ArchivedLogs:Shadow Puppets
| Shadow Puppets | |
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| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2013-06-12 ' |
| Location | |
<NYC> TriBeCa Home of the most expensive residences in New York, and of many a celebrities' penthouse, TriBeCa is now best known for being merely that - the richest neighborhood, and, as a result of the many films and television shows shot there, one of the most recognizable ones. Still, the vast majority of the people who walk its streets are that vermin most despised by New York City residents: tourists. It's hardly been a cheery week but there are still some bright spots to be found in the city, even for the obvious mutants most affected by the current wave of hostility. It is one such place that Hive &co. are currently leaving, exiting the bright and cheerful storefront of Happy Cakes. They even have goodies to take home; a box of assorted vegan treats no doubt destined for Jax's house as part repayment for his constant flooding of /their/ apartment with deliciousness. Hive just has a coffee. Black. Strong. He's sipping it as they head out into the overcast afternoon, holding it in one hand; his other is occupied with a cellphone that he is /glaring/ at. Has /been/ glaring at. A deep black glare entirely unaffected by the saccharine cheer they have just left. He's otherwise casual, jeans and workboots and his favorite brown t-shirt with blue-painted hedgehog. "Motherfucker," he mutters to his phone.
Dusk at least seems more buoyed by /pastries/, though his easy smile dims to a smaller one that masks his fangs as they step back out into the streets. Not that it can do anything at all to hide the giant wings that spread out the back of his t-shirt (a soft spring-green v-neck, today.) "Oh, man, I might not get these back to Jax, these almond raspberry things look pretty much like heaven right now." Beside him, Ian is hooking an arm around Dusk's neck, dragging him closer so that he can pilfer! An almond-raspberry cupcake. Yoink! He licks icing off the top of it with a quick grin to Hive. "Yeah? Tell us how you really feel." Shane is caught somewhere in between this cheer and this grump, mostly just quiet. Hands in pockets. Dark eyes focused down on the ground ahead of them as they head back towards the subway. He's not making any particular effort to be discreet; plain white t-shirt and jeans doing nothing at all to hide the blue. Gills. Sharky. It's a casual outfit that suggests he's just gotten /off/ work himself, dishwashing one of the few places he doesn't bother with dapper. He veers closer to Hive, shamelessly PEEKING over the telepath's arm at the phone. "-- How he really feels," he informs the others blandly, "is that Jim's a selfish prick." "Hey." It's not a friendly /hey/, gruff and warning in the assertive tone of someone who expects that they will be listened to. Which they are probably used to! Because the speaker in question is a tall hard woman dressed in the typical blues of an NYPD officer. Her partner is slightly shorter, much burlier, a squint-eyed man with close-cropped brown hair and a lot of jowl to him. "You. Stop." It's probably not hard to GUESS who they're talking to. They're looking at Dusk and Shane with glares nearly to match Hive's. But the others are pretty much included by /default/. Hive freezes at the call. Scowling down at his phone, which gets one last message before he turns around. He's not smiling, but he doesn't look particularly hostile either, slow and calm with his hand -- phone still in it -- dropping to his side. "Can we help you, officers?" He's listening -- perhaps more with his /mind/ than with his ears to the answer. His eyes slip over to Shane more than the rest, but then back to the police soon after.
Dusk freezes, too. His wings fold downwards -- kind of /stiffly/; it's not hard to see the bruises already on his arms, the small tears in their soft membrane, the marks where they've been singed. But they fold, backwards, down, capelike around his shoulders, as unobtrusive as he can /make/ them which is, admittedly, not very. He doesn't speak; just stands, and watches. Ian licks at the icing of his cupcake. His smile has dimmed, but not faded entirely. "Cupcake?" he offers the police -- nodding towards the box rather than offering it out. "There's chocolate crunch." Shane's eyes get wide, gills flaring reflexively. His hands lift. Up by his shoulders. "... they're really good," he offers, when Ian suggests cupcakes. But his voice doesn't really sound /steady/. The offer does not earn smiles from the officers. Just suspicious looks towards the box. "Put it on the ground," says the woman, "hands against the wall." There is in their minds no /serious/ threat at the moment. Kind of the usual for their week. Stop. Frisk. Ask questions (because clearly all mutants in the city know each other, right? They must have information about the murder! Maybe a /little/ bit more baton-application in the frisking than is required but. That's pretty much par for the course this week. There are a few people -- also just departing the bakery! -- stopping on the sidewalk to gawk. Feeling more secure in their gawking than they otherwise would with the police already /handling/ the mutants. Hive grimaces -- the phone in his hand gets a look that is kind of wincing, kind of /regretful/ -- and he turns towards the wall. Setting the phone down carefully on the sidewalk between his feet, hands resting against the brickface of the nearest storefront. << Might get ugly, >> he warns his friends in a sort of /resigned/ tone. His eyes shift towards Dusk's bruises. << … if you guys want to bail, I could. >> His jaw tightens. He doesn't actually /finish/ the offer, just exhaling slowly.
