Logs:Youth Group Games

Youth Group Games
Dramatis Personae Ion, Robbie/The Rider	2021-06-22 “We were just wondering if y’all've seen any abominations unto God ‘round here lately?”
Location <NYC> Riverdale - The Bronx
This neighborhood has been getting quite the facelift, over the past few months. Where before the stately houses were surrounded by impeccably manicured lawns, ornately landscaped gardens, and backyard swimming pools now the trim grass has been planted into vegetable beds, fences have been put up for chicken coops, wildly eclectic decorations ~~mar~~ liven up the HOA-approved facades. The backyard pools have stayed, though, and on the wide stone patio by one of them lounges Ion, dressed in faded old jeans, heavy boots and a white A-shirt under a black apron reading "CUSTOM TEXT HERE" in white embroidery on its front. There are several grills nearby the iron chair he's sitting on, hot and smoking, the scents of roasting meats rising with the shimmers of heat that roll off them. He has a spatula in one hand, a cold watermelon gose in the other, and is at the moment paying less attention to his line of grills than he is to a large crow that has landed nearby and is in the process of sneaking up on a slumbering goat curled up under the shade of a cherry tree. Reaching out to tweak at the goat's tail before fluttering up onto the fence. The goat clambers to her feet with a start. Ion's tongue clicks against his teeth, head shaking as he swigs at his beer. "{No manners at all them birds. You can't let 'em bully you like that or you never sleep in peace again, huh?}" Perhaps the goat does not understand Spanish; she's paying little mind to this advice, already settling back in the grass to return to her nap, heedless of the crow still watching gleefully from the fence line. The 1969 sable-black Dodge Charger ('Hellcharger', to those in the know) looks frightfully out of place amidst smaller, more modern cars -- like a wild, untamed dire-wolf slumbering amidst a pack of well-behaved, thoroughly domesticated chihuahuas. Its owner -- a 5'7" kid with russet-brown skin and a short, broad mohawk -- has a black windbreaker -- and a tense, thoughtful expression. Robbie Reyes has heard a lot about Ion... and he's not really sure what to expect. But whatever it is, it certainly isn't what he finds around that corner. The goat... well, the goat makes his eyebrows lurch up. The grilled meat and apron does, too. But mostly, the goat. For several moments, he just stands there -- at one end of the pool's flagstone patio, staring across it at the guy with the goat and the meat. <<sniff. sniff. scratch.>> "{Hey. Are you... Ion?}" He frowns and shoves both hands into his pockets. "{I mean... Hi. I'm Robbie.}" "Eyyo." Robbie might be standing and staring for a few moments but Ion is lifting his beer in a salute even before the other man finds his way to a greeting. "{Robbie -- yeah, I heard that. You fix cars, right?}" He waggles his spatula in the direction of the grills. "{You staying for dinner?}" <<"ooh. he's got some nasty, tasty 'sin' on him, beto.">> <<"Figured he would.">> "{Yeah.}" Robbie's eyes drift down from Ion's face to his apron, then down to the edge of the pool -- self-consciously averting his gaze. "{I don't -- I mean, I'm... not here to eat --}" <<"speak for yourself!">> "{-- but thanks, anyway. I heard you might be able to help me find my brother.}" Though it's a struggle, Robbie forces his eyes back up from the pool and locks them squarely on Ion's. "{He's -- we got locked up a few months back. He disappeared. Cops act like they never saw him. He's a mutant.}" He forces the words all out at once -- as if he's following a script he's repeated in his head. "{You should be, you ain't near big enough to be turning down free food.}" Ion tumbles himself up off the lounge chair, ambling toward his grills to slowly rotate the meats inside. "{Shiiit, I'm sorry. Your bro got a name?}" After a beat of consideration: "{Pigs that took you all got names?}" "{Gabe. Gabriel Reyes,}" Robbie responds almost automatically, again averting his eyes. But when Ion refers to the cops as 'pigs'... suddenly, something changes. Some of that tension in Robbie's posture melts; his hands slip out of his pockets. He's taken a few steps forward before he even realizes it. This time, he has no problem looking Ion in the eyes. "{Conrad Stewart, and some fuck with a last name of 'Turner'. Tried to memorize badge numbers, but I --}" He stops, realizing his fists are clenched; he pulls back, just a little. Looks back down at the patio. "{Why? Do you... do you think... somebody should... go after... them?