The Right, The Wrong and The Obvious

[Jimmy Montero]

The day was hot and cloudless, with just the slightest ghost of a breeze so faint nobody even noticed it. There was that irritating humidity in the air which would, after a few hours, probably transform the usually calm, relaxed residents of Tropico into axe-weilding maniacs. A boy of about 18 stood with his back against the wall of the local bakery, one hand lying limp inside his jacket pocket, the other holding a cigarette. His light blue eyes wandered non-chalantly up and down the long, busy highway, waiting patiently for something even remotely interesting to happen.
He turned his head to the right as he saw a metallic green Rolls Royce swiftly turn the corner. He watched as it rumbled down the freeway, his full attention now locked on the car. His eyes lit up as the vehicle pulled into the small parking lot in front of the corner café, across the road from where he was, and he pushed himself off against the wall. He took the cigarette from his mouth and threw the stump onto the pavement. A hand lowered his green sun-visor further down over his eyes, ruffled his dark brown hair and straightened his jacket. He was in need of transport, and had just figured out a way to get it.

The driver who had climbed out of the vehicle was a somewhat elderly man, about in his mid- to late-sixties, and by his attire and the car he drove, it was clear that wealth wasn’t an issue for him. The boy recognized him immediately; he knew the man as Donavan “Don Cheech” Napolitano, or simply "Don", the father of a notorious Los Angeles crime boss. Nowadays, however, Don spent his aging days lounging around on vacation islands, or going about business as a drug dealer just to keep himself occupied, and was almost unheard of amongst the small population of the island. The boy reckoned that stealing his car would be a pretty daft thing to do, but his philosophy went that if he wasn't going to, somebody else was. And anyway, what did he have to lose? He made a hasty, if not rather reckless dash across the highway, creating an uproar of hooting carhorns and cursing drivers, but eventually making it across alive and in one piece. He easily vaulted himself over a small brick wall, which marked the boundaries of the parkling lot, and strolled calmly and slowly over to the car. Inconspicuously he examined it for a brief moment from the corner of his eye as he waited for Don to disappear into the cafe. He had seen him put something into the front compartment of the car as he had driven round the corner but fail to take it out again, and he had a pretty good idea what it was.

After the old man was well out of sight, and the tiny parking lot seemingly free of other people, he leaned over the car door and opened the compartment. A hand reached inside and pulled out a tattered, black leather wallet. After casting a quick glimpse over his shoulder, he opened the wallet and was slightly surprised as he retrieved a generous amount of money from it. Why on earth would anybody just leave their wallet inside their convertible, of all vehicles? But then again mind you… if you are on a tropical island somewhere in the middle of nowhere, chances are of you expecting anything to go missing are very slim.

Six hundred d… he murmured to himself in disbelief as he glanced behind him again, flipping through the dollar notes, counting them hungrily. Oahaw, yeah… Vegas, baby! he stuffed the money into his jacket pocket and put the wallet back where he’d found it, a satisfied grin on his face. Uh… he bit his lip as he eyed the car. Stealing cars wasn’t something he’d been doing all too recently, and then he had been lucky enough to have Alec's help. He walked around to the front of the vehicle, leaning forward over it, resting both hands on the hood. He looked up, impatiently tapping his foot on the ground as he contemplated. Maybe somewhat foolishly, he tried lifting the hood, clouding over with disappointment when it held fast. The strong urge arose to grab a sledgehammer from somewhere and beat the living daylights out of the car, but that would be ridiculous. Awh, how hard can it be to steal a convertible? He muttered in feeble attempts to reassure himself, scratching the back of his head. All he needed to do was alter the wiring, right? Oh, and not get caught. Sounded simple enough. He lay down on his back and shimmied himself forward until his head and arms were underneath the car. Blackness. Alright, so maybe this was going to be a bit harder than he had been wishing for. He got to work, trying to distinguish which wire belonged where and hoping he didn't electrocute himself in the process. God, where the fuck is Alec when ya need 'im? he though to himself, agitated. He just prayed that Don or a random passerby wouldn't suddenly come up to him and demand what the devil he thought he was doing. He really didn't have an answer to that.

[ooc: Bleh, I know it's bad. Bite me.]

[Patricia Durrey]

WHAT THE DEVIL DID HE THINK HE WAS DOING?

