Scene #8826:

Owner	Pose
Father Berislav	Downtown Sterling is littered with trash; it forms a spotty blanket, not covering the sidewalk or the streets (for the most part) but piling up in alleys and occasionally blowing in the wind. There are few buildings higher than three storeys which aren't apartments. Many of the buildings here are boarded up, the skeletons of failed business ventures bearing graffiti. Chain link fences tie them together, closing off gravel parking lots with discarded beer bottles and washed-out newspapers. There is the odd poster advertising a heavy metal music festival ('Beelzefest'), but on the whole this looks like the part of town people drive through, rather than 'to.' Traffic is slow, for a 'downtown,' accordingly. The clinic is a brick building, painted pink in an effort to bring some cheer to this part of town. The paint is thick, covering even the mortar between the bricks, in a way that seems caked-on and smothering. A blocky Chevy Caprice in Sterling PD's livery is parked outside--a passively frustrated-looking officer (a stout, red-faced woman with her black hair tied back in a bun) is taking a statement from a witness (a lanky old man with wrinkled, golden-umber skin and coke-bottle glasses) to an act of vandalism against the clinic. One doesn't need super hearing to get the gist: a drive-by brick-toss through the window, which is still broken. The old man doesn't seem to work there, having just been in on a walk in time to see it. The sky overhead is a bleary, wintry grey.
Rowdyruff Boys	The first impulse that Boomer has when he witnesses all the trash is to vaporize it with his heat vision, which he doesn't do pretty much solely because today's agenda is to present as a physically ordinary person. He's dressed in a white-and-blue-striped button-down shirt, jeans, and some rather beaten-up running shoes. He pauses to glance at the Beelzefest poster that they first pass by, but seems uninterested in it. Or at least, only as interested as his companion is-- he likes music, and heavy metal is included in that umbrella, but heavy metal festivals tend to stress him out, as leisure activities go. The clinic is their destination, and there wasn't a reason not to walk to it, so that's what they've been doing. His expression as they get closer is a little more nervous by degrees. "Hey, uh... is that a police car?" He wonders, pointing it out at a fair distance. It could be, but it doesn't have to, at that distance. It is, though-- they can hear the agitated officer getting a run-down of what happened. The garish pinkness of the building also gets a rather disgusted look out of Boomer, but for different reasons. He doesn't mind pink, he just thinks that buildings shouldn't look like a bottle of Pepto Bismal, really. Pink needs complementing colors! Even just a white trim, or bare mortar. He glances from Bubbles, to the busted out window, and back to the clinic. "So, uh, should we uh..." Blue eyes turn from cop care and witness, to the clinic door, and back again. "Or..." True to Brick's prediction, he's nervous in a way that is completely typical to a guy his age going to a fertility clinic with his girlfriend, even if it's make-believe. It's causing him to flounder in ways he really shouldn't. This isn't a real choice. It isn't their place to get involved with the cops in these circumstances. They've just to go right on past and inside and deal with their appointment.
Powerpuff Girls	Buttercup had been going through it, and taken a personal interest in the events in Sterling, CT. She couldn't get all the investigation done alone, however, and there was a lot of help that she needed. For example: Looking and acting like a normal person! Buttercup was both okay and terrible at this. Buttercup was a girl who looked for excuses and met like with like. She wasn't a good infiltrator at all, unless you wanted to infiltrate a dive bar. This was a different sort of dive, and so, a different sort of very normal-presenting girl was required. Bubbles Utonium hadn't come off standby yet in Sterling but for the dire need of vibes, she could be convinced to help! Walking down the street with her color coded companion, Bubbles wears a loose cream-white hoodie about her arms but not shoulders over a cobalt blue button-down blouse, ash grey pleated skirt, and black leggings ending in white and blue sneakers. The advertisement gets a passing look, and catching Boomer look the same way, Bubbles laughs knowingly. "Buttercup would be into it, but the whole vibe of this place is really bad. Plus, isn't 'Beelzefest' a little on the nose for a side trip when we're..." Bubbles doesn't end her sentence with 'you know', leading into an implication - that's a red move. Instead she just leans in to boomer's ear and whispers. "Trying to solve a ghost story?" The approach to the clinic has Boomer walk forward, and Bubbles pause, nosy. "Now who would throw a brick at this place? Anyone can throw a rock, but a brick means pre-meditated business." Reasons the blonde heroine, proud of her logic. Stepping up, while Boomer challenges the front, Bubbles asks. "Excuse me?" Pleasant, sweet, and cute as a button, Bubbles puts on her most radiant face and innocent please-explain-the-world-to-me smile. "What happened? Who would do such a thing?"
