<strong>Hellion<br/>Lower Manhattan<br/>2:25</strong><br/><br/>Hellion's old life left a tinge of social hypersensitivity in her, and Medea's subtle, careful shifts of demeanor are not lost on her.  She listens, her eyes slip to the rearview mirror again to assess the young man in the back.  "What we're here for isn't really clear yet." She says this as she meets his eyes in the glass, then returns her attention to the roadway as she continues.  "What we<i>are</i>, however, is a result of circumstances too outlandish to be coincidental."<br/><br/>She hesistates for a moment as Medea's hand rests on her thigh.  The reinforced, slick polymer leaves a span of bare skin between the tops of her boots and the hip, and she's aware, with the trenchcoat swept aside, just how exposed her leg is to the touch.  Even more so, she she's aware of a tingle in her body, like a tiny silent-alarm, at Medea's touch.  Not for the first time tonight, Hellion tries to dismiss the temptation to stare at the fancily-wrapped woman's form.<br/><br/>"I may not be looking for a good time, but I am looking for something."  She takes the steep incline of an exit ramp, slowing the car somewhat.  "Now, we're approaching a park-and-ride.  I plan to ditch this car, take a train deeper into Manhattan, and go back to my place.  You're welcome to come with me," a fluttering of her eyelashes accompanies that, as if some invisible little creature just crept behind her eyes, "in fact... I'd really appreciate it if you did."  The blue orbs behind half-veiled, calm lashes flicker momentarily to Medea.  Trying not to be obvious, perhaps, but knowing that it's useless.<br/><br/>"If you don't... the top of this exit ramp would probably be the best place to tuck and roll.  But you should know that what I'm looking for has to do with a fire, a mother and two kids, and a guy fished out of the Hudson."  She starts to take the turn.  "What I am is an agent and advocate of vengeance.  And I'd like your help."<br/><br/>She reaches the top of the ramp, and has slowed to ten miles per hour.  The gasoline engine thrums as she takes the turn, prepares to fire the old-fasioned V-8 back to life.  After that, it's a quick park, a short hike to the terminal, and a two-station ride on the tomb-quiet subway-- the last train of the night-shift closers, the stone-drunk wanderers, the night-spent prostitutes and hung-down losers, back to the street-elevator outside Club Mercy.  The opportunity to follow is theirs.