WENDY: Asking Questions

[x-storm.livejournal.com]

In Savannah, Remy and Ororo go looking for the first LOST BOY.

Ororo patted at the scarf that covered most of her head, fussing with it and pulling on it to make sure it covered most of her distinctive hair. They had picked up the paisley monstrosity at a gas station, and she was glad Wanda wasn't there to make fun of her. As they say, necessity is the mother of bad taste.

She and Remy had made their way downtown to the area where their first target had last been seen - near a rundown housing project that seemed to be a haven for the city's most destitute and bedraggled. It seemed the sound of a siren was never far off as they hiked down the street, looking a bit conspicuous among all the shopping carts and old men slumped on benches.

Remy paused as something plastic crunched under his foot, and he looked down at the shattered syringe. Wordlessly, they kept moving, deeper into the area. Most of the older men were gathered in small groups, huddling in sheltered areas which kept the winds off them. Rory looked young, like Remy, and if he wasn't doing drugs, it would still look to the casual observer that he was. That meant he'd have little place with the older men and women here.

Still, they would know how to navigate this area of the city; alien in a way that normal people couldn't understand. He pointed at an old black man, sitting beside a bag full of empty cans, fetched up in an old doorway. "Let's start wit' him."

With a nod Ororo skirted around a nasty-looking puddle and approached the old man, automatically slipping into a more relaxed way of moving so as not to alert him too much. "Excuse me, sir," she said, adopting a soft drawl that she had picked up from being around Marie. "We're lookin' for someone."

"Ain't saw nuthin'." He said automatically, shifting around to a more comfortable position. Remy remembered the mentality well. If they weren't one of you, they couldn't be trusted. That was the rule.

"Dis only take a second, homme. We looking for dis man, Rory." Remy held out the picture, not getting too close so not to upset the man. "He'd have been 'round here a couple of years now."

"Haven't seen 'im," the man grunted.

"Please, it's very important that we find him," Ororo said. "It's for his own good."

There was no response, save a more sullen glower. Remy reached into his pocket and when he put the photograph forward again, a twenty dollar bill was on top of it. "You want to try one more time, homme. See if you recognize him now?"

The watery eyes focused on Remy for a second, and then the photo. He snatched the bill and huddled back. "Yeah, seen 'im. Over on Ohio mostly. One of them junkies."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Ororo pressed.

"Dunno," the man said with a shrug, the bill already having disappeared in his pocket. "He's a hard 'un to keep track of. Can't remember..."

Ororo sighed and motioned to Remy, already stepping away from the stoop. "Thank you, sir.You've been very helpful."

Remy set off towards Ohio street, eyes flickering over the rows of empty shops as he did. "Rory's like me. Program's modifications jack de metabolism right up. Unless he gets a lot of food, his body will burn down to de same size I was when you first picked me up. Even if he's not using, he'll look like it."

Ororo merely nodded, scanning each person they passed for a resemblance to the man in the picture they held. She was personally sickened by the fact that Arcade was using this person as part of a game - it was one thing to use them, but Rory had no choice. At least when they found him he would be on his way to being better off... If we find him.

They cut down Maryland street and on to Ohio, seeing the desperation deepen. Remy's face went tight. It hadn't been that many years since he'd been on the streets with these people, scratching out a life at the fringes of a city. All the LOST BOYS had just been dumped, like unwanted garbage, to freeze or starve or kill themselves with drugs and cover up the agency's indescretions.

There was a small park on the corner, populated mostly by pigeons and a couple of younger people; sitting under a leafless tree in a narcotic doze. On the corner opposite to it was a small conveinance store. Remy headed for it. Most of the poor around here would likely use it for what they could afford.

A worn-looking woman glanced up as they entered, her face wary as she took them in. Their clothes were too nice, their stride too purposeful, and she immediately hunched her shoulders, assuming the sullen demeanor that seemed to characterize most of the residents of the area. "What do you want?" she asked in a hoarse voice, her frizzy hair escaping from its bun at the back of her head and spreading around her face like a cloud of off-colored dust.

