Logs:Visibly Mutanty

Visibly Mutanty
Dramatis Personae Samara, Peter
In Absentia	2019-06-27 "I don't think I can stop being visibly...mutanty."
Location <NYC> - Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. It's a hot day, and Samara looks like she's wilting as she walks down the street. She is a small teenager wearing a dirty blue t-shirt, black shorts, and gray sneakers, carrying a dark green backpack. Her exposed skin glows like a living lamp, which makes the layer of grime on her that much more noticeable. In the gap between lunch and quitting time, these streets are as empty as they get -- which is to say, not very empty. But people start making themselves more scarce at the roar of motorcycle engines coming around the corner. The five bikers are all riding Harley Davidsons, their black leather vests adorned with identical white crosses on the back. They slow as they near the glowing teenager, gunning their engines. Their leader is a middle-aged white man who is in spectacular shape and eager to show it off, wearing only a sleeveless white shirt under his vest, his skin slightly sun-burnt, sheened with sweat, and adorned with a few simple abstract tattoos. He coasts his bike up alongside Samara and turns to look at her through mirrored aviator sunglasses. "Looks like this one doesn't think the sun shines brightly enough without her," he calls to his fellows, sounding frankly kind of bored. He's answered with a ripple of laughter and one or two vague agreements. "Seems like every day there's more of you in this neighborhood," he says, presumably addressing Samara now. "It's like a goddamned infestation. Let the respectable ones in, and sooner or latter you get the riff-raff, too. Should we clean up here, boys?" The answering roar is much louder this time as the bikes pull over and their riders dismount. Most of them aren't even bothering with weapons, just cracking their knuckles as they circle the teenager. Peter is doing something he shouldn't. The young man is easy to miss if you're not looking for him, and to do that, you'd have to be looking up: He's sitting on the edge of a three-story tenement complex's roof, dressed in a sleek black body-suit that looks unconsciably hot for this weather. It looks like... a cross between "cat-burglar cosplayer" and the stealth outfit you'd expect in a video-game based on a Tom Clancy novel. He's pulled the full-face hood up, exposing most of his face so he can shove a cinnamon-flavored soft pretzel into it. By the look of things, he was taking a break... but that break promptly ends at the sound of those rumbling engines. Cue cursing, scrambling to throw away the pretzel, wiping his sticky fingers on his hips, and tugging the hood down -- hiding his face beneath a mask and goggles. "-- crap, crap..." By the time the bikers are dismounting and circling the teenager below, Peter's hopping from one roof-top to the next -- a barely audible *THWP* comes from above as he swings to a closer building. He can't hear what they're saying, but as he settles down and crouches on a roof-top directly overhead, he can work out the basic gist. Samara doesn't pay any attention to the motorcycles at first, not even when they slow down near her. It's the gunning of their engines that gets her attention, and she shies away from the loud noise more so than from man talking to her. She opens her mouth, then closes it, eyebrows furrowing deeply. "Hello. Can I help you?" she asks, her voice raised so that she can be heard above the engines. Her light is fluttering unsteadily now, dimming as if that would make them pay less attention to her. It's only when they start pulling over that she seems to realize there's trouble. By the time she starts running, they've already mostly surrounded her, and though this doesn't seem to actually deter her she's not terribly fast, between the heat and the burden of her pack. A tall, blond, clean-cut young man intercepts Samara easily and shoves her back to the center of the loose semi-circle the Purifiers have formed. They all laugh. "Sure, you can help us, /freak/." "Jesus, yeah, it could take a /bath/," says a sullen-looking man with LOVE tattooed across the knuckles of his left and HATE tattooed across the knuckles of his right. "You can go back to wherever you came from," says the leader, still sounding bored somehow. "The sewer, maybe. Or Jersey." "Hey!" says Love/Hate. "Watch what you say about Jersey!" Ignoring his fellows' laughter, he advances on Samara, winding back his right arm and aiming a HATE punch at the teenager's nose. Peter watches. There's a certain tightening of the jaw and clenching of the fist that occurs when the pack advance on Samara; astute observers might note that the tension in him has less to do with the threat to the teen as it does with the mere presence of the group advancing on her. But when one of them shoves her -- he