Father Berislav	What happened? Who would do such a thing? "Damned if I know," says the old man--but his intonation isn't rude towards Bubbles so much as it is exasperated with the act. "Some idiot in a blue Ford pickup, is all I can say. Those kids work hard in there." The cop looks like she has something to say, but busies herself writing down testimony as the old man continues. "But I can figure why. Sometimes... something goes wrong, you know? Like on TV--maybe you gotta choose between the mother and the baby, or maybe the baby doesn't make it. People see a lady going in, and coming out... you know." Empty-handed? "They get the wrong idea." "It's not... that type of clinic," the cop notes. "But that doesn't stop people from 'getting the wrong idea.' Thanks for your time," she says to the old man, closing her notepad. How often must that be happening, for this to be a common occurence? Walking in, Boomer finds nothing outrageously out of the ordinary. The front doors of the clinic betray the age of the building--solid metal with circular 'porthole' style windows, as was the style in the fifties. The window which was broken is one on the far side of the building, a more commonplace four-pane affair that may have been put in later. The front of house has a small lobby area, with a low bookshelf on one end (full of magazines) and a row of the same uncomfortable-looking chairs with cheap upholstery that every place even remotely related to a medical field seems to have. There is a receptionist on duty at a small desk in the center of the room. She's a middle-aged woman with platinum blonde hair in a contemporary (for this world) voluminous shoulder-length perm. "Hey there, sweetie," she says, cautiously. Maybe still a little shaken from the earlier brick-toss. "Can I help you?" Her nametag reads 'RHONDA.'
Rowdyruff Boys	If he was one of the reds, Boomer would have concluded from Bubbles's observation that the fact that it's such a blatant draw towards 'hypothetically spooky things' that they SHOULD check out Beelzefest. But he's not, and he has a good enough reason to be nervous and distracted that he doesn't even double back to it. "Pfff! Yeah, I guess you're right..." He answers, externally mysteriously, since Bubbles had whispered the observation. Thankfully, the only thing there really was to learn from that was sort of minor. There were plenty of valid reasons for somebody to be trying to solve a ghost story that didn't have anything to do with the spooky stuff in this town. ... Right? Bubbles picks the hero angle-- to grab onto the thread in front of them and pull. A lopsided, agitated smile lingering on his face, he steps in next to her and holds her nearest hand, which isn't performative even though it probably seems like it. He shifts his weight from side to side, trying to focus on the familiar crime scene and not on... whatever he might be asked to do inside in order to give his cover some credibility. He was starting to think about what Bubbles said, though... sometimes the brick was just 'cause you knew where a brick was. Boomer could remember more than a few occasions of taking bricks because of convenient construction sites, and the like-- but talking about it here probably isn't a good idea, he tells himself, while waiting to hear what the cop and witness have to say about things. Once it's clear that the vandalism is pretty run-of-the-mill he releases Bubbles's hand and goes inside to deal with probably-paperwork-things and immediately wishes he waited. It's a clinic, basically, with all the trappings of a clinic. Boomer, blonde-haired puppy dog that he is, ends up standing in front of the receptionist looking completely at a lost. "Uh," he begins, uncertainly. Then, he remembers the appointment they made, and the names they used. "Utridge and James. Appointment?" This was as much a question as it was a statement. Thankfully, Boomer being absolutely useless on his own in here is probably completely expected. He clears his throat and jabs a thumb towards the door, "She's-- she's just outside, talking to the folks around the broken window. Is that a normal problem, here?
