Sedimentary, My Dear Watson

[John Jackson]

These events follow directly after Moonlighting Hero Work.

Though the siren itself was silent, the continued flashing of the patrol car's lights sent odd red and blue shadows chasing along the walls of the alley. A plume of steam that leaked half-heartedly from a vent a few feet up was turned into a feeble, stuttering glow by the dim light cast from a flickering street lamp. Breath rose up to meet it, frozen into clouds by the chill in the autumn night air.

Fighting hard against the urge to shiver, Detective John Jackson dug a hand deep into the inside pocket of his overcoat, fishing around for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He held the box to his ear and shook it gently, only a dull rattle eminating from within. Flipping it open and digging out the last cigarette, he stuffed the container back into his coat. A metal click and a barely audible breath of flame later, Jackson sucked warmth deep into his lungs and held it there for a moment, a few whispers of smoke escaping from his nostrils before he blew the remainder out through his lips, sending it drifting upwards to join the tangle of clouds.

Everything about him seemed ruffled, from the tireness that tugged at his eyes, the hair he hadn't bothered to fix after being dragged out of bed, and the clothes from yesterday hurridly thrown on as he made for the door. A tired headache had already begun to congregate at his forehead, although the nicotine infusion helped to unravel that a little. It'd do for now, until he managed to get his hands on some coffee.

The uniforms had been busy: tape already advertised to passers by that the alley was now a crime scene, although truth be told no one had yet been able to identify what crime had been committed. A path of destruction carved its way along the walls, the outer layer of brickwork torn free, exposing the concrete blocks beneath. In some places, holes had been torn through into the rooms behind; from the look of the neighbourhood though, it was unlikely that anyone - or anything of value - was inside. The bricks liberated from the wall hadn't travelled far: they littered the alley for fifty yards or so, and from the sound of things another similar site of slightly lesser destruction had been found at the far end.

Shaking his head, Jackson took another long drag on his cigarette, and set his sights on a cluster of uniforms, his partner standing in their midst. He offered a silent nod of greeting as he approached. "Why you gotta wake me up so damn early, man?" came back as a reply.

Though understandable, and indeed echoed by himself, Jackson ignored his partner's negative sentiments at having been rudely awoken at three am, and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. "What have we got?" he asked instead.

[Dwayne Stiles]

Dwayne Stiles had not had a good night. Some of it was absolutely nothing to do with standing out in the cold amongst the rubble of the crime scene he had been asked to come out to at three in the morning; rather, it was the fact that he had attempted to cook a meal for himself and Crystal, complete with the most expensive wine he could find in the local store and a tall candle. He had even made the pepper sauce from scratch, and knew that calling the finished meal steak au poive would ultimately earn him maximum romance points.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Crystal was allergic to pepper, and so they had rushed to the hospital in order to dose her up with more powerful anti-hestimines than normal. Currently, she was asleep, warm and soft and without his arms snared around her slender waist. God, what he wouldn't give to be there right now.

To add insult to injury, of course, he had been called out at stupid O'clock to investigate the result of what appeared to be a bust-up. Although, it was a rather unusual bust-up, considering that the ground was littered with bricks of varying completeness, and that the building they had come from had a large gaping hole in it.

Oh, and his partner Jackson had shown up ten minutes after Stiles had been on the scene. "An alley full of bricks." At Jackson's unimpressed look, Dwayne dug his hands into his pockets and whistled out some air from between his teeth, said air blowing out as mist which faded quickly into the night. "All right. We got some guy stretchered off to hospital with head injuries, but nothing too serious - he'll be talkin' when he wakes up later on. There was at least one other guy - there're some signs of a struggle further down that alley. But, damn --" He gestured at the hole in the building they were facing, "I dunno what did this. Explosives, maybe?"

His nose wrinkled, and with a less controlled degree of disgust than he would normally administer he glanced at Jackson's cigarette, "And put that thing out, man. S'bad for you."

[John Jackson]

Jackson quirked his eyebrow, gaze flicking between his cigarette and his partner, as if sceptical about Dwayne's claims that his habit might be harmful. With a shrug of surrender, he drew once last drag and flicked the remnants of his cigarette away into the gutter, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets as an alternative way to keep warm.

Leading the way, Jackson casually paced towards the entrance to the alleyway, mind processing the information that Dwayne had provided. Despite having been there much sooner - by virtue of living closer, no doubt - his partner had discovered very little beyond the information provided to them over the phone. Probably spent the whole time complaining about having to work so early, he mused.

