GSIH: The Sea of Humanity
Apr. 22nd, 2010 11:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsJohn and Jean-Phillipe play crowd control to a desparate group.
The babble of pleading voices switched from Hindi to Punjabi to Urdu to Kashmiri and so on through a dozen dialects and regional languages. Their translator valiantly tried to keep up, but the sheer wall of sound broadcasting at him was preventing that. He gave a hopeless shrug to John and Jean-Phillipe, before plunging back in. The refugees kept streaming into the area, not even a camp but simply a crude open area which surrounded a pathetically small field aid station. With rail lines destroyed and highways buckled, the old trainyard offered a few buildings for shelter, and enough room to touch down helicopters, which the UN forces were dependant on for aid. But no fleet was big enough to fly out the thousands on thousands which slowly made their way to the area, carrying injured friends and family, and now waited on the hope that the rails would offer an escape from this hell.
As always, it was not just the four legged scavengers to worry about, and Angelo had asked them to take one of the translators and start prioritizing wounded for the first train out, assuming Callisto could get it running. That meant running afoul of those trying to buy their way ahead of the line.
Two men grabbed a hold of John's arm and started to plead for help, begging for assistance in a language he couldn't understand. One of the man pointed to an area slightly ahead of them and started to push his way through the crowd, determined to have John follow him.
"It is concerning his wife!" Sarivin said, coming to the aide of the outsider. "She is pregnant!"
"Right!" All that shouting in an attempt to be heard over the din of noise surrounding them was almost therapeutic. "Well, if she's delivering, we're not doctors!"
"He claims she has injured her foot!" Sarivin yelled back, almost at equal loudness and then let out a shrug. It was up to them to decide whether that was worth checking out.
Not seeing that they had much of a choice just then, John nodded and had one chance to get Jean-Phillipe's attention before he was forced into the crowd.
The first person who had attempted to lay hands on Jean-Phillipe had jerked back from a very mild electrical shock, coupled with a annoyed narrowing of the eyes from the Frenchman. It had taken a few more occurrences before the crowd began to give him as wide a berth as they could, given the sheer press of humanity before them. He applied an elbow to someone not quick enough to get out of his way as he dove into the crowd behind John.
Up ahead the family members stood in a huddle by the side of an abandoned truck. The air seemed more oppressive here. Or maybe it was a mild case of claustrophobia setting in. John ran a finger between his collar and throat.
"I'm going to need to take a look at the injury," John said, watching the exchange of expressions between the men and the women as Sarivin calmly explained the situation to the family, letting them know that they were doing all they could to help get everyone out of the area. But they were under strict orders to prioritize and were only looking to help get the seriously injured on the first train out.
The news seemed to cause a bit of panic - no surprise there - and a quick check of the woman's leg confirmed John's suspicion. There was no injury or at least, nothing that required immediate treatment by a doctor and if she was expecting, she couldn't have been more than two months pregnant. Clearly, they had been lied to. Turning to Jean-Phillipe, John shook his head and muttered a curse under his breath.
Jean-Phillipe grunted expressively. He could understand in an academic sense some of the desperation that these refugees must be feeling, but he did not think that even under these circumstances he would resort to lying and conniving. But then, disasters did tend to bring out the worst in people.
Like the businessman in a suit that had gone ratty from the amount of time spent without access to a shower or change of clothes who was self-importantly shoving his way past all and sundry. The cries of protest that spawned in his wake drew Jean-Phillipe's attention, and when the businessman surged past another family, he found himself face-to-face with a hard-faced electrokinetic.
The self-important man took his wallet out and demanded to be let through as if his money was worth anything to the mutant standing in front of him. He shouted, he begged, he cursed, he spat, and all those standing behind the man began to push forward in an attempt to get past the barriers. A child of about two let out a blood curdling scream as he was crushed between his father and a man in front of him. John's attempts to help get the kid out of harm's way was futile at best. By the time he reached forward to grab hold of the little boy, both father and child was gone; lost in the sea of angry faces staring back at him.
Things were beginning to get out of hand. They were supposed to help clear the way for the wounded. But if the damn refugees kept pushing forward, they were going to do a piss poor job of doing that; not to mention protecting the goddamn train.
"Fuck this shit." It was high time they put the fear of mutants in the eyes of these pathetic humans. John reached for the lighter in his pocket but came out empty handed. He'd lost the damn thing in the crowd.
"I'm gonna need a light, sparky."
"And to think, Monsieur Summers was always on me to quit smoking." Jean-Phillipe fished his own lighter out. He thought about pitching it the few steps to John, but discarded that idea as unwise. Instead, he struck the flint and cursed as nothing happened. "Fils de putain!" he yelled, opting instead for the expedient of simply holding down the lever to release gas, and then igniting it with a spark from the end of a finger.
John drew the flame out and created a wall of fire behind him, ultimately generating more panic -- but those attempting to climb over the waist high barriers seemed to think twice about what they were doing.
"Tell them they need to let the wounded through," he said, allowing time for Sarivin to translate the message as the man climbed atop a shipping container in order to be heard. "Anyone attempting to break past the line gets an electroshock treatment by my friend here."
