ArchivedLogs:Fight Night

Fight Night
Dramatis Personae Shane, Sebastian, Peter, Parley, Jackson, Dusk, Isra, Regan, Joshua
In Absentia	2013-07-05 Is fight night! (part of fight club.)
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. The house upstairs is, for once, kind of busy! At least, it's getting a decent amount of traffic /through/ it -- to head to the kitchen, to use the bathroom. There's plenty of snacks in the kitchen, mostly of the solid and meaty sort. A lot of water. Gatorade. It's downstairs where the real noise is, though. At the moment, not so much /cheering/ as a tense watchfulness. Occasional meaty /smacks/ of flesh on flesh. Grunts of pain. Grunts of /aggression/. The basement has not changed much -- still stark and bare -- but today there are /people/ in it. For most of them, none too many really unfamiliar faces, almost the entirety of the group recruited here by the twins, though there are a couple unknowns. The woman currently /in/ the ring is familiar at least to Peter; Regan's hair has been tied back high off her face, and today she forgoes elegance to wear only a pair of black lycra shorts, a pink and black sports bra. She wears, also, a lot of /sweat/. A good number of developing bruises. Though perhaps not quite as many as her opponent -- Jackson's are harder to /see/, through no trick of illusion and more the simple fact that much of his skin is already brightly coloured. He's in shorts, too, no shirt, no shoes, and he's currently hissing out a sharp breath through his teeth, stumbling back away from a hard /knee/ that just connected with his ribs on his blind side. The area around the fight is currently host to a lot of very /bright/ flashes of light, dancing like sparks in the air with the connecting blow. Only the most recent of many. Regan is flagging, perhaps, but it's clear enough Jackson is flagging /harder/. There is a young, hyperactive boy wearing a dark red hoodie and luchador mask down here. The mask is unusual; a black, teardrop shaped outline around two buggy off-white lenses; for the mouth, there's an oval-shaped respirator in a slightly softer hue of scarlet. Peter's got the hood pulled up over it; at his waist, there's a small gray box clipped to his blue jeans that's making an unusual whirring sound. The getup's /pretty/ ridiculous, but even weirder are his hands -- dark, metallic blue chitin covers them, gleaming just a /little/ in the basement's light. There's also his weird -- /wrist/ things, like little watches. Peter's more or less just a bundle of energy right now; hopping from one foot to the other as he watches the match, his breathing fast and hard, occassionally coming out as a hiss when a particularly meaty smack connects with Jax. Though that absurd-looking mask of his makes it impossible to see his expression, everything in his posture screams tension; the hunch of his shoulders, the quickness with which he bobs -- even the tiny little jerks of his body just before a blow hits -- like he's trying to dodge and weave /for/ Jax. Fingers clench and unclench rapidly, worrying at his palms. Dusk is a lot less fidgety than Peter, crouched kind of gargoyle-like alongside the makeshift ring. He has shorts, too; no shirt to let his huge wings free. They're gargoyle-esque too, right now, only half mantled, curving large and batlike above him where he crouches. His eyes dart between Jackson and Regan, fingers braced against the concrete. His gaze lingers, perhaps, longer on Jax, never remaining on Regan very /long/ at a time. "Do you have to take that off before you fight?" he finally asks up to Peter, when the bobbing proves too much distraction. "I'm pretty sure /equipment/ isn't allowed." Beside Peter, Isra watches the fight with intense focus. Eyes blink rarely, tail twitches often, but the rest of her is almost completely motionless. This, together with batlike wings folded loosely at her back, digitigrade legs that end in talons, and ivory horns sprouting from her skull, give her the appearance of a remarkably detailed and incongruously dressed gargoyle statue. Her black sports bra seems like a pointless complication on an entirely flat chest, and her amethyst sarong, with complex geometric batik designs in the same precise shade of green as her eyes, does not seem like the sort of thing most people would wear to the gym. Pointed ears press back a little at the latest blow, but when she speaks it is to the other spectators. "Even were it allowed, I would not recommend it. New equipment should go through more exhaustive testing." She says this as if she expects /spreadsheets/ on said tests on her desk by morning. Regan's attention is, at the moment, quite consumed by her sparring partner in the ring. Jackson ducks out of the way of her next punch and -- then vanishes. Regan spins, throwing out a jab towards the sound of bare slapping footsteps that circle her and