}" When his head lifts... it's almost like he's giving Ion puppy-dog eyes. Like he's asking if it would be okay. Like he's asking for permission. "{What, some scumfucks with badges who like to disappear freak kids? Nah man I think they should definitely be armed and on the street.}" Ion shakes his head, snorts. "{What your brother do? His --}" His fingers flutter in the air, a brief crackling of blue-white sparks scattering bright but harmless from his fingertips and shortly dissipate. Robbie lifts a hand up to rub at his temple. The droning in his head is getting louder. <<"shit, beto. sounds like a plan. let's go fucking 'eat'.">> <<"We can't... just fuck up the pigs.">> <<"why not?">> <<"We can't. Shut up.">> "{Has seizures,}" Robbie answers Ion's question. That flash of sparks draws his eyes. His mouth twists into a thoughtful little frown. He lifts the other hand up to rub at both temples, now. "{Figured it out when they were doing some sorta genetic test for epilepsy.}" <<"fucking 'starving', beto.">> <<"I know. Just... shut up">> <<"and this guy...? smells good. real good.">> <<"Shut up. He's on our side.">> <<"then let's get some fresh 'bacon'.">> "{Fucking 'shut up', you old fuck!}" That last bit, uh... Robbie said that one aloud. He blinks -- drops his hands -- then instantly raises them in front of him, taking a step back. He looks utterly mortified: "{I -- uh, s-sorry, that's -- I wasn't talking to -- I mean... I'm not...}" From the down the street, the low rumble-thud of motorcycle engines comes closer, closer, louder, louder. It’s hard to tell how many there are — four, five? — from the sound alone. The sound settles on the other side of the house, roaring for one more moment before the engines turn off one by one. “Fuck, look at this shit. Literal chicken shit everywhere,” says one voice, reedy and Jersey-accented. A couple of laughs, a squawk of a bird, the rattling of some chicken wire. “The fuck are muties gonna do with chickens,” grumbles another voice, rougher than the first. “Eat them, idiot,” comes a third one. More laughter, harsh and grating. The thump of boots on wet grass. The men round the corner from the house’s driveway. One is tall, one is short, one is bald, one is too young and looks like a youth pastor. They’re all white, all dressed in the unmistakable garb of the Purifiers – black leather vests emblazoned with a thin white cross on the back. They all have clear signs of some weaponry on their person – poorly concealed handgun here, knife holster on the leg there. Youth Pastor looks from Robbie to Ion, a fake-friendly smile flitting across his face. “Well, hi there!” He says with uncomfortable amounts of cheer and a light Texan twang. “We were just wondering if y’all've seen any abominations unto God ‘round here lately?” This is, evidently, hilarious to the whole gang of them. Over the laughter, Youth Pastor continues; “We been meaning to welcome ‘em all to the neighbourhood.” "{That is a shit power, friend. I do those, sometimes. Maybe the seizures just waiting for some good shit to kick in. Maybe,}" the cheerful tone of Ion's voice sounds like this is meant to be an encouragement, truly -- "{one day the seizures be on fire, too, huh? Now that'd be fun.}" His brows hike further at Robbie's spoken outburst, and he expels a sharp puff of air through his teeth. "{Your folks don't teach you manners, kid? Who the fuck --}" His words hitch together with an instinctive perking in his posture at the sound of the motorcycles, a small bounce on his toes, but it's faded in the next second, his stance settling into something more grounded (though his smile contrastingly sharpens in time with the increased wariness in his posture) even before the engines have stopped and the voices of their riders are audible. He's shaking his head, adding casually to Robbie over the out-of-sight banter about the chickens: "{Ffff -- shit. Might want to get you gone, sound like you got plenty of problem without these fuckers.