"And I really hope someone tries us," Jean-Phillipe growled, ostentatiously letting an arc of electricity play between his hands.
The babble of pleading voices switched from Hindi to Punjabi to Urdu to Kashmiri and so on through a dozen dialects and regional languages. Their translator valiantly tried to keep up, but the sheer wall of sound broadcasting at him was preventing that. He gave a hopeless shrug to John and Jean-Phillipe, before plunging back in. The refugees kept streaming into the area, not even a camp but simply a crude open area which surrounded a pathetically small field aid station. With rail lines destroyed and highways buckled, the old trainyard offered a few buildings for shelter, and enough room to touch down helicopters, which the UN forces were dependant on for aid. But no fleet was big enough to fly out the thousands on thousands which slowly made their way to the area, carrying injured friends and family, and now waited on the hope that the rails would offer an escape from this hell.
As always, it was not just the four legged scavengers to worry about, and Angelo had asked them to take one of the translators and start prioritizing wounded for the first train out, assuming Callisto could get it running. That meant running afoul of those trying to buy their way ahead of the line.
Two men grabbed a hold of John's arm and started to plead for help, begging for assistance in a language he couldn't understand. One of the man pointed to an area slightly ahead of them and started to push his way through the crowd, determined to have John follow him.
"It is concerning his wife!" Sarivin said, coming to the aide of the outsider. "She is pregnant!"
"Right!" All that shouting in an attempt to be heard over the din of noise surrounding them was almost therapeutic. "Well, if she's delivering, we're not doctors!"
"He claims she has injured her foot!" Sarivin yelled back, almost at equal loudness and then let out a shrug. It was up to them to decide whether that was worth checking out.
Not seeing that they had much of a choice just then, John nodded and had one chance to get Jean-Phillipe's attention before he was forced into the crowd.
The first person who had attempted to lay hands on Jean-Phillipe had jerked back from a very mild electrical shock, coupled with a annoyed narrowing of the eyes from the Frenchman. It had taken a few more occurrences before the crowd began to give him as wide a berth as they could, given the sheer press of humanity before them. He applied an elbow to someone not quick enough to get out of his way as he dove into the crowd behind John.
Up ahead the family members stood in a huddle by the side of an abandoned truck. The air seemed more oppressive here. Or maybe it was a mild case of claustrophobia setting in. John ran a finger between his collar and throat.
"I'm going to need to take a look at the injury," John said, watching the exchange of expressions between the men and the women as Sarivin calmly explained the situation to the family, letting them know that they were doing all they could to help get everyone out of the area. But they were under strict orders to prioritize and were only looking to help get the seriously injured on the first train out.
The news seemed to cause a bit of panic - no surprise there - and a quick check of the woman's leg confirmed John's suspicion. There was no injury or at least, nothing that required immediate treatment by a doctor and if she was expecting, she couldn't have been more than two months pregnant. Clearly, they had been lied to. Turning to Jean-Phillipe, John shook his head and muttered a curse under his breath.
Jean-Phillipe grunted expressively. He could understand in an academic sense some of the desperation that these refugees must be feeling, but he did not think that even under these circumstances he would resort to lying and conniving. But then, disasters did tend to bring out the worst in people.
Like the businessman in a suit that had gone ratty from the amount of time spent without access to a shower or change of clothes who was self-importantly shoving his way past all and sundry. The cries of protest that spawned in his wake drew Jean-Phillipe's attention, and when the businessman surged past another family, he found himself face-to-face with a hard-faced electrokinetic.
The self-important man took his wallet out and demanded to be let through as if his money was worth anything to the mutant standing in front of him. He shouted, he begged, he cursed, he spat, and all those standing behind the man began to push forward in an attempt to get past the barriers. A child of about two let out a blood curdling scream as he was crushed between his father and a man in front of him. John's attempts to help get the kid out of harm's way was futile at best. By the time he reached forward to grab hold of the little boy, both father and child was gone; lost in the sea of angry faces staring back at him.
Things were beginning to get out of hand. They were supposed to help clear the way for the wounded. But if the damn refugees kept pushing forward, they were going to do a piss poor job of doing that; not to mention protecting the goddamn train.
"Fuck this shit." It was high time they put the fear of mutants in the eyes of these pathetic humans. John reached for the lighter in his pocket but came out empty handed. He'd lost the damn thing in the crowd.
"I'm gonna need a light, sparky."
"And to think, Monsieur Summers was always on me to quit smoking." Jean-Phillipe fished his own lighter out. He thought about pitching it the few steps to John, but discarded that idea as unwise. Instead, he struck the flint and cursed as nothing happened. "Fils de putain!" he yelled, opting instead for the expedient of simply holding down the lever to release gas, and then igniting it with a spark from the end of a finger.
John drew the flame out and created a wall of fire behind him, ultimately generating more panic -- but those attempting to climb over the waist high barriers seemed to think twice about what they were doing.
"Tell them they need to let the wounded through," he said, allowing time for Sarivin to translate the message as the man climbed atop a shipping container in order to be heard. "Anyone attempting to break past the line gets an electroshock treatment by my friend here."
"And I really hope someone tries us," Jean-Phillipe growled, ostentatiously letting an arc of electricity play between his hands.
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