then staggering backwards at a sudden hard invisible blow. Stagger, stagger -- lots of stagger? There are suddenly two Regans, three Regans, four Regans where before there was one. All four of them circle, all four of them /listen/ -- there's a smile that spreads across all four of their faces at the next hasty footstep, the next rush of air in a punch that connects! With /one/ of the four. The other three descend on nothingness, striking hard. Invisibility fades back out into Jackson, teeth clenched, on his knees with /one/ Reganfoot thudding into his side. Another to his /face/. Another to his gut before Regans becomes Regan once more and he hisses out a quiet word that pulls her back. Examining him critically before she offers a hand up -- and over to where Joshua is observing with a faint thoughtfulness from the side. /She/ claims a towel. Mops at her face as she half-limps her way over to the others. "Are you," she addresses this to Dusk, "up for the next round?" "Oh," Peter says, head struggling a moment -- as if trying to decide whether to stay locked on the fight or swivel over to pay attention to Dusk's question: "I, uh, dunno nobody told -- /probably/," he admits, a little weakly. "I just wanted to see -- how it feels? Um. To wear it around a lot of people I don't -- know." At Isra's comment, Peter's head /does/ swivel, swinging to lock on her -- those big, opaque lenses of his freezing his face into this permanent bug-eyed stare. "Ohyeah," he says, a hand drifting down to the gray box at his side, "right now it's basically just -- a low-powered water pump I dump ice in. I'll take it off if I fight -- I, uh, probably shouldn't use--" A finger drifts to touch his thwippy things. Almost protectively! "--either they end fights /pretty/ quick." When Jax goes invisible, Peter snaps to attention, head immediately swiveling back to the fight -- when there are four Regans -- well, there's probably nothing anyone could say to make him stop watching. But when Jax re-appears -- on one knee -- Peter makes a tiny noise in his throat -- a little "--/ah/--". The clench in his shoulders unravels just a /little/ when Regan helps him up and he moves toward Joshua. But when she reaches for Dusk, Peter whirls on him: "Ohman /you're/ gonna fight?!" Peter asks, sounding -- equal parts excited and apprehensive. Dusk is rather riveted onto the fight, too. His wings shiver and tighten with each blow that lands -- on either of the fighters. His head tips downward when the fight ends, and when Regan actually addresses him his fingers press even harder against the floor. His wings fold in, tight against his back. "Think those count as equipment," he agrees, with a side-glance towards Peter's wrist things. "Unless they count as prosthetics. Wouldn't really make Micah fight without his /leg/." He seems to be ignoring Regan's question, eyes cutting across to where Jackson is getting tended by Joshua. But eventually he looks back up at the woman, a tightness in his jaw. "Of course I'm up for it," he answers, a slight tightness to his voice. He looks over past Peter at Isra, eyebrows lifting questioningly. "-- You in?" Standing further from the ring, with his back resting against the wall, is the subdued figure of Parley. Though less active about it, he's been observing with an intensity no less invested than the others; moments of invisibility and illusion in the combatants find his eyes shifting to specific points in the ring - and then scanning the other people in the room. Thus far, head has been tipped down, arms crossed, kind of just... lurking, really. Acclimating to the subtle flavor of the mind-states and subtle interpersonal communications in the room. Isra nods, a minute bob of horns and wings, and straightens to her full height of six-feet-and-change. Her eyes track over to Jax as she unfastens the sarong, beneath which she wears black cycling shorts modified to accommodate her tail, which is swishing back and forth rapidly now. She steps into the ring, settling down into a half-crouch with wings slightly spread for balance and watching Dusk's approach with oddly impassive eyes. Once her opponent appears ready and locks eyes with her, she tucks in her wings and springs--a little graceful but a lot awkward, too. Her right hand, each finger tipped with a thick, sharp claw, rakes at Dusk. Regan mops at her face some more, giving only a small somewhat satisfied nod when Dusk answers. She moves aside, but only to claim a bottle of water from where a case of them have been left. "You can't keep all that on," she tells Peter. "When you fight." She takes a long gulp of water, fingers absently probing at her ribs with a small wince, a sharp flare of twinging pain. What she thought was a bruise might actually be slightly cracked. She glances over towards Joshua, but is content to wait. She slings her towel over her shoulder, eyes tracking Dusk