Logs:Moving Targets

Moving Targets
cn: violence
Dramatis Personae Jax, Ryan, Skye, Hive!Matt, Joshua
In Absentia	2020-10-23 "They're not shooting at me."
Location <NYC> Croton Gorge Park - Westchester
Situated on the east bank of the Hudson, this large park offers events year-round and a plethora of activities for nature lovers. With playgrounds, facilities for camping and swimming, boating and fishing, plentiful trails for hiking, biking, horseback riding, cliffs for rock climbing, grounds for winter sports, and ample ground to just sit and enjoy the weather, these park grounds are a great place to relax year-round. The grounds are well-tended, and with a host of avian and herpitological life, early mornings often find animal lovers scoping out the grounds in search of a glimpse of some rare bird or lizard hiding in the trees or rocks as well. It's mild this afternoon, pleasantly cool without being too cold, but the grey skies overhead have kept the park from being crowded. Which suits Ryan just fine; there have been a refreshing dearth of paparazzi, eager fans, hostile hecklers alike out here through this quiet lunch date. Just a spread of good food on the picnic table under the trees, a rustle of leaves overhead. He's dressed down, nicely tailored slim-fit black jeans, a blue and black striped long-sleeve tee, blue Chucks with mismatched purple and pink lacing. Currently he's seated on the table, feet planted on the bench, a half-eaten samosa in his hand that he's briefly forgotten about, eyes drifting to catch the quick-bright flash of a northern flicker darting through the trees. It takes a moment, a blink, a shake of his head, before he's returning to the actual conversation at hand, a little distracted in his: "Sorry, what?" "Just askin' 'bout your plans for tour." Jax is actually on the bench, albeit sort of sideways, back fetched up against the table. He's only lightly picked at the food in front of him; one small pakora, a similarly unfinished samosa; he's focused most of his attention on the coconut-yogurt mango lassi in his hands, which unlike the food is mostly gone. He's much brighter than Ryan; his peacock-hued hair has a bit of a holographic sheen to it today, his complementary makeup bold; shimmering metallic-silver jacket over a bright purple tee (it reads 'Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty' over the front), black capris heavily embroidered with rainbow insect detailing, vivid mismatched knee-high socks, his own Chucks sparkling black and glittery rainbow, a complicated pattern to their silver lacing. "Didn't think it'd take this long to get him in the ground, but between the cops an' the Allreds --" His lips compress. "Big question mark over the funeral. Not sure how's that gonna affect your schedule, but if it's gettin' to be an emergency you might could work somethin' out with Joshua." Skye is straddling the bench and has actually finished whatever had been on her plate and though she keeps glancing at the spread she hasn't get worked herself up to seconds. She's wearing a pink t-shirt with a gray Rebel Alliance symbol across the chest, a black hoodie with abstract bands of reflective electric blue reminiscent of the character designs from Tron, skinny jeans and black chukka boots. "People are already screaming about it," she says, then reconsiders, "they were screaming about it the moment you announced any cancellations, and some are still screaming about that. I feel like it's just a matter of scream volume at this point." "Fuck my schedule," is Ryan's immediate and vehement answer, "I'm gonna --" But this fire dies down almost as soon as it has ignited, his shoulders slumping and his eyes narrowing in baffled anger out towards the trees. "Fuck." Much quieter than before. "A lot of goddamn people's jobs depending on -- fuck." One leg bounces rapid and jittery; the scowl doesn't leave his face as he crams the rest of the samosa into his mouth. Jax sucks down another mouthful of lassi, the straw slurping loud as he nears the bottom of the cup. "Does seem like there ain't no end of screaming in your life," he allows. "But I'm guessin' screaming about being able to pay rent hits a whole different way than screaming that they're gonna miss their favorite act playin'." His cheeks puff out, breath expelled sharp as he tips his head back towards the sky. "One way or other I'm sure we can get you all back here, comes time. Do it if I gotta steal the jet an' fly it my own self." Skye's brows knit. "Your schedule woulda put you in...California, now? There was a lot of California up in there." She finally pushes her empty plate aside, picking up a thermos with a sticker that reads "Practice Safe Hex" in retro green terminal font beside a padlock icon. Doesn't drink from it, just swishes its contents around thoughtfully. "I guess the cops are gonna cop, but his sister is here now, maybe she can...I dunno, talk to their parents? Come to an understanding?" At another table, two figures sit across from each other, the table between them empty except for a phone. They had baseball hats on, logo-less zip up grey hoodies over Ryan Black concert tee-shirts and dark jeans. They speak softly, the phone glowing, every so often looking over their shoulder. The phone buzzes - they nod, some signal received. One of them, a woman, tall with dark hair and broad shoulders, stands up first, followed by her male companion, skinny, wiry. They make for the group at the other table, seperately, the