thearena | Hallelujah it's raining food (and other things)

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Hallelujah it's raining food (and other things)

Who| Jet and open!
What| Jet and Albert have too many supplies to keep, Jet decides to share the love
Where| Every floor not the third and outside of the stores
When| Beginning of week 2
Warnings/Notes| Watch out from above. Also, this is probably the last chance to catch CR with Jet before he goes blind in the arena.

It was a brilliant plan.

He and Albert had been making a habit out of using their climbing gear to rappel down from the third floor to the food court to get their supplies before darting back up another way to avoid possible threats and it had been working beautifully. In fact, it had been working a little too well.

They'd tried stockpiling the food they snatched, but hardly any of it stayed good for long so they were just left with spoiled food they had to dump. Albert had been walking around handing out supplies, Jet on the other hand had come up with a much more efficient tactic.

There as close to the middle of the big open area all three floors shared, hung the blond New Yorker, suspended by his climbing gear and the ropes attached and holding his pack he'd repurposed to hold all the food they'd grabbed they didn't need. Each item had been carefully packed in small containers normally used for camping and these were the containers he delicately tossed at other wandering tributes.

Generally near their feet, but sometimes at their faces.

It wasn't just food either, some of it was the make-shift medical supplies he'd taken to make his own first aid kit (which he didn't need anymore thanks to a sponsor), some of it was water bottles or juice or other contained drinks (don't open those sodas too quickly). He was in far too good of a mood for an arena, but who cared? He was willing to throw a little risk into the mix to help others. Steve's speech had struck home with Jet, there was no malice in his actions, just a little bit of mischief.

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Alex doesn't see Jet at first. He busies himself making rounds of the first floor, still looking for Venus and so far he doesn't have anything to show for it, nothing he can report to Clara to put her at ease. Normally this would be the point where he'd be grinding his teeth, getting more pissed off because he's sick and tired of these types getting away with this. The neurosuppression shows once again why it's so effective: instead of wasting energy getting frustrated and getting impatient, jumping the gun and making mistakes, Alex merely keeps doing what he's doing, going in a circuit around the Mall.

His shattered visor means that when the small tin of medical supplies rains from the sky, it skids off the top of his helmet and nearly takes out his eye instead of bouncing off the glass. Alex stops, doesn't flinch back. His HUD slaps a reticule on the tin and says [IDENTIFYING...FIRST AID KIT]. Not a weapon.

He cranes his head up, actuators clicking. The face that turns to Jet is turning all kinds of weird colors from Venus dunking him in the hot oil, the skin bubbling in places, waxy in the other. One eye has swollen shut. The other, so brown it's practically a flat black, fixes on Jet and doesn't seem to blink as much as it should.

"Get down from there, citizen," Alex says, projecting his voice. As he didn't directly see the first aid kit get thrown, he can't classify it as a 604. He focuses on the public hazard the man hanging from the ceiling represents. "Now."

What the hell was that? Jet’s first thought was some half-melted robot, but the way some of the ‘skin’ pocked and melted reminded him more of real skin than synth skin.

The blond rappelled down to where the guy was and detached himself from the rope; he wasn’t really concerned about obeying, but he had to get a closer look. The only thing he could think of that would have metal and skin was a cyborg and that was a little too close to home to avoid investigating.

"For the record, I'm not really a citizen, but there, better? What's so bad about hanging there anyway?"

Alex follows his progress down, his mouth set in that thin line that would've looked like disapproval on someone else (it's his default expression these days).

"You pose a public hazard." Alex thought that has been more than self-evident. His head tilts slightly to the side as he sizes up Jet. "As long as you're in the city bounds, you are a citizen. I'm responsible for your safety until you leave or you commit a crime."

It's one of those things his techs put in pre-Arena - a little motivation to keep his interactions with the other Tributes fresh, opening him up to alliances when he hadn't been even willing to leave Clara's side last time. Now Alex fixes Jet with a stare, bringing up [ PUBLIC SAFETY - ACCESS LECTURE].