and Isra's motions. They linger longer on Dusk -- for him there is a quiet appraisal in her mind. Almost approval. Not quite. Her eyes scan the room, too, drifting around the people watching with the same thoughfulness she gave the ring. "Is the mask really necessary, here?" she finally asks. "There's an element of trust in getting into the ring with you. Harder, to extend to someone who's trying to hide." Oh -- oh is that him? That's him she's talking to. Peter snaps to attention again when Regan speaks to him; at the mention of whether or not the mask is necessary, he is suddenly /clawing/ at his own head to take it off. "Ohsorry, uh, I mean sorry, I just -- sorry," he says. TUG TUG TUG. Apparently the mask is /connected/ to...? Oh, right. Peter reaches behind his head, and there's a /click/ as something is yanked out; when he removes the mask, a tiny USB cord is dangling from its back end. "--just, um. Kind of -- things keep going wrong in the city? So I like. I always like. To be prepared. Um. Sorry," he offers, /again/. His eyes are intent on Dusk, then -- back to Isra, eyebrows /zooming/ up. "You're -- ohman," he says, getting a little more quiet -- eyes taking a moment to drift back to Jackson and Joshua, nose wrinkling. The mask is -- /shoved/ into his hoodie's pocket. Roughly. Dusk is quick to rise, quick to follow Isra into the ring. He has a quiet exhilaration that comes with entering it, and this pushes aside the feelings he'd had a moment before (exhaustion, anger, /guilt/) but there's an /apprehension/ there, too. It's direction -- oddly less at his opponent. More at Regan. With a faint undercurrent note of /seeking/ that approval she isn't quite feeling. His wings stretch. There isn't room down here for them to stretch fully, at least not without thwapping some of the spectators in their faces, so it isn't long before they curl back in against his back. A moment later, he looks back at Isra, meeting her eyes. There's a sudden baring of teeth when she springs -- a /smile/, sharp and bright. He shifts back, just a little to the side as his arm swings up hard, forearm aimed for hers in a hard block. "Smoother," is said low, half through his teeth, "and you have other weapons you don't --" One hand is curling into a fist, driving in from his sidestepped angle towards Isra's ribs. His /wing/ is flicking out, too, though, as he does this. A sharp snap that flicks one wingtip towards the backs of her legs -- the slim flexible wing isn't really designed for power but the sharp clawed tips still carry their own dangers in the fast swipe. "-- need to jump. For the obvious." << (hm.) >> Parley touches indistinct alongside Joshua's mind, like a faint brush of smoke here and gone. << (she/Regan)(might) have a (cracked rib.) >> It's not said as a definite, but comments distantly all the same. And a moment after, absently. << (hides it well.) >> He's darting his eyes thoughtfully between Regan and Dusk. Until things become /active/ once more. Isra manages to put an arm in the way of the punch--if only barely--as she swivels to face Dusk, but the force of the blow still throws her off. Her tail whips out to maintain balance, but her wings flail haphazardly as she staggers back and drops into an even lower stance. The tip of Dusk's wing cuts across the side of her calf, and blood seeps down to stain the white athletic bandages around her ankles crimson. She bares sharp fangs but makes no sound--not even a hiss--pupils dilating rapidly as long-practiced calm begins to fragment. Her left hand rakes, low this time, and the huge black talon tipping the thumb of her right wing lashes at Dusk's flank. << Should've seen what Taylor did to the twins last week, >> Joshua offers back in quiet -- amused? -- reply to Parley. It sounds disinterested but his eyes swivel, taking cataloguing stock of Regan as his hand lingers on Jax's shoulder. Sponging up damage to leave bruises -- well, still kind of bruised but considerably /less/ so. Less garish. Less prone to forcing a day off /work/ the next day. << You fighting? >> Regan is watching the fight. Watching /Dusk/ in the fight, one arm crossing over her chest carefully. Her fingers curl around her opposite bicep. "Things in the city have been horribly wrong," she agrees with Peter. "There's nothing wrong with being prepared. But if anyone comes /here/ to cause trouble --" Her lips curl into a small smile, reserved though it comes with an undercurrent flare of sharp -- glee? Like such an attack would be a /challenge/. She watches the winged pair in the ring. Watches Joshua over with Jax. Curls her fingers harder against her arm. "This just isn't a good place for that." "Oh man," Peter agrees with Regan, a little quietly -- although judging by the agitation on his face, he's not agreeing for the same /reasons/. "Yeah no somebody would --" The hood is still drawn up, hiding a good portion of