"Cigarettes." Remy said, putting a bill down on the counter. She turned to pull a pack of Marlburo's from the rack behind her, and Remy slipped the photo down on the counter beside it. "And some information. You ever seen dis man? Would have been living on de street 'round here, last year or so?"

A flash of something that could've been recognition crossed the woman's face before she frowned, slapping the pack of cigarettes down on the table. "Who wants to know?"

"A friend." Remy laid a second bill down in front of the first one. She looked from him to the money and back. Finally she reached out and grabbed both bills, tucking them in her pocket before she spoke.

"You a cop? You don't look like cops."

"We're not. We're just friends, trying to look out for someone," 'Ro replied. "Have you seen him? Do you know where we could find him now?"

"You're right, he usually hangs 'round here," the woman said grudgingly. "But I ain't seen him for a few days. S'been a lot of cops 'round here, more than usual. Maybe one of them took offense and carted him off or somethin'."

"You can't be sure?" Remy said, but the woman just waved him away.

"I told you. He ain't been around here a couple of days."

"But--" Remy was ready to push when Ororo took him by the arm and pulled him towards the door. Normally a very patient operative, she'd noticed he wasn't as sharp as normal. Obviously the search for his former fellow operatives was wearing on him.

"We will have more luck on the street, I think," she murmured to him, her hand still resting on his arm. "If the police have been around, perhaps they would know of his whereabouts. It is worth a try, at least."

"If dey even give a damn." Remy knew from his time on the streets what it was like; a tense near constant dance around the police, trying to avoid the worst of them. His dislike was rooted back to his childhood and was deeply ingrained.

"We will find out soon enough. Perhaps you ought to let me do the talking, just in case."

"Can't say I'm about to argue wit' you for dat pleasure." Remy said wryly as they approached a uniformed officer who was walking the block slowly, working one of their occasional beats outside of the patrol car.

Ororo put on a warm smile, patting Remy's arm one last time before dropping her hand back to her side. "Excuse me, officer," she said, one again slipping into a muted drawl, "I was wondering if you wouldn't be too busy to help us out for just a moment."

"Course not, ma'am. You two get lost from your hotel?" His soft southern drawl was right out of an old movie. His nametag said Harrison, and he had the blank expression and the watchful eyes of an experienced officer. "This is not exactly the safest part of Savannah to be walking in."

"Yes sir, we know," Ororo said with another smile. "We were actually looking for someone who lives around here... perhaps you would know if he was still in the area." She knew that they would probably draw attention, asking questions like they were, but the lack of time meant that they couldn't wait to draw up a more plausible story or another way to locate Browne.

"Lives 'round here? Do you mean in an apartment, or slightly less stable accommodation?" He said. "No need to feel embarassed now. This area gets a lot of kids that have made bad decisions, end up sleeping down here until their friends or parents run them down. He got a name?"

"Yes... Rory Browne." Ororo turned to Remy to ask him to produce the picture, but the cop stopped her before she said a word.

"Browne? Sure, I know him," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "And you're right, he does live 'round here, or at least he did until a couple days ago."

"Where is he now?" Ororo asked, feeling her heart begin to pound at the prospect of actually locating the man.

"Well, it's sort of a sad story, y'see... couple of punk kids were looking for a way to make some trouble th'other night, and... well, your friend got the brunt of it. Got lit on fire, burned pretty badly before anybody stepped in to help. We got him to the hospital... last I heard, he was holdin' in there."

Ororo sucked in a breath. "Could you tell us the name of the hospital, please? We need to see him as soon as possible."

The police officer proved more than obliging, giving them the name and address of the hospital as well as the quickest way to get there from where they were. Ororo and Remy were about to depart when he remarked, "Y'know, for someone on the street, Browne sure had a lot of friends. But I guess that's good for him."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, just that someone else was out here askin' about him just a little while ago. Seemed real concerned about him."

I am sure they were, Ororo thought darkly, though she forced a smile for the policeman anyway. "Thank you, sir. You've been very helpful." I just hope it is not too late for us. And Rory.