2012-07-01 Blind Leading the Blind

Intensive Care Unit of the hospital, usually in a state of extreme busyness, has some activity buzzing around one of the curtained "rooms". Two nurses are trying to get the battered, bruised, and bloody Spider-Man to get back in bed--which he isn't going to do. Dark brown hair tousled every-which-way and black sunglasses copped from some unlucky nurse don't hide the bruising that covers a good portion of the man's face. He has his costume's tunic in one hand, gloves in the other. The bared torso makes it clear that he probably should have died a few times by now; too many scars earned over too many years. But that isn't stopping him. "I've got better things to do than lay in bed while you poke me with your god damned needles," he says in a half-growl as he starts to try and slip his tunic on. His arm still hurts like hell, but he'll live. He always lives--even when, sometimes, he'd have to admit he didn't want to. Now isn't one of /those/ times.

Of course, this happens to be one of those times when Tamir just HAPPENS to be standing in the doorway. She's dressed down a little bit. PVC pants, Testament band t-shirt over fishnets, clunky black boots... and even a tophat and cane. So still goth, but not Victorian. Not at the moment anyway. "That's not very gracious of you considering they've been saving your life. Even though they know you likely can't pay for it." As usual, she ignored any staff who tried to talk to her on her way here. She's a very focused sort of person. A larger t-shirt, some jeans, and a pair of socks and shoes get tossed towards the man, followed by a backpack. Surprisingly... she guessed pretty well on the size. "Put those on. You are very noticeable... even when you're not wearing a costume. You didn't sign anything, did you?"

It takes him a moment to place the newcomer. Spider-Man hadn't exactly been in the clearest mental state when she found him, after all. Something approaching what might be considered a hint of a smile appears at one corner of his mouth. "There are worse things to be than noticeable," he comments, then shoves the gloves half into his waistband and reaches out to grab the T-shirt. "Thanks," he adds, somewhat belatedly. "For last night, too." A beat as he arches a brow, then nods his head toward the nurses who he's already beyond tuning out. "Maybe you can tell me where the hell I am. These ones didn't want to say anything. I think they were afraid I was a psycho." Which isn't that far from the truth, he figures, as it's the only thing to explain why he's dumb enough to keep putting the costume on and acting as a punching bag.

Thankfully, it seems Tamir and the Spider-Man seem to be on the same page about ignoring people they're not directly interacting with. "Yes. There is always something worse than the thing that you think happens to be the worst possible thing happening at any given moment." Huh? She keeps talking though. "You're in a hospital in a section of the City New York, known as Chelsea. They probably think you are either insane, or a vigilante. Which is terrifying to many people." A pause, and she goes on,"Vigilantism is a necessary, but frequently illegal portion of the anti-crime enforcement protocols of any given major population center. Or, it is in my opinion. They might think you're going to hurt them." She turns to look at the door, and points at it,"We should go outside and leave, before they try to ask you for payment. Can you fly? If you can, it will be quickest to leave that way." As for the thanks she receives? "There is no need for gratitude. I dislike death, and nudity is illegal in public places, and frankly, you can't just go around in that costume."

After a moment's thought, Spider-Man starts shoving the clothes into the backpack. "Can't quite fly, but I can come close to it," he says as he zips the thing up. The nurses are prattling on about doctor's consent for release, tearing stitches, internal bleeding, and all the rest--and it's when one puts her hands on his left should that he's gotten tired of it all. Baring his fangs, he hisses softly at her to get her to back off. Fucking hell..." he mutters as he takes off the sunglasses. Keeping his eyes closed he fishes around on the bed for his mask, then tugs it on. He gasps as he starts slipping on the tunic, and as he does so he mutters, "If we're going out and up, this would be the better outfit for it, eh?" And he'd obviously heard the part about New York, but there's a part of him that can't quite process that. Not until he sees for himself that this isn't /his/ New York. Another moment and he's suited up, making sure the gloves fit right before heading to a window and yanking it up. It had been sealed to make sure patients couldn't fall out or jump--but it's not like the thing was made from adamantium. "Let's get the hell out of here," he says to Tamir, then hauls himself out the window and starts crawling up the wall to the roof, at a pretty fast clip, too.

The girl shrugs, hops onto the window sill, and walks... on air, to stand next to the man. And then she sort of leisurely levitates next to him, legs crossed in the lotus position as she watches the man's ascent,"That wasn't very nice, you know." Critical, but not exactly bitingly so. More... observational? "Learning how to act like a person was difficult for me too." She seems to think this over as she asks,"Have you been a person long? I think it's fun. Oh, look... Gargoyles. Those are good for sitting." She shoots upward, where she will meet him sitting on the head of one of the gargoyles looming off the edge of the building. "People talk about how freeing or amazing flying is... Frankly, I don't really remember what it is like not to fly... Or anything, really. I can't imagine what life according to gravity must be like. Are you a fast-healer then? You were dying last night."

