It doesn't look to be more than a hundred people, but you (all) can see that none of them intended to be here, and some of them look like they've betrayed their deepest, darkest secret. The loadout of weapons is nothing to ge excited about, several carry shotguns, but most carry handguns of one type or another. (Oh come ON, guys --- this is New York, for pity's sake!) Beyond that there doesn't appear to be anything that connects them - they hardly look as if they know each other...
At that moment, several of the people turn and wretch, emptying their stomachs at the sight/smell of the carnage in which you guys stand at least knee deep. It's nasty, and it smells even worse! This makes little sense, really, because everybody knows that spiders are subtle, cunning, and for the most part isolated individuals - this assembly does not fit the description at all. But maybe there are exceptions... ...perhaps...
The place is an absolute mess. Everybody is fairly well coated (well, splashed) with ichor and wastes, and it seems that the entire gallery is filled with this gluck, this nastiness, this pasty nasty green ichor suffused with blood and guts --- just thinking about it makes you (Fort Save!) NOT puke, but it could happen, if you think about it too much. Come to think of it, that's kind of what this nastiness reminds you of...
Always in the moment, X breaks the uneasy mumbling silence. "Gawk harder why don't you?" he says, almost indignantly. "What, you've never seen a troll covered in gore, holding a severed head before? Where do you think you live, Toronto?" He glances down, takes a step forward, stamping off some of the nastiness and goo. "If you don't have a reason to be here, SCRAM!" Another stomp. "For those of you magic types, stop staring and analyze the situation, or get a move on." Slowly X is making his way toward the entrance to the gallery.
As if on cue, Block's bright voice pipes up, seemingly from the background, but echoing brilliantly through the area, seeming almost joyous in comparison to X's statements, "Anyone hurt?"
Nobody seems to notice Ace slowly, smoothly dropping his arms to his sides. (This could be a good thing, yes?) He turns to block, who is still standing right next to him, and asks aloud, "Should we lead these walking wounded back out the front doors to safety, or just gather them in the lobby and let the current 'Wagon guys take all the Peeta?" (The acronym PITA said as if it were a normal word. Jargon and all that, I'm sure you understand.)
Lady S glances down at herself, seeming to notice for the first time that she, too, is absolutely smothered in gore, at least from the waist down, but creeping artistically up her left shoulder very much like a visceral toga. In disgust she comments "Anyone know a good dry-cleaner?" Yep, she even looks disgusted. |