"If your gear is faulty, you can seriously injure a bystander. Falling equipment can also injure a bystander." Alex holds out the first aid kit Jet so helpfully dropped on his head. "Case in point, this."

Yeah, okay, safety nazi obviously. He certainly acted just as robotic as Jet had initially thought he was, but there was something about his look that said otherwise.

Jet waved his hands in denial of accepting the kit. "You keep it, you look like you need it more." He indicated to his own face where Alex's was damaged or injured.

"What's your name anyway? You're another tribute, right?"

Alex pauses. Jet might not know it, but he hit one of those weak spots in Alex's nicely compartmentalized mind - give back the first aid kit because he isn't authorized to accept gifts? Keep it because he knows that he's been damaged from the fryer oil? Alex stands there frozen for a moment, looking for an acceptable way to deal with a material gift from a civilian.

He stalls, focusing on answering Jet's question first. He continues to hold out the first aid kit.

"I'm Detective Alex Murphy. Law enforcement," Alex clarifies. In his mind, he isn't another Tribute. He's a cop doing a job that will always need doing. "I can't accept material gifts. However, I can accept first aid from you if you can apply it."

It's a concession that seems acceptable. The kit isn't likely to help much, but if it keeps Jet here on the floor instead of hanging off the ceiling like it's a set of monkey bars, Alex considers it a part of his job.

Once upon a time, Jet might've scoffed or even just walked off because Alex Murphy was a cop and cops couldn't be trusted, a life with a gang living on the streets had taught him that.

But he was older than that version of himself, he'd been in the NSA and the Air Force and all the revelation that this man was a cop did was make Jet feel sorry for him.

He was a cop which meant he was a man, but all that robotics...it meant he was a cyborg and Jet had to wonder if it had been his choice to have that happen or if Alex was like Jet and the rest of his family and had had it forced on him.

The mechanical way he spoke and acted was eerie to Jet, but he tried not to hold it against him when he didn't know why. Instead, he took the small box back and turned it over in his hands a moment.

"Yeah, okay. Lucky for you, I've got some medical training. Come sit over here."

Jet motioned to a bench nearby and waited for his 'patient' to have a seat.

"I might be able to do something about some of that broken machinery too, if you want. Maybe. He'd spent enough years patching his own mechanics that he figured he could at least have a look.

Unlike Jet, Alex was lucky enough not to have those thoughts - there's something to be said about being unable to feel empathy for others. So much easier.

"Thank you," Alex says, as if Jet just only the door for him. It's all the same in his mind.

He follows Jet, the whirr-thud of his graphene feet saying where he is and how fast he's moving. Alex eyeballs the bench, seems satisfied that it will hold his weight, and sits down next to Jet, turning to tilt his burned face toward the citizen. He looks to be in decent enough shape. Mostly Alex cares if there's distinguishing marks - in case Jet turns up injured, missing, dead, or breaks the law in such a way he requires pacification. Identification is easier with distinguishing features.

"You're welcome to try, but I doubt you'll find the resources to replace this," Alex points at the jagged edges of glass that used to be his black visor. "I didn't know you were qualified to perform repairs on cyborgs," he adds, after a slight pause to see if he had anything in his database about Jet. Hard to come up with a facial recognition match when his databases were shredded to chunks. All he can make out is Jet's official Tribute photos and his score. Nothing about OmniCorp affiliation.

If Alex was looking for distinguishing features, the only things he'd find would be Jet's slightly-too-large nose and the presence of a long nasty looking (but clearly old) scar running from under his right arm's sleeve all the way down to his elbow. He had a matching set of three round scars on each wrist, but they were feint and nearly unnoticeable to anyone not looking directly at the blond's wrists.

Jet spares a glance to Alex's visor and instantly dismisses it as beyond his skill level, choosing to focus on the limited organic parts that were damaged first.

"Sort of am. I worked on my own cybernetics for nearly thirty years by myself and for several years before that, I watched the doc put my team back together whenever we got banged up. It's not a P.H.D. skill-set, but it works."

