ArchivedLogs:Better Priorities

Better Priorities
Dramatis Personae Chloe, Deanna, Dusk, Isra	2014-02-11 It's a beautiful day night in the neighborhood.
Location <NYC> Harlem
Harlem's gritty reputation has become less and less earned over the past decade or so as gentrification has set in. Its reputation as a hub of jazz and culture, however, is still very much earned -- throughout the years Harlem has been renowned for its contributions to music, from its swing dancing and jazz culture back when speakeasies were prevalent to the many hip-hop artists with Harlem roots in modern day. It's frigid-cold, out in the dark streets of Harlem tonight. Icy-slick, here in this narrow alley, and the sounds of /some/ commotion are coming from the dimly lit passageway as well. The thumps are cushioned by layers of winter gear -- thicker and better insulated in one case than in the other, a sliver of dark-skin, dark-eyes, visible between winter cap and scarf wrapped around a dark face. The other face in question is easier to see, a young man -- perhaps early twenties, perhaps just out of his teens, pale blue-green skin, a speckling of scales lining his head where his hat's slipping down, a bloody tear ripping open the skin above his eyebrow, presumably from where the other -- woman? -- woman's flashlight has just come down to thwack him hard across the head. It's a heavy-duty thing, gripped like a bludgeon in her hand. "Look, lady, I didn't mean to --" Up not far away on a fire escape overlooking there's another warmly dressed figure -- hard to make out, just at the moment; she's not, just now, making much /noise/. Currently watching. Hardly noteworthy except -- well. Except for the arrow she's nocking to her /bow/, which is probably worth mentioning. A lanky, hooded figure steps into the opening of the alley, black cloak cutting an uncanny silhouette into the gray street behind. Isra emits a deep, menacing growl, just at the lower range of human hearing, and her eyes gleam bright green in the dim light. With a toss of her head in the direction of the alley--horns anchoring the voluminous hood--she lopes toward the pair on long, digitigrade legs. "Leave him alone," she says, her rich alto voice not interrupting the growl. Clawlike hands emerge from the folds of the cloak, black fingerless gloves exposing the wicked talons. "/Now./" Dusk's figure doesn't cut quite as impressive a figure as Isra's, a little shorter, a little more human in shape though the silhouette of his long trenchcoat is oddly hunchbacked up around his shoulders and his eyes still shine catlike in the dim alley. "Man. This place is getting overrun lately." He looks from the young man to the woman and then back, giving his head a small shake. "Hey, s'gonna be alright," giving the younger of the two a small -- fanged -- smile. "C'mere. We've got somewhere safe you can go, if you don't." "Overrun." From behind her scarf, Deanna's voice is a husky contralto. Dark eyes flick over the newcomers. "Funny, I was going to say the same thing." In her state of distraction, though, the boy is darting back behind the newcomers. Eyes wide, hand curled, guarded, around his midsection, where presumably further injury is hidden by protective layers of winter clothes. He turns his head, spitting a mouthful of blood against the dirty ice-slick ground. "I'm -- I didn't --" "I'm sure he's very apologetic." Deanna's flashlight is turning on the pair of newcomers. With its 600 lumen beam turned up to its highest intensity, the light is /exceedingly/ bright, something of a weapon in more than just its reinforced body. "It was an /accidental/ mugging," carols a cheerful voice from the fire escape above. There's a quiet whhhz of sound as an arrow zings through the air, aimed somewhere for Isra's shoulder. "S'okay, though, chica, you can put those away. We got claws, too, see. You want to put those away, eh? You're in our neighborhood now." Isra's growl grows louder and more resonant when the flashlight turns their way, and she averts her face into the shadow of her hood. She has just begun to settle into a crouch when the arrow pierces the heavy fabric of her cloak and embeds itself into her flesh, though owing to the design of the garment it is impossible to tell where precisely it hit her. She snarls and springs at Deanna--forward more so than up--fangs flashing stark white in the blinding illumination. Only her right hand lashes out, clawed fingers reaching for the arm that ends in a flashlight. Dusk opens the trenchcoat, one enormous wing unfolding to shepherd the young man off behind them. "-- Mugging, pah, man, c'mon, let's get some food into you and we can -- /khhhh/." His hiss comes in tandem, at that bright flash of light, a very audible hiss of breath joined by another higher-pitched keen that is only barely at the upper ranges of human hearing, enough to be -- probably /annoying/ without much conscious awareness of precisely why. His wing pulls in sharply around his face to block out the light, but Isra's snarl pulls his gaze -- first back