ArchivedLogs:Big Trouble in Little Chinatown

Big Trouble in Little Chinatown
Dramatis Personae Anette and Killian
In Absentia	2015-10-06 "Fucking hell Anette, SHUT UP!"
Location <NYC> Chinatown
One of New York's oldest neighborhoods and the oldest Chinese enclave outside of Asia, Chinatown is a vibrant ethnic community, which draws throngs of tourists annually as well. This neighborhood is packed with Chinese-owned businesses, from restaurants to groceries to theaters to fashion. It's late evening of an autumn evening with a notable chill in the damp air, but nothing quiets the main streets of Chinatown. The lights are just as bright, the characters just as vibrant and noisy. Some smaller groups are branched off at alley corners, watching people walk by out of the corners of their eyes. Occasionally, one or another may walk close enough to the groups to nearly brush shoulders- some sort of exchange being made. Drugs, money, information. Away from the busiest streets, the alleyways of course grow darker and with fewer and farther groups of humans and, increasingly, intermingled mutants where the streetlights don't quite reach. It's a small chinese food shop that has a tiny bell on the swinging door that rings once, a man approaching the counter to say something to the cashier-worker. He hands over a small slip of paper, and the shop worker nods with a faint smirk of understanding. "Right man, sec." And he turns to vanish into the back room behind a heavy red curtain. On the counter, a grey tabby tom cat sits. Stray cats are not so rare, and quite often a token of good luck, yes? It lays length-wise beside one of those cats of luck golden statues, the tip of its tail slowly flicking back and forth as lazy, pale-silvery eyes regard the visitor in that judging way that cats do. The man reaches for the cat which, of course, makes it bare its teeth in a hiss and stand, leaping from the counter to exit the main room and make its way back through the curtain as well. Just as the cat slips into the back room, a blonde woman enters the food shop. Really, it's hard to see anything else about her. She wears a long leather coat with matching gloves and sunglasses despite the late hour. She does limp on her left leg though. Looking about the shop briefly, she quickly makes her way over to the only life still in the store. "Yeah, I called you earlier?" she asks, reaching into her coat and pulling out an envelope to set on the counter. "The usual. Though it would be nice if there was something other than baking soda in it this time." Though her spitfire isn't lacking, she does appear restless, even nervous maybe. In the back room, the cat pauses just beyond the curtain, head and perked ears swiveled towards the voice of the new entrant only briefly before being addressed by the man the tabby had followed. "{What you doing cat? Stupid. There's no food, go on.}" The dealer in the back rattles off in Chinese, audible to the front room as mumblings and little more as he goes about his business. There's rustling as he digs through boxes that are supposed to stash bags and cartons for shipping of food out for delivery. But the boxes behind the first stacks hold baggies already full. Ziplocks of pre-measured powdery goods; a hefty quantity it seems. "{Tsk, get lost.}" He utters again as he turns and sees the cat again, shoving a boot forward to kick at the feline on his way back into the front room, passing through the red curtain with a few of the bags stuffed in the pocket of his jacket for the brief transport. The younger man left in the first room that Anette sees on entering turns to tip a nod at her. "Yo yo, yeah got your message. Just wait your turn. We got 'chu covered, hear?" His words are a rambled mess, some of it falling into bits of Chinese. Purple-ish scales can be seen on his neck- no human, that one, but nothing more obvious than the creeping armor just barely notable beyond his jacket collar. As the shop worker arrives at the desk, he gestures for them both to approach the desk. "Come, come." He says in his thick accent, already reaching for Anette's envelope. And, if anyone is looking beyond him, the curtain moves a second time. But it's no grey tabby. An orange tabby of tiger size; black striped, golden-orange slowly encroaching just out of view of the scaled one and behind the cashier worker. Having made her presence known, Anette is content to wait. "Thanks," she mumbles, leaning up against the counter and flicking the arm of one of those waving cats that's in every Chinese business everywhere. As she's ordered to come along, she stands up and stretches slightly, just in time to notice the cat stepping out from the curtains. "Jesus Christ!" she yells, startled, taking a step backwards, eyes locked on to the giant cat from behind her sunglasses. "What the hell is that thing?!" The cashier-worker has the envelope of payment in-hand, having flicked it open to