woman looping around behind them and the man approaching from the front, smiling excitedly. It wouldn't be crazy to mistake them for fans - at least, until they get about six feet from the group. In two fluid motions, both of them have a Glock in their hands aimed at Jax, pulling their respective triggers. "M'hoping she can. I don't think Hive needs that knife twisted that much more, y'know? Like we gonna have a memorial no matter what, but --" Jax's head shakes, lips compressing thin. He sits up a little bit straighter at the sight of Approaching People, nudging Ryan's thigh gently with an elbow. "I got a Sharpie, if y'need one." Though he's eying the caps-and-hoodies pair a little uncertainly even as he makes this offer, an additional tension in his posture; his expression seems more resigned than surprised once the guns come out. Even before the triggers are pullled a shimmering translucent bubble blossoms into place, encasing both attackers in a large and very sturdy dome. His gaze sweeps the trees quick and wary before he hops down off the bench, quick but oddly collected when he starts shoving their food back into its bags. "How far out we gotta go to have a quiet lunch with you?" Ryan covers his mouth quickly with a hand as he swallows down the last of his food. Below his breath it's, "-- shit --" but there's a warm and practiced smile in place by the time he finishes swallowing, carefully running a tongue across his teeth, lowers his hand. "Hey, sorry, we're --" is as far as he gets before the guns come out. Almost instinctively he's shifted himself in between the shooters and Skye, swiping his phone off the table as he gets to his feet with a strained and unhappy grumble. "This is not a good time." Skye freezes for just a moment when the guns come out, but something -- maybe the shield, maybe the loud reports of the gunshots, maybe Ryan getting up -- snaps her out of it. She rolls to her feet, staying near Ryan, and glances at the parking lot some distance away as if she didn't know exactly where she'd left the van, in sight but not nearly close enough for a quick dash. "Wait is there ever a good time for getting assassinated?" she asks, trying to keep the frightened edge in her voice more or less under control. "Do we just. Leave them here?" This is kind of dubious, but calmer. There is a little surprise in the man's eyes as he's swept up into the bubble, but the woman's expression is unchanged. She brushes her hair away from her ears, mutters something low into an earpiece there. Throughout the park there is movement - from the trees where Jax was just looking, two more gunshots ring out, bullets trained on Jax again. At another nearby table, there is a young woman, dressed way more normally than the initial attackers in a dress and cardigan, pulling a small DIY grenade from a handbag and hurling it towards them. A jogger is also beelining for them, a glint of silver visible in the waistband. "At least at the Gala you did it with some flair, this is -- oh no." The additional attackers add an extra edge to Jax's voice, his eye wider. The takeout bag drops from his hand to the dirt, spilling chutney and uneaten samosas into the grass. There's a sudden muddled flurry of change in the light; the first bubble drops away, replaced in that same instance by a solid smaller dome flickering swiftly into place only around their table for the next report of bullets; his teeth have gritted hard with this change. "Get him outta here," this is sharper, strained; his eyes are skating over the oncoming attackers rapid and alarmed, now. Their small shield morphs to accommodate this demand, a hole opening up in the side nearest the path, "I'll be -- ngh." It's evidently the grenade that's prompted this -- their protective bubble vanishes only for a much smaller one to take its place around the grenade. Jax's face has gone markedly paler when it detonates, hands braced hard against the table with a sudden nauseated spasm crossing his expression. Ryan's arm loops around Skye's shoulders. He is starting to heed Jax, turn towards their quickest route back towards parking, but something in the next two gunshots stays him. Instead he's darting back to Jax's side, a wider-eyed panic in his expression now that was decidedly not there after the first shots. One of the guns in the nearest attacker's hand is thrumming, a deep and intense vibration that is, if not actively painful certainly uncomfortable to keep hold of in the moments before it starts to shiver itself apart. There is -- the faintest note of indignance in his tone here: "They're not shooting at me." Skye doesn't need to be told twice, and has almost broken into a run when Ryan doubles back and she nearly stumbles. "What?" But she follows him all the same, eyes very very wide as they dart from one attacker to another, settling on the second of the first shooters. Her attack is far less subtle than Ryan's, a cone of concussive force aimed like an invisible punch at the shooter's hands, followed almost immediately by an ear-splitting noise like the metallic warbling of stage thunder. As soon as she's loosed this she's ushering Jax in the direction of the parking lot, keeping a wary eye on the treeline. The skinny one yelps as the gun thrums with the vibration, shaking out bullets and springs as it comes apart. He takes a moment to recover, reaches for a small knife in the pockets of his jeans. The woman loses her pistol to the force of Skye's attack, then the earpiece