Of course, right now, he didn't look cybernetic at all. He could still feel the ghost sensation of his systems and the read-outs on his eyes and the panels that used to trace his skin, but it was all in his head; a result of living more of his life as a cyborg than he had as a human.

"Who made you into a cyborg, Alex?" He was partially passing the time as he worked, but he was mostly curious. The only people who'd worked on cyborgs in his world had been Black Ghost and then, later, the NSA. A morbid part of him needed to know if it had been either of those two groups.

The scar he takes special note of. It's a very distinguishing mark and like it or not, it's been recorded and filed away for Alex to access at any time. Some say that OmniCorp was bordering on Big Brother tactics, but Alex finds constant surveillance, conducted by him personally or all the CCTV and phone logs, speeds things along. Keeps it efficient.

Alex finds it odd that Jet claims to be working on his own cybernetics - prosthesis seems most likely - for thirty years. He has a very young face, all things considered, but the suppression Alex is under means he doesn't get concerned or suspicious about it. That face isn't doing anything criminal. He cooperated when told. Therefore Alex is okay with him - or as okay he can feel toward anyone. Alex keeps his face tilted to the side to give Jet easier access and doesn't think for a second that he's opening himself up to attack. Exposing the few squishy bits he has left.

The idea of a Tribute slitting his throat doesn't keep him up at night. In that aspect, Alex is one of the luckiest Tributes in this Arena.

"I was almost killed in a car bomb. OmniCorp saved my life by grafting what was left into this," Alex taps his graphene thigh and for once he doesn't look disgusted at it. There's a very faint hint of pride, actually. His brown eye fixes on Jet. "With your experience in cybernetics, you should consider employment there. I could write a letter of recommendation."

In his opinion, it's a more productive use of his time than dangling from the ceiling.

"No thanks." It's said more harshly and a lot faster than Jet really meant it and he grimaced to himself as he worked. "Sorry...you might be happy with what was done to you, but the groups I know who do that sort of thing aren't so nice."

Black Ghost had 'saved' them: an infant dying of disease, a punk teen living on the New York streets and headed for jail, a man bent on crossing the German border illegally only to fatally injure himself and his fiancee in the process, a bulldozer of a man incapable of getting a job, a restaurant owner so deep in dept that suicide seemed better, a washed up alcoholic British actor, a man stuck in a war he couldn't win and an orphan framed for murder; they'd all been 'saved' except Frannie and yet Jet would welcome a chance to punch Skull in the face if it was given.

There was a part of him that accepted that his life was truly better for it and that being granted his dream to fly was something he valued, but the fact it'd been forced on them was what would make him resent Black Ghost forever.

Even if that's not what Omnicorp did, Jet was far too weary to even consider trusting a place like that.

Jet finished patching the organic bits that were damaged and moved on to inspecting the cybernetics. Loose wiring he could fix, broken parts he could maybe make functional again with a little bit of repositioning, but the stuff that was just gone he couldn't help with. This was about as complex as their cybernetics were, but it was a different style, he didn't know a hundred percent at everything he was looking at.

"Why were you in a car bomb? Was it something to do with being a cop?"

Alex processes Jet’s rejection without even a flicker behind his eyes. No disappointment there. It was a yes/no question and he had answered it. Alex had no stake in it. Even if he had one, the suppression would ensure he opted for the best-for-the-public one.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex says, not sounding sorry at all.

He falls silent as Jet works. For the most part, his eyes are forward, another indicator that he’s rigid despite all the work OmniCorp put into him. No glancing sidelong at Jet and wondering if he’d betray himself with a tell, if he’d look left or take too long to reply before he pulled a knife on him. It’s what any Tribute worth their Gamemaker score would’ve done. But Alex has classed Jet as (mostly) law-abiding and that seems to settle it. No more following gut instincts, not when he doesn’t have working guts anymore. Everyhing is neat, simple. Comforting. He’s a good patient as he sits there, back ramrod straight. Jet does what he can for his face, but aside from gauze and band-aids, there isn’t much that can be done to correct the cosmetic damage. Not unless Jet has an artificial eyeball hidden up his sleeve.

