bits in usable shape but didn't care about the rest of the girl.
"Who..." he's not supposed to ask. No names, no questions, no judgement. "Who did this to you?"
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She's pretty sure her description wouldn't mean much to the guy anyway. "Doubt you'd know him, even if 'The Hulk' is a pretty distinctive name... or nickname, I guess."
Thankfully, 'Joe Fixit' is well beyond her time, and she's certainly not going to mention a Dr. Banner - who she hopes is a typical nerdy research type in this world somewhere.
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Even if that work isn't about the money: it's about revenge.
Logan's short stature and intimidating demeanor that just dares anyone to try and approach makes it easy for him to pass through the lobby without interference. The hotel itself is a decadent display of ostentatious wealth that invites a bilious reaction. Different scents of human and mutant pheromones both fake and natural mingle with the smells of aged leather suitcases, cleaning product, fresh flowers and silver polish.
As always, he sorts through them and discards them; a reflexive process that keeps his senses from being constantly overloaded.
One persists, refusing to be ignored.
Logan pauses near the elevator, nostrils flaring.
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It'll be nice to buy a sandwich with money she earned herself. She'd forgotton how satisfying something that simple could feel. Maybe she'll sneak away from the group and indulge in a little more busking while they're here.
She's enjoying a happy glow when she sees a familiar silhouette by the elevators.
Sheisse.
Not another one.
Trying not to draw too much attention to herself, she meanders in the opposite direction, easing her way towards the lobby doors.
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It's been over twenty years since he caught that scent; the day they handed Logan his infant daughter and told him his wife had died in childbirth.
He'll be damned if he's going to ignore it now.
He threads his way through the organized chaos of the hotel lobby, and stops short a few yards from the figure's retreating back. He could be wrong. Some part of him wants to be mistaken. He could be imagining it. Only one way to find out. A second passes before he finds his voice.
"Raven."
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Three worlds. Three iterations of the same man. She can't do this again.
"I'm sorry. You must have me confused for someone else."
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"Yer lookin' pretty good fer a dead woman."
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"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know you."
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Twenty-three years. He can't give up just like that.
A black and white photograph, looking rather the worse for wear, is held out to her. A teenager with dark hair parted with a streak of white looks towards the camera with a reserved but familiar smile.
"You wanna tell her that?"
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"How do you know this girl?"
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