Logs:Swing and a Miss

Swing and a Miss
cn: violence
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Logan, Rasa, Steve
In Absentia	2020-08-02 "who the fuck brings a katana to a bomb fight?"
Location <NYC> East Village
Historically a center of counterculture, the East Village has a character all its own. Home to artists and musicians of many colours, this neighborhood is known for its punk vibe and artistic sensibilities. The birthplace of many protests, literary movements, it is home to a rather diverse community and vibrant nightlife. New York is sweltering, an unsurprising state for August. That hasn't stopped the East Village from bustling, vibrant, noisy. Most of the nearby restaurants have patios open, crowded, chattery. A lively klezmer concert is underway in Tompkins Square, the music and audience enthusiasm drifting back here across the street. Just a short ways down the block some kids have broken open a fire hydrant; several young teenagers and a few much smaller toddlers romp with one soggy terrier mutt in the heavy spray. It's created a small stream down the sidewalk and gutter that washes down past the stoop of the Village Lofts apartments, where one gangly mop-haired vampire is currently enjoying a salted limeade (ice half-melted already) and deftly hand-rolling a cigarette. Dusk is barefoot, dressed in tatty faded corduroy cutoffs, dark glasses and no shirt, perched on the railing to the building's front stairs with his toes curled against a lower rung and his drink between his knees. His large wings make occasional small shifts of motion behind him as he rocks slightly on his seat; today they're painted up in myriad shades of blue that seem to shift constantly as he moves, little flashes of silver painted beneath the soft, velvety fuzz such that they only show up from certain angles, calling to mind schools of fish darting through the water. "-- can't say I blame anyone for opting out right now this is fucking nonsense," he's saying. "I mean, the NBA, the NHL -- even freaking soccer and the World Cup isn't for years and they're already getting their house in order. Baseball seems to just be like well YOLO we're gonna change nothing and if all the players die, they die!" "Come on, there's no way that you didn't see that coming." Rasa's summer skin is a good deal more gold than the average golden tan, more so as ze smears another handful of sunblock on zir shoulders. "Baseball is just... the most American of the sports, so it has to have the more American reaction to it. YOLO and Fuck Yeah, right?" Ze smoothes the white lotion until it disappears from view, before moving to coat the tops of zir thighs. Ze is wearing jean shorts that lace up the sides, gladiator style sandals and a spaghetti strapped top that may be more crochet than covering. next to zir on the railing is a stack of colorful scarves that ze discarded to work on skin protection. Ze is settled into a perch next to Dusk, zir tail wrapped around a bar to keep zir steady. Cutting across the park and pausing to admire the band, Steve crosses the street mid-block without paying much heed to the light, weaving between the slow-moving cars. He's dressed in a lightweight white t-shirt much splattered with paint, his faded blue jeans and scuffed up likewise dotted with myriad colors. The great round shield slung across his back, however, is immaculate, gleaming patriotically in the slanting sunlight. He approaches the Lofts, breaking into a bright smile as he greets Dusk -- though he must have spotted the man from much farther off. "Hey there, Dusk." He waves with his left hand -- the right is as ever wrapped in white gauze -- his eyes stutter-stop staring at Rasa. "And ah -- miss...?" He sounds very uncertain about this last. Struggles to cover it up by gamely adding, "We talking baseball?" "Mngh. You're not wrong -- Yo! You like baseball?" Dusk's chin lifts in greeting as Steve approaches. He tucks the cigarette between his lips, patting at his pockets with a small frown. "You look like a guy who'd like baseball." His head is shaking, and his brows lift, looking aside quickly to Rasa then back to Steve. "Not a miss. We're talking how badly baseball is fucking up this COVID shit. At least basketball players are like -- in a bubble till they get through playoffs. Baseballs it's just a hope and a prayer. Céspedes is sitting the season out. Doesn't much matter how safe New York is if they're travelling every other day." Logan steps from a side street, almost getting hit by a car that honks at him. Immediately he raised his middle claw at the driver. He laughs to himself trying to figure out how may times he has done that. "To many. To many." He makes it safely across the street and hears a familiar voice. Steve Rogers. He allows himself a grin as he remembers the coffee shop run in he had with Steve and Dawson. "Damn. Dawson has gotten beat up over the years," he mutters to himself. He wonders if he should make himself known or should just go on his