Patricia, on her usual stilettos and a silver trimmed, indigo blue suit, carrying a handsome leather briefcase, usually walked this way at this time of day. She had just gotten out of the Boutique after a long, frustrating day of paperwork - What were secretaries for?? Her's had called in sick the day previously - pneumonia or something - and hadn't been well enough to come today either. Patricia sympathized, of course; pneumonia was never fun, and especially in such warm weather, it was the most awful experience.

Most of the shops in the area were still open - she usually left the Boutique before closing time - and she was hoping to stop in at the Bakery to grab something - anything - dripping in chocolate. That was all she needed.
It was all she cared about too, up till the moment she saw a youth - male, and clearly up to no good - lying under a car. Clearly uncomfortable. Clearly up to no good.

Clearly up to no good.

Patricia murmured to herself. It was broad daylight! There were lots of people around! A quick glance around the vicinity told Patricia she was incorrect about that. The boy must have noticed that too. Nevertheless, there were cars parked in the driveway! Cars. Whoever owned that convertible - judging by the car itself - was not a person to be messed with.
Good Heavens, did he really think he could pull this off??

Patricia was Determined to make sure that he didn't. Shifting her Briefcase from her right hand to her left, she freed her stronger arm. Her strategy would be to grab his wrist (which was visible under the car), tug on it, and when his other hand reached to free the one Patricia had gotten hold of, she would drop her briefcase and grab the other one. Putting on her most ferocious voice she would yell at him, WHAT THE DEVIL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?? Hopefully loud enough to attract attention from the cafe. It seemed a good plan. Hell, she hoped he didn't have a gun. However, she reasoned, it would be quite a challenge to keep a hold on the gun; needing to hands to dismantle the wiring of the car.

She set off, with such energy and such a furious expression, anyone would cringe and hide. In a split second of Logical thinking, she suddenly realized a flaw in her plan - it was a dead give away, he would have known she was there the second she had started advancing, let alone when she got as close to the car as she was now: Her Stilettos. The Clippety Cloppety of her Stilettos. Gripped in sudden Terror, and in a desperate attempt to stop, and stop the noise she was making, she stumbled - and lost her balance completely. She fell backwards, her briefcase falling first with a thud an inch away from where her left hand would be, and the last thing she was aware of was the pain searing through her body, and a warm pool of blood surrounding her head.

[Jimmy Montero]

In an extraordinary twist of habit, things were actually proceeding pretty smoothly. Smoothly, that is, until he heard a faint noise, gradually becoming louder and more prominent. He knew the sound was coming towards him.

Clippety cloppety…

The sound of stilettos clicking furiously on the tar ground ricocheted through his head and for a brief moment he felt paralysed with alarm. His heart leapt into his throat and he lurched, banging his head against the chassis of the car. He swore loudly, hurriedly squirming his way out from underneath the vehicle. In feeble attempts he finally scrambled to his feet, dusting his hands off on his baggy jeans, but not quite ready to face whoever had caught him. He looked around in bewilderment. Then on the ground.

Oh.

Alright, so let's be honest, he hadn't really expected to see what he was looking at now. He went blank for a moment, before coming to again. What he was looking at on the ground now was a woman, probably in her early thirties at the most, in a smart-looking outfit, except surrounding her head was an evident pool of blood. His light blue eyes ventured over to a leather briefcase lying a few feet away from the woman, before lingering back over to her. He shifted his weight over to his other leg, uneasily rubbing the back of his neck. I- er-

He stopped himself from speaking any further, not really trusting himself with words at the moment. Instead he cautiously kneeled down beside the woman, one arm resting across his knee, the other hanging limply by his side. Man it sucks bein' you… He thought to himself, looking at her and then the pool of blood underneath her head. He didn't really know what to say to her… he wasn't going to apologise, after all, it wasn't his fault, was it? But he wasn't going to get up and leave her there either; he might be a criminal, but he was still human. He nudged her shoulder with his hand. 'ey, ya still alive? He asked.

[Patricia Durrey]

Patricia, Settled on the warm black tar, had blacked out for a minute. Only for a minute though - maybe less - and soon she was concious. She couldn't move - the pain was too much - but her sight and hearing were in perfect working order at the moment.

There was movement above her - certainly movement - but who could it be? A passerby? Someone from the cafe? She suddenly remembered why she had fallen in the firstplace - The Criminal!
Frantic, she tried to speak.