thumb through the bills inside. Counting comes first, the product always second. As with any seedy dealer, when someone /yells/, everyone who has something to be guilty for jumps to attention. Both the dealer and the scaley mutant stiffen, immediately searching for the cause of Anette's alarm. It doesn't take long for one to follow the owl-mutant's gaze and fixate on the oversized feline. Its silent steps were all for naught with this particular alarm, golden eyes turning from their locked focus on the cashier holder to take in the other pair. The massive tiger's lips curl, its long yellow-white fangs bared in a huffing that evolves into a snarling growl. The scaley one is quick to make an exit, turning with full intent to shove Anette out of his way as he books it for the door, falling over himself and the chairs in his way. His pants may also be slightly dampened as he whimpers rather than screams. The primary dealer is frozen as he stares at the giant feline as it paces a few deliberate steps past him to cut off his exit beyond the counter, far closer to Anette with its ears pinned back to its giant head. Anette takes a more logical approach, quickly walking backwards while keeping her eyes on the tiger. Never turn your back on an opponent. Unfortunately, this useless as she's shoved to the side by the panicked mutant. A decent shove, coupled with a bad leg, means she takes a bit of a tumble to the ground, landing with a grunt. The blonde wig she was wearing is knocked off kilter, revealing the brown hair underneath. Once she regains herself, she doesn't even bother to stand up, insteading scooting backwards away from the tiger as quickly as she can. The gloves come off, however, revealing the talons hidden beneath, ready to use them as they're needed. The door's little gold bell rings violently as the scaley mutant manages to wrench the door open after sufficiently flattening Anette, and is shortly out on the streets. The door swings closed just as loudly, and when the bell finally stops, it's a very loud sudden silence. Of course there's a gun to be involved. Who doesn't carry one these days? The cashier-man reaches under the counter and pulls out his firearm, a small grade pistol but enough to do damage- to most, anyway. He levels it, shakily and clearly untrained, at the big cat though his aim is so poorly supported, Anette is not out of the danger zone of a wayward bullet. Oddly, though, as the giant feline comes within a few feet of her despite her scooting backwards, it turns its back on Anette and- intentionally or unintentionally- breaks the sightline between the man with the gun and her. The siberian tiger breaks the silence with a nasty roar, too loud for the enclosed space which results in a warning shot from the gunman that ricochets off the floor and imbeds in the drywall beneath a picture that has 'Harmony' scribbled out vertically in Chinese letters. Knocking aside the glasses for a better view of the situation, just in time to see a gun pulled. Anette quickly hits the deck, having no intention to be in a cast for another month, narrowly missing being shot at herself. She looks up slightly, just in time to see the cat in front of her with its back turned and threatening the dealer. Still not recognizing the cat, something inside Anette takes over and she lets out an ear-piercing screech of her own before extending a taloned hand and aims the talons for the tiger's side, putting all her strength into it in an knock it out of the way. Deafening screech, worse perhaps than the tiger's roar within the shop's tiny but fortunately thick walls, forces the tiger to close its eyes and duck slightly. It hadn't anticipated that. Painful, painful! Its ears were already pinned, but it pins them tighter and shakes its head forcefully. The cashier is in panic mode, firing off two more rounds before the terrible frequency of the owly screech forces him to drop the firearm for sake of covering both of his ears to attempt to protect them from the ringing. It's hard to say which- the gunshots or the sudden talons in its side, that recovers the giant feline from its disorientation. Those talons sink into tiger hide and the heavy muscles beneath, but when Anette puts all her strength into /pushing/ it, it goes alot farther than one might expect. Not because it's shoved, however, but because it suddenly leaps. Four feet hit the counter, the giant dish-plate sized paws knocking everything off of it in the effort but shockingly not crushing the counter itself beneath the tiger’s hefty weight. One of those massive paws rises and swipes, coming into contact with the side of the man's head with such force, he smacks into the wall beside the door leading to the outside and falls in front of it, blocking the exit and crumpling in a heavy heap, unconscious. When the tiger jumps onto the counter, Anette immediately climbs back up to her feet, sliding her coat off