Chapter Three: Unlikely Heroes

A/N: Hello all!

I hate to be a glib media attention whore, but really, I suffer from v. low self esteem *waits to laughing to finish* and must have feedback if you want prompt updates. There! See! It's really quite inspiration to have feedback, you know.


The panic attack came swiftly after Chris had hailed a taxi and was standing in a back street, looking for an information booth and wondering how on earth he'd ended up here. The attack promptly sent him to the men's room. After he threw up in a small, grimy stall, Chris laid his head down on the cool porcelain of the toilet and hissed softly.

He'd had this problem ever since his mom had died. When the phone call had come from the hospital that she was gone, he'd ignored Meg's white face and his father's choked tones over the line and gone straight to the bathroom.

That had been the worst time. He'd stayed two hours in that bathroom, alternately crying and throwing up. Afterwards, he'd been able to get sick, but he'd never cried. His father had sworn at him after the funeral, wondering why in the hell Chris couldn't even show a single tear for his mother.

He hadn't been able to eat for two days after that.

Once, Meg had tried to convince him to go to a doctor, but he'd managed to talk himself out of it. He didn't need help. He just couldn't. . . handle. . . grief and anxiety well. That was probably part of the reason he'd never been able to ask a girl out in high school. He gave a wry smile at the thought of that exchange-- his imagination tended to fill in the blanks rather vividly-- and rose.

Sighing, he wiped his mouth off and fished a breath mint out from the pocket of his jacket. He poked his head surreptitiously out of the stall, hoping against hope that no one had noticed his less than stellar entrance into the bathroom. The last thing he wanted for his new life was to gather a reputation for bulimia.

Chris gave into the temptation of another wry smile as he stepped towards the sink to wash his hands. He was not looking forward for the search for a place to stay. Frowning, he reached for his wallet, wondering where he'd stuck the address of his friend. He couldn't remember it exactly, and Duke had reminded him countless times that his number was unlisted, and he needed to keep that and the address close by at all times--

Chris's train of thought was interrupted by a vicious attack to his midsection. He doubled over, desperately searching for air as alien hands pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and abruptly vanished. Chris slumped to the cold tile floor, desperately trying to hold back the gagging reflex. The one conscious thought in his mind was that he really didn't want to throw up bile-- quickly followed by a sickening realization of what had happened. He sat there for perhaps thirty seconds before another panicky thought washed over him.

Chris cursed, the word sounding foreign from his quiet, cultured voice. My stuff is all in there, they probably took it-- It was quickly reassured by the sight of his battered suitcases before him. His second, somewhat irreverent thought was that perhaps spending all your money on books was a good thing in the case of a mugging.

Chris sighed deeply, and began to mentally add up his possessions. The complete novels of the James Joyce, all his other favorite books, some clothes, his toothbrush, and his CD collection of Broadway music. Sitting back on his heels, he hissed between his teeth. No money, no address. . . nothing worth anything.

he whispered again. I'm in big trouble.

His stomach cramped again, but Chris didn't bother to get up. He was completely and utterly stuck where he was.

Chris said glumly. An hour in New York and he'd lost all his money-- why, he wondered grimly, did he not think to get traveler's checks? What kind of idiot carried cash in New York City? He was never going to hear the end of this from his father, he realized. God. . . could this day possibly get any worse? He closed his eyes, ignoring the sound of the opening door. Let someone else come in and mug him, steal his books and clothes. It didn't matter. His dreams were gone, fallen away into--

A heavy thud startled him out of his depressed reverie and his eyes flew open to view the strangest scene he'd seen thus far in New York. A tall, Spanish man had fallen flat on his face, apparently unconscious. By his side knelt a black-haired woman and an extremely short man. Chris blinked and swiftly realized that not only would calling the woman's jumpsuit err on the side of polite, but that the short man's overalls seemed to be more paint than denim.