towards Deanna but then upwards. His eyes close, though, still blinded-recovering from the beam, nostrils flaring as other senses attune to Chloe's presence. There's not a lot of room in the alleyway for his wings to /flare/; instead he drops the coat; the sharp talons at the ends of his wings press in against the bricks, showering brickdust to the ground with a soft pattering as he simply starts to scale the wall towards her fire escape, enormous wings alarmingly dextrous as they propel him upwards. Deanna keeps the flashlight trained on the pair, shined more towards Dusk than Isra as Isra averts her eyes. She brings its steel-hard crenellated edge down towards Isra's hand as it lashes out, aiming for the webbing between fingers. There's enough thick padding in her winter gear to slow the talons, though evidently not /stop/ them, judging by her /own/ sharp hiss, her weaker grip on the flashlight. Her other hand comes up in a hard jut towards Isra's throat as those talons meet her arm, body angling now to try to protect that arm more. "-- /Jesucristo/." It's hard to say if this is horrified or impressed but it's definitely /startled/, coming from Chloe as Dusk begins to use his wings to /climb/. And then, "/Freaks/." She's loading her bow again, and swiftly, sending another shot downwards to try and tear straight down through that thin membrane. "Motherfucker comes onto our turf, mugs /my/ homegirl and you swoop in like the goddamn Batman of -- of what, boy, you need some --" She's fitting another arrow as she's talking. "-- better priorities. But then, I guess so did Batman." The flashlight connects with Isra's hand, but she hardly seems to notice. There is an excited edge to her snarl, her nostrils flaring as she scents blood--though really, most of the blood in the air is probably hers at this point. The long tail lashes wildly behind her. Her left wing snaps out from the cloak and smacks hard into Deanna's already injured arm. Her other wing intercepts the upward strike at her throat even as she lunges forward again, forcing other the woman back with her not inconsiderable strength and momentum. "Hey, I /got/ priorities, /chica/," Dusk answers, and there's a growl buried /under/ his words as the arrow rips straight through his wing that doesn't seem to interfere with his low laugh /or/ his speaking. "Yeah, okay, some stupid-ass mugger, you don't have to beat the crap out of the kid. He was --" He shakes his wing, a large flap of thin skin hanging loose from it and the wet patter of blood now joining the dry skitter-patter of brickdust below. "-- clearly outclass. But these are. Hard times." He swings his way up, now, onto Chloe's fire escape, torn-open wing hanging limp at his back even as his other whips out towards her, aiming to pin her back against the cold brick of the building. This next growl is less pained, more predatory, fangs baring. Though it's more fierce /grin/ than it is anger. "So how about we all just take a fucking step /back/ and re-evaluate our gorram /priorities/ here, huh?" Deanna's next hiss is more of a sharp grunted 'oof', the bone of Isra's wing connecting hard with her fingerless-gloved hand with a smacking crunch that sends her stumbling back. She holds her injured arm against her chest, cradling it there defensively with eyes narrowing as she transfers her flashlight to her other hand; she brings its hard-edged barrel up towards the thinner skin of Isra's wing in a jabbing plunge of a strike, breathing coming in rapid heavy panting through her scarf. "My priority," her words rasp, calm enough for all her breathing is heavy, "is these criminals staying out of our neighborhoods. Her shoulders hunch in protectively against her more-injured arm. Her eyes flick briefly up towards Chloe and Dusk on the fire escape. "Call off your dog." Chloe lowers her bow arm when Dusk hoists himself up with her, ranged weapon not particularly as effective at close range. Her hand is dropping to a long knife sheathed at her hip when Dusk's good wing presses in against her, and her breath catches sharply, eyes -- mostly all that can be seen of her face in heavy winter garb -- widening sharply. She presses back against the wall, tensed, heart racing against where Dusk's wing presses. "Okay, Batman, you got it. My priority's coming down pretty hard in favor of not dying today, anyway. C'mon. Take your boy and go. But mugging isn't /exactly/ a saint's pasttime either." Isra laughs--or at least the sound bears some remote resemblance to a laugh, though low and rough and not at all like a noise that human vocal chords should make. "Criminals? We're /all/ criminals now!" These words come out in her considerably more human high register, but layered over the growling laugh like some horror film interpretation of a woman possessed by demonic spirits. "Maybe you ought to get /yourselves/ out of 'your' neighborhood, no?" Her wing retracts when Deanna's flashlight connects with it, but Isra herself does not retreat. Her right hand comes back out, bloody now from the arrow which