Whistling cheerfully as he walks down the street, hands in his pockets, beautifully unconcerned, Yossarian's rather predictably thinking about the friends he's made in the past - as people tend to do when they're all alone and it's a beautiful day - and wondering idly what they're up to. Not quite so predictably, he's also wondering if they'd got home all right; he certainly didn't, but he's posessed of a remarkable ability to adapt. Doc Catherine might have been the one to call him an urban warrior jungle boy, but probably not. At any rate, it certainly wasn't -he- that came up with such a classification. He's just hoping that kid from out west, the one who called himself Dante and wore a six pointed star 'because he was Jewish, not because he was a Lawman', he's hoping that kid didn't get himself into some kinda outer space future like the one that Moire chick came from, with the rayguns and things. And that that Darrow fella didn't end up anywhere near that Coda mook, he'd be miserable. Poet warrior, my left foot. The kid coughs, his thoughts abruptly derailed by a picture in a window - a color photograph, looks like - of a couple of girls not wearing much of anything. Well I saw the thing comin' out of the sky. It had the one long horn, one big eye. I commenced to shakin' and I said 'ooh-eee, It looks like a purple eater to me!' Only a hawk would see this thing coming, and only a hummingbird would have the reflexes to avoid. The day at its apex shines searingly in a cloudless powder-blue sky, and from a blinding sunspot something falls. It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a-squawking "HEADZZAP!" as it plummets right for a certain unfortunate young man. Said unfortunate young man is luckily fairly damn hardy, and rather well-padded with muscle, if wiry. He goes down like a ton of bricks, cussing like the dockworker he is, toning his language down when he makes out that what's downed him is at least vaguely female from this angle, but continues complaining loudly and painfully. "Whaddya DOIN', ya dippy broad? Getcha lousy mitts offa me, go climb up ya t'umb, I ain't nobody's soicus net, ya heah me?" Ow ow ow ow. Sidewalk. Face. Previously, the twain were never to meet. "GERROFF!" And it was such a nice day, too. Where do these people come from? What'd she to, try and kill herself jumping off a building? Are the buildings even high enough to die off of, here? He can't exactly look up, and now he's probably got a bloody -something-, and for pity's sake, it's not like he even got in a fight or something to use as an excuse - 'What happened to you?' 'Ah, some twist fell outta the sky an' flattened me, I dunno...' "Oh man. Oh man, oh man, oh man," a voice is hissing, low and alto. God made this one to croon in a lounge. "Dis todlaa tima fa dat song, Sing Widda Swing, yanno widd de dun-duh-duh-dun ting yar god goin, fuckin gread a run to cuz shit. Shit shit shit." The voice goes pointed. "Yar fuckin falt a be in ma WAA--" Distant shouts, up and above and very unamused. Where'd she go! Where's the little bitch! I saw her jump? She better hope she's drooling her brains! With the quick panting breath of a dehydrated mutt, the girl/lethal projectile twists leaden eyes up for the skies. Either she's praying to God or she's cursing Him, clambering to extricate herself off the guy. Small, sharp, and smeared with purple paint, hands search frenetically before grabbing up a duffel bag slopped the same colour. "Cammon," she tells him, "oh fuck aff fass. I gid paint shit lall ova youse. Dey seeit dey shoot ya on site. Deaa gunnin fa me bad. CAMAAN!" "Fuckin' GADamighty, ya crazy bird, dis's me best shoit, an'...what da HELL is dis crud, I ask ya? My fawt my *ass* I wuz in yer way, an'..." Blah blah blah. Boy, either Yossarian's just pissed because it -is- his only shirt, or he's still holding a grudge because this girl came outta the clear blue sky and made him eat pavement on what -was- an excellent day. Most likely it's the shirt. And she was very likely right about getting shot on sight, so even as he's running after her, he rips it off and ditches it down an alley. Vest and all. Pity, that; they're well made. Well, he can always go back for them if he's still alive later. "Da hella ya doin', gettin' all mixed up wid da kinda mooks could shoot a li'l skoit like youse?" He's not panting -yet-. "Shud.. suddede fuck ap man," is the skirt's eloquent reply, grunting as she hefts the bag, hugging it as though it carried the crown jewels. "Ya nevaa saws me, a heaa nottin evaa, oh yar ass be grass, big time.." Somehow, threats do not seem to be the proper bedmates to her neurotic expression, complete with twitching husky's eyes and flaring nostrils. A here and there street-shopping face turns bored eyes after the running pair, the heathen couple that dares energy against such a tabbycat-lazy afternoon. For someone quick on the threats for murder and chummy bludgeoning, she makes a bold grab at his arm en route to safety after turning a knife-sharp corner. "Ya jest jellis 'cuz yer outta shape, chippie," laughs the running boy. And she might not be, but compared to Yossarian, just about anyone would be. It's fairly obvious he's not even remotely taking her threats seriously, even if he ought to; he's one of those people that the thought of death doesn't faze, but a ruined shirt destroys a whole mood. "Wheah da hellya from, tawkin' like dat, anyways? Da moon? Canada?" Oh, he thinks he's funny. And then he gets yanked. "Gad-dammit!" Life flashing before her eyes or not, it's not enough to stall a quick glance imbued in all tones of murder. "I am fuckin sa in shapp." It's just that.. where is the rest of the girl? She's not little as in young, but little as in being the tallest in Munchkinland's graduating class. Why