#mettamorph

She is... not looking good. It's evident, and was when Carla first found her, that the message sent wasn't a cry for help so much as a light thrown into the future. Emily had been completely sure this was the end of the road and, as such, had to pick somebody to take possession of all the dirt she'd dug up over the years. Black market connections, possible bioweapon fanatics waiting in the wings, the fate of already-buried operatives who might some day rear their head again.

A number which, technically, now includes her. She's woozy. Barely knows what's happened, other than the fact that she's currently breathing and wasn't expecting that to be the case when she was last... conscious. A blood-mottled eye manages to fix on the face of her saviour, though the other, optical nerve still possibly disconnected, isn't focusing on anything at all. Emily's silent for several moments, either working up the energy for another sentence or having passed back into that greyish-brown fugue.

"...'m sorry. It can't help it."

Another second or eight of relative quiet, her head lolling with the motion of being carried.

I'd absolutely destroy them | This loser owes me Lunch Money | It'd be close but I'd win after a coma | It was nice knowing you, friends | I'd blink and see the pearly gates | Oh no... you beat me (lost on purpose)

He had approached her because she had told him, once upon a time, to seek her out if he'd started showing strange signs of something new. Something about the already iffy stability of his body reacting with her shedding viral strains yet unknown.

He'd dislocated his elbow twice in the last week and set it himself without any pain. It was frankly horrifying to see.

His voice is rattled with the respirator of his mask, his lenses casting Ahab in sharp clarity against the glowing monitors of her space. He wasn't going to risk a secondary infection.

Flights were grounded along the southern states from the unexpected interference from the asteroid. Flying privately usually wasn't an issue in these cases, but to land on the airfield, Hawk needed contact with the control towers and radio command for clearance.

Which made this particular extraction delayed.

No way in hell he was driving in this place with every flight grounded, and the Thanksgiving and Black Friday residual madhouse flooding the streets with the MARTA closed.

What a nightmare.

He could at least let Hunk handle contacting the client while he made his way over to Georgia. Getting Ahab's story of events would be essential for their negotiations... or strong-arming, if it came to it.

They needed to count their losses, and... this kid situation.

He sighs to himself, leaning against the fence while letting crew refuel after finally landing, pulling out his phone while the airport started to get operations rolling.