}" Still only armed with his spatula in his apron at the grills he doesn't, perhaps, look particularly intimidating when the Purifiers round the corner. Just bright smile, lazy waggle of the spatula; his free hand lifts, first two fingers crossed together. "Shit yo me and the big guy upstairs we like this. He telling me right now you an insult to that cross and you sure as hell in the wrong damn part of town." The droning is getting worse. Even as Robbie lifts his hands up to Ion in supplication, one returns to his head -- he's grimacing, about to say something else -- but then Ion throws him that aside, and he turns... and his eyes get wide as dinner plates as he sees the Purifiers. Particularly Mr. Youth-Pastor. "{...oh fuck,}" he whispers. The droning wasn't from Ion. <<"oh 'GODDAMN'!"">> <<"Wait--">> <<"you fuckin' KIDDING me?! we starving -- they straight up DELIVER us this grade-a cut of filet mignon -- and you wanna turn your nose up?!">> <<"Just, just -- w-wait--">> <<"we DONE waiting. time to say grace.">> Facing the Purifiers, Robbie takes a step back toward Ion. The fear on him is probably pretty easy to misread; being short and unarmed doesn't help. But when he looks over his shoulder, back at Ion: "{I -- I can't -- I can't hold it back, not around them -- I'm sorry, please just don't -- just don't let it -- hurt you --}" Little wisps of smoke start to crawl up from Robbie's head and shoulders. There's also a distinct smell -- like burning sulfur. <<"GOOD FOOD, GOOD MEAT. GOOD GOD, LET'S EAT.">> Youth Pastor spreads his hands wide, in what may be meant as a friendly gesture. The holstered guns the gesture reveals are anything but. “Well, I reckon all of Christendom is our neighbourhood,” he says with a slight singsong lilt. The laughter this one elects is less rancorous, more snickers and wicked smiles. “An’ we must simply look out for our neighbours. Take care of ‘em, let’s say.” Short is looking over at Robbie, eyes growing wider and nostrils flaring. “Speak fucking English!” He’s all too quick to pull out a pistol and train it on Robbie. He nudges Tall, who nudges Bald, and quickly all three of them are drawing weapons, safeties flicking off of guns. “Fucking genefreaks,” mutters Bald, the same voice who couldn’t decipher the chickens. Youth Pastor’s hands come down, slip down to rest on the hilts of the knives strapped to his thighs. “I don’t know what the Lord is telling you, brother, but I think He made His message pretty clear. We ain’t suffering no witches to live.” "{I'll be fine, these clowns ain't even real bikers, I -- eyyyyyo.}" Ion's eyes go just a little wider when Robbie starts smoking, his grin turning positively gleeful. "{OH SHIT see? Fire! You don't get seizures too, huh, maybe it run in the family like?}" Though he's tense at the actual drawing of the guns he doesn't seem surprised; the weapons are scarcely out of their holsters when he's clapping a hand on Robbie's smoking shoulders. In the next instant the pair has vanished (with a brief unpleasant jolt for Robbie), reappearing some distance to the far side of the Purifiers, over by the corner of the house they just recently rounded. "Shit you best tell your flock that," he's saying as they rematerialize; his spatula gestures towards the tallest of the Purifiers; the casual wave of the utensil comes with a not-at-all casual jolt of electricity, arcing bright from the spatula's tip toward the man he just waved it at. "cuz his wife been suffering me every week all spring long. -- {You see how ain't nobody ever a single-issue bigot? The fuck's that about why they can't pick a lane and stay in it.}" "{What the--}" Robbie's hands clutch at his stomach when they re-materialize, as if experiencing a sudden sharp stab of nausea. He wobbles, before dropping down to one knee; the smoke coming off of him becomes a choking cloud. Stinks of sulfur, asphalt, and burnt rubber. "{Did you just teleport us? Holy... shit, shit, SHIII--}" His hands clutch at his face, as if trying to claw it off -- or maybe hold it in place. The black smoke around him ignites -- like vapor off a flare-stack. It stinks of sulfur, asphalt, and burnt rubber. There's a sound -- a high-pitched rumble, interrupted by a wheezy kaa-kaa-kaa -- like somebody's throttling a hog with a fucked up air-intake. The fire parts. That angry 5'7" kid is gone; rising to stand in his place is a six-foot tall gas-soaked pyre. Its head is an angular, sleek, machine-crafted skull assembled from interlocking chrome plates. A burning pit is carved into its forehead; its eyes are orange glowing slits that smolder out of triangular sockets. Its jaw is sharp and beak-like, with hundreds of needle-like teeth. Its clothes are blackened and charred -- like they melted onto its skin in a burning wreck. When it breathes, three jets of flame belch out of its face. Two from its mouth; one from its forehead. For just a moment, the Rider surveys the scene. Burning eyes look over the Purifiers. Then, Ion. Then, the Purifiers. Then... ...it reaches, oh-so-casually, for that old banged-up gas-powered weed-trimmer someone's left leaning against this side of the house. Plucks it up. Turns it over. Gives it a shake to see if it's got any fuel left. When it pulls the cord, the whole thing brzzzzzs to life. The Rider stands next to Ion, lifts the trimmer up in one hand -- and