ArchivedLogs:Colorful Target
| Colorful Target | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2015-04-15 Veronica has a "talk" with Tag. (Warning: blood, violence.) (Immediately followed by calling Joshua.) |
| Location
<NYC> Chio-Shui Hair Salon - Chinatown | |
The alleyway behind the tiny hair salon is narrow, empty save for a dumpster, and unexpectedly colorful. About a third of the exposed bricks on the walls to either side have been painted a vast array of different colors, randomly distributed. Uneven concrete steps lead up to the back door of the establishment, beside which sits an ancient celadon urn full of cigarette butts. It's just past sunset on a lovely warm day in Chinatown, and the Chio-Shui hair salon has closed for the day. The outer iron-grate door opens and Tag backs out, pulling the inner door shut behind him and locking it with considerable difficulty. He wears a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black slacks, and black canvas shoes. Also glossy black, his hair hangs almost to his shoulders, and flickers of rainbow hues have begun to creep up from the tips, as if the colors of the alley are seeping into him. He closes the outer door and trots down the stairs, stooping to unlock his electric blue bike from the rusted iron railing. Veronica steps out from behind the dumpster. She's wearing a dark blue denim jacket and blue jeans with scuffed black boots and fingerless black gloves. "Hey," she says, "we need to talk." "Oh, hi!" Tag twists around to look up at the girl speaking to her, not seeming particularly startled by her sudden appearance. "{Sorry,} do I know you?" He flashes a bright smile all the same. "And what'd we need to talk about, now?" "I know what you are." Veronica says, moving closer. "Get out of this neighborhood and don't come back. You're not welcome here." Her eyes are cold and her hands flex open and closed at her sides. “I’m not sure what you think I am, but I just work here now.” Tag speaks calmly, though his eyes flick to his bike lock, perhaps assessing how quickly he might get it undone. “This was my neighborhood once, and I love it. Don’t want any trouble, for me or anyone else.” He slides one of his feet back slightly and turns it, widening and stabilizing his stance, though he makes no aggressive overtures. "Way I see it, you /are/ trouble." Veronica glares at Tag, watching his gaze shift. "So I guess you can't always get what you want." She lunges forward and aims a jab at his head before she even finishes the sentence. Tag lifts a hand to block the blow, shifting his weight back onto his trailing leg to ensure he does not lose his balance from the knockback. "Seems to me like /you're/ the trouble here." He makes an open-palm strike at her solar plexus, seeking to push her back. Veronica turns aside to dodge the palm strike, and it glances off of her chest. "{Pervert} she accuses, not sounding very indignant. She continues pushing into Tags space when he backs up, lifting her knee to slam it into his crotch. The knee to the groin, at least, connects more or less solidly. Tag barely even flinches. "{Maybe you don't really know what I am, after all.}" He plants his feet and shoves the girl hard, making ready to flee. "I know you're a mutant." Veronica brings one hand down on Tag's elbow to collapse it. "Just like your dad." The grimace on her face twists into a mask of rage. She swings a fist at his throat. At mention of his father, Tag freezes for just the slightest fraction of a second. Long enough, though, for the punch to find its mark. He staggers, coughing violently and trying to blink teary eyes clear. His black clothes suddenly bleed to white, which color spreads outward from him like a shock front, bleaching everything in its path: the pavement, the railing, his bike, and even his opponent. Veronica was already moving forward to press her advantage when things start turning white. "What the fuck is this shit?!" she snarls, looking just a little frightened. And then she's shoving Tag up against the railing. There's suddenly a knife in her hand, it's blade matte except for the thin silver line marking the edge, slicing up toward Tag's abdomen. Tag's eyes go wide when the knife comes out. "Oh no please don't--" His plea is cut short by a strangled cry. The knife goes stark white when it touches his shirt, and then both shirt and knife turn vivid crimson. The scent of blood blooms bright as steel in the warm, fetid spring air. He collapses against the railing, pushes at the knife, at the hand wielding it, probably only exacerbating the injury. The spreading white around him starts to fluctuate, receding in some directions and accelerating in others. Veronica looks Tag in the eyes, twists the knife once, and pulls it free. The white stain that has already climbed halfway up her jeans suddenly shoots up further, and she retreats hastily, but not fast enough to keep it from reaching her face. She freezes for a moment, blank white eyes rolling back and forth. Then she puts the knife away with shaky hands and heads deeper into the labyrinth of back alleys, one arm braced against the wall. Tag slides down the railing to the ground, one hand pressed to the hole in his gut and the other reflexively clutching at his bike to keep himself upright. Blood pours from between his fingers, arterial red. He lets go of the bike, promptly falling onto his side and freeing a hand to reach for his phone...which is not the pocket on that side. "/Gan,/" he whimpers, struggling onto his knees in a fetal curl and reaching into his other pocket with a gory red hand. The phone slips from his grasp as soon as he pulls it out, but at least it lands screen-up. It takes him four tries to unlock the device, his breath growing quick and shallow all the while. He finally manages to open his contact list and jams a finger down on Joshua's name until it dials. | |