There - there was - under the car - someone - a thief -

She lifted her arm an inch, pointing. The person standing next to her was a boy in his late teens. The thief had been about that age - not that she saw much of him, he had been totally submerged by the car - but this boy couldn't be him! The thief would have made a run for it. No, this was someone else.

Must have run - away- a minute ago - somewhere there - can you catch him? Did you see - see anyone?

Her voice was faltering, her raised hand dropped, and she emmited a peculiar groaning noise.

Get - get me some help...

And Patricia had fainted again, losing blood by the minute.

[Jimmy Montero]

The boy sighed and got up, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. He looked over his shoulder for a moment, not really knowing what to do. Hell, he didn't even know why he was still there. This was obviously a catch 22 situation- if he had made a run for it, and somebody were to see him flee the scene and then find the woman bleeding on the ground… they might misinterpret the story entirely. Or, if he stayed there with her, like he had unwittingly decided to do, she could just as well still report him for car theft, or at least an attempt at one.

There - there was - under the car - someone - a thief -

He jumped as he suddenly heard a voice, nearly startled out of his wits, as if a corpse had just come alive and started talking to him. He looked at the woman, who had raised her arm a tiny fraction off the ground and seemed to be pointing at the car. A small surge of relief swept over him- she didn't seem to recognize him, which was an obvious advantage to him. If she couldn't remember what the thief looked like, then she couldn't exactly report anybody, could she?

Must have run - away- a minute ago - somewhere there - can you catch him? Did you see - see anyone?

Aha! He had just been proven lucky for once. He relaxed, looking towards the car as she spoke. What, ove' there? Nah, I don't see nobody. He lied, shaking his head. Must've ran when ya came along, ya know them crooks. He spoke calmly now, and confidently. He figured there was absolutely no way in hell she would be able to remember who it was she saw under the vehicle. Unless she recalled what he was wearing, but what were the chances of that?

Get - get me some help...

What? but he wasn't going to get a reply, for the woman had fainted again. Ahh, dammit. He cursed, frowning. He looked around him. Get help, eh? From where, exactly? Don? He suddenly froze. Don. Amidst the confusion he had quite forgotten about him… his gaze shifted slowly towards the café entrance, and speaking of the devil, he saw the old man striding coolly out of the small building. The boy backed up and headed in the opposite direction, towards the bakery. He didn't look behind him to see if Don had stopped to inspect the woman still lying on the ground, but he didn't really care. Behind him he heard a cough, an engine starting up, and the sound of the Rolls Royce driving off.

He stood on the pavement for a moment, waiting impatiently for a small gap in the traffic, and when it came he ran across. He darted towards the entrance of the bakery and burst in through the doors. A dozen bewildered glances and agitated glares shot in his direction. Sorry. He said bluntly. He scanned the small bakery for anybody to talk to… and his eyes came to rest upon a red-haired woman… he guessed her to be somewhere around twenty, or twenty one at the most. She looked fairly responsible, and as if she might actually give a hoot about what he had to tell her. Hi, er-… thought ya might like to know… he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, Dead person in the parkin' lot. Well… not dead, I mean. Almost dead… a little bit dead. He struggled to find the right way to put it, but eventually did. The woman in front of him didn't need to know the rest of the story, so he left it at that.

[Poppy Wilson]

Poppy Wilson, as her usual routine required, had been in the small kitchen that opened and was visible to the public in her Bakery. There weren't as many people as usual, however, so rolls and pastries of all sorts were not in too much of a demand, but nevertheless, there wasn't nothing to do.

Kneading dough was so relaxing. standing at the counter, looking out over the tables of people nibbling on cake or muffins and sipping hot tea or coffee, she scooped about half a handfull of flower from a deep container and spread it evenly over the empty surface. Moving on, she grabbed the large blob of scone dough from a mixing bowl, and after placing it on top of the flower covered counter top, she grabbed a rolling pin from inside the counter and began rolling out the dough. Not too flat, or the scones wouldn't come out as large and fluffy as they should.
When the thickness was to her liking, she turned around and took a few steps to the kitchen back door, next to which was a metal, white drying rack - chosing a glass from the kind she always used, she returned to where she was working, pressed the rim of the glass smartly into the dough, and so doing, fashioned neat circular shapes.
Getting done with that, she placed them neatly onto a tray, and with a pair of off-white, daisy pattered oven gloves, placed the tray into the preheated oven.