won't Santa give her that two inches to at least be five feet? Rosy-cheeked fucker. Releasing the boy and juggling with the plethoric bag, she cocks still like a retriever. Shouts. Shit. "Wheaa fuck izzit, wheaa fuck, wheaa fuck fuck fuck," she sneers at herself, kicking coarsely at strewn urban foliage crammed in a pocket between two store. Something clanks, and she dusts like an archaelogist the trash from a sewer grating. Munchkins can't lift sewer lids, but this one certainly tries. "Oh, fa cryin' out loud," mutters Yossarian. Pissed-off as he is, chivalry still applies, whether the girl'll accept it or not. "Move ya kiestah, goil," he says rudely but not unkindly. "Make way fa da fines' pitchin' ahm da Dodgahs seen in da tryouts a' twenny-two." Yes. Flex with your voice even as you lose no time in making your word good. He doesn't insult Marley by asking her if she can stand the stench - obviously if she's even *considered* the sewers as a mode of transportation, she's probably been in them. Or maybe she probably hasn't. Either way, Yoss figures she looks desperate enough she doesn't care. "Ain't goddah crowbah, I take it," he asks rhetorically, gripping wherever it's even remotely grippable, even if he has to push her out of the way to do it, and *heaving*. "Ngh." Twenty-two?! Someone's nostrils have been bigger than their stomachs, she assumes, colourless eyes angled on the boy as though she were talking to a madman. Nonetheless, she ain't the time to care, shouldered aside with a brusque snort and reaching to grab back up her treasured duffel. "Sorra man, I ann't be go good windaa shappin fa fuckin haadswaa when deaa liddal distrackktins like fuckin BULLITS AD MA--" Her voice exeunts stage left as the voices near. Angry ones. Large ones. She smears at the purple paint staining her anxious face, one hand swinging gestures very fast and very elliptical. C'mon c'mon C'MON. Yeah-yeah-yeah, the lid's hefted and quietly set down, so as to avoid telltale scraping sounds. Voice low, Yoss inclines his head. "In ya go. I gotta go aftah ta pull da lid back on, see?" Not like she probably cares what the hell she does, but this kid's got a compulsion to explain every damn thing he does. Maybe he's narrating for the kids reading the pulps. "An' cahm da fuck down, goilie." Ducking to loop the treasure's long shoulder strap over herself, she lugs it with an arched back in sacrifice for the use of both arms. "Scroo yoo," she snorts maturely, lips furled like a dog's to flare momentary canines and molars. She grabs the edging of the sewer, and greenly ignorant of handholds, disappears into a womb of darkness. "Wha', inna sewahs? Kinda grody, y'ask me." Which she didn't. Yossarian watches the girl's head recede into the darkness, wincing as she just sort of, er...well, that could've gone a lot easier. And she'll probably end up really wet. And really stinky. Rapidly taking his shoes off and tying the laces together, the boy loops 'em around his neck and descends after her, pausing when he's about three quarters of the way in to brace his knees against the small hollows meant for hands and toes. Solid as he's gonna get, he lifts the lid again and scrunches the rest of the way under with it, closing the ceiling as quietly as possibly. Then nimble like a cat, he goes down the rest of the way. His socks are a loss, but at least his shoes won't be ruined. "Wheah you at, chippie?" he whispers. "I godda NAME yanno!" She's right next to him, rather indignantly. "Funny, dat, I gat one too," returns the boy with a grin in his voice. "Hoid it dis one day, right? Liked it. Took it." A beat. "Ya gonna tell me whatcha name is, aw ya gonna bawl aboudit?" With a flick of metal, a zippo lights up the sewer. Somewhere between sepulcher and septic, the undercity corridor stretches long and skinny like a supermodel, equipped with murkiness, wetness creeping to the shins, and what is that goddamn SMELL? Bearer of light and ill-pleasantries, a good look at the girl shows her amutt mix of chuzpah and cicatrixes, grey eyes caustic and wearing a sneer that would make Oscar the Grouch proud. "Ya keep flappin dat deaa jaw, sammon gonn be ballin aarite." "Aw, quitcha bellyachin'. Whass ya goddamn name? Ya wan' me ta keep cawlin' ya goil, do ya?" Looking at Yossarian in the darkness, he's a bit paler, but not by much. Dark skin, black hair, black eyes, scratched-up face from the fall earlier - but as much as he's been mouthing off, the expression on his features is mixed frank admiration and friendliness. 'Course, he looks a little silly with his shoes around his neck, but he'll be damned if he lets them get all sewery. "Don' t'ink ya caih, but...y'c'n caw' me Yoss. Aw Yossarian." He says it funny, not like in the book it should be said, no. But then, he says everything funny. And no shirt, still, damnit. "Yaz," she repeats to herself in her own sharp voice, steely eyes diverted as she lifts up a bare foot to see the slimy what-the-hell that's attached to it. A twitch later and she hides her foot again. "Whad kinna name be dat?" Adjusting the bag, and trying to shoulder its weight firmly, she begins a guide's step forward, Indiana Jonesing this unmanned land. Her gallant ass is soaken wet from a previous sewer fall. "Me? Marley." Those sewer falls. Gotta watch 'em, they do hell to your wardrobe. "Molly, ah? Howya doin', Molly?" He studiously ignores her mockery of his name - after all, *he* likes it, and that's all that matters - and follows after her at her pace. "Ya mebbe wanna put outcha light, letcha eyes get yoosed ta da dahk." A beat. "Not tryinna be bossy're nuttin', jest sayin'. An' if ya wanna han' widdat bag ya got, jes' lemme know. 'M good fa sumpin, even if it ain't my name." That wasn't bitter, no. Is he even capable of being bitter?