Kicking a fragment of shattered brick out of his path with his foot, Jackson allowed his eyes to scan across the carnage left by whatever 'altercation' had occurred. The mound of bricks was a tangled mess; no doubt the guys and gals from Crime Scene would be able to unearth the exact details of what had transpired, but right now things didn't sit right with him. Explosives would have scattered fragments everywhere, and would have caused damage into the buildings, instead of out. While there was evidence of bricks scattering in all directions up and down the alley, in other places it looked as if the walls had simply tumbled down where they stood. And behind where the bricks had presumably been initially, the concrete, insulation, and few glimpses of room that Jackson could make all seemed eerily undisturbed.

Jackson shook his head, crouching down beside one of the larger mounds of displaced bricks. "Not explosives," he said softly. "Something else."

Suddenly, a wave crashed into him: not physical, not sound, but something else. His body swayed at the force of it as images flooded his mind. He was drowning in information - memories, emotions - and the sheer shock of it stole the breath from his lungs. He felt his partner's hand snag his shoulder, the sudden physical sensation driving away whatever it was that had overcome him, but as the tide slowly ebbed one last image lingered in his mind a few instants longer than the others. He watched through his minds eye as a few feet in front of him, a dark-clothed figure haulled another from beneath the rubble, and carry him clear from the scene.

He couldn't tell if his partner had given any words along with his offer of balance, but he decided to answer the obvious question whether it had been spoken aloud or not. "I'm fine," he assured, levering himself back to his feet.

He let his eyes close for an instant, trying to focus the fleeting memory that his secret mutant abilities had let him glimpse. "If the ambulance picked someone up already," he muttered, mostly to himself, "Then we're missing two of our suspects."

[Dwayne Stiles]

Like a mother having succeeded in scolding her child and regulating his behaviour, Stiles allowed himself a brief smirk before following Jackson into the semi-obliterated mouth of the alley. When his partner crouched down and started to examine the evidence further, his mutter that denied Dwayne's attempt to explain the situation made the Philadelphian roll his eyes. "Sure, not explosives. Whatever you say, John."

Without warning, Jackson seemed to lose his balance, and Stiles shot out a hand to grab his shoulder, "You okay, man?"

For a moment, Jackson didn't reply, seeming to be contemplating something, then voiced his ressurance as to his wellbeing. For fear of looking slightly odd to their colleagues, Stiles removed his hand and returned it to its place in his pocket, trying to keep out the cold. At Jackson's next statement, Stiles pivoted away with slumped shoulders.

"Two? What the heck? How d'you know this stuff?"

He didn't wait for a reply as he headed out of the alleyway, stifling an irritating yawn. Two suspects meant more work. Were they working together? Did they leave together, or go off in different directions? Moreover, why did they attack this one guy?

Briefly, thoughts of the mutant reports that had drawn him to work in this city played across his mind. Rubbing at the black hair on his chin, Stiles dispelled it. If that was the case, catching mutants was not only more difficult than tracking down the average human, but it was also more dangerous. Guns, knives, explosives - people could be disarmed of such weapons, but when the ability to harm was instilled naturally - how could you contain somebody like that?

He shuddered; Let's not think about that. What are the chances it was mutants, anyway? Why would they attack one guy?

The appearance of a two cars and a van caught his attention, and he called over his shoulder to Jackson, "Look alive, John. Forensics are here. You might wanna get outta there."

[John Jackson]

"Magic," Jackson grunted, with a slight quirk of an ironic smile. It was a better answer than the truth, anyhow. Though they'd only been partners for a month or two, he could already tell that Dwayne Stiles was a good detective; a good cop; a good guy. Unfortunately, his attitude towards mutants left something to be desired. He wasn't as aggressively judgemental of them as some of the other officers in the department, but Jackson was wary of how he might react if he found out that he'd been working in such close proximity with one. He'd have to try and open his mind a little before that particular secret tumbled out.

Rising casually to his feet as Dwayne's warning filled his ears, he shoved his hands back in his pockets, and turned towards the arriving representatives of the Crime Scene Unit. "Morning, Detective," he greeted as a woman approached, forcing a slight smile onto his face.