Peter's face; his eyes are locked on the fight. A quiet tssss at the cut Dusk scores on Isra, and... A quick, nervous glance toward Regan, before -- back to the fight. "--if someone saw this they'd probably think -- after that whole train thing, and the City Hall thing, I guess. It'd be hard," he admits, eyebrows suddenly grinding together, "to get everyone out safe." The look on his face as he watches the fight is one of intense thought; like right now he's trying to figure out exactly how he'd /do/ it. Dusk's wing snaps up to intercept hers -- successful, although only middling so. The talon slashes instead at its thin membrane, cutting raggedly into it instead of his flank. His teeth clench at the rake of claws against his belly, and he drives a knee upward as Isra sinks downward, aimed up hard towards her chin. The scent of blood in the air -- from her calf, from his stomach -- only makes his teeth bare further still. It's still with a fierce kind of /joy/ but now it is more determined, too. Both wings snap down and in, claws raking towards her sides. << (...) >> Parley seems to nearly answer Joshua, then quiets for a few beats. And answers, a trace self-aware humor. << (...maybe)(...when no one else is watching.) >> "Even then," he speaks for possibly the first time since the fights started, quietly, from his place against the wall. But even quietly, it could almost be jarring, when it breaks his psychic camouflage. "It would likely damage the credibility of the fight footage Stark released." There's no criticism in his tone - just idle statement. His eyes haven't left the fight as it progresses, eyes narrowing, head leaning forward to catch small details, how Isra's legs shift, the baring of Dusk's teeth. Isra hops backward, propelled as much by coiled-spring legs as a single beat of her wings, but Dusk's knee still clips her chin. This throws her head back--the tip of one caprine horn actually leaving a long scratch in her /own/ wing--and her wings flap once again to right herself. Blood trickles from her lip, drips from her chin while she is still airborne. She lands unsteadily, turned away from Dusk far enough to avoid /half/ of his two-pronged attack, but the left hand she blocks with catches a talon in the webbing between thumb and index finger. The sharp pain shatters the impartial observer mask she has been wearing. A low growl forces its way up from deep inside her. Lips parting in a bloody grin, she surges forward--long clawed toes digging into the mat--and /tackles/ Dusk, leveraging his wing using the talon still lodged in her left hand. << Hard to fight, >> Joshua muses, << when nobody else is watching. >> Though this comes with an also-amused memory-clip of the /actual/ Fight Club movie. Edward Norton beating himself up. Except in his mind it has become Parley. He gives Jax's shoulder one last squeeze, delivers a bottle of water and a protein bar to the photokinetic, and then makes his way across the room. Whatever communication happens between him and Regan happens silently; her arm drops from her ribs in wordless acquiescence. His touch comes with an initial /increase/ rather than alleviation of pain as bone starts knitting itself back together. "Yes, that would be a shame," Regan answers Parley dryly, "because that has already done so much to restore balance to the city." She still watches the fight, but then drops her eyes down to Peter. "Do you have any idea how many gyms and dojos around the city have rather similar happenings going on -- likely right this minute? Except most of these people wouldn't be allowed in. Other people's fears are a pretty terrible guide to run anyone's life by. But if," she will allow, with her eyes lowering further, teeth clenching as Joshua works, "someone did come. They might have a harder time getting out safe than most of us." Peter grimaces at the sight of blood; there's an image in his head of Isra -- so neat, so prim, so proper, so informed and level-headed in Xavier's workshop -- now transposed upon the image of her bloodied grin, growling, lunging -- a similar image of Dusk, on a rooftop, giving out a hug within those warm wings -- now fighting, bloody and happy. The conflicting images don't /frighten/ him, but they seem to make him worried; he squirms in place. "--ohman. I don't think," Peter mentions, suddenly straightening a little, eyes still not leaving the fight, "that anybody fighting in /those/ places would be able to, uh. Compete with some of the people /here/." There's /maybe/ a flicker of something there; tinypride? 