snaps back into focus like a rubber-band. THWP. The sleek line of silver-gray lashes out to catch one of the idling hogs. Just as Love/Hate is advancing, Peter's pulling -- squatting horizontally on the side of the tenement's wall, pulling all his strength into it to yank the bike over into its partner with a loud, violent crash. That's the feint; the distraction intended to get everyone looking (and moving) the wrong way. The swing comes an instant later. He's not fast enough to stop the punch, but -- regardless of whether or not it connects -- 175 pounds of lean, dense muscle is slamming down feet-first into the center of Love/Hate's back, delivering just enough force to crumple a grown man into a heap... and maybe sprain or dislocate a few bones in the process. Samara wraps her arms around herself, backing away from the Purifier who shoved her. "I'm sorry," she says. "I will go back. Please leave me alone." This doesn't sound nearly as panicked as she looks, though. The rapid flicker of her light looking more and more agitated, but her tone is somewhat flat. When Love/Hate punches her she only flinches away from the blow, no nearly fast enough or far enough to stop it connecting, though it catches her in the cheek instead of the nose. She still staggers under the blow, stumbles another step, and then actually falls to the sidewalk. Her light flares up suddenly brighter, enough to be painful to the eyes and leave vividly unpleasant afterimages, but not enough to impair anyone. The toppling bikes do indeed draw the attention of the Purifiers, save for Love/Hate, who is already committed to his punching. And then, immediately thereafter is committed to being dropkicked by a flying Peter. The attack catches him so off-guard he doesn't even cry out, his breath rushing out of his lungs in a soft "oof!" as he folds and eats the sidewalk hardly a foot from where Samara has fallen. His comrades turn back as one, staring for a spliti second in astonished noncomprehension at this black-clad person who has seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Clean-cut is the quickest to react, raising his extendable baton -- he's one of the few who's even bothered with a weapon -- and rushing Peter with an overhand strike. Right after him, a heavyset Purifer with a mustache wades in, too, moving fast considering his bulk, though he is like most of them unarmed and aiming a left hook at Peter's jaw. The leader heads for /his/ bike (still standing!), while the last of them, a wiry youth with a crisp fashy haircut who can't be much older than 17, hesitates, and pulls a combat knife from a scabbard at his side. Honestly, Peter would have liked to have just gotten all of them to run for their bikes so he could get Samara out of there -- but the punch... kind of forced his hand. Now, crouched and squatting on Love/Hate like a bean-chair, Peter's left with three Purifiers to deal with, one on the run, and a brightly glowing teenager on the ground. *THWP*. Clean-cut gets a webline right to the chest, yanking him closer -- letting Peter slip *under* the overhand strike. He leaps and aims a sharp knee-jab for Clean-cut's solar-plexus to drive the wind out of him, then snaps the other foot down and pivots like a spinning ballerina to hurl him over his shoulder and into the air... right at Mustachio. "Quick! Flap your arms!" The bright flash means he doesn't see the knife, but he hasn't forgotten about the 17 year old. He steps over Samara -- taking a defensive position above her: "Can you stand?" His voice is low and rushed; he's not looking directly at her. The light is making it hard for him to keep a bead on everything going on. Samara has only just started to right herself when Love/Hate crashes to the ground beside her with a black-clad figure on top. The flare of her light doesn't last long, dying down in stuttering waves until it's dimmer than it was before save for brief brighter flashes, like an old flourescent light that is burning out. One hand pressed to where she was struck on the cheek, she gathers herself and scoots back away from both Purifier and Peter, her lamplike eyes huge. "No no no no no no," she's muttering softly, and doesn't immediately seem to recognize that Peter is talking to her. Then suddenly looks up at him. "No no no no no yes? Maybe?" She puts her free hand out to brace agains the sidewalk, winces hard, and then drops the other hand instead and rises shakily. "Yes. That person has a knife." This is all in a remarkably even tone of voice as she points, awkwardly across her body with the arm that hadn't broken her fall, at the 17 year old. Clean-cut had just started to say something to Peter -- likely profanity -- when the strike to his solar plexus steals the breath from his words. He goes flying and does, in fact, flap his arms, though likely out of reflex and not any particular desire to obey Peter. Mustachio