The female Detective didn't bother to reciprocate with one of her own. Not normally one to prejudge people, Jackson was disappointed to find that she very much fit the stereotype for Detectives from her branch, complete with the view that 'normal' Detectives were beneath her, and probably not intelligent enough to understand any of the work she was about to perform. "You'd better not be messing up my crime scene," was the only greeting she offered, her voice a mix of bitterness and frustration.

Jackson fought to keep the smile on her face. "Didn't touch a thing," he assured, producing his hands from his pockets and wiggling them vaguely to emphasise his point. All that managed to do was incur a wrathful stare that made even the iron-willed Jackson shudder. His smile slipped a few notches. "I guess we'd better get out of your way." The Detective's unpleasant smile confirmed that she thought doing so was a good idea.

Shuffling his way out of the alley, Jackson's hand subconsciously dug around in his pocket for another cigarette, hand bringing it half-way to his mouth before he caught the disapproving look from Dwayne. He gripped it between his lips anyway, and threw his parner a shrug. "What?"

[Dwayne Stiles]

"Man, is there some kind of stick up her --" Dwayne cut himself short as he spied the cigarette in Jackson's mouth. "You know what, man. Ya keep sucking on those death sticks, y'all end up with lung cancer. I ain't working wit you to see y'all end up like that."

With a sigh, he reached up to squeeze the back of his neck as the small army of forensics hurriedly passed between and around them and head into the alley. They had their job to start; Jackson and he had theirs to finish. And then, he could get back home to Crystal, convince her that work really was the reason he was traipsing back to bed so early in the morning, and beg her to make breakfast for him before he returned to work later that day.

"Hey," he caught Jackson's eye and jerked his head in the direction of the row of parked cars further down the street, "We oughtta head back to the station. Damn, how d'they expect us write reports this early?" He set off towards the cars at an amble, and stopped at the vehicle he was particularly proud to own. At Jackson's lack of reaction, he spread both hands in the direction of the black metal beast, "C'mon, man! This is a damn fine set of wheels!"

He scratched at an eyebrow, trying to make Jackson see sense, "This ...is a '72 Corvette. This is the new hotness." Pulling his keys from his jacket pocket, he flipped them around his fingers before opening up the door and lowering himself into the driver's seat. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride."

[John Jackson]

Jackson froze, expression half way between a disbelieving raised eyebrow and a disapproving frown. "New hotness?" he muttered under his breath, casting an appraising eye over the 35-year-old automobile. "More like 'old and busted'."

For an instant, he considered making some kind of excuse to avoid being trapped in a car with his Philadelphian partner, but right now one didn't spring to mind. He needed to end up at the station eventually, and with the mechanics busily trying to bang the dents out of the side of his own car, he'd either have to hitch a ride, and walk.

As he lowered himself into the car, he glanced at his watch. They'd not spent long at the crime scene, but there was little they could do, aside from holding down the fort until CSU arrived. He let out a sigh. "How about we swing by the hospital first?" he proposed, pulling the door closed with a decisive thud. "See if that victim of ours is awake?"

[Dwayne Stiles]

Stiles couldn't let that one slide: "'Old and busted'? Y'all ain't got nothin' on this baby." Leaning closer to the dashboard, he rubbed his hands over its smoothness, muttering softly, "He didn't mean it, honey. He don't know what he's sayin'."

At Jackson's suggestion, Stiles slid the keys into the ignition and twisted them. The engine rumbled smoothly into life, bringing a satisfied smile to Stiles' face as he cast a smug glance at his partner. Checking for other cars - it was late, but there was always somebody about in the city - he swung out onto the road, speeding through the matrix of streets with ease. He had lived in New York only a short while, but his memory appeared to have served him well as the hospital came into view a few minutes later. They rolled into the car park and Stiles picked a space well away from other cars - nobody was laying even a finger upon his prized motor.

The Corvette glided into the bay, and Stiles switched off the engine, stifling a yawn as he climbed out of the car. The journey had passed with silence between the two; Jackson appeared to be contemplating something, and Stiles didn't like to pry - he was many things, but nosy wasn't one of them. His short time working with the older man had shown that Jackson was a of a reserved, yet kind character, with a knack for understanding how others felt and thought. He was definitely the right kind of guy to be a detective. A good guy.

The pair headed up towards the entrance of the hospital, Stiles pulling his jacket more closely around himself in an attempt to stay warm. He nudged Jackson's arm as they entered: "Y'all know you ain't lighting up in here, right?"