Dusk winces, too. It's more to the stabbing pain of Hive's mindvoice than to the situation -- the /cops/ are regarded with weary resignation, too. "Yes'm," he answers the first one, turning as well. His wings still fold against his back like a thick fuzzy cloak. << /Eh/. What's a few more bruises to add to my collection. Shane OK? >> << Shane OK? >> Ian is asking this question, too; in this solid form he can't check for /himself/, past a glance to the sharkboy. He sets his box of goodies down, too, against the wall. He keeps the cupcake in hand, though. One hand goes against the wall, the other lifts cupcake to mouth to lick at icing against before he holds it carefully in his fingertips so that he can -- kind of -- touch his knuckles to the wall, hand curled around slightly to protect his DESSERT. Shane is very not OK, that is probably visible even to the nontelepaths. Eyes still wide, gills still fluttering rapidly. Panic-images of Kyle beating Sebastian bright in his mind. It takes a moment before he responds. Stiffly. Taking a slow step -- not towards the wall. Kind of confused-away, towards the subway where they were headed. "I have to --" His hands are still up! His second step at least /is/ towards the wall. No less stiffly. Claws lengthening, creepcreepcreep outwards of razor-sharp black as he turns towards the wall with the others. "I /said/ against the wall." This is shorter and sharper, as Shane steps away. The woman's tone does not get any /less/ sharp even when the boy steps back towards the wall -- moreso, really, when she looks at the: "/Christ/, is it /threatening/ us? -- Hands behind your back," is to Shane, and "cuff it," is to her partner. Her partner goes for baton /before/ he goes for handcuffs. Chhhhk. With a definite intent to apply them to Shane /before/ those (soverythreatening!) claws can reach him. << Fucking hell. >> Hive doesn't move from the wall. His head turns. Jaw working slowly. He glances to the police, and glances to the people nearby watching. "I don't think he was threatening you, ma'am, he's turning towards the wall." His voice is calm, externally, even if the cursing he unleashes on the others is not. To Dusk and Ian: << Think he's about to get less OK. >> His mind reaches -- not for the officers. A slow probe towards one of the onlookers, a heavy /squeeze/ of pressure. "Hey -- hey, no, everyone's -- nobody's threatening, he's just a kid," Dusk protests. His wings quiver. He straightens -- hands still /up/ even if they've left the wall now, a worried look shot to the baton. "He really wasn't --" "/Back/ on the fucking /wall/ --" This time the baton swings towards /Dusk/, sort of /startled/ sudden when he moves << ohfuckvampire >> in a sharp crack of motion. "/Hands on the wall/." Shane's teeth bare -- more /panicked/ than aggressive given that he is backing the heck /up/ with huge-wide eyes and an internal << no no no no way not Dusk no -- >> as he reaches for /Dusk/ to try and pull him towards the wall. At the side, that bystander is dropping her head to a palm, /cringing/ with a sudden, "... oh my god I have a headache can we get /Advil/?" as she starts to tug her partner away. Too much pain, mutant beatings no longer as interesting. Though there's a slightly bigger crowd gathering. Sort of gathering. Dawdling rather than hurrying past. The first officer has drawn her baton, as well. /Jabbing/ it hard against Dusk's wings to /shove/ him towards the wall. Hive isn't talking to his friends, anymore. Just pushing outwards in a sudden desperate crunch of power. Shoving against this mind, jabbing against that, /battering/ in a search for entrance. Not the cops, though. Just the onlookers. On the ground, his phone keeps buzzing.
"Woooah hey I'm going look I'm -- /ffff/," Dusk doesn't so much move back to the wall as /stumble/ back to it, tripping forward to slam his palms bracing-hard against the brick at that baton-jab. His wing twitches, flexing briefly away from his back where the baton hit it. "Hey!" Ian is startled more than angry, reaching out to steady Dusk as he stumbles into the wall. One hand curls protectively against those wings. "Look it's okay we're all," << fuck should have run should have run don't eat brains, Hive. >> He doesn't actually know that Hive is trying to eat brains but he can /guess/. The stretch of wing only earns another harder /crack/ from the woman, at Shane's arm, at Dusk's wing -- "/Put that down/." Like he can -- put down. His wing. SLAM. Possibly against Ian's /arm/ this time since he's being so protective. The headaches are spreading through the group! Surely one of them is particularly eatable. A little too tired, a little too drunk, a little too agitated with the city's current hostility. Some people reflexively try to shake the bizarre sudden pain-pressure. Some people just cringe. Shane /yelps/ at the crack of baton, teeth bared again and claws unsheathed fully. His body is wire-taut-tense and to Hive it's /screamingly/ clear that the instinct to bite, to claw, to lash /back/ is strong. He takes a slow deliberate step backwards, tucking himself against one of Dusk's wings, for whatever value of protection his small size can offer. Hive's fingers are curling against the wall harder, nailbeds pressed white as his eyes close. His shoulders sink, mental claws more desperate than hungry in their SINK into the first malleable mind he finds. It's only Ian's caution that pulls him back with a rubberband SNAP that puts a shudder through his shoulders. A very disgruntled look in his face. << -- But I could fucking /end/ this -- >> It's