ArchivedLogs:Keep Winning

Keep Winning
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Ion, Isra, Munch, Kay	2013-08-13 (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
This church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. It's dark -- late at night, though with the police's current reticence to escalate violence around the church, this is more a product of Dusk having been /partying/ well into the nighttime than a product of any particular desire for cover of Deep Night. Still, it /is/ well into the small hours of night when a dark winged shape /swoops/ down from the rooftop of a nearby building, winging his way to the roof of St. Martin's church. An old church, it already plays host to a few stone gargoyles keeping vigil on the roof; if nobody looks /up/ to see the brief dark silhouette against the sky, it could be easy to not even notice anything but that the church suddenly has /another/ batwinged shape perching stony-still on the rooftop. Except this one is carrying a large boxy /cooler/ slung by a strap around his neck. Not usual gargoyle attire. Nor are his denim shorts or v-neck stripey t-shirt or Vans sneakers. Dusk's wings pull in against his shoulders, fingers gripping the edge of the roof as his eyes turn skywards. Balanced at the edge of the high-rise roof, Isra cants her head as one way and then the other. Beneath the leathery drape of her wings, she wears a dip-dyed linen wrap dress, deep blue at the points of its handkerchief hem and fading up to white where it cris-crosses her chest and back. A summer of intensive training has filled out her lanky frame, the muscle bulk especially evident on shoulders and arms. There is a species of awkward grace in her half-crouching stance, digitigrade legs flexed and long, taloned toes gripping the concrete. Her eyes, luminous green in the darkness, follow Dusk's progress for a few moments before she takes up her cargo with little apparent effort. She tucks her wings in, crouches low, then springs, powerful legs propelling her up and forward. Just before reaching the apex of the leap, she snaps her wings out to their full span, some twelve feet and change. With a few flicks of her tail, she straightens out into a silent glide on the cool night air. Heavier than she is used to, she sheds altitude quickly, but not quickly enough. She banks gently and circles wide, descending toward the roof of the church. On this second pass, a few meters from Dusk, she rights herself a little in the air and mantles her wings, an intentional stall. She drops down, her inhuman legs absorbing the shock aided by a single upward stroke of her wings. She goes still for a moment, watching and listening--just another gargoyle on the roof. Then her eyes flick to Dusk, whom she gives a quick nod to indicate she is ready to follow. Dusk's eyes are riveted on Isra through her whole glide; his muscles tensed and ready to spring. He doesn't spring, though, just smiling quick and sharp when Isra lands. His eyes flick out around the city around them, and then back to Isra. There's a long moment where he just stays crouched, fingers curling against the stone, but then slowly he unfolds himself and rises. Walking along the roof is a precarious venture, not simple and flat like the apartment rooftops but sloped. He stays on the stone at its edge, wings shifting slightly to help him keep his balance as he makes his way to a skylight roof, prying it open to gesture inside. He doesn't /head/ inside just yet, instead watching Isra to make sure she is following. Preferably without toppling off the roof. Isra's clawed feet are in many ways better suited to negotiating uneven surfaces than paved ones, and the darkness poses little obstacle to her vision. She, however, has led a life in flatland, and continually tries to walk on the ancient church roof as though it were merely an inclined sidewalk. At least twice she nearly loses her footing, and must whip tail and wings out wide to recover. By the time she makes it to Dusk's side, she appears to have gotten the hang of it. By her breathing, though, the walk has winded her more than the flight. She crouches down beside the open skylight, peering in to assess their entrance. "I do not suppose anyone knows we are coming?" This quietly, and without much evident concern. "Nope. Just, uh, watch out for -- sudden fireballs." Dusk settles the strap of his cooler more comfortably over his shoulder, glancing down through the skylight for just a moment. But then he shrugs one wing, and slides down to sit on its edge, and then drop himself through. The ensuing thud of footsteps against wood is quieter than it might have been without wings to slow his fall. "Attic," he calls back up to Isra, "Low ceiling, it's not too long a drop but you'll have to watch your head in here." Even Dusk is stooping, under this lower part of the sloped roof. Isra gathers limbs ands wings close and disappears into the skylight. Her landing is less thuddy and more /scrabbly/, talons automatically trying to find purchase on the floor. Forewarned about the low ceiling, she remains in a half-crouch that would be superbly uncomfortable for a human-shaped person. Her tail swishes, slow and rhythmic, as she stalks after Dusk. "At the very least, no one will mistake us for law enforcement." "Hey, I look totally official. My..." Dusk looks down at himself; in the dim attic light, his dark eyes take on a yellow shine. "... pants are blue." Well, OK, jean shorts, but who's counting? Once Isra is inside, he closes the roof window and proceeds further in, heading for the