They would be ready soon enough. Hanging the Oven gloves on a hook, and with a flourish of her white, flowy summer dress, she spun herself to the sink, and rinsed her pale, soft hands - smothered in flower. Drying them on her apron, she heard a tinkle at the door - someone had burst in rather frantically - more customers? Wouldn't hurt.

Upon inspection, she saw a man walk in - but calling him a man didn't feel right, but calling him a boy even less so. A teen maybe? Late teens seemed right, a bit younger than her.
He seemed troubled; and had disturbed quite a few people in her bakery, who shot him annoyed glances as he stood very awkwardly near the door, having just burst in with a bit more noise and energy than a normal person would usually use when entering a bakery for a snack.

Clearly that was not what was on his mind - he looked straight at Poppy, so she took a few curious steps towards him.

Hi, er-… thought ya might like to know… Dead person in the parkin' lot. Well… not dead, I mean. Almost dead… a little bit dead.

Despite the circumstances, Poppy found this very cute. Snapping out of it, she felt a slight gasp escape her.

Heavens! Dead?

Not quite dead, she had gathered, remembering his words, so didn't wait for a reply.
Dashing to the huge glass windows of the shop, she scanned the pavement and parking lot - Heavens, the boy was right! A smart looking redhead - could it be the blood? No... how silly... but there was blood there aswell.
Poppy tried not to panic.

Here - Please call the Ambulance! I'll see what I can do for her!

Poppy pulled out her mobile from the pocket of her apron and tossed it to the youth, a pleading look on her face, and almost tripped on her way to the kitchen, snatching up a clean towel.

Moving fast, she got to the front door, and pushed hard on the glass, flinging it open, and ran - a bit clumsily, dodging the random car - (well, there wern't many, it was still Tropico) and reached the woman.

Why, It was Patricia Durrey! Completely recognisable by her fancy suit and stilletos, and wavy, thick locks of red hair - she was the owner of the Boutique! And a frequent customer to the bakery.
Poppy was unsure what to do - she had no first aid training of any kind - so she just tied the towel as well as she could to stop the bleeding from the head. It revolted her slightly to see the blood spread so speedily through the towel...

[Jimmy Montero]

Here - Please call the Ambulance! I'll see what I can do for her!

He caught the phone in both hands as she tossed it to him. He looked down at it reluctantly, he had secretly been hoping he'd be on his way off again by now. After all, he had only come here to make it somebody else's problem, right? Just wait for them to take action, and then leave… but obviously that wasn't going to happen. He looked around at the faces in the bakery, all of them carrying a comical look of surprise, all staring at him, as if waiting for an explanation.

Uh… you lot just… He raised his hand as if signaling for them to halt, cocking an eyebrow, stay there.

He left the bakery in a hurry. Once outside, he found himself a spot in the shade and leaned against the wall, murmuring the emergency number to himself as he dialed it into the phone. He held the phone to his ear, impatiently waiting for an answer at the other end of the line. C'mon, dammit. He shifted with an annoyed sigh. Finally there was an answer.

Oh, hi… er, there's kinda like a problem… there's a semi-dead pers… no, not dead, unconcious… yeah… uh, could ya send out an ambulance or somethin'? Yeah, uh… it's opposite… He walked to the front of the bakery to catch a glimpse of the name, the "Tropico Bakery"… she's… yeah, by the café… He'd talked enough now, and hung up.

He made his way idly across the highway towards the café, heading slowly towards the two women, kicking a pebble along the pavement as he went. They said they gonna be here soon. He informed the young woman from the bakery. He stood to the side and out of the way, watching curiously as she tried to stop the bleeding. Ya know 'er? He asked.

[Poppy Wilson]

Poppy, seeing the bleeding eventually subside a little, began to relax ever so slightly more. She wiped her hands - stained grotesquely with blood - on her apron, and then got up off her knees, seeing the guy approach her.

They said they gonna be here soon.

Relief swelled over her - but what else could she have expected? that was the ambulances JOB.

Ya know 'er?

Poppy was slightly surprised at this question. Who didn't know her? Patricia was The She of the Boutique. And anyone who lived in Tropico longer than at least a month knew Patricia Durrey!

Yes, I know her. That's Patricia Durrey - Classey Woman - good natured, but not particularly warm, you know. She owns the Boutique down in Lower Town.