Jackson gave him an affirmative nod, which Stiles replied to with a mischeivous smile, "I'm just playin', man." He crossed the lobby to the receptionist's desk with a confident stride, flashing her his most charming smile. She didn't react, and mentally Stiles faltered.

Maybe she's just too tired to notice.

"Hey, sweetie," He flashed his badge for added impact, "We've got a guy in here who we need to question. That all right wit you?"

[John Jackson]

Jackson rolled his eyes. He didn't know too much about Dwayne on a personal level - the two hadn't really reached the stage of hanging out outside of work. Most of what he did know came from Dwayne's side of the frequent and nagging phone calls he recieved from his girlfriend; Crystal, Jackson's memory seemed to suggest. Since most of the conversations he heard seemed to take place after-hours, and were along the subject of "When are you coming home?", Jackson had assumed that their relationship was relatively serious.

Unfortunately for all involved, Dwayne was a chronic flirt.

"Excuse my partner," he interjected, slipping himself in front of Dwayne, and casually flashing his own badge. "He's new, and kinda stupid." He shot a glare across at Dwayne, ensuring that his silence would be maintained. Turning back to the receptionist, he allowed her a brief, warm smile. "I'm Detective Jackson; this is Detective Stiles. We're here to see -" he hesitated, pulling out a notepad from his pocket and flipping through for the name, "- a Mr William Johnson."

The receptionist, seemingly unimpressed by either of the Detective's displays, turned her attention to the computer in front of her and rattled away on the keyboard. "Third floor," she revealed, sounding extremely bored. Not surprising, Jackson supposed, given the unearthly hour. "One of the nurses up there should be able to point you in the right direction."

Jackson flashed the smile again. "Thank you," he said simply, stepping back from the desk and setting his sights on the nearest lift. "Come on, Casanova," Jackson muttered under his breath. "Third floor. Would have thought that was Crystal clear, even to an idiot like you."

[Dwayne Stiles]

Something bugged Stiles about that statement, but he didn't say anything until the two of them were safely within the confines of the elevator. Folding his arms, he gave Jackson a sideways stare: "So, stupid, am I?" A grin crossed his face and he raised his hands passively, "Hey, I get it. 'Professionalism' or somethin', yeah? I'm down wit that."

It was too much effort to hide his boyish grin, so he didn't bother, but at th back of his mind, he wondered about what exactly their victim had to do with a huge hole in a brick wall that wasn't caused by explosives, and just why he had been attacked by not one, but two people. It hardly seemed fair on the guy. If it was mutants that had attacked him, then it wasn't going to be any good for the reputation of mutants everywhere.

The elevator announced in a pallid voice that they had reached their floor, and Stiles stepped out perhaps a little too eagerly, suddenly reminded by the clock on the wall of the stupid hour that it was and hoping that Crystal wouldn't freak out because she'd forgotten that he'd been called out to work. Jackson followed quietly behind, and Stiles wasted no time in approaching the nearest nurse - who was probably twenty years his senior, so being charming would probably not get him anywhere - and getting her attention. "Uh, excuse me, ma'am --"

"Sonny, what are you doing here so late?"

With an apologetic grin, Stiles flashed his badge, "NYPD, ma'am. We've got to question one of your patients. A Mr. William Johnson."

She thought for a second, then pointed to a set of double doors to their left, "In there. He's not well, though."

"Yeah, I know. But we figured we'd talk to him early while his memory's still fresh." Stiles bowed his head, "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

The two of them took a door each, and their quarry was easily identifiable by the numerous bandages and crimson-stained dressings that swathed his body. Stiles winced, "Damn - he ain't going anywhere fast." Digging his hands into his pockets, he nodded his consent for Jackson to go forward, "After you, man. You're better at this than me."

[John Jackson]

Jackson barely managed a grimace, echoing Dwayne's sentiments. This guy had certainly taken quite a beating. Though he was no forensic expert, Jackson could see that some of the blood patterns on the bandages were too narrow and elongated to have been caused by blunt force - unless there were some pretty sharp shards of masonry flying around the place, that suggested that more than just bricks had been getting hurled about in that alley.

Johnson was breathing on his own; that was a small mercy. From the depth of his breaths as well, he seemed to be conscious, although his lucidity could be a little suspect, based on the IV bag draining itself into his veins. An eye flicked open, focussing on Jackson as he approached. Another good sign. Jackson offered a smile.