tries to get out of the way of his flying club mate, but the flailing clips him in the shoulder and he stumbles sideways. Young Fashy flexes his knife hand and settles into a fairly stable and practical fighting stance as he circles around to put Samara between himself and Peter. The suddenly darts in, slashing not at the teenager but the man in black, perhaps intending to use her as a shield. Meanwhile, the leader has not actually gotten on his bike, but has produced a gleaming black handgun from one of his saddle cases, disengaging the safety and turning to level the weapon at -- Peter, Samara, and Fashy, considering how close together the three are at the moment. Both the repeated words combined with Samara's initial fear and confusion don't phase Peter, but they do soften him. It's near-impossible to tell through that outfit, but the tension in him diminishes; the fierce tightness in his chest and fists start to thaw. Still on guard, he takes a deep breath: "Okay. Good. Relax, you're --" Knife. Peter catches the word, implication, and glint of steel simultaneously. He also feels the accompanying stab of pain as the other Purifier reaches his hog. Peter doesn't see him, but the fact that the motorcycle isn't *starting* tells him everything he needs to know. When the 17 year old puts Samara between himself and Peter, Peter grips Samara by her shoulder and reels her back -- keeping them both out of range of that initial slash. When he realizes they're sandwiched between the kid with a knife and the leader who's probably got something worse... well, he does the only thing he can think to do: He gets her out of the way. " -- um, I'm really, really sorry -- " is all Peter manages to mumble out before suddenly the arm on her shoulder is around her waist, and he's attempting to hurl Samara into the air -- even as he's spinning to web-line the knife-wielding kid in the chest, so he can reel him in and *launch* him over his shoulder... toward the guy with the gun. Assuming that works, he immediately steps back to gracefully catch Samara, crumpling to cushion her fall -- and then *run like hell* down the nearest alley. Backpack notwithstanding, Samara is actually even lighter than she looks, and is no challenge to toss into the air. At least not for someone who hurls full-grown men around with such ease as Peter does. She blurts out a vague, startled noise when her feet leave the ground, and does not flap her arms. Her light flutters, brightens briefly, then nearly goes out for a moment as she reaches the apex of her flight. Then cycles wildly through several colors too fast to register as she begins to fall. She does scream now, but only briefly, the ear-piercing noise cut off as she falls back into Peter's arms. This time she wraps her good arm around him and keeps a death-grip on his outfit as he carries her off. Fashy snarls with frustation when his knife misses his mark, then his eyes go wide with complete noncomprehension as Peter...throws the person he's been trying to defend. "What the fuuuuuuu --!" His cursing dopplers as he's snagged by the web and yanked off his feet, sailing gracefully through the air. The leader's "Fuck!", at least, has a chance to see the light of day before Fashy crashes into him and knocks them both into his Harley, from whence they tumble awkwardly out into the street. None of the Purifiers -- even Mustachio, who is comparatively uninjured -- show any sign of giving chase. Peter keeps running as Samara clings. For a brief moment, both he and Samara are *sideways* -- he runs horizontally along a wall, gaining just enough height to get over the slats of a metal fence separating this alleyway from the next. Then? Around another corner, a massive jump that sends air roaring past her head, and... *Whump*. In just under thirty seconds, they're nearly two blocks away... and on top of a shaded little one-story rooftop of a convenience and grocery store. One with a nice, cool vent nearby. It's out of immediate sight of the street, though anyone could see them from one of the many tenement building windows nearby... but probably only if they were looking. "...sorry. About that." He's still holding Samara, a little out of breath. He finally goes about the process of trying to ease her down... though, guessing on prior experience with this sort of thing, he imagines she might be initially reluctant to let go. "Had to, um -- I had to take you out of the, uh, equation. For a sec." Then, as if he's just realizing it now: "You okay? Anything sprained or broken?" Samara is silent through their flight, huddling close to Peter, her light fluttering dimly between gray and mauve. When they come to a stop and he starts to set her down, she lets go readily, then stumbles against him, twice, before finally standing on her own feet again. She looks up at him, even her eyes dimmer now, though nowhere near as faint