points it at the Purifiers. Like it was a goddamn sword. Then, suddenly, the Hell-Whacker blackens and blisters -- its spinning wire bursting into flames. “Speak fucking Engli-“ commands Short again, apparently terrified of hearing other languages. Cuts off when Ion and Robbie disappear, looking around wildly. The others turn to face Ion’s voice. Tall snarls, opens his mouth to say something. Screams instead as the arc of electricity lands on his left ring finger, disappearing to travel through his arm, his body, to ground. His arm goes red in a line where the current travels, gun clattering from his grip to the ground. Short and Bald are flanking Youth Pastor now and have taken the screams of Tall as the sign to attack. Bald is a quick shot, fires at Ion as soon as Tall begins to scream. Short takes a second more, unloading in Robbie’s direction — only it isn’t Robbie anymore. There’s terror in Short’s eyes, as well as the reflection of a flaming weed whacker. He shoots again, his aim less steady. Youth Pastor seems nonplussed by it all. Nothing to say, now, but he does pull out the knives from before, hands wrapped around the rubber grips. Doesn’t move, though. He whistles. "{Holy fucking shit, boy, now that's some trick!}" Ion lets out a delighted whoop as the weedwhacker ignites. He's even gesturing to the Purifiers like -- hey HEY see that? "{People just full of surprises huh? Bet --}" Right about here he's vanishing, seemingly melting back into the wall of the house as Bald fires upon him; it gives an odd distortion to his words when he pops back into reality in nearly the same moment (back on the other side of their assailants once more, near where he started over by a hot tub near his row of grills). "{-- you weren't expecting that shit.}" His smile drops away as he looks, for just a second, between the Purifiers and the houses around them. Under the cherry tree the goat has awoken again at the gunshots, bleating loud and unhappy. "No manners," he says this in English this time, and when he flourishes the spatulas again he disappears along with it, a jolt of current hard enough to be painful but not disabling juddering out towards Youth Pastor. The lightning brings the electrokinetic along with it, this time, just behind the bible-thumper, Ion's fist slamming up towards the man's midsection (the shock his touch carries is oddly much stronger than the flashier outburst.) "-- carry on like this in front of the kid." Robbie -- or, the Rider? -- isn't making any move to duck and cover at the sound of gunfire. The first shot swoops over his head just as Robbie's burning up; it slams into the house's stucco, popping off in a dust-cloud. The second, less steady shot... hits the Rider. Square in the chest. THWUMP. When Ion appears behind them, driving his electric fist right for Youth Pastor... the Rider makes a sound. Like the air-brakes of a truck stuttering over and over again. It sounds like... it's laughing. And then it lunges forward, Hell-Whacker held over-head... that wire like a burning disk of brilliant flame. VRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.... At the end of the leap, it swings Hell-Whacker down like a massive two-handed club -- right for Short's head. Youth Pastor is muttering something — “‘And he said unto them, I beheld Satan as lightning —“ as Ion’s current slams him, his side step not enough to keep it from shuddering through his leg to the earth below. He grimaces — still no surprise in his baby blue eyes, but a new steely expression is there. He managed to half turn his body, right hand knife out and slashing wide, before Ion is slamming his fist into his rib cage. He hisses in pain, gritting his teeth but is still up, left hand knife coming up to stab at the electrokinetic. The short one is still looking at the Rider, looking at where his bullet hit and did nothing. Shoots twice again, running low on ideas, as the Rider bears down on him. He squeaks as he tries to dodge, but too slow — he crumbles to the ground. Tall’s hair is smoking, his arm streaked with red inflammation, as he scrambles for his gun. He breaks for it, scrambling back to where the bikes are presumably parked. Bald, meanwhile, takes a shot at Ion. His hand is steady, his face seeming unconcerned with friendly fire. "Boy I think you gotta read just a little longer." Ion's arm has come up swift to knock the wild right slash a safer distance from his face. "God I know? He made the earth and every-damn-thing in it. And then? Bless his faithful with the power to crush some snakes." For just a moment his eyes flick past Youth Pastor to the Bald Purifier; his teeth are gritting the instant