"Mr Johnson?" Jackson asked. The victim nodded. Casually, Jackson flicked back the side of his jacket, revealing the badge fastened there. "I'm Detective John Jackson; this is my partner, Detective Stiles." Beneath his bandages, Johnson visibly tensed: Jackson held up a pair of calming hands. "It's okay," he reassured, trying to keep his voice as soothing as possible. "We'd just like to ask you a few questions about the men that attacked you in the alley."

[Boulder]

(Graphical note: Boulder, as of this time period, still looks normal, and does not have rock protruding from his skin.)

Boulder relaxed a little bit. His emotions were a little bit of a mess all things considered. He'd been beaten up, which had not happened since he bulked up, and after that, two people had shown up to see him. His first thought was bad news about his grandmother, since he had nobody else that would care one way or another that he was in the hospital, for whatever reason. Apprehension had turned to near panic when they revealed themselves to be detectives, but through the drug induced haze, Boulder could tell that they were here for answers, not to make accusations.

He gingerly moved his hand without the IV drip down towards his thigh, where the cut was. It was out of reach, but he stroked at it anyway.

"Whaaaahch..." Boulder blinked a few times cleared his throat, licked his lips, and tried again. It came out a bit rahspy. He'd been out for a while with nothing to drink. "What'cha wanna know about 'em? Other than they were freaks?"

[Dwayne Stiles]

Freaks. That was a strong word.

Stiles glanced at his partner, wondering if he should take the next move. He hadn't been working with Jackson long enough to know his rhythm, how he worked, when Stiles himself ought to assist or to stay back and let Jackson handle things. Jackson, however, didn't say anything, so Stiles stepped forward, trying to be professional.

"Sir," his years working as a waiter in his parent's restaurant helped massively with being well-mannered, "I understand that you're not feeling great right now. Could you explain what happened?"

[Boulder]

Boulder sat up a little and immediately wished he hadn't. His head swam as a headache sprang up to the front of his mind. He sank back into his pillow with a groan. He blinked a few times, and after a few seconds, the pain eased, but did not dissapear.

He sat silent, in thought, gathering to him the events of the night through the drug induced haze. He licked his lips and looked back to the two officers. "Well, there were two guys in costumes that jumped me in an alleyway. Like I said, freaks. I mean...who wears costumes? I mean...except for on Halloween of course...."

He trailed off as his headache returned. He pulled his hand up to rub his eyes, but it stopped as the IV tugged back, so he used his other hand instead and tried to get his bearings back.

[John Jackson]

"Take it easy, Mr Johnson," Jackson suggested gently, offering Boulder the most reassuring smile that he could.

Something seemed a little off about this guy, though he couldn't place his finger on it. Perhaps it was his fixation on his attackers' choice of attire, but the venom with which he delivered the words belied such an assumption. The only time he'd heard witnesses display similar latent aggression and prejudice was with mutants. Jackson's brow twiched almost imperceptably into a frown. Was this a mutant attack of some kind, or perhaps the actions of one of the numerous costumed "superhero" vigilantes that seemed commonplace in New York these days? If so, what had flagged this guy as a target? Aside from the fact that he was hard to miss, of course.


Encouraging the line of questioning towards a more useful direction, he pitched in with a question of his own. "Can you give us a visual description of these costumes? And can you think of a reason why you in particular might have been the target of this attack?" He flashed his reassuring smile again. "Take your time - it's more important that we get this information correct than quick."

[Boulder]

William nodded, but instead of taking his time at first, he blurted out, "Ninja. One was dressed like a freakin' ninja." He leaned back and gathered his thoughts now that he had gotten that piece of information off his chest.

He looked at the officers and was not please to be getting a sort of "he's crazy" look from them. "What? One of 'em was a damn ninja. Jumpin' all over the place, running around on the rooftops and stuff. Sounds like a freak to me." He shook his head.

"The other....hrmm...." William thought for a bit. "He's a bit hazy. Wore some kind of...skin-tight...gay ballerina kind of suit. A...Leo...nard...o...?" He screwed up his face as he tried to sort out the word he was looking for.

[Dwayne Stiles]

Despite the interesting choice of words that their interviewee was using, Dwayne listened with the air of a tortoise; gentle, considerate, and not quick to jump to conclusions. He thought he saw Jackson's expression change for a moment, and his eyes moved - towards Dwayne? - but couldn't fathom what exactly his partner might be thinking. Sure, Johnson's words were embroidered with an assortment of negative intonations, but did that necessarily mean anything important?