Er. . . Chris said doubtfully. Two heads shot up to study him earnestly, and Chris swallowed. he offered weakly. Um. . . I don't suppose you could--

Chris's hesitant speech was interrupted by a sudden twist of his still aching stomach and he rushed forward to the stall, retching violently. A few seconds later, he had slumped to the floor, feeling the worst he had. . . well, since his mom died, actually.

Hey, there, little buddy. It was the woman, who held a cool hand to his forehead and a bottle of Evian. Behind her, Chris heard a groan and the sounds of curious whispers. He tried to push himself up, but slid back down. The woman supported him on his knees, letting him lean against her shoulder. Bad in-flight food? She paused, and then stroked his hair gently. Stupid question, I guess. You don't feel like a fever, and you're obviously new in town, so I'd guess that's the ticket.

How did you--? Chris coughed and took a sip of the offered water. It soothed his aching throat, and was followed by a few Tic Tacs that the woman popped into his mouth afterwards. His back relaxed, and he sank against the woman's shoulder, feeling unaccountably grateful. The woman, he realized dimly, reminded him a little bit of his mother.

The woman chuckled softly. Call it a lucky guess, there, friend. Here-- can you get up or do you need to stay down for a bit longer? Chris blinked his eyes and shook his head, still feeling a little queasy.

I can get up, I guess, he replied doubtfully.

All right, the woman said easily, supporting him as he stood. Hey-- T.R. N.A. You guys all right back there?

Don't wowwy about uth, a voice with a pronounced lisp replied. Chris had to blink again at the sound of that. This was getting a bit to close to the peculiarities of fiction. New York or no New York, he had to be dreaming. N.A. just had anothew speww of nawcopwesy, you know.

a deep voice, tinged with the faintest Spanish accent charged in. I just tripped, that is all.

Of couwse, the lisp's owner replied dryly. That's why you wewe wying hewe with diwt on youw face.

It was a new dance step, the Spanish man said defensively. I must be constantly preparing for On Spec, you know.

Good gwief. Chris craned his neck, and caught sight of the speaker. It was the short man, who was now brushing off his overalls with more energy than Chris privately thought necessary.

the woman turned back to them with a wry smile on your face. You both know that N.A. had an attack, and you both know that we've been working our asses off for the play, so lay off, okay? Let's see to the kid.

Chris smiled feebly and waved off assistance.

I'm great, he tottered over slightly on his way to the sink. Promise. Just. Got. He leaned his head against the mirror and sighed. Mugged. I'll be okay.

The woman turned back to her two companions and raised an eyebrow. She turned back to Chris, helping him straighten his jacket and then turned him around and looked him in the eye. Got anyplace to go?

Chris admitted a little sullenly. He was definitely not looking forward to this lecture. Don't carry cash, Chris. Don't be stupid, Chris. Yeah, he'd probably earned it, but he had a feeling he'd already learned that lesson.

Once again, the woman surprised him. Okay then, she said cheerfully. Guys, think we can make room for him back at the apartment? She turned to Chris, a bright smile lurking behind her dark eyes. That is, if you'd feel safe. I promise, I've got credentials. I'm not a psycho killer. I'm a cab driver and a playwright. She pulled out her license and patted his shoulder as he studied it.

Chris said. He was starting to feel a bit dazed by the entire thing. Maybe the mugger had hit his head instead of his stomach. That would explain a lot.

Audrey exclaimed. She turned to her companions. So, guys, what do you say?



Why not? sighed the Spanish man.

The woman turned to pick up Chris's bags and turned to him. I'm Audrey, by the way.

piped up the small man. He grinned widely at Chris and did a strange little dance that ended with him tipping an imaginary hat. Set designew and awtist!

And N.A., choreographer at the Rouge. He swept Chris a sardonic bow, eyeing him doubtfully all the while. At your. . . service.

Oh, knock it off, buddy. You should have been taking your medication, and you know it. Don't give me that superior act, Audrey advised N.A. sternly as they walked out of the bathroom.

Chris raised a worried eyebrow. This was an unexpected turn of events. . . and that was putting it mildly. With a sharp grin, he followed. This was what he'd come to New York for, after all.