and revealing her wings. Just in time to watch the tiger slam its paw into the dealer's head, Anette quickly makes her way over to the dealer, wings outstretched. Making yourself look bigger works on tigers, right? She positions herself between the unconscious man and the tiger, screeching once more as she readies herself to defend against an attack. She breathes heavily, almost panting and is in a fair amount of pain though the adrenaline rush masks most of the symptoms. The tiger jumps awkwardly off the counter, that lazy sort of way that large felines do. The paw prints it'd left on the counter are red with small blood puddles between them. The softer white of its chest is notably smudged with red as it turns to approach the fallen man in that deliberate, stalking gait of rippling muscles. Golden eyes look past Anette still as if ignoring her presence or even accepting of it, watching for movement of the fallen man. Its nares flare to take in scents- certain scents. But the second screech pierces the creature's sensitive hearing a second time, pausing it in that approach a good five feet away. One of those giant paws lifts as if to cover its one ear and it sits back. It’s a humanoid gesture- too much so to be discounted. Those wrinkled features that were at once a snarl suddenly seem remarkably more human, grimaced. As paws becomes hands, the other hand covers his other ear, "Fucking hell, Anette, shut up!" Killian's voice comes before he's even fully human, at first part of a growl before words form from it. As man is left crouched in a kneel where tiger had been, the lacerations where talons had marked- the bleeding slowed slightly already after the change- and two increasingly bloody holes in his left shoulder and upper chest are more obvious. Quickly covering her mouth her hands, Anette does indeed shut up, except for the loud gasp that escapes when she watches the tiger turn human. "Fucking hell, it's /you/?! Shit..." she eventually murmurs, tucking her wings back as everything finally begins to click. "Oh...oh fucking hell, I had no idea it was you," she says, eyes finally noticing the tears and holes in his flesh. She quickly heads over to him, kneeling down in front of him to look at his wounds. "We need to patch you up and get you back to the island." Killian relaxes after there's finally silence, though the dullness of human hearing in comparison to the tiger’s certainly helped to start. "Just one of the many goddamn tigers roaming the seedy ass places of Chinatown." He rolls his eyes with vague effort, his annoyance fortunately encrusted in his typical sarcasm. But his face is set, serious, still that carnivore-like hunting look in his now-blued eyes. "Nah, I got a hell of a mess to clean up now. I need that asshole alive." He raises a hand, gesturing to the unconscious man and letting his attention to fall to him to watch his chest for movement. Finally the breath comes, and Killian takes a thankful breath too as a result of it. "What the fuck are you doing down here anyway?" Anette glances over her shoulder (only mildly Exorcist-y) to the unconscious man laying behind her. "I don't know if he's alive or not but I'm pretty sure he's not going anywhere." His comment about many tigers roaming Chinatown. "After all the shit that's happened in the city the last few years, I would absolutely not be surprised to see a tiger roaming the streets. We need to get you a collar with a name tag or something. I'm starting to get nervous when I see dead pigeons lying in the street." The question about what she was doing out here, gets a slightly tense reaction. "He's a drug dealer. Do the math," she responds. "Does your 'no touching' rule apply to when you're bleeding and I'm trying to help?" she asks, glancing around the room for something, anything to use. "Can't leave." Killian grunts, and then sits back to lean against the counter, but it's a considerably weaker argument. "Need to deliver him." He's still staring at the dealer, with an oddity to the metamorph that doesn't seem quite fully human despite his completed form change. His focus is almost obsessive, but when she continues to answer and, subsequently, ask him questions, he breaks that stare to look at her. He blinks, refocusing. "That's the shittiest powder in the city. Should at least-" He takes a deep breath again, and rests his head back now too, "-get better contacts." As if that's the whole problem. There’s a slight smirk- maybe in regards to the collar or dead pigeons or both. And to her question about his rules, he starts a shrug and then thinks better of it, "Scratches'll heal th'more I change." He reaches a hand up to peel a layer of his jacket away from a bullet wound, "But gotta get this shit out or these’ll take fucking forever.” A sharp exhale, “How good are you with those talons?" “Deliver him? Which actually leads to my question, what the hell are /you/ doing here?” Anette