'People here' is directed at Isra and Dusk, entangled -- but it's also partly directed at himself. The twins, teeth and claws sharp. Even Jax and Regan, briefly -- though the former more than the latter. "--and yeah I'd be worried about -- some of -- um. It'd be hard," he just repeats, "to get everyone out safe." "Kssssh," Dusk /hisses/ sharp as Isra collides with him. The wing not currently stuck in her hand flares out instinctively to help break the fall although here -- not /falling/ so much as being /tackled/ -- it doesn't really accomplish much save to slam that wing down against the ground when he lands. His other wing jerks, talon flexing /down/ deeper before yanking away. He doesn't fight the tackling, really; instead his head comes up, fangs flashing before chomping down hard, straight towards Isra's neck. Parley only shrugs a shoulder absently to Regan's reply, making no argument. His eyes open a little further, gaze focusing in with interest when Dusk goes for the bite. Admitting a little wearily to Joshua, << (i more mean)(that i wouldn't even know)(how to begin) >> He considers each of the other people present in the room. << (so much to learn.)(even just watching.) >> Though filled with a predator's glee, Isra clearly has not thought this through very well. Her wings start to flap, then retract quickly as they begin to topple. She throws her weight forward as though expecting Dusk to try to push her away, her tail lashing wildly. When he comes at her with /fangs/, it is purely reflex that throws her left arm--already bloody--in the way. "An intact artery," Joshua answers. << For now, >> is unspoken; his hand stays on Regan, still quietly working, but his eyes are /riveted/ onto the two in the ring. Alert and ready. << You begin -- >> He watches Dusk and Isra still, careful. << By hurting the other person. >> Regan considers Peter's worry, considers the exits around them. "Yes," she allows in the end, quiet and with a slight crease of brows that does not match her inward quiet amusement, "Getting /everyone/ out safe could be a challenge." She looks down to the twins. "You have not been up, tonight." "Oh/crap/," Peter says -- but it is husky and low, just a sharp sudden whisper at the sight of Dusk's throat-lunge -- and for a moment, Peter's whole body snaps forward -- like he's actually thinking about /charging/ in the midst of the fight. To /do/ something. But he holds himself back; fingers squeezing deeper into his palms. His brows are crinkled into a deep valley; his mouth twisted into a line of apprehensive concern. "...yeah no I," Peter says, a little breathlessly as he watches the fight, "I'm not -- it's been a while since I had to -- um." There's a brief mental flash; streaks of blue, blood-stained claws, teeth -- lashing out inside of a cage. "--there aren't a lot of people I can just -- let loose on." A vision of Peter HURLING Shane at a wall. Hard enough to break bones. And Shane just -- bounces. When Isra's arm comes up instead, Dusk gladly bites into /that/ instead. He goes this time for the long vein in her wrist, teeth aimed not so much to sink as to /tear/. His wing folds up when hers retract, aiming to curl in around her -- hold /her/ close in place rather than trying to pull away himself. It is clear from the unchecked ferocity of his biting that he does not /want/ to extricate himself from this tangle. The proximity of the blood leaking from her arm only drives him to seek more. Parley's attention drifts for a moment to the back of Peter's head, when his mind fills up with snap-images of brawling, then looks back to watching Dusk begin to envelop Isra within the expanse of his wings. << (so i've seen.) >> His breath is even, slow, the tendons down the sides of his throat stand out. Then recede. Then stand out. The intensity of the battle is welcomed in. It dilutes his own presence in pulses, only expanding subtly the wordless language of combat into the room. Realizing her mistake a just moment too late, Isra unfolds her wings and tries to push /herself/ away. Her mind does not even seem to register the pain of her wounds; it does not seem to register /anything/ now except for attack and counter-attack. It is soon apparent that her wing muscles are nowhere near as strong as her opponent's, and his wings close in around them both. Still, this at least gives herself the room to backhand Dusk--courting sharp fangs yet again with the same hand that is now bleeding quite profusely, since her other arm is holding her up. She follows up the relatively weak strike by slamming her forehead into Dusk's. There is a sudden /appearance/ of tiny blue sharktwins where there was not before. Not particularly stealthy, really, actually. They just wander over from where they /had/ been watching the fights from across the room, trading quiet commentary with Taylor. They look much as they have all summer. Cargo shorts (one pair khaki, one pair black), ribbed plain tank tops (one black, one white). Shane, in black top, khaki pants, has additionally the presence of a wide red fabric collar buckled around his gills; he's stiff and a little slow as he sinks down to a crouch alongside Peter. Silent. Watching. Sebastian is watching with still more rapt