crackles to death in her ear. She grits her teeth, reaching for her own knife and lunging for Skye with the weapons raised. The grenade explodes harmlessly in Jax's bubble, but the woman who launched it is running at them as well, another grenade being armed and rolled at them along the ground. There is another burst of bullets from the trees - there doesn't seem to be much care here for the consequences of friendly fire. The jogger's knife is out now as he draws closer, trying ambitiously to dodge past both Skye and Ryan in his quest to stab Jackson Holland. "What?" Jax's question comes a split-second after Skye's. "Why --" He doesn't have a lot of chance to complete this thought, attention somewhat consumed by the chaos around them. He's still pale, a little unsteady as he pulls away from the table. This time a tall wall of shimmering light spreads itself between them and the trees; it catches most of the bullets but needs to warp itself, twisting and shifting to contain -- well, most of the explosion, anyway, though there's still a brief and searing ripple of heat and light that splashes their way. Fairly occupied with this process, a little shaky still as he follows after Skye, possibly he doesn't notice or possibly has no time to compensate for the closer attacker. His brows have lifted, eye wider, a swift surprise in his expression as the knife plunges between his ribs. "-- oh," is softer than before, the shield wall flickering and falling away. Ryan's wounded pride will have to take a backseat for the moment. He is quick enough to adjust to this shifted focus; as the wall goes up he's pivoting to the woman coming for Skye. Stepping in between them, there's no additional shock of sound here, up close and intimate -- only a hand coming up swiftly to grab at her wrist, twist it sharply away from him and Skye as his other and slams up toward her jaw. Skye's sharp punch to the jogger's nose comes too late to stop him stabbing Jax, but she follows it with a swift kick to knock him out of their path. She changes course, dragging Jax bodily now to a nearby tree, putting it between them and the remaining shooters. She barely has time to register his injury, already turning to hurl another concussive blast at the face of the person who keeps throwing grenades. "Shit," she hisses, glancing over her shoulder at the open expanse of the parking lot they'd have to cross to get to the van, then looking wild-eyed to Ryan. There's no more fire from the treeline for a moment. The woman assaulting Skye loses her ballcap and her knife when Ryan intercepts her, and she cries out in pain from both the twist and the punch. Grenade girl is knocked flat on her back, another explosive rolling out from her bag, pin still in. The jogger reels back from Skye's punch, pulling the knife out of Jax on an angle as he falls back. In the distance, sirens - the few of the attackers that are up seem to panic slightly. A dark figure drops from the trees, making a mad dash of her own to the parking lot. Jax is not paying a lot of attention to the dwindling threats. There's quite a lot of blood soaking his shirt from the uneven and deep wound in his chest. He's fumbling at his pocket, dragging his phone out of it as he slumps to the ground. Just barely, manages to squeeze several times rapidly at its side buttons. Too immediate to be a response to the panic button, there's a faint, distant rustling of leaves that registers only in Jax and Ryan's minds. The very next instant an unsettling sharp sense of expansion, like the abrupt air pressure change before a violent storm, presses down into the other minds nearby. A painful wrenching noiseless pop later, everyone within the picnic area is Hive. The assassins as one stop in their tracks and lie face-down on the ground. Matt's mental touch is harsh and unsubtle, taking Skye's hand and pressing it firmly into Jax's wound. << I'll find someone to come fetch you, >> his thoughts are eerily calm, like still air at the eye of a storm, << if Joshua is not already there. >> Joshua wasn't already there, but then quite abruptly he is, in sneakers, no socks, a light jacket tossed on over undershirt and flannel pajama pants. The internal jangling worry and alarm clattering in his mind do not even much register in his stony expression, save for a brief, small pinch of brows as he looks from Jax to Skye to Ryan to the attackers on the ground. << fuck you hell no not losing anyone else -- >> in mental space his teeth surely aren't gritted, but there's a grim determination to his thoughts that gives them that air all the same. "Huh," is all that actually makes it out of his mouth. He crouches beside Jax, hefting the other man into his arms and disappearing again without another word. Ryan has been racing back to Jax's side once Skye pulls him into the relative safety of the trees. By the time he makes it there is no Jax there, and he drops heavily to his knees, one hand clapping over his mouth. Something in his brain is screaming -- much louder now, in fact, than it had been during the chaos, a klaxon get up get up get UP that is all too conscious of the currently-subdued assailants on the ground, the approaching sirens. He isn't getting up, though; just staring at the wet blood in the earth where Jax has just been. His eyes pull up toward Skye, a faint but noticeable thrum in the air, and this time when he speaks the sick horror is a palpable weight between them. Soft and shaky: "They weren't shooting at me."