Poppy, getting back on her knees and kneeling over Patricia, grabbed a clean corner of her apron and gently started wiping away some blood from Patricia's cheeks and forehead. The poor woman. She was very sweet when she wanted to be, actually. The buisness world hadn't turned her completely cold.

Poppy looked up, a smile on her face, at the boy. She stood up again, and making a reach for his hand, clutched it for a second in hers.

Thank you so much for what you did. You could have saved Patricia Durrey's life.

A rush of emotion flowed through her, not only out of concern and relief for Patricia, but also at a sudden realisation of how attractive she found the guy in front of her.
Quite awkwardly, she dropped his hand, almost blushing.

I'm Poppy by the way, what's your name?

[Jimmy Montero]

He felt a bit stupid as he saw the slightly surprised look from the young woman upon asking his question. Was he supposed to know her? Was she a local celebrity? The mayor's wife? Or just a generally renowned person? Either way, he'd never seen or heard of the woman in his life.

Yes, I know her. That's Patricia Durrey - Classey Woman - good natured, but not particularly warm, you know.

He snorted. I know. The not-particularly-warm part he could vouch on, but the good-natured bit… well… from his first experience he wasn't all too sure on that one. Either way, he wasn't making any plans for the future on getting to know Patricia Durrey. The way he perceived her, she looked like she could kill a man from ten paces.

She owns the Boutique down in Lower Town.

A boutique owner. That was probably the reason he'd never heard of her; he wasn't the sort of person to go loaf around outside a boutique. He stood in awkward silence as the young woman got down on her hands and knees again to wipe the last few specks of blood from the woman's face. His gaze wandered down the highway for a moment, for no real reason trailing after a truck as it roared noisily around a corner and out of view. He looked back at the scenario on the ground. Feeling confident that he was no longer needed, he cleared his throat and turned to leave, but was prevented yet again from doing so when the young woman got hold of his hand. He looked at her, a look of surprise flashing across his face for a brief second.

Thank you so much for what you did. You could have saved Patricia Durrey's life.

He smirked at this, biting his lip to hold back a laugh. His free hand returned to his pocket, closing around the roll of cash he'd taken from the car, as if just to reassure himself it was still there and his for the keeping. When she let go of his other hand, he shoved it into his other pocket again.

I'm Poppy by the way, what's your name?

Poppy? It wasn't something he'd ever heard somebody be called before, but it was... interesting. Pilot. He grinned slowly. He'd had his nickname since he was fourteen, and over time it just sort of stuck to him. He preferred it over his real name anyday; that one sickened him to the core. Everybody he knew knew him as Pilot, and he'd over time grown to like the sound of it.

Pilot turned away from her for a moment, looking down the length of the highway in case the ambulance would arrive. He took a cigarette from his jeans pocket, his other hand fumbling through his jacket pockets in search of a lighter, but failed miserably at finding any such thing. He cursed under his breath. Hey-er-you got a- got a light on ya? He asked Poppy sheepishly, shifting to the side slightly.

[Poppy Wilson]

Pilot.

Poppy saw Pilot look down the road for the ambulance, and followed his stream of vision, casting her eyes in the same direction. Nothing yet.
Poppy bit her lip and put her forefinger and middle finger on Patricia's neck, feeling for a pulse.
She felt one allright, but the slow speed of it was troubling her.

She put a hand on Patricia's cheek, a begging expression in Poppy's eyes. The ambulance had better get here quickly!!

Hey-er-you got a- got a light on ya?

Poppy stood up again, and stuck her hands into the pocket in her apron. Feeling around, she found it to be empty.
Her dress had no pockets - so no, she did not have a lighter on her.
Not that she was a smoker. But often she carried a lighter with her, out of random habit.
However... inside the bakery, there were always some matches at hand ... but what about Patricia? Poppy looked at Pilot.

Not on me, I'm afraid... but I have some matches inside...

She indicated, pointing at the bakery.

If you'll just stay here for a sec with Patricia, I'll go inside and fetch them for you.

Turning to her bakery, she hopped up the pair of steps and pushed on the glass door, opening it, and passed the small, circular tables, adorned with butter yellow table cloths, some occupied, to her kitchen.
Now, where could they be?
Poppy closed her eyes in annoyance, her hand against the side of her head, trying to remember the last time she had used matches.
Of course - her gas stove. Poppy spotted the tiny box lying just to the left of the stove.
She grabbed it, and trotted back to the front door.
On her way, she passed a small, woven basket, from which she heard a yawning meow - it was her cat, Tulip; waking up, it seemed.