asks, carefully helping him peel away the jacket. “Yeah, I’m aware it’s shit. I can’t afford anything better. Hell, I can’t afford this. Though now that you killed my only source, I may have to find something better.” An eyebrow suddenly goes up as he mentions the talons. “You’re not suggesting I dig the bullets out myself…?” "Working." The harsh reply is short, cut off by a sharp inhale as Anette helps with the jacket, the grimace obvious as clothing layers are pulled from wound edges even though he tries to play it off with switching to dig for something in one of the pockets after he gets one arm free. It's his cell, an old silver flip-top phone with enough scratches to portray its age through sheer wear and tear as if the structure of it doesn't give it away enough. He starts clicking through what appears to be a very short list of contacts listed out as only single letters each. "He better fucking not be dead. Won't get paid." Killian mutters, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing while trying to focus on the cell's display, his irises changing hue and shape, fluttering between species as he fights a change. He picks a contact, and it starts ringing on speaker. "Z." Some filtered raspy voice answers. "Yo." Killian speaks as level as possible, "Clean up." There's a pause where only heavy breathing can be heard and some chattering in the background followed by, "In five." And a click as the call's ended from the other side. The intermission is just that brief before the metamorph looks back at Anette, still with the flickering ocular changes. "Better off. Shit'll kill you. You ain't got Daken's excuse." The phone is shoved back into a pocket, and there's nothing kind about his expression now as he jaw setting against the discomfort of impending shifting. "Exactly what I mean. Will heal faster. Will you?" Anette watches patiently as Killian pulls the old flip phone and gets in contact with whomever. “Working? For who, Tony Soprano?” She glances briefly towards the limp body behind her, “I think I can hear him breathing. He’s not in great shape but he’s holding on.” She turns back and gently touches at the bullet wounds with the tips of her talons, yellow eyes focusing on them as if trying to figure out the best way to approach it. “That might’ve been the idea when I started,” she mumbles, regarding the shit killing her before she suddenly clears her throat. “Right, talons digging in to pull out bullets. Jesus Christ, you can’t make this easy, can you? I’ll give it a shot but there’s no guarantees I’m not going to end up making it worse.” Picking the bullet wound that looks the shallowest, Anette takes a deep breath. “Alright...here goes,” she says, more for herself than Killian, carefully slipping in a curved talon into the wound, slipping it behind the bullet, and almost scooping it out. Her eyes dart frantically back and forth between the wound and Killian’s face, almost more concerned with his reaction to his amateur surgery than the work itself. “Still with me, handsome?” she asks as the first bullet drops to the floor with a quick ‘clink’. "Tonight?" Killian asks as if he has to make that point clear in regards to her question, "About a hundred pounds lighter and a little more hair." Than Tony, he means. The sarcasm is still there, even if the amusement is absent. "Need to be out of here before they get here." The shapeshifter warns but doesn't elaborate on exactly who given the call he'd just put on speaker. His already strained breathing becomes sharper, shorter, when she touches a talon to the more shallow of the two wounds. "That's. The spirit." Both spurring her onwards in that decision and giving some sort of appreciation to it. He's very suddenly stiff and tensely silent as she proceeds with his request. The talon's 'surgical' removal attempt results in a strained harsh moan, chopped by gasped breaths, but clenched teeth refuse to let it become more than that. "Can't." The word doesn't seem to be a response to what would typically evoke a positive or inappropriate reply. Instead, it precedes what he can no longer stop- a rapid change into his default form; the one that requires the least amount of thought from him. Black and white fur ripples into length down his form, face elongating into a canine's. There's barely enough time to take in the change with how fast it occurs, and in a beat, the border collie lays on his side where Killian had been. Still conscious, for now, and the increased hemorrhaging from the wound she'd just dug into seems to be slowing some. He's far more pitiful in this form, however, a whine escaping him. “Oh Christ,” Anette gasps, jumping back as she watches Killian change into his dog form. He is indeed much more pitiable and any feelings she had regarding Killian’s suffering are multiplied ten-fold to see it in a dog. “I’ll be out of here as soon as you’re fine,” she says to the warning about leaving. She