way. Steve seems to be enjoying his conversation. "We talking baseball" Steve asks? Logan groans. He never could keep away from a good baseball discussion. He starts walking towards the group... Farther down the street. Past the group of kids and soggy terrier splashing in the gushing fire-hydrant; a few dozen yards back before that lean busker squatting outside a convenience store, calmly strumming her cello. A butane cigarette lighter flashes up in an alleyway, bright and blue -- illuminating a pale, pock-marked face with a buzz-cut. The flame licks at the tip of his cigarette as he elbows one of the men-in-black beside him. "--fuckin' cardboard cut-outs. Can you believe it? You take a picture of yourself, buy a seat, and the shove a cardboard cut-out of your face in the stands," the second man continues, speaking to one of his companions -- another haggard son-of-a-bitch clad in black. "Anyway, baseball's completely fucked now." He turns to the first man, eyebrows pinching together. "What?" #1 puts his lighter away and points to Logan, in the distance -- having caught the tip of that gleaming claw as it emerged. "S'nother one. Alongside Darkwing Duck up top along with... whatever the fuck that is," he says, waving a hand at Rasa, "that's... what, three of 'em? Rich muties all hangin' out with their rich mutie friend." Steve, meanwhile, is barely even noticed. "So, anyway. We doin' this?" #1 asks. He glances back at his crew. Six guys, including him. Most wearing body-armor; the sort of military cosplay stuff you buy off the internet. At least three have gas-masks dangling below their necks. #2 -- Mr. Baseball -- has an aluminum bat. And a utility belt, packed with... something special. He grins. "Yeah. We're doin' it." "I'm a 'ze' for whatever it's worth. Rasa." There's a pause, then ze speaks up again. "Djalili. Rasa Djalili. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'd shake your hand but I've got a skin... thing. Lotion doesn't make it much appealing either." Ze stops muttering excessively in the face of Captain America who is definitely Taller than ze thought. Impressive looking to boot! Rasa finishes rubbing the rest of the sunblock on zir legs then reaches up to twist the shaggy lengths of black hair into a knot at the back of zir head. "Less than a hope and a prayer, I'd say. More like a brazenly daring anyone to catch the damn thing and spread it. They're too brave and smart for that." Ze stops short to when another figure enters zir field of vision. "Logan... Hey!" "Oh! I'm sorry, mi --" Steve flinches. "-- ze. Ze Rasa?" He flushes red. "Or is it Ze Djalili? Pleased to meet you, I'm Steve." He pauses a beat, awkwardly. "Steve Rogers." But at the talk of baseball he rallies, smiling. "I love baseball. Is it that obvious?" He fishes a jewel-encrusted gold lighter from his pocket and leans forward to light Dusk's cigarette like it's the most normal thing in the world for Captain America to be doing. "NHL playoffs are bubbled, too, but MLB..." His head gives a quick, disgusted shake. "Things aren't going so great with the plague out in LA. Jansen came down with it, and they say he's recovered but I don't think the poor fella should be playing yet, no matter how bad we need a good closer. It's a travesty." His eyebrows lift up when Rasa calls out, and he turns to follow hir gaze. "Oh! It's great to see you again!" "Half the fucking Marlins are out with this shit and the league is still just like -- pah!" Dusk's fingertips lift to his chin, hand coming down and away as Steve lights his cigarette. He takes a looong drag, tips his head up and to the side to blow the smoke out more or less away from the others. "Nah ze like a pronoun, not a title. I don't even have a shirt on, man, do we look like we're in a titles kind of mood. Although if we have to," the smile he flashes is quick, bright, two long pairs of sharp fangs briefly bared behind his lips, "I'd go with The Right Honorable Rasa Djalili. Why do these things halfway?" He plucks the cigarette from his lips. Spreads his wings just a little wider as he half-turns, looking towards Logan. "Friend of yours?" Logan grunts. You could say that. We were war buddies bub. Steve and I go way back. Oh and Rasa I know as well. Ive mentored her." The small 'squad' of naer-do-wells hiding out in the alleyway make their move. They stay close; six in all. Each dressed in black -- the dark clothing makes them stand out, particularly in the muggy heat of August. At least one of them is lagging at the back, clearly panting through his half face-mask ("don't trust any fuckin' MUTIE cure"). That one... he's got something strapped to his back. It looks like... uh. It looks like it might be... some sort of sword. As they make their way down the street toward Ryan's residence, a few members of the crowd catch them at a glance and quietly... slip out of their way. Mr. Baseball slaps that aluminum bat into his gloved hand with a distinct PING; their fearless leader (Mr. "Lighter") keeps