first door he sees. "I know Kay. So hopefully that'll also help with the not-getting-torched." The door turns out to be a closet, oops. Try again! The /second/ door he picks opens onto stairs down into the rest of the church. He draws a deep breath, glancing back at Isra and then proceeding down. It is probably around this juncture when the two of them, proceeding down those stairs, will encounter a /very/ large obstacle: A man called Munch. The mutant is six feet plus change -- and every inch of it looks to be made out of muscle and iron. Since yesterday, Munch has been snacking on every bit of scrap metal he can find -- and pushing it out to his skin. The end result is that he now looks less like a human, and more like a /statue of iron/ -- the fact that his shirt has been torn off (exposing nothing more than rigid plateaus of muscle -- muscle that is coarse and scaled, like an ancient, forge-wrought cauldron) just adds to the image. When the two of them begin down those stairs, Munch is suddenly on his feet, standing at the bottom of those stares -- the look on the young man's face is not a friendly one. He's squinting up at the darkness toward them -- not moving to intercept just yet. /Probably/ because if he took one step on the stairwell, it would crack and crumble beneath him. But when Munch catches the unusual shape of Isra's silhouette against the dim light of the attic, something in his posture relaxes -- a little. He rumbles, his voice like a metallic growl -- something straight out of Darth Vader's helm: "Friends?" His fists clench; a series of popping /cracks/. As if to indicate an answer of 'No' will carry 'Consequences'. Capital C. When Munch stands up, Isra goes still--even her tail freezing mid-sway--though her ears tilt subtly forward at the crunch and pop of metallic fists. The slate gray of her skin reinforces the impression she gives of a stone gargoyle that has gone walkabout after raiding an alternative fashion boutique. "Friends." Her voice is a clear, soothing alto. "We have brought food." "Friends," Dusk agrees, a moment after Isra. "Friends of Kay. Food and cake. We thought you guys might be able to use some -- friends." His wings fold in close to his back, his arms curling tight around the cooler he holds. "You can tell Kay that Jax cooked it all if you don't -- trust us. But we're friends. Can we come down? We want to help." Munch shows no signs of relaxing any farther than he already has -- until the word 'Kay' leaves Dusk's mouth. Suddenly, /all/ the tenseness floods out of Munch's posture -- and he's stepping back with what looks like a big, wide grin! His face /split/ open by it, his other hand gesturing with a sweep for them to come down. Apparently, that was the magic word! Below, the church has been turned into -- well, temporary living quarters. There are a few blankets sprawled out for the people hiding here. As Munch steps aside to make room for Dusk and Isra, he pauses -- a thunderous rumble coming from the pit of his belly: "You fly?" He asks this like he's asking if the two of them watch football. Isra had folded her wings close to move past Munch, but his question prompts her to relax them a little, perhaps not altogether consciously. "He is teaching me." This with a tip of horned head in Dusk's direction. "But for now I mostly just fall with style." She scans the interior of the church, expression impassive, as she unslings the cooler she carries. "What is your name?" "I fly," Dusk agrees, with a quick smile that shows his sharp fangs. "We did, to get here. Well, okay, we flew a /little/ bit to get here, uh -- just. Took the subway to get uptown." He moves to slip through the door past Munch, but lifts a hand on his way through to rest it briefly on Munch's large metallic shoulder on his way through. "-- Hey, man. I -- we heard about your -- I'm really sorry." "Hmm," Munch says, the sound akin to the rumble of an AC unit that just got clicked on; in response to Isra's question, he responds: "Munch." As Dusk continues behind him, Munch turns a bit, regarding the mutant with obvious curiosity -- underneath Dusk's hand, Munch's skin is /harsh/ yet warm; like sandpaper wrapped around a heated rock. "--oh," he responds, to Dusk's reassurance, and there is a sudden increase of tension in his posture again -- though this time, it's not at all threatening. He turns a moment, staring at one of the blankets laid out across the floor; for a while, he's just silent, before: "...thanks." "Munch," Isra echoes softly, glancing back at the impromptu shelter in the nave, green eyes unblinking. "I am Isra." Once she sets the cooler down, she stands up a little straighter, though still not quite enough to see eye-to-eye with Munch. "Have they attempted to get inside." Though she is plainly asking a question, Isra dropped interrogative tone--presumably along with the 'yet'. "News has looked pretty quiet, since -- since." Dusk's head ducks, as he steps out into the church, eyes sweeping the pews, the blankets, the room at large. He moves to set his cooler down on one of the front pews, dipping his head to unsling the strap from his neck. "I'm Dusk. By the way." His shoulders roll, slowly, first one, then the other. Then his wings, a slow roll and then a slow /stretch/ now that they are unburdened by the weight. "We brought a bunch. Weren't really sure how many were in here. Or what-all you guys needed." "Isra," Munch responds, repeating the name; as if /tasting/ it. In response to her question, he rumbles: "Not yet." Filling in that last word /for/ her. He might not be experienced