before the knife even scrapes through his heavy apron. His hand claps to his attacker's wrist, though not to deflect the blow or pull the knife away. "Lotta differences between us but my people?" The stronger jolt of power that accompanies his touch comes as he jumps once more straight through the Purifier, appearing again just behind the man as Baldie pulls the trigger and leaving Youth Pastor squarely between him and the gun. "They give a shit if I live or die." The first bullet didn't phase the Rider -- but up closer, the bullets hit hard. The Rider jerks back mid-swing -- THWMP, THWMP -- and, for a second, even staggers backwards... but then swings again. And again. THWK. THWK. After a few more swings, the Rider twists and hurls the Hell-Whacker like a frisbee for Tall's legs. Ain't no one getting away from this buffet. The thing buzzes like a nest of furious wasps, leaving a spiraling path of smoke and fire in its wake. It reaches for the crumpled heap that is Short, grasping him by the collar -- dragging him to his feet. That burning, smoldering skull pushing its way into his face -- those burning orange eyes getting brighter and brighter... its mouth opening with a slow, hungry creak. Hhhhhhhhhh... It starts slow -- just an appetizer. A nibble of humiliation and pain from some of the people he's beat up. A tasty morsel of fear from those mutant kids he helped terrify. After that, the Rider moves on to the main course -- a succulent souffle of domestic abuse, marinaded in a luscious sauce of neglect and eventual abandonment of his own child -- forced from his home. And, for desert? A delightfully decadent creme brulee made from the body of a mutant kid he helped dispose of. All of it, the Rider devours -- each moment, each experience of suffering like an exquisite, sumptuous banquet. And with each moment, Short experiences the pain and suffering that he inflicted -- fear, humiliation, isolation, pain, abuse, everything -- all compacted in the space of just several seconds. Like a psychic maelstrom of anguish, flowing through his mind and body and into the Rider's open, hungry jaws. NOM NOM NOM NOM. Something twists in Youth Pastor's expression, nasty and snarling. "Y'all are the snakes blockin' us from Eden –" The thought ends prematurely as Bald fires, Ion jumps, and the man screams all at once, the combination of Ion's current passing through him and the bullet lodged in the meat of his right arm apparently not inspiring any misquoted Bible verses. Blood spills from the wound. “You IDIOT! It’s a damned teleporter!” Bald, possibly to his credit, doesn’t look particularly contrite. Does lower his gun, broad brow furrowing, and reaches for his own knife instead. Stares at Ion, like as long as he doesn’t blink, the mutant won’t move. Tall jumps, avoiding the Hell-Whacker fully breaking his legs but still getting clipped in the heels. It smells of burning hair and burning flesh as he tries, desperately, to scramble up right. It’s going poorly — he decided on an undignified bear crawl. Short whimpers as he’s pulled up by the Rider, trying to babble his way out of this. It’s the usual drivel – he didn’t mean it, he was put up to it, it’s Cam who’s the leader, he’s sorry he’s so sorry – up until it’s nothing at all. He stares into the maw of the Rider, his breathing erratic and muscles spasming, jaw opening and closing with no words coming out. It’s not long until the breathing goes from erratic to absent. Short’s body goes limp in his hands. "I'm not a fucking teleporter." By now the gunshots have attracted attention -- frightened wary eyes peeking out from upstairs windows of the adjacent house, a muscular woman (with greenish-yellow snake-scale skin, as it would happen) looking not in the least frightened as she ambles onto the back porch of the house next door to get a better view, a small humming beetle-like robot hovering down from a rooftop to perch on the fence and regard the proceedings with a blank metallic non-expression. These onlookers add a tension to Ion's face that was not there before -- admittedly perhaps the grimace also has something to do with the knife still partially buried in his torso. -- Which he's yanking back out of his stomach, now, teeth clenched and blood still on the blade. The rubber grip earns a curled-lip of disgust; even as he's casting the blade aside to thunk blade-down in the grass he's hurling himself straight toward Bald, steady stare notwithstanding. He does not seem particularly fussed about the other knife -- perhaps because in the same instant he's drawn near, both he and Bald are disappearing from sight. Despite his claims of Not Being A Teleporter, it's