attention. Lips slightly parted, black eyes wide. He rests his hand on Shane's shoulder, fingers curling down in a grip that is -- almost bruisingly hard. "You can let loose," he eventually says to Peter. "On us," Shane's teeth bare, more grimace than smile. Regan huffs out a quiet breath through her nose. "I suppose that's what this place is here for." Joshua finally drops his arm from her, moving a short distance away to just -- watch. A little more tired than before, posture a little more drooping. He draws in a slow breath, arms folding across his chest. << -- and don't get hurt yourself, >> he adds so /helpfully/. With a small thin quirk of smile and a glance, more answer comes to Shane alone: << Feels like he already has. >> "Do you often /want/ to let loose?" Regan asks Peter, then. "--ssh. Are they--" Peter begins, just watching with wide-eyed tension as Dusk and Isra become entwined, tearing and clawing and ripping. He's positively /squirming/, now. "--is this safe should we -- nobody's going to /die/, right?" Toes clench. When Shane and Sebastian arrive, some of the tension immediately melts out of Peter; his head darts down to deliver a quick peck to the top of Shane's head. "--mmf," Peter responds, smiling a little at the offer, despite Shane's grimace. When Regan asks that question though, his eyes sling back to her, and -- there's a brief flicker of violet in his features, his eyes glancing back to Shane's stiff posture, and then -- back to the fight. "...sometimes," Peter says, very quietly. Dusk's wings only close tighter when they feel Isra's trying to stir. The backhand only earns a soft chuff but he growls low at the slam of head to his; his head thunks back against the floor in sudden disorientation. The grip of his wings weakens slightly before one slips -- or seems to slip, shifting a little bit to the side. Only, really, to shift one of the large black thumb-claws towards the side of Isra's neck after she goes in for that headbutt, slashing down hard and fast where his fangs failed to sink before. It's a large artery, that that claw severs. There is very abruptly a /lot/ of blood; the slice comes with a very /abrupt/ loosening of his wings, a very abrupt mental summons: << /Josh/ >>. His chest is heaving beneath the -- slumping unconscious body of his opponent. With teeth still bared, some of the blood dripping down glistens bright against his fangs. His tongue darts out, swiping across his lips to clean them, and his hand lifts to clap against the opened artery in Isra's neck. << (i'll remember that.) >> Parley's answer to Joshua is grave and uninflected. A warm health has spread across his cheeks, and his eyes close now, lowering his head. And he translates, simply, for the rest of the room: "It's over." "Yeah no fucking /shit/," Shane chuffs out at this translation, his eyes suddenly wide to match Sebastian's and a sharp reflexive thrill of -- anxiety? excitement? both? spiking through him as he watches (smells) (feels) the sudden spurt of blood. His head swivels, watching Joshua /suddenly/: "-- dude --?" A very tiny /whine/ sounds in Sebastian's throat. It sounds hungry. His fingers dig down harder into Shane's shoulder. Shane closes his eyes, anxiety or excitement both quelling to only a soft quiet when Sebastian's hand tightens against him. "S'cool," he says softly, "Josh'll --" He tips slightly to the side, leaning a shoulder up against Peter's legs. "Yeah." Sebastian is a little breathless. In him there is only an accentuated hunger, sharp and heady. And to Peter: "Joshua's strong. Nobody's going to die." "Nobody's --" This is as much answer as Joshua gives to Peter before that mental summons. It's perhaps at least somewhat reassuring that he doesn't respond to it with /panic/; years in emergency medicine have made him pretty adept at hurrying calmly. He is at their side in a second, setting a hand against Isra's back. Under Dusk's hand, the torn flesh of her throat is already knitting itself back together, the flow of blood slowing. His other hand rests hard against the floor, bracing himself. "No," Regan is soft and doesn't sound alarmed or panicked or really anything past quietly thoughtful. "We're not in the business of death, here." Her regard as she watches Dusk ticks just a hair closer to approval. "Safe? I'm not sure how much is safe. It's a place to practice. Out there," she gestures towards the far back door, "pulling your punches can get you killed. Here you can fight like you mean it. And everyone walks away whole afterwards." It's probably a good thing that the twins are suddenly reassuring him, because when that first spurt of blood flies, Peter is as taut as a rubber band stretched to the breaking point -- he's ready to /bolt/ forward and just web /everything/. He sucks in a breath as Joshua strides into the midst of the ending battle and starts doing his thing; he forces his