Alex is still facing forward as Jet asks about the car bomb. “Yes. I was too…forward. Local mafia found out I was a cop and retaliated. I was lucky I was the only one hurt, and not my family.”

The way he says “family” doesn’t come across the way it should. Flat, detached, like he’s reciting from a book. Not real people with real faces and real fears. His head swivels toward Jet to stare right at him.

“Why were you on the roof?” Alex goes back to what, in his mind, is the most important. A good citizen wouldn’t feel the need to skirt the law by dangling from the roof like it’s Christmas.

The way he said family bothered Jet, it lacked the warmth Jet always felt whenever he thought of his own family, the kind of warmth that usually translated from thought to voice. The only exception he could think of was Jet's own first family, the one he'd been born to, but that was a special case, he couldn't imagine something like that was the case for Alex.

Unless...Albert had always had a fear every time he had to be upgraded that the upgrades took away some of his humanity. Jet had always assured him that wasn't the case and every time, Albert woke up still the man Jet knew...but what if that hadn't been the case for Alex? What if whatever had happened to him had altered his capacity to feel, to be human? Or maybe it was just the arena, maybe the capitol was just messing with him for the fun of it. That one wouldn't surprise him and it didn't make him ill-at-ease so he mentally went with that.

"I was trying to help people. My partner and I had too many supplies, so we were giving them to others." Jet's way of doing it was simply more creative than Albert's.

He smiled a bit. "Is charity illegal now?"

Alex consults the existing laws of Detroit, then the federal level. He also compares them to OmniCorp mandates.

"No. They're legal. That said, I can't permit you to deliver charity by throwing gifts at people's heads. It's dangerous."

As evidenced by the near miss with the first aid kit. Alex believes that charity is a right and that he has no obligation to monitor it, provided proper channels are used, procedures are followed, and the gifts don't brain anyone. He does approve of the general gist of what Jet is trying to accomplish, however. It's gratifying to see a citizen trying to better their city and their fellow neighbors. Alex meets Jet's smile with his default expression - blank brown eyes, his mouth drawn into a line, thin and flattened as if he can't remember how to match a grin.

Alex breaks eye contact first, glancing at the first aid kit. It's used, but there is enough to donate.

"Please consider donating that to someone who needs it. Keep up the good work," Alex looks up at Jet.

That was seriously unnerving, the way Alex looked at him like he didn't quite see him, or that he just didn't care. Emotionless.

"I will. You too, just keep away from fryers from now on and I'll keep from tossing provisions."

Jet winked and offered a salute that was perfect in form but off-set by the smirk he still held to.

"I'll see you around, officer.

Albert had just started his own round of 'Santa Clausing' as Jet had put it, leaving food out in strategic places or simply handing it to people who looked hungry. Of course, he's extra wary during this considering walking around with a backpack full of food is like painting a target on his back for those to whom sharing is not in the natural order, but it's an oversight of his that in a roofed building, he's less likely to look up.

Which is why the little square carton of chocolate milk hits him soundly on top of the head, covering him in the brown liquid.

He takes a moment to shake off, wiping milk from his eyes before he looks up at Jet with a glare, though he resists the urge to shout. Not exactly a good life choice in the arena. Instead, he retreats to a bathroom to wash up, then appears awhile later up where Jet's rope is anchored, still sporting a disgruntled look of ire though the milk has been washed from his hair and face.

"That was a waste of milk you know."

Jet had a very hard time keeping his cool once the milk carton had landed on his fiancé. He really hadn’t intended for it to bust open on the German, he’d done it for fun, but oh well. It just made him giggle harder. He had to keep his hands over his mouth to keep the sound escaping, but he was sure Albert had seen him laughing. Oh well.

By the time the laughter subsided, Albert was above him and Jet turned blue eyes sparkling with mirth up to the older man. “No it wasn’t. It was the perfect use.” He looked away again as his grin almost turned back into laughter.

“For the record, I wasn’t trying to do that.”