Poppy didn't stop to pet Tulip, but went through the door and down the steps, and passed Pilot the box of matches.

Here you are, Pilot.

She gave him a small smile, locking her eyes a bit longer on him than she intended; and she had a sudden idea.

Would you like something to nibble on while we wait?

She suggested.

A roll, maybe? A chocolate croissant?

[Jimmy Montero]

Not on me, I'm afraid... but I have some matches inside... If you'll just stay here for a sec with Patricia, I'll go inside and fetch them for you.

Pilot nodded, not saying a word as he watched her scuttle off towards the bakery. He sighed miserably, seating himself down on the small brick wall which ran all the way along the borders of the parking lot. He squinted up at the sun, frowning, and looked back towards the entrance to the bakery. Today had been rather… odd… he suddenly realised. First a car theft gone ridiculously wrong, a few minutes later an apparently well-known woman called Patricia smashing her head open on the concrete parking lot soon followed by a nice young woman from the bakery who apparently knew the unconscious and had just ran away to fetch some matches.

Here you are, Pilot.

He shook his head as Poppy's voice rang through his head, and looked up. He gratefully took the little box of matches, lit the cigarette and took a drag. Thanks. Pilot said, his voice slightly muffled by the cigarette, and tossed the little box back to her.

Would you like something to nibble on while we wait?
A roll, maybe? A chocolate croissant?

Pilot looked at her, cocking an eyebrow. Yeah. He grinned. I mean, a roll. He quickly added afterwards. Pilot pushed himself off the wall, shoving one hand into his jacket pocket, the other returning the cigarette to his mouth. He checked his wristwatch; it was at least twenty minutes since he'd called for an ambulance. Them paramedics shoulda bin here by now, how fucking big can this island really be? He murmured under his breath, taking another puff on the cigarette.

[Poppy Wilson]

((Because Patricia Durrey's part following is so short, I will rather include her in this post.))
----------------------------------------------

Yeah. I mean, a roll.

A Roll. No problem, she had some fresh rolls in a basket on display on the counter.
Turning back inside again, she made her way over to the long row of counters which was the only thing that seperated the kitchen from the eating area; piled on these were arrangements of baked goods, jams and butter, and a small old fashioned cashier's till squeezed in between a basket of chocolate croissants and currant buns.
Poppy picked up a white napkin from the counter top, and placed a warm, round roll onto it, and carried it out of the bakery.

For the first time she realised that the people were starring at her quite a lot. She wasn't a shy person, but there curious stares made her a bit awkward. Not only was she giving a free roll to a random stranger (This was causing a bit of annoyance on the part of her customers) but her apron was stained with blood.

Casting a glance around her, up and down the long street that was known as the shopping district. It wasn't very busy at all; a couple of parked cars, a random couple walking some distance away, and most people retreating to the cool interiors of the shops, it was still the busiest place by the standards of Tropico.
Turning again to Pilot, she passed him the roll rather absent mindedly.

The tension of the day was wearing her down; she was tired already, and there was a strange, pulsating ringing in her head. Loud and obnoxious ringing.
She glanced down; Patricia had not woken up yet.
The ringing was getting louder. How strange. Poppy bit her lips and shut her eyes. This was abnormal, stress had never caused such a ringing in her ears. It was reaching an alarming volume now, and she looked back down the street to her left.

They're Here!!!

The ambulance was hightailing down the road, sirens blaring, flashing blindingly.
It was a relief to say the least.
It skidded to a halt a fair few metres away from them, and a trio of paramedics jumped out.

They pounced on Patricia, and busied themselves with her, taking her pulse, and then moving her onto a stretcher.
Poppy followed them closely, hovering like a fifth wheel, agitated.

On the stretcher, for a moment, Patricia Durrey's eyelids fluttered.
She couldn't lift her head, but she was aware of Poppy Wilson near her, and the young man that had been there straight after she fell. She, to the surprise of the paramedics, stretched out her arm and grabbed Pilot's hand in her's, a gratefull smile on her face.

Thank you, son - you're a good boy...

she murmered, and was out again, her hand flopping over the side of the stretcher as it was lifted up into the ambulance.
Soon the door was shut, and the paramedics rushed over to Poppy and Pilot.

You two better come with us to the clinic, just fill in some forms, you know? Thanks.

