(fight night. warning: violent.)
<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 scent of blood is thick in the air. Floor a little tacky, air a little heavy. There's a tense stillness in the room -- for the moment. No cheers, no shouts; the spectators watching the current fight are quiet.
Quiet, too, the current fight/ers/. One tiny blue shark, barefoot, shirtless, dressed only in black lycra shorts, is crouched, webbed fingers braced against the bloodspattered floor. Not far away, another tiny blue shark -- barefoot, shirtless, dressed only in black lycra shorts -- scans the ceiling with enormous black eyes. Two pairs of gills press down flat, two sets of breaths caught with some amount of strain.
Up by the ceiling there's Kind Of A Blur. Flicker-shaped. A little more dressed -- black track pants, white short-sleeved tee. One of its sleeves hangs empty. Only one arm for the teleporter tonight. The shimmering blur-shape is rapidly tracking down-down-down. Flitting to land behind the standing twin. Two sharp-sudden snaps of bladed hand aimed at the long gills along their side.
Thing One is uncoiling, a swift sudden push off the ground, a heartbeat /before/ Flicker has touched down. Springing forward with claws outstretched toward their briefly stationary opponent. Thing Two growls, twisting sharply to snap teeth toward the arm that strikes at them. One leg swipes back, hooking toward Flicker's calf where he stands behind them.
Thing Two's teeth snap on nothing but air. The teleporter leaves only a faint ghostly image behind. Insubstantial. Sadly tasteless. Though a few droplets of red patter to the ground in his wake, Thing One's preemptive strike rewarded with the tearing of cloth, the hot fresh tang of blood. Flicker's breath catches sharp. He reappears behind -- in front of -- behind -- Thing One, each landing accompanied by a slam of fist.
This time the growl comes from Thing One. Their blood-flecked claws click down against the concrete; immediately they are pushing back off. Springing backwards after Flicker with a hard snap of foot towards -- somewhere about where his midsection has been. Their path is aborted by the strikes, spring cut off in a hard thud of fist into gut. Even as they fall they are twisting, clawing toward Flicker's calf.
Thing Two lunges, teeth bared again. Closing on Flicker's opposite side, as best they can gauge it in the blur of motion. Snap-chomp, a rapid slash of long claws, gouging in towards his side as their twin swipes towards his leg.
Another flutter. Thing One's foot hits against something -- not quite as heavily as intended, maybe, Flicker shifting already. Up -- down -- an arm hooks around the other twin's neck. Squeezing in tight against gills, against windpipe. Flicker's rapid jump brings a sharkpup with him. Toward the ceiling -- or into it, with a smack of head before dropping them back toward the ground. There's more blood -- dripped onto the floor, streaked on Thing Two's claws. But Flicker is moving still -- behind Thing Two now, driving a fist -- not toward their gut but straight into it, vanishing and reappearing (a lot bloodier) somewhere within Sharkpup midsection. Then out again.
Thing Two crumples. Wide-eyed; their growl truncated into a low ragged whine halfway through. Collapsed onto the floor, webbed hands pressed flat into a growing bloodslick, they are just -- dragging themselves off toward the side in search of Joshua. Thing One, dazed but pushing back to their feet, is diving toward Flicker just as he retrieves his bloodied fist from their twin's gut.
Yet again there is no Flicker /there/ at the end of the dive. There is one right behind the pup afterwards, though. Hand clamping down on their neck. Another jump -- and another -- and another, up up up against the ceiling. And back down -- to /place/ his somewhat limp cargo oddly gently in front of the healers.