"Oh so you weren't trying to give me a lactose induced concussion?" With a wry smirk, the older man expertly tugs on the rope, interrupting Jet's Spider-man impression to bring him back over the railing and onto solid ground. "I had to get new clothes."

Poor baby.

Jet lets out a rather undignified sound at being forced back up and over the railing, but he doesn't really try to fight it either.

"No, I wasn't! And that's hardly something to complain about when we're in a mall."

Jet worked on unstrapping himself since it seemed his escapades had come to an end. "Done running errands?"

"It's an unnecessary risk. Who knows what other tributes have made a nest in the clothing stores?" Really though, he's being dramatic for a laugh.

"Yes, everything I didn't hand over directly I left in convenient places for people to find, though I still think burritos are a terrible idea in an arena." There's a certain amount of gastrointestinal distress to be expected from Mexican food, after all.

"And you?"

Albert's general presence plus the man being in a good mood is enough for Jet to smile, the mental image of all of the tributes in nests makes him laugh, as does the knock about the food.

Since it seems his delivery hours are over, he begins packing up while he responds.

"Well it seems someone saw fit to cut me off, so I guess I'm done."

He pulled what little was still left in his pack out and slid it out across the tile floor so it wouldn't look so much like it was piled for a trap. Once the pack was empty, he slung it over his shoulder and locked his arm with Albert's.

"What now?"

"Hmm... Well, we could rest at camp and be utterly uninteresting for the cameras for awhile."

It sounds good to him, frankly. True whatever newscaps there are of the games will probably coo over them curled in a little makeshift lovenest, but it'll get old after a few minutes so unless the gamemakers decide to shake things up, it won't matter much. Even if he feels so strange about their relationship being as public as it is. Bunch of creepy voyeurs, that's all the Capitol is.

"Unless you have something you'd rather do?"

"Nope. Sounds perfect to me."

It was a little unnerving to know people were watching them, but with each arena, he found he cared less and less; he still valued their privacy, but he was beginning to accept there just wasn't going to be any during these weeks.

Arms still linked, Jet led them back in the direction of their encampment, oddly looking forward to something as simple as laying around with his fiance.

Falling containers from above were certainly not what Hubert was expecting as he roamed the Arena. He wasn't able to simply stay in one place, preferring to keep his guard and keep himself from being cornered, should anyone come for him.

So it's safe to say the container thudding him on the head unexpectedly is enough to warrant a shout and flinch, before he just barely caught it in his hands and looked up- frown apparent on his face.

The sight of some strange suspended boy is not exactly what he's expecting, either-- his frown immediately deepening, but looking more confused than irate.

"And what is this, exactly?" he'll call up, holding it as if it were dangerous somehow. After all, one could never be too careful. And the can that seemed to be inside wasn't something he was familiar with, either.

Jet hadn't really been aiming for the guy's head, but it had gotten his attention so it worked.

His smirk turned into a smile when the question got asked; it was smart of this kid to be weary, even though Jet's intentions were far from villainous.

"It's food. Check it if you don't believe me. Promise it's not poisoned or messed with or anything, my partner and I just got too much, so we're passing it out.

Hubert will indeed check the package, fingers finally finding the right edge and opening the container, peering at the contents. It seemed safe enough-- but still.

"A charity act in the middle of an arena like this...? Well, I suppose everyone's been rather low key so far." Although the stranger was doing such a kind thing, leaving himself suspended out in the open was a bit worrisome, and perhaps even stupid. "How long do you plan on staying up there?"

Jet shrugged. "Until I've lightened my load."

He indicated to the backpack where more supplies lay that he'd yet to hand out. True, he made himself a bit of a target dangling there, but he had a handy little pull string to free himself if he needed to. It would be a harsh landing, but it would be better than dying. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

"There's still a few more things here. I get it's an arena, but I'm sick of dancing to the capitol's tune, so I'll help. Get it?"

"... hm." He has to admit, the guy's stubborn. But similarly, he can understand that some people were just more-- direct? No, that wasn't the right word. No, he was simply more honest and open about his intentions.