The comparative tightness of the mask makes it obvious when Spider-Man cocks an eyebrow at his companion, more for the comments about being a new "person" than anything else. He leaps up to the nearest gargoyle, grabbing onto it with one hand and swinging under and around it to end up crouching atop it. The backpack gets set just in front of him, and the man takes a moment to look out over the city. It's--nothing like he imagined it. It's got to be a past version, but--damn it, Boone. That jack-ass always was more a "jump before you think" sort. Turning his attention to Tamir, he says, "Yeah, I--I'm something of a fast healer. Not like some; still hurt like hell and will pay for all this moving around. But--I don't like to be cooped up. And--I don't know what you mean by being a new person. I suppose a philosophical person might say that I've only been 'me' for a few years, since I first started running around in this stupid costume on a regular basis." He exhales softly, looking back out over the city. "Before that--I wasn't any better than the jack-ass who made the dimensional tunneler device that brought me here. So I guess I'm kind of a new person, in a sense."

"It is an illusion that metaphor and reality are different things." She considers her words carefully for the moment,"I have... no memory beyond the last few months. I sometimes suspect that is as long as I have existed, if my first few confusing memories are any indication. I do not think I was always a person." She actually smiles, more like the teenager she is supposed to be,"But I think I like this better." More quiet. She's a thoughtful sort of girl, apparently,"I like building things, myself. But I am very bad at it. I am much better at breaking things. A dimensional tunneler device? Are you talking about an Einstein-Rosen Bridge? That's very much beyond my academic understanding at the moment. You must be from very far away." "I think I am also from very far away." She picks up a pebble from the roof and tosses it up and down in her hand as if preparing to toss it,"I understand about not being cooped up. They keep finding me very nice foster families. I keep leaving. And the scientists... They get upset when I break physics. I'm not very good at being... correct."

That makes Spider-Man smile somewhat sardonically, noticeable through the mask. "Never was good at being 'correct', myself," he says as he stands up on the gargoyle to get a better look. A few feet in difference may not help a /lot/--but it does help. And this city is strange enough to make him want to get as good of an idea of it as he can. "Haven't heard the term 'Einstein-Rosen Bridge' since I was in college, either." A beat, then he turns his head to glance at her again. "Yeah, you could say I'm not from around here." There's just nothing familiar about the city beyond its general layout, he realizes as he continues to study what he can see. None of these buildings are here in his time, but the /feel/--he's already starting to "see" his Nueva York in this place. It's rather eerie. "So what do you do when you're between foster families? How do you try and learn more about the months before your first memory?"

"It would be nice to share more in common with the rank and file of humanity." She turns to look over at the man,"I see. They tell me I'm not a mutant. And I don't have any abnormal structures or activity in my body. In fact... when I use my abilities... NOTHING seems to be happening according to the monitoring equipment. That is the closest I come to knowing anything about myself." She tosses the pebble into the air and folds her fingers as if shooting a gun at the pebble. It crumbles to dust. "I'm afraid that in the confusion following my first memories... I may have destroyed the only person who could answer my questions. I remember... feeling something calling me, as if from very far away. And then I answered. He told me to... demonstrate my power. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to obey. It killed him. I suspect he should've been more specific. Suddenly I felt very free, but very lost." She stands, arching her back in a stretch,"I think you are lost, too. You may stay with me. I like to use furnished apartments that don't currently have tenants. When they get a renter, I move to a new one." She suddenly sighs,"I just realized... You probably eat, don't you. I don't have money. I do not know where to get you food. Maybe a soup kitchen?"

That last though makes Spider-Man's stomach announce itself. He should really be used to it by now, but he still hates feeling so hungry all the time. Mentioning food suddenly made him realize how long it's been since he ate last--though he doesn't really count one tray of hospital food as "eating", since he doesn't count what was /on/ the tray as "food". "Sounds like you've got a lot to figure out," he says as sympathetically as he can. It comes out in a low grumble, but hopefully the intent is clear. "And food /does/ sound like a good idea. Whatever a 'soup kitchen' is, do you know of one? And someplace I can research laboratories? One way to integrate is to get a job--and getting the right kind of job will give me access to all kinds of things we may need." He's already looking ahead, planning and plotting. It's better than wallowing in the uncertainty of his current situation, as much as wallowing is a /very/ attractive process.

"Well... You will need to work as an illegal for the moment. You have no social security card or identity. After that, you can pay for some forgeries, probably... Your best bet to get access to the laboratories you need would be to use a local university... But good luck getting access to their labs... which WILL be the best... Without being an enrolled student or professor." She taps her chin in thought and floats off of her gargoyle so she can watch the man face to face,"I CAN however find you a soup kitchen, yes. Though if you want to get fed, you need to be a little more dirty... Soup kitchens are where low-paid well-meaning staff and volunteers work to feed the homeless, poor, and indigent. I think... you are technically all three right now, so it's not even unethical. I can take you to one. When they found me wandering, it was a soup kitchen that gave me clothes... They offered me food, too, but I haven't gotten hungry yet and it seemed wrong to waste it." "Do you need access to chemicals? Janitors usually have that. So do chemical plant workers." She tilts her head in thought,"I bet Wayne Enterprises, OsCorp, or LexCorp would all have... virtually anything you need."