puffing that cigarette all the way to the sidewalk opposite Ryan's house. There's still a good few lanes of asphalt and cars standing between them and the mutants up on the patio... but that's about all there is. The group take their positions. Mr. Lighter and Mr. Baseball are up front; the other four (with Mr. Sword hanging at the back) stand behind them. Mr. Baseball sets his weapon of choice aside long enough to pull out what he had strapped to his utility belt -- a large, grey, pipe-shaped cylinder. He waits until the nearby traffic light goes red, then... holds it out to Mr. Lighter. Mr. Lighter takes a few more puffs on his cigarette, making that tip glow... then brings the tip to the fuse. It starts to smolder. Mr. Baseball picks his bat up in one hand, and -- holding the now-lit pipe in the other -- starts running into traffic. Right for the front of Ryan's house. He's about 30 or 40 feet away from the front of it when he bellows: "SHELTER THIS, YOU RICH MUTIE FUCKS!" He chucks the pipe. It spirals in the air -- spinning toward the front patio. Leaving whorling spirals of smoke in its wake. "Teacher too, don't let him get away with not sounding respectable..." Rasa begins, chuckling. Ze opens zir mouth to comment further but finds zirself distracted by something ze sees over Steve's and Logan's shoulders. When ze is just about to dismiss it, ze catches sight of the running man and his smoldering pipe. "FUCK." Ze is stunned in place, skin turning a ghastly gray shade. "Yeah, Logan here's an actual old timer, not just faking it like me." Steve claps Logan on the shoulder. "She uses 'ze' pronouns, friend," he offers, ever so helpfully. The abrupt change of Rasa's expression (and color) has him pulling the shield free from its harness even before he's fully turned to face the threat. "Everybody down!" he shouts as he lunges toward the unwieldy missile's flight path in a bid to knock it out of the air -- or at least to put himself and his shield between it and others at the stoop. "Oh my god, that whole conversation literally just now go --" Dusk's hand makes a 'whoosh' motion above his head, his brows hiking back up as he gives Logan a flat look. "I hope you were a better listener as a mentor." His eyes scrunch shut at Steve's, ah, 'correction'. One of his hands balls into a fist, knuckles rubbing at his temple. The sudden bellow from across the street draws his attention up, draws him up -- he is very much not listening to Steve's caution. The cigarette stays between his lips; the limeade falls to the ground, dribbling out around the edges of the plastic lid. He is rising up higher on the railing. Very briefly, one velvety edge of his wing brushes against Rasa's back. The next second, though, his wings are spreading -- wide, wide, wide, improbably enormous in a way that would have been difficult to estimate when they were mostly crumple-folded behind his back a moment before. The leap he takes off the railing is already higher and faster than most humans could manage; the heavy downbeat of his wings stirs up a warm gust of humid trash-scented summer New York air and propels him the rest of the way. High, swift, and just as swiftly coming back down juuuust about on top of the man who threw the bomb, traffic be damned. The solid long spar of his wing slams straight and heavy towards the man's chest as he comes down. "Shelter what? The fuck?" Logan hears Steve's warning an immediately crouches in a defensive mode unleashing his claws. "What the hell is happening?" Logan can hear the missile. Now he sees it. He hurtles and pouches on Rasa pinning her to the ground, shielding her with her body. Even though she could probably do it on her own, Logan feels responsible for her after the years of mentoring her. KRA-KOOOOOOOOOOOW-- The pipe-bomb goes off in mid-air, an instant after Steve hit it with his shield. Superheated gas belches forth in a surge of translucent orange, sloshing around to splash against Steve's shield like several gallons of liquid fire -- right before it all evaporates into a puff of smoke. The echoing CLAP of that small explosion echoes out in every direction, bouncing over buildings, streets, and cars. A choking white cloud rushes out in the aftermath; the air is filled with the distinct aroma of burnt atmosphere -- like a smoldering pail of freshly-exploded fireworks. Ironically, Dusk might have saved Mr. Baseball. The angle of impact from Steve's shield redirected the pipebomb -- and the majority of its explosion -- back toward him. Pieces of shrapnel flash out and 'ping' against the tops of several cars (at least three of which are now HONKING at full-blast). Rather than getting pelted with a few pieces of smoking-hot metal, Mr. Baseball bat is slammed into the ground by the wings, his stiff chest-armor absorbing the worst of the blow... but still smashing all the air out of his lungs. He hits the asphalt with a shocked cry, bat tumbling with a metallic clink-clink-clink out of his hands. Well, fuck. The