looks over the dog laying before her, finding the second bullet wound. “If you bite me, I swear I will put a muzzle on you…” she warns, before taking her talon and sliding it in the wound, digging the bullet out. “Shh, it’s ok….” she murmurs, once again just as much more herself as for Killian. As she digs the bullet out with her right hand, she begins gently stroking the dog’s back with her left hand in an attempt to calm the hurting dog before her, not even thinking. There’s whimpering, twitching of white-furred limbs that remain controlled enough to not truly thrash. The dog’s head lifts, lips curled and ears pinned. Teeth are snapped at air but never /quite/ reach Anette’s hands. But otherwise he stays particularly still, malleable to the treatment almost as though this isn’t a first time. And probably not the last. And when she’s done, there’s a significant calmness as he rests his head down, panting heavily with tongue lolled on the dirty tile floor. And as bonus, there’s no attempt made for him to get away from the petting, her efforts earning a couple beats of a wag from his white-tipped tail and one of his forepaws lifting to be rested on her leg closest to him. “Good boy,” Anette reassures Killian as he resists biting or fighting as she digs out the last built. Once it’s out, she breathes a sigh of relief of her own, letting out a soft chuckle as he rests his paw on her leg. “You’re welcome. Though we should probably get going. I suppose we have two options. You can run off or I could fly us both back to the island? I don’t know if you can manage shifting into another animal just yet and I really don’t want to stick around to meet your friends...” she says, quickly rising and gathering the various items she had dropped. Slipping her coat and gloves on, she quickly slips the wig back on her head, rather sloppily actually, before making her way back to Killian. “I’ll help you as much as I can but there’s not much I can do here. I can fly us to the island quickly. Your choice.” Still panting, the dog rolls up onto his belly, watching Anette as she collects her things and replaces the wig. Upright ears become more perked and head shifts suddenly to the doorway with the sound of a car. It may not be /the/ car, but satellite-rotation of each ear in turn seems to be attempting to decipher that. It must not be, as the black and white canine returns that attentiveness to her in short term. To her question, he rises to a sit with his head carried low and the forelimb of his affected side taking minimal of the weight. Enough of a pause goes by that it seems like he may give her no indication of an answer, but soon those ears flatten in what seems like aggression? frustration? indecision? An eventual, and reluctant, grumbling sort of growly noise is the actual response, followed by the dog laying back down. While it’d be a hell of alot easier if he could actually speak- of the two options, he didn’t run off. Also hearing the car approach, Anette quickly swivels her head towards the door, listening intently to the sound of the passing car. Though she still waits for Killian’s reaction before relaxing herself; after all, she doesn’t know what ‘their’ car sounds like. She watches with faint amusement as the dog seems to be making up his mind, accepting that his laying back down as a sign that he’s not walking anywhere. “If it’s a matter of pride, I promise not to tell a soul,” she says, making her way back over to Killian. She removes her coat, laying it on the floor beside him. “Lay on it, it’ll be easier to carry you that way.” Waiting until he’s made himself comfy, she wraps the coat about him before carefully scooping him up in her arms, one arm wrapped about his chest and the other supporting him from the bottom. Careful to mind his injuries, she carries him outside, a bit slowly between the limp and extra weight. Once she has room, she stretches out her wings and a few beats later, they’re airborne, moving quickly, her arms securely wrapped about him, ensuring he’s not going anywhere. The border collie stands, an awkward couple steps taken to lay on the coat. Ears still pinned, it's likely she wasn't too far off on that assessment. It's fortunate he's not a large breed, but even so he does manage to get heavier at some point in the flight, passed out. And they have good timing, for only moments after Anette's taken to the skies does a car pull up to stop in front of the shop. Three men get out, not a one of them standing out in any particular way. One returns in seconds, having found the man quick enough, and hauling the target back to the car to heft him into the back seat which he slides into as well. The door slams shut while the other two vanish inside. They’re left by the vehicle as it pulls away almost immediately, likely to be the ‘clean up’ crew that was ultimately requested. A job far less than ideally completed- but still, somehow completed.