a matter of seconds before he returns -- a house down from where they left -- still bloody, slightly paler, but empty-handed. <<"I think he's hurt, we gotta--">> Robbie's voice, his will, presses against the Rider's psychic maelstrom. It swallows up the last vapors coming off of Short -- like it was squeezing the pulp out of a thoroughly juiced lemon. Then, its jaws clap open and shut, as if disappointed -- before it tosses Short aside. Just an empty, used up skin. It spares a glance toward Ion <<"--help him--">>, but then it spies the Youth Pastor. Partially satiated on sin, its fire burns brighter... and the skeletal jaw opens with a hungry hiss. "...the Lord is slow to anger, and great in power, and will not at all acquit the wicked..." As it walks, the grass under its very feet blackens and smolders. The jaws open wider, and wider still -- until it seems as if the jaws themselves should unhinge. "...the mountains quake at him, and the hills melt, and the earth is burned at his presence; yea, the world, and all that dwell therein..." A low, harsh whisper; not the voice of a man, or a woman -- a voice of thousands, drunk on the ecstasy of their fury. It can smell the man's exquisite sin. The bald one is lunging for Ion, knife pointed out to stab deep, and then he’s gone. Who knows where? Tall certainly doesn’t, when he managed to approximate standing up. If getting hit with the Hell-Whacker wasn’t the last straw, this certainly is. He limps around the side of the house back to his motorcycle. The remaining Purifier has a wild look in his eyes now, blood seeping from the bullet wound. He’s grimacing, but he isn’t moving away from the Rider. His mouth sets into a thin line as the Rider approaches. “But come here, you sons of sorceresses,” he mutters, “are you not children of transgression?” His quote, muttered low and in one single human voice, is no match in the quote-off with the Rider. His eyes slide to Short’s crumpled body before taking his remaining knife into his left hand. Raises it high and runs at the Rider, bringing it down with all the strength he can muster into the Rider’s chest. Ion doesn't wait when Youth Pastor charges upon the Rider; the shock of energy that courses in his direction (and incidentally the Rider's as well) is a painful muscle-seizing jolt. He's a bit more casual about ambling after Tall after this, plucking the discarded knife from where he left in the ground as he follows after the limping Purifier. "Shit, boy, I figured these shiny-ass bikes was your payment for ruining our dinner." Despite his firm grip on the knife he isn't making any attempt to attack the lamed Purifier, just gesturing lazily toward the Purifiers' bikes. Which, in his presence have uniformly gone dead along with any other small electronics nearby, batteries drained and engines not starting. "Have a nice walk back to Jersey." "--..." The Rider likely had more to say, but the electric jolt that ripples through it -- just as the Youth Pastor charges -- cuts it off. Whatever resistance it has to damage doesn't seem to extend to electricity; it jerks, spasms, and hisses... just as the Pastor is caught in the same jolt. And then? It recovers -- reaching a charred hand up for the wrist holding the knife, intent on seizing it in a tight, feverishly hot grip. Leaning in close, eyes blazing -- jaw opening wide again with a sibilant, joyful hiss -- staring right into Youth Pastor's face. Right into his eyes. The flames wreathing its head suddenly flaring up, like a flare-stack that just got hit with a shot of pure jet-fuel -- as it seeks to feed. Tall climbs onto his bike anyway, tries over and over again to start the engine. He hasn't yet put two and two together and limps to another bike. Same results, but he keeps trying anyway with misplaced hope or desperation. The electricity courses through the Pastor, red raised lines running up and down his bare arms. He doesn't scream again, but the spasm of his muscles arrests the motion of his knife, his whole arm. The Rider recovers first –– when the Pastor tries to bring the knife down again, he's pushing against the heat of the Rider's vice-like grip. He struggles in the Rider's hold, but the Pastor is worse for wear after the jolts and the bullets, can't manage to get his hand free or bring the knife down. What he can do is meet the Rider's gaze with his own, wild and unafraid. "We shall quench all the fiery darts of the wicked," he says, spit flying onto the Rider's maw, "for our faith is our shield." It seems he is determined to quote and misquote the Bible until his dying breath. The Rider's power has the Youth Pastor in it's hold, and there is