other five are... well, they weren't expecting a response this fast. As the smoke clears, voices ring out: "Holy shit was that--" "--that the Captain--" "--thought they broke up--" "--fucking Twitter lied to--" Mr. Lighter's brow has crumpled hard; he's pulled out something that looks very much like a pistol, trying to train it on Dusk, some fifteen feet away -- though the smoke and ringing ears (combined with his proximity to Mr. Baseball) makes it tricky. Meanwhile, Mr. Sword (the one with the mask) has pulled his namesake off his back, waving it as he charges forward, trying to make his way around a Toyota Scion that's honking wildly (so he can either get to Dusk from behind, or Steve from the front). "I got 'em! I got 'em! I got 'em with my katana!" It's... a jian, actually. Where the hell did he get that? It doesn't matter -- it's got a sharp edge, and he's trying to come at Steve with it. The other three (not including Mr. Lighter) are dispersing among the vehicles, picking their way to the front of the building... giving Dusk a wide fucking berth. By the looks of it, they're armed -- though, at a glance, it all looks like melee weapons... Rasa coughs heavily when the air returns to zir lungs after being driven out forcefully by Logan's body, eyes watering from the impact. << OUCH. Fuck, Logan, what the hell. How... how many are there? fucking pipe. >> Ze takes a moment to search through his last impressions of the people attacking before growing a thin layer of fuzz that separates zir thoughts from zir high school mentor's. "who the fuck brings a katana to a bomb fight?" Even with the bomb deflected back away, the blast still hurls Steve back forcefully against the railing Dusk had been perched on just a moment before. The sturdy steel crumples like chicken wire, leaving a twisted mess resembling one of the artistic bike racks scattered around Culturally Significant parts of the city. There's a momentary delay -- one might be forgiven for fearing or hoping Steve had been seriously injured by an impact that would have broken most men's spines easily -- before he staggers to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear it. There are dark spots peppered across his jeans here and there, but he looks otherwise unharmed. He's still not completely steady on his feet when Mr. Sword comes charging at him, but raises the shield to turn aside the wild sword strike. His left fist follows as he pivots, a powerful hook aimed for his opponent's jaw. Even at but half his strength, the blow would likely break bones if it connects solidly. It's likely more a mark of how long he has been in New York than the ongoing chaos around them thatt Dusk is completely heedless of the cars hoking at them. Please. There are multiple lanes. They can go around. His teeth clench, wings still flared out wide as they are peppered from behind by several stray bits of smoldering metal. The small hiss he lets out between his teeth is irritable. "Broke up? Steve, you stand one of these assholes up recently? They're taking it a little personal." It should probably take some effort to lift a man off the ground and throw him bodily -- but it doesn't seem to put any strain on Dusk as he reaches down for Mr. Baseball Bat. Lifts him by the front collar edge of his heavy armor and tosses him straight towards Mr. Lighter with a casual ease that seems very at odds with his lanky frame. " Damn! These guys are pissed! What the hell happened?" Logan takes an incoming assailant and throws him to the ground with a thud. He staps through his face and the an is not dead but will be soon. "Who the hell are these guys anyways?" Stabs another enemy, this time killing him instantly. CLANG! The sword bounces off the shield, forcing Mr. Sword to stumble back -- mumbling through his mask. His eyes take on the intensity of a man who has, at last, discovered his element: "Captain America, I want you to know that it's --" CRRRACK. The blow connects with his jaw hard enough to actually lift him partially off the ground. When his back hits the car behind him, there's a THWUNK loud enough for Steve to feel it. Mr. Sword slumps; the sword tumbles from his fingers. Half-seated, slack-jawed under his mask... by the look of that expression (and the way he's mumbling some slurred bit about 'an honor to fight you'), it seems... very unlikely he'll be getting back up any time soon. Meanwhile... Mr. Lighter spits out a curse just as Mr. Baseball is flung straight into his path; the pistol's barrel instantly drops downward (at least he's got good weapon control), right before he hits him hard enough to make his jaw rattle. THWUMP. Both of them are flung back toward the storefront behind them; Mr. Lighter hits the glass and bounces right off it. "Shit, shit, shit --" Mr. Baseball crumples in front of him, groaning and clutching his stomach. The three men who have dispersed... well, two of them are unfortunate enough to stray into Logan's vicinity. One goes down instantly, his crowbar