Powerpuff Girls	The matter of life is complicated and messy, and places like clinics serve all sorts of needs. Bubbles splits from Boomer with a faint-admitting smile, having the particular Californian fair-skinned blonde appreciation for police officers: The broad knowing she wasn't their profile target, one of the Good Ones, a default normal girl. Not that she was, just that she looked like one. And not that this clinic was supposed to be the target of a particular kind of grief, or given a particular kind of grief... Not that it was, but, it did look like it. "Blue Ford pickup?" Bubbles repeats, as if she's taking notes too, but just closes-and-pumps her fists close to chest. She's not a police officer, and she's barely a kid detective. She's just someone looking for clinic help, which is very normal... Or at least, looked like it. "Sorry you had to take time out of your day. Thanks for trying to help." Bubbles adds to the old man at the door, and bobs with a smile-and-disengaging nod. "Have a nice day!" Entering the Clinic with a push at the door, and casting her eyes first at the broken glass, Bubbles comes up behind Boomer, taking his side from the rear and gently sliding her left arm under his right, clasping hand with both of hers and smiling over-and-around his shoulder. "Hello! We have an appointment. Did you say we have an appointment?" She asks pleasantly, already well knowing, but happy to just patter along and be a little lovey-dovey.
Father Berislav	Utridge and James. Appointment? "Oh," Rhonda says. A weight is lifted from her shoulders with those words. "Sure," she says with a dismissive little wave of her hand--the kind people do for 'no problem,' 'no big deal,' 'don't worry about it,' etcetera. Is that a normal problem, here? "I'm afraid so, sweetie. People think this is one of those types of clinics--if we were, we'd be up front about it, but that doesn't stop rumors from spreading. And it's not just the patients that kind of talk hurts, you know? That Amy girl that worked here last year," Amy Martin? "She started getting funny looks from her parents' friends. I wonder if that's why she left?" We have an appointment. Did you say we have an appointment? "Oh, I just knew you'd be a cute couple," Rhonda beams. "Yes, your beau here told me--I'm just a chatty Cathy! I'll go let the doctor know--PA system's on the fritz. Be back in a jiffy." She gets up from her seat and disappears into the back of the clinic. The glimpse at the rest of the building seems normal. She's gone for longer than she ought to be, given the size of the place. Super hearing reveals nothing out of the ordinary, at least from her voice or from the doctor's. The fax machine on Rhonda's desk goes off--she's still far back enough, judging by the footsteps returning, that both of them can sneak a peek at the incoming message. F A X To: Rhonda Ericson From: Gary Miller Fax: 081785002 Hi Rhonda, Just a couple of reminders after last weeks visit. Please keep your desk tidy. Our patients need to feel at ease with their health care experience. Remember our sales points: Clean. Quick. Courteous. Do not return any calls from the Department of Health before notifying me first or leaving a message with Tiffany. We cannot afford another surprise inspection. Please do call me on my direct personal line if you have any questions. One more thing: KEEP JEFFREY OUT OF SIGHT. Remember: Gary loves you. E N D F A X
Rowdyruff Boys	Mention of a blue ford pickup registered vaguely as Bubbles carried out her own little side-mission. Boomer wonders at the color-- and if it means anything. If it's a signal that something noticed them, some... sympathetic. Something. He doesn't know, and with an irritated jolt of envy, he realizes that Brick probably would be able to identify a danger if one was there. As it was, he was just jumping at more-literal-than-he-liked ghosts. He calms down a little when Bubbles shows up and slides her arm beneath his. He tries not to be a little clingy, and mostly succeeds. That he wants the contact, though, is obvious to Bubbles and probably to Rhonda as well. "Unless I just thought it really hard," Boomer says, mostly jokingly. He's confident enough that he actually said words, but allowing some of them to be skipped because he was too anxious was something he'd done before. He makes a discontent little face, exaggerating it into borderline theatrical sadness at the idea that this place comes under attack routinely. He does actually mean it, but he's going for effect a little, there-- it's just the perfect time for that, after all. He gets appropriately blushy at the 'cute couple' comment, and then lapses into a waiting posture that sees him glancing at Bubbles, and then around. the place... he's not picking up anything alarming verbally, though Boomer does try to listen in and hear the doctor's name at least. The appearance of the fax appropriately gets his attention-- his eyes flicker faintly as he scopes in on it without moving towards it. Abruptly, he takes out his phone and begins typing very fast, mouthing numbers as he goes. He knows he won't remember it if he gets too far out of sight. There's too many digits, and so-- 081785002 is rapidly typed into their group chat and entered, where their not-so-distant siblings have to try to puzzle it out. They'll be able to explain later, but for now just getting the number to a place that can be referenced later is of vital importance. Before Rhonda can return, he switches over to a different program-- an image aggregator particular to their world, and starts showing Bubbles photos of seagulls stealing food. "Kinda weird how long she's been gone. Think she's distracted by a pet or something?" Boomer wonders, which is just an oblique way of talking openly about the 'Jeffrey' in the fax.