"Well, either way, you're doing the people here a good service." He hasn't been getting as many proper meals as he was hoping for-- so in all, this was something to be grateful for. "Thank you for this."

Jet smiled, glad to hear it was appreciated. "No problem. If you're feeling hungry, I'm probably gonna dump the rest of this stuff on the second floor outside the cinema in about an hour."

Jet winked and nearly began heading down again, but was reminded of something suddenly. This kid looked okay, like someone worth helping, so Jet dug back into his bag and pulled out the make-shift first aid kit he'd used to patch up Alex. It was still useful and he didn't need it, so he tossed it to the guy's feet.

"One last present. It's not perfect, but it'll work in a pinch."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." Perhaps he'd look out for the acquaintances he's been making and let them know-- after all, this should be enough for him, for now.

He was about to start leaving when he noticed something being thrown again-- scooping the kit off the ground and peering inside it. Nothing fancy, but it was definitely a first-aid kit, which had Hubert peering up curiously.

"Do you have others?" he'll ask, immediately. He couldn't just up and take this much charity from someone if they were compromising their own safety. Even though it was technically their fault for doing so...

"That's a spare, I'm not that charitable, but thanks for the concern." Jet winked and zipped up the pack again.

"I'm gonna move on to the other levels. Good luck to you, kid."

It wasn't said dismissively, more as a nickname in the place of not knowing the guy's name. He looked young and even if he wasn't, Jet was sure he was younger than 87, which would make him a kid compared to Jet at the very least.

There was no ill will behind the nickname, but Hubert would have to cut in nonetheless. "It's Hubert. Hubert Oswell... but good luck to you, as well."

But with that out of the way, he'll nod respectfully, inclining his head and heading off. After all, there was still a lot more area-- or maybe Arena, ha-- to cover.

Venus, for her part, is hardly looking better than she did the first week in the Arena. Even with the bruises from her time in jail fading, her burns on her face are settling into unattractive, scabby ripples in her flesh, and she still seems to be keeping to herself, only filling the void in her life with consumerist luxuries. Currently, her 'PARTICIPANT' t-shirt has been stylishly cut into a tunic and belted around the waist, with a plunging back and braided spaghetti straps. If she can't be a winner and she can't be happy, at least she can be a stylish loser.

The burns on her hand and arm may very well kill her, she thinks. She's fairly certain they aren't healing, that they're getting infected. She sees Jet from the corner of her eye and dismisses him as not a threat, lowering her gaze to examine the ugly wound. It's unfortunately timed with his attempt to throw her a gift.

When she sees the package coming for her face, she immediately drops down into a tuck and roll, getting herself gracefully and panickedly out of the way.

"Jesus Christ, Jet! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry! Sorry." Jet had the decency to look like he was actually sorry even though he was half distracted with how impressive her moves had been.

He'd been trying to help her out, throw her a little extra food as a friend, not nail her n the face; he'd been banking on her catching it. Still, he 'd nearly hit her and friend- decorum demanded he go see if she was all right. He repelled down to her and hopped the railing to get on her floor. Once he was detached, he went over to her, concern only mounting as he noticed the burns on her arms; they really didn't look good.

"Are you okay, Venus? What happened to your arms?"

Before she could answer, he was already down on one knee and digging through his bag. He still had some medical supplies in here somewhere.

She relaxes, giving him a wide smile that seems to weep scabs to tell him it's alright. She's healing, if slowly, if in a most unpretty fashion.

"Got into a bit of an incident with the fryer. Threw it in that machine-man's face." While trying to murder his wife, but upfront as Venus is, she isn't quite at that level with Jet yet.

"Saw your man back at one of the perfume counters."

He produced a small kit in which there was a tube of burn salve. He hadn't used any of it yet, so there was certainly plenty to spare. He stood and moved closer to her.

"Yeah, don't worry, for once we're not looking for each other, we've got a base on the third floor." Usually, he wouldn't give that kind of information away and he wouldn't necessarily classify Venus as someone close enough to him to warrant that kind of trust, but he was offering it anyway. If she didn't use it against them, he could trust her more, if she did...well, at least he'd know exactly where they stood. He was certainly hoping for the former.

