Logs:In Which A Fight Club Match Gets An Unlikely Contender, A Champion Is Called To Arms, And A Coffee Date Is Planned

In Which A Fight Club Match Gets An Unlikely Contender, A Champion Is Called To Arms, And A Coffee Date Is Planned
CN: graphic violence
Dramatis Personae Daiki, Dusk, Taylor
In Absentia	2020-10-09 "Help me, please!"
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. It's gotten crowded by this point in the night; the first few matches always a little more sparsely attended but as the evening wears on more people pack into the safehouse. There's already blood on the floor and a heavy heat in the air. Taylor seems relaxed enough, though, as he saunters into the center of the space. Currently shirtless and with his many arms in various stages of stretching, he takes up far more room right now than he usually does. He still has a water bottle in one hand, taking a swig from it as he scans the crowd more mentally than visually. A ripple of murmurs passes through the gathered spectators as Daiki descends the stairs. He's already changed into a black t-shirt, black cargo pants, and black combat boots, all tatty and scuffed from hard use. He appears unarmed, his hair gathered back into a single thick braid, and he isn't wearing his glasses, but he is wearing a slightly sheepish smile as he steps into the ring. His mind is placid for the most part, though there's a subtle current of excitement beneath the carefully cultivated calm that's even now fading as he comes to a stop. In its place the rising swell of his power is almost palpable to those familiar with its weight. "Taylor!" His voice is delighted and delightful, hard to ignore even for those who do not yet know him. "Please come upstairs with me. We can get some coffee and snacks, it'll be wonderful." Taylor's brows lift. He lowers his water bottle with a sudden-blossoming smile, his largest arms slowly starting to wind back around his torso. "S'pose to be waiting on my match but fuck if caffeine don't sound good now." There are already a startling number of other people who've vacated the room with some haste when Daiki showed up; it leaves the path back toward the stairs much clearer than it would otherwise have been. Taylor is halfway there, in the middle of recapping his water bottle when, instead, it clatters from his hand to the floor. At nearly exactly the same time one thick long arm is whipping out behind him, lashing hard toward Daiki's legs. "Motherfucker!" Daiki is already moving as the water bottle drops from Taylor's hand. He dives and rolls aside, coming up into a crouch, ready to dash again. "Stop!" his cry is plaintive and urgent. As quick as he is, he only narrowly avoids the thrashing arm. "Dusk," he calls out -- somehow sweetly, pleasantly, despite his circumstances. The wave of his power rolls heavy and deep as he throws its full weight behind his request, "Help me, please!" Ready to dash again -- but now there are more arms, whipping out to hem Daiki a little further in. The one that he just dodged is thwacking forward again; previously shin-height, now it's somewhere about Daiki's midsection. Its twin slides up from behind, straight toward one wrist. Another -- one of the longest, though its thick sharp hooks are, thankfully, turned inward as it sweeps towards the other man's shoulders. "Stop? Boy your ass only just got here. Don't tell me you scared of some blood now." His eyes cut only briefly to Dusk at Daiki's request. One thing, maybe, at a time. "Can't you just ask him to stop? Like man, that's your bro." Dusk has been chillin'. Relaxing, even; in jeans, Vans sneakers, a soft blue-grey tee, he's perched cross-legged on a side table nearby Joshua's station, a cold cider in hand and one wing draped across the shoulders of a lean-muscled individual with a sharp crop of porcupine quills in place of hair. "{Only a superhero 'till the shit hits the fan, and then what do they want?}" His comments come in a cheerful Spanish that does not sound truly like much complaint. He's hopping off the table, taking another swig of his cider, handing the bottle to his companion. His wings mantle outward, now kind of a large canopy between Taylor and Daiki. A large and -- very sharp-pointed canopy; one wing slashes claws down towards Taylor's longest outstretched limb with a casual ease that belies the power behind it. "Don't worry, though." The hook of his smile is quick. "I'll take all the blood you got." Daiki tucks and rolls again, though he does not wholly avoid the rebound strike of Taylor's first arm. The hit doesn't quite land solidly against his ribs, but it smarts and will probably bruise later. He comes up just a bit short of breath. "Thank you, Dusk -- you're my hero." He keeps moving, careful to keep himself in the shadow of Dusk's immense wings but watching his opponent keenly still. "Taylor," there's a note of pleading in his voice now, buoyed up by a surge of his power, "There's no need to fight. Just step out of the ring, my friend. We'll have a good laugh about it later." "Was his bro, it gonna last after this tomfuckery we wait and see." Taylor's eyes roll as Daiki ducks behind Dusk's large wings, his attention riveting on the vampire instead. His teeth clench, arms jerking back -- not quick enough to stop the thick line of blue that wells up from the one Dusk slashes. Along its underside the barbed hooks are swiveling outward, now. Just in time to lash back up, coiling in toward the wing where it connects to Dusk's back. "This laugh come before or after I gone bleed to death?" The other tentacle thrashes its club-end hard -- aiming not just toward but through the membrane of Dusk's outstretched wing. Probably not a large hope of grasping towards his friend beyond but -- that certainly won't stop him trying. Dusk doesn't even try to avoid the first blow. He lets the arm wrap around him; his own enormous limb is curling back around Taylor in return, wrapping in hard to gather the larger man closer. "Don't even have to fight. You hear?" He's starting to steer them towards the exit when the second blow comes. In answer there's a snarl, deep and harsh. A sharp flash of fangs at Taylor's throat. One hand shoots up, grabbing at the writhing limb that has just punched through his own to tear at it with his own rather considerable strength. "That's your choice, Taylor," Daiki replies, eminently reasonable. His dodge comes a little late, this time, not expecting an attack to come through Dusk so easily. His eyes are wide as he circles around the fight. "And that of my gallant champion! But you can yield, after all." There's some teasing in this, but when he follows it up he sounds almost surreal in his intense earnestness, "It would make me so very happy." The strangled cry gargling in Taylor's throat might be because of the sharp teeth sinking in at his neck. Might be because of the sudden wet ripping of flesh, one immense arm now hanging limper, half-torn through in a mangled mass of black and dripping blue. It might be because of Daiki's saccharine request. Who can say, really. He slumps heavily up against Dusk, one hand braced at the other man's hip and the rest of his limbs sagging heavily save for the one still half-sunk in against Dusk's wing. "Smug-ass bastard," is grumbled against Dusk's shoulder. He doesn't really look up, but even though his words come through teeth gritted with pain it doesn't quite cover the underlying tinge of amusement: "Fine. There goddamn well better really be coffee up there."