Powerpuff Girls	Bubbles' state of relaxation is practiced, several-steps ahead considered sorts of emotional steady. Learning 'Blue Ford Pickup' to her means nothing beyond make and model of car, something that can't be easily hidden. Something a quick text to her sisters or Boomer's brothers to look into with a second of downtime - something that's not easy to disappear or ditch for a brick through a window. 'Someone's car' could become 'all of the plates for Blue Ford Pickups in the near area' could become 'Det. Fuller, could you run these plates for us?' if necessary. One more clue for the Blues. Then again, just showing up at the clinic and letting the fax print out gives a whole page of printed clues. Bubbles tries not to let her eyes wander -- which is easy, when she can lean on and kiss Boomer on the neck when Rhonda looks away - sensing his distress, and being unabashed about her support. "Hey, it's okay. We have an appointment. And if anything goes wrong, we can handle it together, okay? Even if we didn't call ahead." Bubbles squeezes at her hands and returns to the desk and Rhonda - just as she gets up to leave! And waiting a while. Listening to the sound of the conversation for a moment, Bubbles smiles and takes her right hand off of Boomer's to pull her own phone out, swiping at her thumb to just... Take a photo of the fax and share it to the same groupchat. "There's no camera in the room. Now we won't have our phones buzzing with 'huh?' and silly-" Stupid, she means. Exasperating, she means. "-little things while we're trying to focus." Splitting as she becomes bored, and with a floating twirl, Bubbles walks over to the magazine racks to inspect topic and tone, moving a finger across the titles and tops. "A pet? Like a dog? Well I don't hear a doggie around here." And she would, being the animal communicator of the Girls. "Maybe their printer broke? But..." Her eyes track to the fax machine, and then her hands sweep into a shrug. "It'd be nnnormal to wait, but... A peek wouldn't hurt, right?" The sapphire puff's 'yeah!' grin increases. "She couldn't have gone far, right?" And they can hear her moving, of course, so-- The blue Puff moves to the inside door, and then turns towards Rhonda's desk, checking the PA system and her workstation quickly. Was it really broken? Was there a reason to leave them alone here? Or... Well, Bubbles won't be stopped at the desk for long before venturing into the clinic while listening for the Return of the Rhonda.
Father Berislav	Bubbles' investigation finds that the PA system is indeed broken--the console may as well be dead, though all of the connections seem intact. A sticky note is even left on it, a reminder to herself about having a repairman out to come fix it. Bubbles and Boomer hear no doggies, it's true. What they do hear is the name of the doctor who will be providing their consultation, Dr. Spinoza. His voice is a reedy tenor, his delivery clipped and energetic like he'd be just at home as a particularly animated college professor giving a lecture. Taking a peek, as Bubbles intends to do, easily connects a figure to a voice. He's a short, portly man with thinning black hair, warm taupe skin, beady blue eyes, and an unusual, if energetic gait--his arms swing at his sides like there should be an animated, jolly backing track. He's wrapping up something from a prior patient, doing some paperwork, and the only reason Rhonda isn't hurrying to catch up with him as she chats is because of his shortness. There are unused stretchers, a nurse's station, and the usuals of what you'd expect, if put into a space that might've once been a large, grand dining room converted post-hoc into consultation rooms. But the two blues also hear something that is unusual here. A scratchy baritone on the other end of a phone wouldn't be so unusual, if not for the utterance, to another doctor: ...last thing, before I let you go. The pills don't dissolve well in the IV. They're waking up in the middle, and asking questions. Let's work on an injectable and have it ready by next week. Remember: Gary loves you. "Love you too," says the doctor, his voice almost dreamlike in its pliance. The other is a wet gurgle that bubbles over into an (almost) human noise of inarticulate rage, coming from below. The clinic has a basement. Whatever is down there is silenced with a hissed whisper and a meaty thud, drawing a childlike, but quieter yowl of pain as a prelude to desired silence. Then, footsteps. "Okay!" comes Rhonda's voice, sunny. "I'll let 'em know they're ready for ya!"