I'd be pretty angry if I was ganged up on.

Still, the costumes seemed relevant; it was obviously the detail that Johnson was most concerned about. Completely regardless of the fact that he was working, his stomach suddenly craved for something. Damn, he could kill for a cheese steak right about now.

Not good thoughts for a police officer, Stiles. Oops. Hey, maybe Crystal'll make me something nice if I ask her real sweetly ...

And he was back in the room. Being distracted by cheese steaks and a girlfriend with legs up to here was not good practice. No wonder he had failed his detective's exam twice. Back then, he hadn't been dating Crystal, instead this wonderful girl from the same area as he, and together they had spent many hours just --

Concentrate, Stiles. "Thanks, Mr. Johnson. So, you said one was dressed like a ninja, the other ...a little strangely." Personally, Stiles was of the opinion that ninjas were pretty cool, but his views weren't really required, nor would they be especially valued in this situation. "Could y' clarify that for us a little more? And, what exactly happened?"

[Boulder]

Boulder snapped back to the conversation and blurted, "Leotard! That's the word. Huh...? Oh...yea......" He mumbled to himself, "Clarify..."

He thought a little more, remembering. "The leotard guy also had a mask, so I couldn't see a face, but the whole thing was red and...black I think. It WAS dark out...and it could have been another dark color, but I think it was black."

William started re-hashing the events of that night in his head, and his face reddened from embarrassment, frustration, and anger all at once. He let out an exasperated sigh, "Pheeewwww......" He looked back up at the officers, Stiles in particular since he asked. "What happened...?"

He took a few minutes to gather his thoughts. "What happened?" he repeated, "Was that I was attacked in that alleyway. I'm not sure what they wanted really. I know I'm a big guy, and I'm poor, so my cloths" he pointed to a pile in the corner that were his torn and dirty cloths, "are something that often convince people on sight that I'm a thug, or a criminal or something. So, if that was the case..." He thought about it for a few seconds. "If that was the case, I guess they thought I had stolen the purse I had, which is my grandma's....and I guess a guy with a purse is pretty unusual to boot...." Boulder shook his head. "Back to last night Bill..." He returned his focus to the officers. "Anyway, she....my gramma is sick and sent me with her purse to get her welfare check and cash it. She needs medication, and so I didn't want to spend her money on a cab or anything, so I walked. I'm used to walking, and usually, nobody bothers me due to my size. Anyway, everything is on the wrong side of the city, so I have to walk from one end to the other to get to the welfare office, then trek to another side to get to her bank. I was on the way home when these guys ambushed me. Maybe they were playing 'hero', or maybe they were thieves. I dunno. But..." He looked around and let out a sigh. "I guess they got the money...and her purse too..."

Boulder looked up at the officers with a forlorn look in his eyes. "I don't know what I'm going to tell her..."

[John Jackson]

Jackson threw a glance across at his partner; their eyebrows rose in sync. TIt was my grandma's purse" sounded like a painfully cliché, textbook excuse, but right now they didn't really have any evidence to contradict such a claim. While they were stuck on the subject of clichés, the burley Mr Johnson hardly looked like the type to be running errands for old women, regardless of the relationship, but this was America - land of diversity, and all that.

The pen gripped in Jackson's fingers scratched against the paper as he noted down what Boulder had said. He finished his last string of words with a period stabbed into the page, and let his mind scan back over what had been said. Something didn't add up - why would guys in costumes waste their time trying to steal a purse from a guy who was clearly going to put up quite a fight? - but the case would no doubt be riddled with such questions until he had the opportunity to sit down with the crime scene report and see what the Forensics experts had come up with.

Clicking the end of his pen thoughtfully, and then again to coax the business end back into writing postion, he let his eyes flick up at their hospitalised victim. "We found a lot of -" his voice hesitated for a moment, mind searching for a slightly more technical term than 'bricks'. Unfortunately, his mind failed to come up with an alternative. "- bricks, lying around at the crime scene; seems like someone -" his voice hesitated again, "- or something ripped them off the walls." His eyes narrowed, watching for their victim's reaction. "Any thoughts on how that might have happened?"

[Boulder]

Boulder grinned and looked proud of himself. "Yea! That was me!" He paused for a moment and visibly deflated. His voice came out somber. "I guess....I guess I made kind of a mess of things over there, didn't I? Was anyone else hurt? I was kind of frightened and not thinking too clearly about anything other than running from those two guys..."