"I need access to a laboratory," says Spider-Man, hoisting the backpack. "As for identity information--yeah, that's gon'a be the bitch." He looks around one last time, planning various routes. When he looks back to Tamir, he adds, "Alright, soup-kitchen first, plan something from there. Let's go." Not one to waste words, really. He leaps off the gargoyle, stretching his arms out. The weight of the backpack puts him off-kilter a bit, but he still manages to use his body and the Lite-Byte cloth to give him some good distance. When he gets low enough, a web-line shoots out from the back of his forearm, and he uses a solid swing to give him some lift so he can glide some more. Unlike his namesake, he doesn't solely rely on swinging, instead using a combination of swinging, gliding, and some aerial acrobatics. He'll also snag a long-sleeved shirt as he passes, and when she points him to their destination, he'll land in an alley nearby to change clothes.

She's a quick one, alright. She seems to have little trouble keeping up (though she is flying, so technically she's cheating) with all the little loops, swoops, and general gliding. She lands with him, however, when he stops in the alley to change, and beckons the man,"Come on. It's only a block away. They're very nice there." She reaches out to tug on his arm, apparently lacking the ability to be off by something as simple as humans that shoot webby things. "They are going to think you are strange. But you are my friend. So they will make allowances." It doesn't take long for her to push her way into the front door of the indicated soup-kitchen. There's not much of a line at the moment as it's between meal times, but she does call out,"Maria. I have a friend who is very hungry." She approaches the older, overweight woman, and whispers loudly to her,"He's an illegal. So shush-shush okay?"

Sometimes, Miguel wonders if he'll ever have anything approaching normalcy again. He can't remember the last time he felt something against his skin but the damn costume. Even now, wearing it under these "regular" clothes--meh. At least he has something better to focus on--namely, food. He slings the backpack over one shoulder like he sees someone on the other side of the street doing, and walks with Tamir. "By the way," he says just before they enter the soup-kitchen, "Call me Miguel. Or Miggy, if you like." Once inside the building, he looks around with an arched brow. He's not even imagined something like this; there's an air of desperation, of struggle, about the place. Makes him think of Downtown as a whole, really, and wonders if he's seeing its genesis right here. He stays quiet, letting the girl lead. This is her turf, after all, though he'll try to be polite--even if he won't shake hands.

The woman doesn't even seem to expect a handshake by the looks of it. She just nods, smiles, and gestures to the the line in general,"Just grab a tray and they'll fill you up. It's not gourmet, but there's lots of it anyway, and it's a slow day." She seems friendly enough. For her own part, Tamir shrugs,"Tamir. That's the only thing I remember. My name. It was all I could say at first. Took me WEEKS to learn English. It's really, really hard. Spanish is easier. Miguel is a Spanish name, isn't it?" She pulls herself out a chair and sits by him,"Eat. But... I'll have about an hour before she calls CPS and they try to take me back to my foster family. So if you wanna see the empty apartment I'm using before then... Don't take too long to eat, okay?"

That eyebrow arches again; Miguel really doesn't mind "not gourmet". He also can't remember the last time he had anything he'd call /close/ to "gourmet". Most of his food came from whatever he'd had in his apartment, and if it weren't for Lyla, that would always be "next to nothing". He grabs a tray and does as instructed, the scent and sight of food, and the realization that he's going to get to /eat it/, makes his stomach rumble. Right now, Venture could bust in through the front door and Miggy wouldn't give a flip. When they get to the table, Miguel looks at Tamir, a slightly-humorous aspect appearing at one corner of his mouth. "I don't think that'll be a problem," he says, then gets to work on the food. It disappears in record time, though it'd be even quicker were it not that he remembered some semblance of manners and actually wiped his mouth now and then.

"You know... I'm pretty sure you could still afford to taste it. Then again... Who am I to judge." Then again, she has yet to engage in that particular activity in current memory. Sometimes she wonders if she'll EVER get hungry. "I think that's what they call 'inhale it', yes? You seem like a very high-strung person. Why?" She rises, though, to immediately begin heading towards the exit, practically skipping now,"Let's go get you a place to crash so you can begin figuring out your... uh... plan of attack?"

"Good idea," says Miguel as he goes to follow her, slipping the backpack over one shoulder again. "I'm not sure what my plan of attack is just yet--I need to gather information. I'm assuming some sort of multi-system media system exists; a repository of information, connections to other terminals all across the system. If there /is/ something like that, I'd like access to it."

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