much there to discover -- sin on sin on sin, all done in the name of his God. A Purifier meeting ending in frenzy, as he works them up into righteous rage before letting them loose upon the neighbourhood, to terrorize and beat and kill. A quiet poisoning of a real pastor who strayed and began to preach tolerance of the mutant menace. A girl from his church, X-gene recently expressed, who's body was never found. On and on and on. He's younger than Short was, his crimes fewer by dint of his age and often less direct, but the passion and earnestness of them may add a different flavour to the Rider's palate. With most of the immediate danger displaced, Ion's energy seems to be fading, smile vanished and a tension in his muscles. He is heading back to Short's side, stooping to check the pulse of the crumpled Purifier. His eyes flick up and over to the Rider and Youth Pastor as he does, eyes slightly narrowed as he examines the flaming skull-face. "Faith is great but maybe you best pray for some Nomex too." The Rider feeds, its jaws open wide as it draws in each sin with relish -- savoring them. That low susurrus builds and builds as Youth Pastor is left to writhe in the Rider's grasp... greedily gulping, swallowing them down into that massive pit of a throat. And when it's finished -- when it's had its fill -- it shoves Youth Pastor back, unconcerned with whether or not he's dead or alive... the flames around its head burning brighter than ever. It turns, then, to face Ion -- those burning slits flashing <<"No.">> as it cracks its neck to the side, clenching and unclenching <<"I said no.">> its fists... jaws chattering. It takes a step, and <<"You've had enough, you fucker.">> -- suddenly it stops, jerking back... as if grimacing. The flames flicker, and start to dwindle... as it sinks down into a crouch. It's almost like it's melting down, its body receding... into a shorter, more familiar shape -- that of a crouching, panting Robbie, clutching his chest in pain. "...fuck," he groans. Oblivious to the particulars of Youth Pastor's torments, Ion is just keeping a wary eye on the Rider as it starts to turn on him -- turns back into Robbie. "{You good? That was some fucking show, you do that a lot? Shit, this one a goner, you stare him to death?}" Knife still held lazily in one hand, he heads back to Robbie, offering the younger man a hand up. "{All that, you best be staying for dinner now.}" Though he's eying the (heavily smoking) grills with a grimace. "{-- maybe order delivery.}" "{Fuck. They shot me,}" Robbie says, a brief hitch of panic in his voice as he starts patting his own chest down -- as if checking to see if there's any blood. The contact makes him grimace, but after several pats, he's convinced there isn't any holes in him... nor any blood. "{Fucking... okay.}" He blinks up at Ion -- looks at the hand -- and seems... puzzled. As he takes it, pulling himself up, his eyes drift to the unmoving body of Short. His expression twists into a knot of anxiety. "{...he's -- it killed him?}" Then, a little softer: "{I shouldn't... m'sorry. I couldn't hold it back. Fuck.}" (In front of the houses, away from Ion and Robbie, Tall has finally given up on the motorcycles. He is, in fact, beginning the long process of limping back to Jersey. On the ground, where the Rider discarded him, the Youth Pastor is unconscious. He breathes, barely, shallowly, with blood from his wound pooling beneath him.) "{Seemed to take it alright.}" Ion is peeling off his torn apron, grimacing at the still-spreading red stain on the undershirt underneath. "{Please, this wasn't no big loss to the world. Fuckers get their rocks off killing freak kids.}" He's heading to check on Youth Pastor now, too, once Robbie is on his feet. "{Loss to dinner, though. Shit. You want to dump that --}" He's gesturing toward the smoking grills, "{before it all go on fire? I'll --}" His eyes cast back to the dead and unconscious Purifiers on the ground, "{-- handle the rest of the trash.}" With a drop to one knee and a hand laid on Youth Pastor's shoulder, he and the unconscious Purifier both are vanishing from sight. "{Yeah, but--}" Robbie is already getting to his feet, pushing himself up as Ion moves toward the other Purifiers -- a slight limp to his walk, his hand against his chest, adjusting to the pain. "{Seems rude to just... fucking. Murder people on somebody's lawn.}" A tinge of dark amusement intruding into his voice; as he attends the grill, he turns to continue -- "{You'll handle the rest of...?}" But before he can finish, Ion's already gone. Robbie grimaces, then turns to the grill -- but not before helping himself to a charred hot-dog.