Log. July 25, 2007. New York City – Hell’s Kitchen – Bridget’s Apartment.

Eyes set on the scene outside the window... black upon black... the night sky refusing to cast light where the observer desires. It's funny. You know it's better something happens but once it does, you wonder... even if for just a few seconds but the wondering is still there. What if? Eyes blink as the medic turns away from the window. No. One book is closed... It's time for the next one in the series. She gives a smile to Oz before turning back to the chair where the first aid kit and helmet lay... not saying a word.

Gaze set on the blonde paramedic, Oz simply watches her for a moment, occasionally glancing at the first aid kit. After a beat or two, the singer speaks. “You’re more hurt than you told the hospital, aren’t ya?” He asks.

The paramedic doesn't reply at first, instead taking off the jacket she'd been wearing since the incident began. Jacket removed there's a slight spotted design along the hem of the shirt revealed... Well, one spot really, and had the shirt not been a dark blue to begin with, the spot likely would have looked a different color. "Maybe."

“Damn it, woman!” Oz curses, standing to step closer, inspecting the darker spots. “And you call me macho with all the firebreathing shit?” He asks, looking at her with an annoyed expression. “Hypocrite.”

I didn't call you 'macho'," Bridget retorts, "I was angry you were trying something you didn't know how to do properly while fighting. And I was trying to hide the presence of my suit prototype" She rolls up the shirt slightly showing a another layer underneath it, a slight cut in the material exposing the slight hint of skin tone. "I try not to advertise my wearing body armor."

“I’d be mad at ya if I knew ya couldn’t deal with it and take care of ‘em yourself.” The Irishman remarks, tone lightening a bit, before he sighs. “How bad is it?” Oz asks, touching the cut in the armor lightly.

"I can walk and I haven't passed out," Bridget replies matter of factly, pulling off her shirt to reveal the suit's top, "So not bad."

If Oz were in a better mood, he’s remark on Bridget taking her shirt off in front of him when they aren’t even officially dating. Then again, this is Oz. He doesn’t say anything, but the grin that emerges pretty much says it for him, especially with the suit being how it is.

Shirt flung to the chair, Bridget reaches back to check the damage grimacing as her hand brushes against the wound. The hand retracts, frowning as she reaches over to the box. "If I ask for your help with the bandages, will you behave?"

Does she realize who she’s asking? “...Yes?” That totally means maybe.

"Snaps are in the back, you won't have to go below the waist." Bridget replies, walking over to the sofa and flopping onto it after setting the first aid kit on a nearby table. Pulling a pillow up in her arms, she rests her head, "Basic clean and bandage."

With a sigh, Oz rests on his knees beside the couch, opening the kit. “You have the honor... or unhonor, depending on the way ya wanna view it... of being the only woman I’ve somewhat undressed without trying anything... maybe.” He promises nothing.

Log. July 27, 2007. New York City – Hell’s Kitchen.

Night. In the darkness, furtively shuffling, is Lucien. The morlock is cautious to the point of paranoia away from the sweet shelter and haven of the tunnels-- the only place she really feels safe, anymore. But even she needs to stretch her legs and get fresh air now and again.

Hell's Kitchen, the poorest, worst part of New York city a stone's throw away from one of the richest, nicest sections of town. The latter, the Upper West Side of Manhattan Island, is where Trisha now lives with her brother. But she seems to take long walks every now and then, occasionally daring to go where most of her neighbors would probably disdain. She treads down the sidewalk lightly, seeming fairly at ease with her surroundings - none of the twitchy neck craning that some people get when in unfamiliar territory.

Oz is also at ease with the surroundings, but then again, he’s here a lot. If not visiting his now official girlfriend, then looking for some sort of trouble. Tonight, it’s the latter, and if the sounds of a fight coming from one of the alleys aren’t enough of an indicator of that, the slight yell of pain and rage before someone is literally thrown from the alley might be. Oz soon follows, glaring at the now unconscious man in the middle of the sidewalk with a slightly pained grimace. “Bloody damn gobshite.” He mutters, before sending a kick to the guy’s ribs.

Lucien tenses; her eyes glowing nervously with false-fire as she hears the sounds of a fight not too far away. For a moment she presses herself against the wall of a building as if she wishes she could disappear into it. But that doesn't happen. The nervous harlequin starts to move away from the sounds of combat. She is no hero.

Trisha isn't a hero, but she plays one in her dreams. But when the unconscious man comes flying past her, missing her only by a quick step backwards seconds before he came flying out, she simply stands and watches. She knows this Oz guy - he gave her money once! "Um, hey," she greets him, green eyes jumping back and forth between the body and the man kicking it. "I think he's down, already."

“He better be for his own damn sake.” Oz mutters, before letting out a slightly pained groan, shrugging his duster off to let it drop to sidewalk. “Damn it. Think the fucker ended up pullin’ some of my stitches.” He growls, lifting up the back of his shirt as much as he can to try and see himself. A few stitches on his arms are definitely pulled, if the blood slowly oozing out of the cuts is anything to go by. “Oh, fuck this.” He scowls after a moment, lifting the shirt above his head and dropping it on top of his jacket. Stitches on his chest and stomach are also pulled causing, the Irishman to scowl even more, attempting to look over his shoulder down at his back. “Fuck.”

