Logs:Unidentified, Potentially Hostile

Unidentified, Potentially Hostile
Dramatis Personae Unknown Hostile, Falcon
In Absentia	2024-12-11 "Yeah -- there, cool, see, we real cool."
Location Off the Coast of Florida
This island is uninhabited, at least. Or was uninhabited until just about two months ago, which is probably why it took some while for anyone to notice the disturbances here. But in recent days, the reports of Weirdness from residents of the adjacent islands -- to the west a cluster of wealthy snowbirds, to the right a small handful of marine biologists on a no-public-access research reserve -- have been spiking. Plants withering, animal corpses turning up in strange states of desiccation, even the rocks are starting to lose structural integrity and crumble. This had been a simple recon mission -- or that was the intent, at least. Falcon has landed on a beach littered with the strangely atrophied and fragmenting remains of quite a lot of birds and fish. As several SHIELD SciTech agents collect samples to take back, Falcon is scouring the trees beyond the beach -- first just a visual sweep, if just is a reasonable descriptor for the incredibly hi-tech goggles he wears, but then once he has landed again, sending his Redwing drone up and in to scout the woods. It's somewhere right around the edge of the woods that the drone loses signal. Something long and whippy lashes out from beneath the foliage, smashing the robot against a nearby treetrunk. The alien creature that is peeking down from the leaves is writhing several of its myriad limbs; the scratchy hissing sound it makes is not particularly intelligible, but it does not sound the best pleased. Not so very far away there's another person in the trees -- close enough that maybe it's just one of the SciTech crew wandering a little far afield? He is heading this way, coming into proper, non-scanner-goggle-assisted view -- a figure in black tac pants, boots, and jacket, lanky and average-guy-height and largely unremarkable except for the dark mask and dark goggles that cover much of his face. The newcomer is looking at the writhing alien. Then Falcon. Then back to the alien, who they're starting to approach at an oddly unhurried walking pace. "-- One unidentified," Falcon is relaying to his team, "possibly extraterrestrial, potentially hostile -- Ops might wanna keep a close eye on the research boys in case --" He breaks off as the new figure approaches, amending: "Two unidentified, and I might need an interpreter down here, figure out if we can see what's going on with our E.T. friend." He's also approaching -- though keeping well out of thrashing-tentacle range, to address both alien and Strange Masked Guy alike. The latter gets prerecorded greeting, first in English but then run in translation through several alien dialects -- Greetings / We're with an Earth agency tasked with helping to integrate extraterrestrial visitors to this planet / We don't mean you harm / You are damaging the environment and we need to communicate if you are to remain here safely. For the others, Falcon is actually speaking, cautious but un-aggressive: "-- This island's off-limits, friend. If you come down from that lab we're working on cleaning things up so you-all can get back to work soon enough, but I'm gonna have to ask you to step away from --" A beat, uncertain. "... the tree. Dude in the tree. Alla it." There's no answer from Falcon's mystery visitor. He's clearly heard, at least, because he does stop, turn a slightly head-tilted-quizzical look to the Avenger. Then look back at the alien thing, which is responding to Falcon's recorded messages -- the thrashing slows, then stops. The series of scratchy-hissing-clicks that follow are -- probably still not intelligible, but they're noticeably less frantic. One of the tentacles stretches down to pick up Redwing from where it has crash-landed at the base of the tree. Another dusts a bit of sand off the drone, and extends it slowly back toward Falcon. The other man still says nothing, just watching this in silence. "Yeah -- there, cool, see, we real cool." Falcon hasn't looked all that tense, but he's still easing all the same as the alien stops its thrashing. "Still could use a translator up the beach -- maybe one the Ops team here too, just in case." His wings are folding up tucked neat behind his back, and he's approaching just enough to take the drone back and tuck it into its resting groove behind his flight pack. His head dips in a quick thank you, and he's half-turning to keep an eye on the other figure. "-- you speak English? Hablas español? -- shouldn't rule out another alien," he's muttering more to himself than the other. The man's head is tilting one direction, then the other. Maybe he's listening to Falcon -- maybe he's listening to something else entirely. When the alien extends the drone back, though, he's snapping abruptly into motion. Maybe another alien after all -- at least, he's far faster than a human has any right to be. He's reaching for those extended tentacles, and though they look plenty large and sturdy (and the creature they are connected to even larger), it seems to take him very little effort to yank one clean off. The ensuing clicking-screeching sound doesn't slow him -- he's using the dismembered tentacle like a whip to lash out towards Falcon, even while grabbing a second to pull the alien bodily down from the tree. "Shit -- shit." The alert Falcon is sending out is blaring through the comms of those on the beach. Plenty of the science nerds (though not all, some seem to think a small amount of Potential Death is an acceptable price to pay for finishing collecting their samples) are streaming back to their Helicarrier. A couple of the Ops team is hearing this way. Falcon is diving straight for the unknown interloper, wings humming to life as he veers in -- one of them, large and metal, splays out hard to try and smack the man away from the hapless alien. Falcon's wing thwacks solidly into the masked figure. His boots plant in the ground, digging short grooves in the sandy loose earth as he is pushed back. He doesn't let go of the screeching alien -- just reaches up with his other hand to clasp at one metal wingspar. When he lifts, flings -- aiming to chuck Falcon bodily toward the approaching Ops agents -- it seems oddly casual, a small thoughtless flick like he is ridding himself of a particularly pesky mosquito. The flick itself is less alarming to Falcon, maybe, than the fact that the extremely tough, extremely armored wing creaks and bends in the other man's grip. His flight suit is stabilizing itself in midair even with the damaged wing, although instead of looping back around he's left to teeter and fall gracelessly to the ground. At least it cuts his careening path sort before he actually collides with the incoming Ops agents, who are ducking to the cover of a nearby tree and opening fire in the stranger. Falcon is charging back in, also firing on the man as he tries to get to the alien's. His wing is slashing, razor-tipped, at the arm holding the creature hostage. Blam, blam blam, the bullets certainly hit home -- thudding square into the masked figure's torso -- but he's paying them little attention. He's reaching down, reaching in -- with a sickening squelch the alien's squealing stops. He's yanked out -- who knows what it is, probably the nerds would have wanted to analyze it, something small and hard and slightly glowing, but they are not getting a chance because he is pocketing it and finally turning his attention to the rest of the attackers, like an afterthought. His arm snaps back away from the sharp-edged slice and in the next moment he's slamming his fist inhumanly hard into Falcon's chest. He turns, shoves with a creak and a groan at a nearby strangler fig -- the entire huge thing, or at least this thick section of it, is uprooting with a shower of sand, sent toppling down towards the Ops agents. The man himself is turning, walking just as unhurried away. Maybe Falcon was going to go after him once he's righted himself from this latest blow -- he's looking after the figure like he's strongly considering it. The THUD of the tree and a cry from one of the agents and he is rerouting, brows furrowed deep as he goes to the man's side. "-- Belay that interpreter," he's saying to his comms, "need a medic team up here stat."