weight back onto the balls of his feet and reaches to grab a fistful of Shane; it ends up being his hair. A slight flush later, and his posture sinks a bit, reaching instead for -- Shane's /other/ shoulder. Leaving him now firmly gripped by Sebastian /and/ Peter. "...I don't think," Peter admits, "anybody ever walks away from a fight /whole/--" He pauses, before adding, much more hesitantly: "--um but alive. Alive is good. I'm fine with alive." There is quite a /bit/ of blood pooling on Dusk's chest, quite a bit turning his whole hand slick and red. For a moment when he looks at it there is a sharp sick /wrench/ of guilt that -- oddly has nothing to do with the slumped body atop him. He closes his eyes, head thunking back again, and is quiet. Waiting. Kind of thoughtlessly licking blood off his fingers. Only once Joshua has sealed up the worst of the injury does he move, curling an arm around Isra's body as he wriggles himself out from under her, blood streaked down his chest. His teeth are gritted, definite pain in his expression, but he curls an arm around her, helping Joshua carry her off to the side to continue his work. No commentary comes from the far back of the room, where Parley stands. His mouth is a thin, thoughtful line, watching the myriad reactions of those watching as much as the quick, efficient handling of the aftermath, running thumb pad over fingertips. "Were you gonna fight?" Shane tips his head back to look over at Parley. He is getting calmer -- less for Joshua's hasty response and more for the /two/ hands now squeezing down on him. His eyes close, breathing slowing. Sebastian looks at Peter, his jaw tightening. His gills are quivering, restless, and he is /trying/ to ignore the thick smell of blood in the air. "I don't think," he says, quietly, "that anyone who'd come /here/ --" "-- is whole to begin with," Shane finishes for him, eyes still closed. Regan's eyes close at this commentary from the twins, her smile thinning. "Alive, then," is what she says, thinner and dryer. "And that much more prepared to /stay/ alive when you leave here." "...mmf," is Peter's only response, to the comment from the twins; he reaches, shifting -- stepping behind Shane, one hand still squeezing at his shoulder -- his other hand reaching out to squeeze at Sebastian's shoulder -- forming a circle of /shoulder/ squeezes. With a tiny, hesitant smile. Tense! But present. "I bet you'll feel a little better," Peter offers with a surprising amount of cheer, "after you try to beat me up." Parley's dark eyes track back to Shane when he's addressed, watching the trio of young men pack in close together with a down-and-up sweep of his eyes, then on to Regan, others beyond. "...I'm not sure how much of a fight I could offer--." His fingers continue to shift, thumbpad tracking along the crescent lines of his fingernails. "-- Theeeen I guess just stand around and don't fight," Shane answers with a snort and a look back away, "that's productive." Sebastian's fingers dig harder into his shoulder. "/What/," Shane is rolling his eyes, hard as it is to tell with no change of pigment to mark pupils, "it's not like anyone didn't know what this /was/ before coming." "The point," Sebastian says this more gently than his brother's dismissive tone, "is to get better. It's hard to do that only watching and not getting involved." Shane says nothing, slowly relaxing beneath the squeeze of fingers and letting it push him into quiet. "Did /you/ want a go, then?" Sebastian murmurs to Peter, his eyes fixing on the blood in the middle of the room. The suggestion comes with uncertainty that cuts in sharp and guilty to his anticipation. The last time he fought Peter it -- ended badly. "I did know a person who could learn any physical activity just by watching it," Regan says, thoughtfully, "-- Muscle mimic. But, ah, yes, without such aids, there's not really any way to learn except by doing." She glances between the others, and then turns -- moving a little /stiffly/, still -- to head over to check in with Dusk and Joshua and their unconscious patient. "You can read intentions, right?" Peter asks Parley, suddenly. "Interpret. You could--" His cheeks color a hint of violet, as if suddenly embarassed to have mentioned this to Parley; this idea has /probably/ already occurred to Parley himself. "...fighting's kinda like. A really, um, aggressive debate. You could, learn to de-escalate. Non-verbally? I dunno." Sebastian's question prompts a firmer /squeeeeze/ from Peter, followed by a grin, and: "Sure." Then, as if detecting that faint hint of uncertainty: "I'm not scared. I trust you." Then, maybe just a little, ah, semi-anxiously: "You /have/ eaten right?" That's /supposed/ to be a joke. The mention of muscle-mimicry gets Peter's attention briefly, eyes flicking toward Regan as she retreats; he does not, however, elaborate on /why/ it interests him. "But." Parley's