"Can I see your arms? I've got something that should help."

"Good for you guys." She doesn't ask where on the third floor it is, partially because she doesn't want to seem to be inviting herself and partially because she doesn't want to know, when it comes down to it; sooner or later Jet and Albert's names will come up on her hit list, and it seems deeply unfair to ask for their address so she can hunt them down in their home later.

Not for the first time, she wonders what this life has made of her, why she can't fit herself back into the monster she was when she arrived and why that discomfort doesn't actually give her any answers about how to live now.

She holds out her arms to the man she's hoping she doesn't have to kill later. "Thanks. It's not as bad as it could be. You should've seen me two Arenas ago, I looked like I got into it dirty with a lawnmower."

He squeezed some of it out into his hand and stuck the bottle in his pocket so he could spread it between both of his hands. Once covered, he glanced at her. "Sorry, this is gonna sting like a bitch for a bit."

More than likely, assuming this wasn't some 'magic capitol' crap, it had come from a sponsor after all. Gently, he began to rub the cream into one of her arms, making sure to spread it as much as he could over the damaged skin. Even on his unmarred hands, he could tell it had a cooling agent which would definitely help.

"I assume you didn't actually get into it with a lawnmower, so what was it really?" Two arenas ago...was that the museum when he and Albert had first shown up? He preferred not to think about it since he'd thought he was actually going to die then, on top of the fact that he knew Joe and Pyunma had shown up too and they hadn't come back after it.

"I can guarantee I've been through worse." That might have been delivered with a smirk before. Right now it's just solemn and sad, tinged with the memories of her time after the jailbreak being pressed for information.

She doesn't wince as the cream goes on, even though it stings.

"Our last Victor, Kevin." She sneers at that one. It was, indeed, the museum, and she spent the majority of her time with her face split open. "If anyone deserves to get out of here, it's not him."

Her tone makes him sad and for just a moment, he considers hugging her, but he isn't sure how that would be taken, so resisted the urge and focused on spreading the cream on her other arm.

The mention of Kevin, however, makes him pause momentarily. Sharp claws and sharper teeth, the sight of those teeth tearing through grey skin as the creature smiles more than what should be physically possible. The crunch of Jet's bones and the wet squelching sound of skin and muscle tearing under those sharp claws and teeth as the monster that was Kevin ate the blond alive while Felicity's voice rang in his ears.

He shuddered.

"Yeah..."

He made himself smile at her and wiped the access cream off on his pants. "There, that should take what heat is left in the burns and help prevent infection. Next time you come across some some bandages, you should wrap them for protection.

"He'll get his," she says, all dark and brooding. She's a half-step shy of scheming, here; if Kevin were in the Arena, she tells herself that he would be dead by now. Very dead.

And she knows what happened to Jet. Knows Kevin's worked his way through too many of her friends with impunity. She wants to tell Jet that ultimately, Kevin goes 'splat' when dropped from a high enough height, just like anyone else, but she doesn't know how well that would go over.

"Thank you." Her gratitude is genuine in her voice and face when she looks up at Jet.

On some level, he knew Kevin wasn't some big threat, but the memory of the monster colored what he knew with what he felt. Still, the thought of Kevin 'getting his' was comfort enough that he offered her an honest smile; it only grew with her thanks.

"Anytime." He paused, considering something a moment. He might be laughed at for what he was about to say, but so be it.

"I get this isn't the place to say something like this, but if you ever need help, don't hesitate to ask me."

There was no caveat, no expectation, only an honest offer from one friend to another.

"Don't tell me what to do," she teases, a ghost of the smirk she used to have on her face. It's an uptick to her lips nonetheless. It's been a hard week.

She pauses as she leaves. "Jet? Take care of you and Albert, okay?"

The smile that forms in response is wider than any he'd had so far and drastically brighter.

"Me? I'd never do that." He salutes to her, expression unchanged. "Yes, ma'am. Take care of yourself too, alright? Just as a suggestion."

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Hallelujah it's raining food (and other things)

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