clattering as his head makes a horrible CRNCH-ing sound beneath Logan's heel. The other one -- armed with a pick-hammer -- steps into range just in time to feel the solid K-THWUNK of adamantium cleaving through his heart. His eyes widen; his body twitches. The hammer slides out of his fingers as he slumps to the ground, convulsing. The third guy? He's about 20 feet away when all this happens. He takes one look at Logan, one look at the two corpses... and proceeds to fucking RUN. Rasa gets to zir feet slowly, careful of the new cracks in the porch and wary of what is going on in the streets around them. As all of the aggressors seem to have been driven off, ze just brushes zirself off and studies the crowd. Steve spares Mr. Sword only enough attention to be sure he isn't getting back up. When he speaks, though, it's to answer Dusk. "I didn't know you thought so little of me, Dusk. I have standards." He turns to look Rasa over, "Everyone OK?" Glances at Dusk. Then last at Logan, perhaps confident he at least wouldn't be injured. But then his eyes land on the two corpses at the other man's feet. His pale blue eyes go wide. "My God, Logan, what did you -- this isn't Nazi Germany, you can't just do that!" Dusk is barely looking at the assailants he has cast aside. His nostrils flare, and when he whirls on Logan it is with a low growl rumbling in his chest. His wings fold partway back behind his back as he bounds closer to Logan. They don't fold behind his back for long though -- one enormous wing is snapping out alarmingly fast, a long hard spar aimed squarely towards Logan's chest. There's a shocking amount of force behind the snap -- though it's aimed less to strike and more to shove the other man back up against the nearest building front. "What in the hell," he's hissing through his teeth, "do you think you're doing, you fucking dipshit." Logan grunts at the impact. He recovers quickly though. "Saving these people's asses. That's what I'm doing! I didn't see you trying to take down those me. What the hell are you as at me for?" Logan shoves dusk to the ground and unleashes his right hand claws as if he is going to attack. Two out of six are dead; one of them is running. Another is on the ground, slumped against a car, jaw broken. Only Mr. Baseball (on the ground, still curled in a ball) and Mr. Lighter (cursing, struggling to get up on his feet, still clutching his pistol) are in any shape to continue going with this. And as Mr. Lighter finally pulls himself up to his feet... his primary target -- Dusk -- is on the other side of the street, with multiple cars in the way. "Christ, goddamn mutie son of a --" He can't see the two corpses on the ground... but he can hear the distant sirens, and see several people on the street running -- and a few more fumbling for the phones. The gun immediately slides out of view; he reaches down to grab and painfully yank a still-groaning Mr. Baseball up to his feet, pushing him. "We're getting the hell out of here." And then he's dragging him off -- away from the utter cluster-fuck. Rasa scowls as dissent rises up in the aftermath of the battle. Ze moves to the broken railing and stares down at the the scene before zir. One hand clings to zir mouth as the other grips the mangled iron. Zir knees give out and ze squats down, looking sickly pale and green. "Are they..." ze glances towards the others, zir youth and inexperience showing. "We have to run. We have to go. We hav... we gotta run. We're going to get killed if we stay here." Steve goes to the two men, flushed not with embarrassment now but anger. "Stand down, Logan!" This sharply, with a distinct note of command. He doesn't lay a hand on the smaller man, but he stands ready to, shield still strapped to his right forearm and near enough to thrust into the way. "Are you going to take responsibility for that?" he asks Logan, nodding at the corpses still cooling on the ground. "And Dusk, Rasa is --" He glances back at the young person, frowning. "-- can someone get ze to safety before the cops show?" Logan's shove is not just unsuccessful, it seems utterly ineffective. For all his gangling half-dressed skinniness, Dusk does not so much as budge under the effort. He does raise his eyebrows when Logan unsheaths his claws, head tipping oooonly a little; the inscrutable stare of the dark glasses he wears only serve to make his blank expression even more dismissive. "Your war buddy," his actual voice here is very even although, layered deep below it the growl that still rumbles in tandem with it likely does not leave him seeming particularly calm, "is one fucking stupid sack of shit, Steve." His jaw tightens hard, he looks aside to Rasa with a heavier dip of his head. "Dawson's home. He'll be the quickest of us." His wings are slowly folding behind his back, though he's not moving any farther away from Logan. "And you -- can stay here and give your full fucking confession to the cops or I can put you at the bottom of the East River. Your call."