brows draw together uncertainly at Shane, and it remains in place as Sebastian and Regan chime in. "-I never said-- I wasn't--..." But Sebastian has turned attention to Peter, and Regan has walked away, and the running of thumbpad over fingers ceases. The vague preoccupation involved with this movement drags back his eyes to Peter with some breed of surprise. It eases the tension in his forehead. "--that. Is possibly true." Peter may flush for suggesting it, but Parley is openly internalizing, eyes lowering. "I've done similar in - fencing. But. I don't even..." He's experimentally watching his fingers fold into a fist, though his thumb doesn't seem sure where to specifically set itself in the confederation. Then he also snorts, and says with a dismissal that matches well with Shane's, "I guess it doesn't matter." "He's eaten." It may be a joke but Shane answers it with intense seriousness. His eyes cut back to Parley, but with no these first replies not actually /finished/ they drop away again soon. "But I'll get uh. A steak. To distract him if he gets too bitey." Thiiis part may not be serious. Sebastian exhales a heavy huff. It might be a laugh, it might not be. "I don't know about your metaphor," he decides after listening to Peter's suggestion, "but it does sound like -- what you do," to Parley, now, "-- would come in handy for sure." He is peeling off his shirt. Dropping it onto Shane's head. His cheeks color darker when Peter says he trusts him; it comes with a small flush of warmth, too. But also one of guilt. "-- Maybe," he says instead, hand resting on Shane's head to curl his fingers back into his discarded shirt, "we should do this another night." "There's meat upstairs," Peter mentions all /helpfully/. A slight twitch of Peter's eyebrow as he glances to Parley, then quirks a slight grin at Sebastian: "--yeah okay most uh. Most debates don't involve. Biting. Though," he adds, with a bob of his head, "yeah you know he's actually got this -- thing -- he's hard to notice? Like I keep -- /forgetting/ he's there. Sometimes." The way Peter says this, it sounds like something he's not accustom to. There's a sliiiight flush of color at the removal of Sebastian's shirt; another squeeze at Shane's shoulder -- Peter reaches for the grey box hooked to his jeans, unlatching it with a click. "--hn? Is it the blood?" he asks, suddenly. Glancing back to that splotch of redness, then back to Shane and Sebastian. "...Possibly," Parley says quietly to Sebastian, still looking thoughtfully down at his knuckles - if this were a different era, he'd appear as though he were looking at his /watch/ right now. But who wears /those/ anymore. From here, possibly on some rising thought, he glances off in a different direction, across the room. And then -- right about now seems intent to /confirm/ Peter's comment, because he's extracting himself wordlessly as the boys continue to interact. Watch out, if you glance at him as he leaves, you'll likely get a tightening of mouth and a small bob of the head. But he's got things to consider. Off he goes. "Yeah --" It's distracted, absent-thoughtful in response to Peter's explanation. Sebastian /does/ watch Parley go, with a very faint frown. Shane does not. He is busy instead tugging the t-shirt off his head because with it still on there he cannot really glance at much of anything. "The blood /does/ smell good," he says, "but you should still." He turns his head, looking over at Isra, unconscious. At Dusk. He draws in a slow breath. "I think you scared him off," Sebastian chides in a quieter voice once Parley has moved away, frowning down at his brother. Shane shrugs a shoulder. "Not my fault if he scares easily. It's not like we didn't tell him what --" Another shrug. "If he comes back, he can /actually/ fight next time." "If." Sebastian exhales a slow breath. His fingers knead at Shane's shrugging shoulder, harder; his claws prickle down against his brother's shoulder. His eyes close. Then open again, to glance sideways at Peter. "-- I just don't know if," he says, lower but steady, "you should trust me." The last comment from Sebastian gives Peter pause -- but then, he's reaching down to pull his own hoodie up and over his head. There's a wealth of plastic tubing underneath it, looped over his shoulders and torso; it takes a moment for him to pull this maze off of himself and throw it to the floor. Underneath, there's nothing but black-blue chitin, gleaming in the light -- and his thwippy things. Which, for a moment, he hesitates over -- before, /very/ reluctantly, taking them off and sliding them into his pockets. "I trust you," Peter repeats, more firmly. "And if -- something goes wrong. I trust Shane. And if -- that doesn't work, I trust myself. And if /that/ doesn't work," Peter finishes, "I trust -- Joshua." The violet lingers. "I'll be fine. There's a lot of people I trust, here."