still juts from the cloak and latches onto the barrel of the flashlight itself. She takes another inexorable step forward, left wing mantling high over both of them, the huge talon at its apex ready to slash down. "Or do you only count the crimes of /freaks/?" Dusk's wing ripples behind him, in time with a low choked ripple of laughter that shudders out of him. He takes a slow sliding step back, and though the hard press of his wing loosens, it doesn't quite entirely relent in its press against her. His fangs stay bared, tongue flicking quickly across them, and one sharp upper thumbclaw stays pressed to Chloe's scarf-clad neck as a side-claw pinions the knife lightly to her side -- not tight, more like a /reminder/ that he hasn't forgotten it is /there/. "I don't think /any/ of us are claiming sainthood here tonight, Robin Hood." There's a quiet clicking echoing beneath his words, his hand reaching out for her bow, though he leaves her her arrows. "Please. After you." "Fucker stole my wallet, bitch. You expect me to feel bad about defending myself?" Deanna's fingers clamp down tighter around the barrel of her flashlight, jerking back this time with a sharp hard backwards yank of her hand, though this time she clicks the beam back down to a more muted level as she takes a sharp step backwards. "Because fuck you if you expect us to run scared of you in our our own homes." Initially Chloe stiffens, head tipping back as Dusk's claws press against her. Her hand tightens hard against her bow, but she relinquishes it with an unhappy grunt and turns to start making her way down the ladder. "Don't front, boy, you just want the nicer /view/." Isra releases the flashlight as Deanna steps back, right hand retracting beneath the cloak again. Her wings stay out, however, one mantled a bit lower than the other, a dark purple bruise already visible in the membrane. Injured or no, she has plenty of pointy ends and clearly little hesitation to use them. "I don't expect anything from /you,/" she replies, pulling her hood back up with her good hand. Luminous green eyes stay fixed on Deanna, unblinking. "But if you answer violence with violence, you should perhaps learn to expect more of the same." "It's an /excellent/ view." Not that Dusk's ogling or anything; his eyes are still barely even open as Chloe climbs down the ladder. But that odd clicking does follow her downward. He tosses the bow to her /before/ climbing down the ladder himself -- but not before /snapping/ its string in half with a seemingly effortless motion. His teeth are gritted in pain by the time he reaches the bottom, torn wing drooped limp against his back. "C'mon. My priorities are --" His head swings, eyes still mostly closed, towards the mouth of the alley. "Rapidly shifting. Charming as this dance has been." He /is/, oddly enough, still smiling, though his fanged teeth may easily be interpreted as snarl in their bared grin to Chloe. His good wing brushes against Isra's good shoulder, gentle touch, gentle /press/ back towards the exit. The boy who started all this is -- still out there, actually; though not actually in /sight/ at the moment, Dusk might be able to still sense him, heart racing, still bleeding, crouched out of sight around the corner. Deanna takes another step back towards the /opposite/ end of the alley, jerking her head that way to Chloe, though she /twitches/ at the snap of the bow's heavy string with a muttered, "-- fucker." Her arm is still cradled against her chest, flashlight beam turned down towards the floor. Chest heaving as she catches her breath. "All this town is is violence, these days. S'go home." Chloe /cringes/ like the demise of her bow-string physically pains her. She hops lightly down to the ground, lifting a hand to snatch the compound bow out of the air though she simultaneously ducks as she does so, having to half-dodge the trailing heavy ends of its string that threaten to whip her in the face, now, broken, as it is. "{Mother/fucker/.}" She takes a step back, and -- maybe she is ogling. With her /eyes/, as Dusk climbs down. And /thwacks/ him right in his ass with her bow. "This thing's my fucking baby." But she turns to follow Deanna's jerked nod, out towards the other end of the alley. "-- 'least I got a view of my own." Isra keeps her eyes on the two retreating women to the last, even while she follows Dusk's prompting. Her wings do relax, the injured one shrinking back under her cloak and the other snagging Dusk's coat from the ground. When she does not see the boy they rescued, her ears swivel and her nostril flutter, though a particularly deep inhalation causes her to flinch. Her good hand disappears beneath the cloak and comes back out a moment later bloody, though she does not look so much concerned as /annoyed/. "Shall we away to somewhere warmer?" "I think. We --" Dusk's good wing is shivering as he presses it up against Isra, steering out towards the end of the alley. His crippled one, half of its thin membrane simply gashed open and flapping downward, "-- could all do with that."