Rowdyruff Boys	Boomer is kissed on the neck and stops thinking of anything else for about five seconds. The next thing he's doing is considering doing it right back. He's beaming the whole time after, and then grinning unapologetically basically the entire rest of the time until something gives him a reason to stop. "Uh-- yeah, it's just... weird. And, um. It shouldn't be. So I feel bad that it's weird, to me. 'Cause we CAN handle it together. I don't want it to seem like I think we couldn't. ... That's all." This is an actual insecurity being dug up in real-time. Evidently being put forward for this because everybody knew he'd fuck up in exactly the right way got to him pretty hard. Bubbles might consider chewing Brick out for that, later. "Oh--" Boomer looks around at the revelation that there's no camera. He frowns. "But... that's not right. This place gets bricks through the window routinely. It doesn't make sense not to have things recorded." He is a dumb boy, but he's not dumb enough that this isn't a serious inconsistency to him. He follows Bubbles through, looking curiously concerned. It's normal to have somebody disappear on you for this long and to be concerned, anyway. Right? Right. Turns out though, that they were right to be concerned. Boomer's eyes widen in revulsion at the things that he's starting to hear... especially the noises of anger from below, the sound of blunt trauma. He weighs the possibilities, considers the absence of cameras, the instructions about the Health Department. They could, he was almost certain, handle this themselves. But should they, or should they call the others in? The weighing of options comes down on the side of the person presumably being abused in the basement. Boomer turns his gaze downwards, ignoring the approaching Rhonda and piercing through layers of building with his x-ray vision to see exactly who is being hurt and how. The buzz of the sensation of x-ray vision passing nearby rakes Bubbles's calves deliberately, to signal to her silently that he was close to going loud.
Powerpuff Girls	Mentally chiding herself for doubting such a sweet lady, Bubbles continues her idle path around, being as supportive to Boomer as possible. Of the planners of this little event, Bubbles actually genuinely agreed with the face-up premise that the blues were the most able to act like a pair of clinic-going lovey dovey couple. They fit in! Rhonda thought they fit in, and for all her squeezes and kisses to fry Boomer's brain, Bubbles was also flooding him with endorphins to keep his performance positive and his outlook good. She didn't sense any direct danger - and no doggies, either - but she did sense the fluttering disturbance in Boomer's heart. Peeking at the door and narrowing in on details quickly, Bubbles pauses as she hears the phone call, sapphire eyes having fair lids drooping-as-if-narrowing to focus. Really - she's listening. And she doesn't like what she hears, grimacing into a long frown. Boomer isn't a dumb boy, not really. Bubbles thinks he's actually quite sensitive, but boys get 'dumb' and 'incapable' for empathetic and sensitive reactions and a curiousity to understand coupled with the natural palatte of masculinity to paint with. The results became complicated and beautiful, and so Bubbles took it upon herself to keep his soulful top spinning. "You're right." She subvocalizes, audible to Boomer but at a mumble otherwise while she peeks. "That's too strange. Good thinking, that's not practical at all. I had only thought about what it'd mean to be on camera, but if we're off camera that means..." There was intentionally no record of even this area of the building. On purpose, despite the costs. Ankle swept with a palpable brush of radiation-vision, Bubbles raises her voice sweetly, patient and soft so close to the door. "Oh is that you Rhonda? Is the doctor ready?" Bubbles looks back at Boomer, and meeting his gaze momentarily with a set-jawed look of her own, she nods firmly. Okay. Superhero time. "We'll be right there. Don't worry!" Bubbles raises her voice, closing her fist and pushing her hand to the door to open it fully. If the gang had expected the blues to bumble their way to being a cute clinic couple, everyone had been right! If the gang had not expected two helpful hero types to not try and handle things on their own: They probably shouldn't have sent a dynamic duo.