an irritable frustrated /snarl/ of energy that isn't /helped/ by Shane's yelp, his teeth clenching hard. "Mmngh --" Dusk's grunt is definitely pained, definitely trying hard not to sound too /much/ so. But there's a crunch in one of the slim ribbed finger-bones of his flexible-manipulable wings, the wing on that side hanging just a little bit looser with its end claws curling inwards. His pale face pales still further. << Just calm /down/, >> Ian is saying, even as out loud: "Hey, sorry, everybody just calm --" He's guiding Dusk back to the wall when that baton strikes his arm. The shift is reflexive, a pained startle-reaction as he yanks his arm back -- it /dissolves/ just after the contact, wisping off into a substanceless tentacle of dark shadow as his skin starts to grey, to fuzz. His cupcake is briefly obscured in a smoky curl of dark. "-- ow," is kind of /plaintive/ as he reverses course, stops the dissolving, solidifies again further though there's still a wispy haze to his skin. His other hand takes a moment to return from tendril-snake to actual limb, slowly shaping itself back into an arm,a hand, fingers. << OH FUCK SHADOW OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK, >> is the answer from the woman, jerking back away from Ian in a /hasty/ sudden snap. Her partner's inner monologue is much the same: << /Shit/ oh my god it's that /thing/ that killed Whelan oh fuck shadow -- >> This blaring panic accompanies a panicked /response/, dropping his baton en /route/ to drawing his sidearm again. There are two shots off before he's even stopped to think about anything past these panicked alarms. << IAN >> screams in Shane's mind, but aloud only a /snarl/, hissingangryrage as he turns to drop into a crouch, to /lunge/ towards the man with claws and teeth bared. Hive jerks away from the wall at the sound of those gunshots. This time mental claws slam out and don't retract. Gripping, sinking, /clawing/ at the bystanders watching. Tearing his way inside with little regard to delicacy. He drops to his knees, reaching for his phone. "/Shane/ no fuck don't you fucking dare --" Dusk's wings flare out huge and wide -- this comes with a sharp ragged /hiss/ as the broken fingerbone flexes, but one wing /snaps/ out to jerk its way between Shane's lunge and the cops. Wrapping in (with another ragged hiss because /claws/), tugging back. His other is sliding behind Ian. A soft hammock-cradle as the young man jerks backwards, slumps backwards, dark stains spreading against his (borrowed! Sorry Hive!) Blue Sun Corporation t-shirt. The cupcake drops from his hands, smearing most of the rest of the icing against his chest before falling off to the ground. Raspberry smeared against his shirt. Blood smeared against the almond cake. It's easy to mistake one for the other at a quick glance. For a moment Shane's claws /do/ tear. Cutting into the soft skin of Dusk's wing, his snarl muffled behind it. But he stops and /deflates/ all at once, snarl fading into a whimper. He starts to fumble for the phone in his pocket. Which only earns another /shot/, towards Dusk's /wing/ and/or Shane behind it -- "/Hands in the /air/, freak --" because oh yeah the cops are still /there/ and still panicking and still watching Ian's body like it might sprout tentacles and kill them at any moment. Shane drops the phone to the ground in his haste to comply. Though this is /painful/ with the current seep of /blood/ oozing from his side; /he/ drops to the ground next, on his knees and /staring/ towards Ian. "Nonono he needs a, he needs a fucking -- please have to call, he's going to fucking --" In the crowd, minds are falling. Slow first. Tinydrip. Drip. Then faster, dripdripdrip! GLOMPED into Hive in all their current state of agitation and panic and a good number of just plain morbid curiosity. Even a few /relish/ at seeing Ian downed (was he the ONE is it OVER WOO GO AMERICA!) It's only after a number of the onlookers have been collected that Hive's mind -- stronger, now, and less painful all at once in its oddly /smooth/ intrusion -- slips into the policemen's. There's a moment when his sick sort of /clenching/ is shared with them but then it clamps down, bland and emotionless instead. But certainly not inclined to any more /shooting/. He's dialing. 911, at first, before he just /stares/ at the phone and hangs /that/ call up. Then Joshua. Who, on /shift/ (currently /exceedingly/ overworked) does not answer. He is paging through his address book numbly when the phone buzzes again. His answer is short, first. Next call, Eloise. Except: Vacation! Right. She does not even pick up her school-issued phone, either.
Dusk hisses; his wing pulls back from Shane with an odd limp flutter, ragged-torn in thin clawmark-strips and wider where bullet pierced through thin skin to graze against Shane's side. He isn't really paying these injuries much /attention/, though. He's stooping, lowering Ian to the sidewalk, wing still tucked beneath. His hands are shaking as he presses them over the bleeding holes in Ian's chest, blood and raspberry icing both smearing against his palms. The cops are not shooting anymore! MYSTERIOUSLY not even panicking. Not doing anything much at all until Hive allows it. Shane is, though. Yanking off his (already slightly-bloody) shirt to hand it to Dusk. Pulling out his own phone. He /does/ dial 911 with some kind of fervent blind optimism. And then there is only waiting, a surreal-odd silence on the street until the distant sound of sirens begin to draw nearer.
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