[Jimmy Montero]

Pilot watched her turn and leave again for the bakery. He felt a slight inclination to follow after her, but suddenly remembered Patricia on the ground, and looked down with a small sigh. It somewhat baffled him as to why she hadn't died from blood loss yet, or slipped into a coma, or something along those lines, as she'd been lying unconscious with her bleeding head on the cold hard concrete for quite a while. However, he had just realized, say he were to leave her alone for a few moments… well she certainly wouldn't be going anywhere.

After a final puff on his cigarette, Pilot flicked it onto the pavement, stepping on it and putting it out. He was about to trail off across the highway after Poppy, but by the time he had taken as much as a step forward, she had already immerged from the bakery and was making her way back to him and and the unconscious Patricia. He lazily leaned back a bit over the short brick wall, tilting his head to the side. He murmured a "thanks" as Poppy handed him the bread roll, and bit a chunk of out it.
Pilot dropped his gaze onto the pavement as for a moment both of them fell silent. He tapped his foot on the ground in a meaningless little rhythm. He had never had a very amazing attention span, and the boredom and the urge to go find something else to occupy himself with started sinking in.

They're Here!!!

Pilot jerked slightly as Poppy's voice suddenly rang through his head, shattering the awkward silence that had been looming over the parking lot.

Ah, they found us!

He exclaimed with some annoyance, throwing his arms out to the side. Frowning, he watched the paramedics come pouring out of the ambulance and almost immediately swooping down over Patricia, a bit surprised yet slightly relieved that they hadn't bothered asking what on earth had happened to the poor woman. He stuffed the half-eaten bread roll into his jacket pocket and pushed his sun-visor back a bit. Pilot heaved himself away from the wall again and hovered over towards the scenario out of curiosity, one hand lying limp inside the empty jacket pocket.

Pilot repetitively shifted his weight from one leg over to the other as he let his light blue eyes wander between Poppy and the paramedics lifting Patricia onto the stretcher. Suddenly he felt a hand wrap around his wrist, and looked down at Patricia, his mind for a second going blank.

Thank you, son - you're a good boy…

Pilot frowned slightly, managing a small awkward smile, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. He looked around him at the others, then down at Patricia again. This was, to say the least, a bit embarrassing on his behalf, and he was somewhat grateful when she went out cold again and therefore releasing his hand. He breathed out heavily, maybe a bit more loudly than he had been expecting, and looked at Poppy.

You two better come with us to the clinic, just fill in some forms, you know? Thanks.

What? Pilot blurted, rather unintentionally. But I mean, awh, ya know what, I actually gotta go, uh… I got-gotta meet someone. He said, holding his breath. He paused for a moment, looking at Patricia, then at Poppy, and then the paramedic. But I guess that c'n wait. He added afterwards, reluctantly, and climbed into the back of the ambulance.

[Poppy Wilson]

But I guess that c'n wait.

Poppy nodded at the Paramedic.

Of course we'll come with.

She glanced at her bakery; The cashier would keep things in order. There were enough baked goods, so she wasn't really needed at the moment.
Giving Pilot a small smile, she clambered into the back of the ambulance, where a paramedic was cleaning up some blood of Patricia's head. The other Paramedic climbed into the front seat of the vehicle, and the third paramedic, also in the back of the ambulance, leant out and grabbed the handles of the door; as they slammed shut, Poppy heard the Siren start up, and the engine stirred, and soon the ambulance was off, at a daring speed.

Poppy watched as the paramedic worked, cleansing the wound.
She watched Patricia's slow, heavy breathing, and her own breathing, which was fast and agitated, relaxed a little. The paramedic didn't seem too worried, and he spoke to them;

I can see she had a bit of a fall. Not surprising, seeing those shoes. But It seems allright, she'll be walking later today as far as I can tell, but we have to take her to the clinic just to make sure. She passed out just because of the loss of blood. Not to worry.

He gave Poppy and Pilot a toothy grin.
Poppy gave him a small, tight smile, before turning back to Pilot, and giving him a deeper grin, dimples showing on her face.
Lazily, and without permission, she lowered her head onto his shoulder, still smiling, as the Ambulance rocketed down the worn road of the shopping district.

---

((Shortish Post, but the charries are moving - this plot continues at the Tropico Clinic. I'll start the thread there. =] ))

[Poppy Wilson]

-Thread Closed-