Lucien spots Trisha; but also hears Oz's voice; and doesn't approach. She is by nature a horribly shy thing, and living in Clinton has only increased this. Nervously, she tugs up the hood of her sweater, despite the summer heat, as if she could hide and cower within her clothing and no one would see her.

For all intents and purposes, Lucien can pretty much do that, as far as Trisha is concerned - she doesn't notice her quite yet. "That looks pretty bad. Why'd he do that?" she reaches out a finger as if to touch but stops just short - she's not a big fan of other people's blood, nope. She turns away for a moment.

“I dunno. “ Oz answers sarcastically. “’Cause I was fightin’ him?” He asks, giving another growl. “Fuck. Fuckin’ hate getting’ patched up like a fuckin’ 2nd grader.” The Irishman snarls lightly, kneeling down to search through the guys pockets. “Enjoy paying my hospital bill.” He remarks bitterly to the unconscious fellow, counting through the found wallet and pocketing the money. Grabbing his shirt, Oz doesn’t immediately stand, catching Lucien out the corner of his eye. Looking over at the hoodie clad mutant for a moment, before standing, Oz pulls his shirt back on. “Hey.” He calls over to Lucien, getting a pack of cigarettes from somewhere. “Got a light?”

Lucien's red eyes glow dimly from her hoodie, and she shakes her head no. "I don't smoke," comes her rasping reply. Utter lies; both the fire and smoking, but Lucien is trying to cut back. It's not good for her lungs.

"But why?" Trisha asks, like an inquisitive child. She's immature in many ways - it's likely that she's just being obnoxious for her own amusement. She certainly knows what a bar fight is, even if she regards it as somewhat... well... stupid. But then, she doesn't really prefer to mix it up that much. Not like some people.

Oz peers over at Trisha. “Why am I askin’ her for a light?” He asks, waving the pack of Marlboro Reds lightly.

Lucien shrugs, and glances towards Trisha, the brightness of her eyes dimming some as she tilts her head in mute greeting to the other.

"No, doof, why'd you get in a fight?" Trisha rolls her eyes, backing up until she finds a nearby solid object to lean on. The precog's eyes is caught, once Oz speaks to her, by Lucien's glowing red eyes - but she doesn't say anything for now. If someone wears a hood, they probably don't want that much attention - something she can empathize with from her days in school. Not fun stuff! She does give her a nod back, however.

Oz shrugs, bending down with a slight wince to pick up his duster, shrugging it on, the worn leather settling around him like it was meant to be worn by Oz and Oz alone. “He was lookin’ at me funny. Pissed me off. Knew I’d win, so why not?”

"Maybe 'cause you'd get those stitches torn open?" Trisha gazes at them, shaking her head slightly. She really doesn't get guys like Oz, but... Kind of likes him anyways. "At least you're honest," she says, sighing a little. "Do you beat up everyone who looks at you funny?" she gives him a 'funny' look, one eyebrow raised, as if to make a point.

“Only the guys. I don’t fight birds.” Oz answers, raising his own eyebrow back at Trisha, with a cocky grin. “So if you’re lookin’ for one, too bad.”

"Oh, I see how it is," Trisha rolls her eyes. "Well, I bet you wouldn't even be a challenge anyways. Not with the way you move," she shakes her head. The tone definitely says she's just playing around - but there's a tiny, tiny little smirk that goes with it... that says she believes there might be some grain of truth in what she just said. "Buu-uut, I guess you'll never know!" she taunts in a sing-song voice. "They know you by name at the hospital yet?" she changes the subject somewhat.

Smirking, Oz runs a scraped and scarred hand through his hair. “No offense, love, but I think I might be able to take ya.” He replies, a bit of teasing entering his voice. “Specially since you’re about a foot shorter than I am.” As for the last question, Oz shrugs. “My girl’s a paramedic, so I don’t go much unless she can’t handle it or she makes me... Or if my sister makes me.”

"Well that's pretty convenient," Trisha has to say, "But I still don't think height matters very much," she laughs. "Not in this age of mutants and superfreaks, anyways," she points out. "Then again, I don't suppose he'd disagree with you," she glances down at Oz's former opponent, laying out cold on the ground.

The smirk becomes a grin. “Mm. No offense, but I could still take ya. Even without the superpowers.”

"So, you do have superpowers then? Seems like that's almost a prerequisite for living here or something," Trisha smirks, then pokes at the loser of the fight with her toe, "What about him? Beatin' up on poor defenseless people? Or are you more of a hero type, like Spider-Man?"

Oz scoffs. “Do I /look/ like a hero to you?” The Irishman asks, almost indignantly. He hopes he doesn’t. “I’m more of a... I’ll protect the people I care about, but everyone else can take care of their own damn self’s kinda guy.” Oz asks, locating a lighter in one of his pockets and lighting a cigarette. “And that is a very short list.”

"Aww. Well, that's kinda boring. But at least you're not trying to be something you're not, all... high and mighty and junk," Trisha nods, "See ya later, Oz," she takes off across the street, walking at a slow pace which will, eventually, bring her back home to her house... and bed.