as her skin. "I don't know," she replies blankly after a moment's thought, though she cringes she shifts her weight. The dim light flutters purple. "Are you a superhero?" Peter watches close as she shifts on her feet, ready to catch her if she crumples. "Well, you can stand, so... you could be in shock, though. It looks like your arm and leg might be hurt. We should get you checked out. There's a clinic nearby." The question catches Peter off-guard. He straightens; for a moment, he doesn't answer. The goggles reflect back the changing colors that glow through her eyes. "I'm -- uh. Not... I mean, that's not..." There's a long, stretched pause, before -- finally: "I dunno." Then: "The glowing thing's... cool. What's your name?" Samara shifts a sickly grayish-red. "I don't like doctors. And I don't have money." Her colors flutter back to the daylight-neutral they had been from the start, but still much dimmer. "I think if you have superpowers, wear a mask, jump off of buildings, and save people from getting hurt, you might be a superhero." Her eyes suddenly go wide again. "Thank you." These words are spoken firmly, solemnly. "My name is Samara. What is your name?" Then she frowns. "Should I not ask that? Maybe you can't tell me, if you might be a superhero." Samara tilts her head very slightly to one side. "Thank you for saving me, Spider. Even if it was an accident." There's no mockery in her tone, though she does sound a little confused, still. "I am staying with the Morlocks. They look after me, when I'm there." Her light turns a dingy brownish-gray. "Marrow told me Purifiers would try to hurt me. Were those people Purifiers?" "Morlocks..." Recollection flashes in Peter's head. "I remember them. In the sewers, right? Oh, man, that takes me back." He turns his head in the direction they fled from. "...yeah. Those were Purifiers. I don't know who Marrow is, but they're right. Stay away from the Purifiers. They hate mutants. Especially if you're, uh," he turns back to Samara. "Visibly... mutant-y." Samara nods mechanically. "Yes, in the sewers." She tilts her head the other direction, now. "I will try to stay away from Purifiers." She frowns thoughtfully. "I was trying to stay away from them before, too. People said they ride motorcycles have crosses on their backs, but it's hard to see those except from behind." Her light dims down to almost nothing, very briefly, before pulsing back to its previous level. "I don't think I can stop being visibly...mutanty. Not without a lot of work. Maybe never." She opens her mouth as if to say more, but then stops. "Is that why you are dressed like that?" "No." The response to her question is automatic; almost mechanical. It's immediately followed by more: "I mean, yeah, kind of. But not because... I'm not visibly a mutant, but if I dress like this, people know what I am. I guess? I don't know. Maybe because it's comfy. And yeah. There's another biker gang here, run by mutants -- the Mongrels. You can... probably? Trust them? But if you see motorcycles and you don't know who's riding them, just run and hide." The goggles shimmer with the glow of the light she's giving off, reflecting it back. "...wait. Marrow? Marrow. The girl with the pointy spines and -- oh, wow. Wow. I remember her." There's a sudden swell of amusement in his voice: "She was kind of a bitch." Then, in a sudden rush: "Uh. Sorry, I shouldn't say that, or curse in front of... um. Please don't tell her I said that." Samara's light turns kind of greenish-blue for a few seconds before cycling back to neutral. "I like comfy clothes, too. I never considered wearing something like that. Maybe it would be comfy and also keep me from getting beaten up. I will still remember to hide from motorcycles, though. Thank you." She blinks at Peter's apology. "Yes, that Marrow. I won't tell her. But I think she might actually like hearing about it. I don't think she wants people to think she's nice." Her light dims further, and she sways on her feet again, almost toppling over. "Sorry." "Seriously though she might like hearing it but I'm pretty sure she would still feel obligated to kill me. Just on principle." Peter dips forward as Samara sways, as if to catch her; when she doesn't fall, he bobs back: "-- sorry, I've been talking your ear off on this roof top and you've probably... have you eaten? I know a place, nearby. I can take you there -- my treat. It's safe for mutants." As he offers her his hand, he adds, with bemusement: "They don't even mind if I wear the mask." "I don't want to get you killed," Samara says seriously. "I ate lunch. It's not dinner time, yet, but maybe I need to eat again, anyway?" She sounds extremely uncertain about this. "Thank you." She looks at his hand (probably; it's hard to tell where exactly her featureless glowing eyes focus). Then carefully reaches out and clasps it. "I don't mind the mask, either."