in police sieges, but even Munch knows enough to know this isn't going to end well. "Dusk. Hello." There's a slight almost-grin on his face, now; he eyes the coolers they're setting down with interest -- though he makes no move to open them and see what's inside. At the question of need, Munch's eyes sling up to Dusk -- before shifting over, to move toward Isra -- a slight purse of his lips. Before: "--could you. Fly someone else -- /out/?" He seems almost embarrassed to ask this question; he shuffles in place a moment, as if the mere /asking/ of it has put a terrible burden on both of them. Isra's wings start to flex, as if they would answer for her. She withdraws them quickly, however, when one of them knocks into the back of the pew beside her. "This is heaviest load I have ever borne in flight." She indicates the cooler, hairless brows furrowed. "I--do not think I can." Her expression remains placid, but the tip of her tail is twitching, and there is a pleading in the glance she casts at Dusk. Over off to the side of the church, in the prayer alcove, Ion is engaged in quiet conversation with Fr. Flores. The young man glances up at the newcomers, for a moment just staying where he is. Eventually he detaches himself from the priest, though, and moves over towards the front of the church. He gives raised eyebrows to Dusk. "Didn't know you had a death wish. What's in the box?" Kay had been in the basement, inventorying what supplies might have been missed the /first/ four times around, rapping speculatively against parameter walls. The sound of strange voices and the awareness of extra body heat signatures means he only gradually eases his way up the stairs, leaning a shoulder and head around the side of the entrance. The air around him is rippling with an infernal heat that's starting to glow dangerously around one hand. "-- /Keh/." The heat begins to dissipate as soon as his eyes land on Dusk, and he strides into the church proper with a wafting scent of brimstone. "What'd you find, Munch," he claps a hand on the metalMan's shoulder when he passes him (it goes clang), his squinted eyes focused on their... guests. "Bats in the belfry?" He did glance to Ion and Isra. But perhaps the most important communication he can give for either camp is, first and foremost -- open arms. A grim-faced hug. And a rough rasp, "Shit, man. Just about fragged you." "Kay. Man." Dusk returns open arms with open -- wings, curling around the firebug in a firm tight clasp for a moment. "I'm sorry." His wings pull back against his back, his hand squeezing Kay's shoulder. "This is Isra." His wing flicks towards the woman. "She's a friend." He glances back towards Munch, head tipping slightly as he considers the question. "I can carry people," he answers, "if I've eaten. Do you guys /want/ out? We brought food." He nods towards the coolers. His smile is a little wry. "Jax cooked so, a lot of food. And cake. But we wanted to know -- I mean, there's a lot of us out there wondering what you guys need. Supplies. Food." His teeth flash, thin. "Reinforcements. Got a friend who's pretty handy at tunneling, too, if you just want a /quiet/ out, but." He shrugs a shoulder, his jaw tightening. "Your call." Munch is nodding his head to Isra by the time Kay's hand claps down on his shoulder; he grunts, his face splitting into a grin at Kay's question re: BATS and BELFRIES. When Dusk asks if they want out, though, Munch makes a loud 'pfssh' sound, those massive barrel-like arms folding around his chest; he jerks his head back toward the pews behind him, and soon adds: "Girl. On the run. Wasn't looking for fight." At the word 'reinforcements', though, Munch's eyebrows /zoom/ up -- and he spares a glance toward Kay, and Ion. Before looking back to Dusk, eyebrows flattening out. Obviously much more /interested/ by this offer, but offering no verbal assessment. Isra nods by way of greeting to Ion and Kay when Dusk introduces her. Then, hearing the plans laid out, she relaxes. Her wings settle down across her shoulders to drape over her body the way some people hug themselves when chilly. "If you need someone to keep watch while you eat and discuss details, I have decent night vision." "Reinforcements. Heh." Ion glances over to the priest, and then to the heavy church doors. "Would be nice to get J.C. out of here." He looks at the girl -- she's sleeping on one of the blankets laid out into a sleeping pad on the church floor. "I can take people with me when I travel -- in /theory/. In practice, uh. It's not anything anyone'd want to try." He /does/ open the coolers, when Dusk mentions Jax's cooking, peering inside. "Almost a shame. People around've been pretty chill. Wish it could last. Be nice to have a place where we can just sorta -- be." Kay makes for a dry, /heated/ hug. It doesn't burn, but it can be felt through the membranes of Dusk's wings. When it breaks off, he nods once to Isra, flashing yellowing teeth, "If you want to do look out, we're not gonna say no to help, lady. We appreciate it." He then pinches down on the front of his nose, sniffing, bloodshot eyes turning towards the sleeping J. C. as well. "Fffff - this wasn't really the plan," he admits bluntly to Dusk, "We just saw the girl running. Briar stepped up..." His head is shaking slowly, before it snaps back to their winged guests. "Y'know what's funny. It was just the four of us out there, and we had 'em all on /retreat/. And we weren't even hitting them hard as we could've - or we'd have taken the whole fucking city block." His eyes move to a different part of the floor, by the entrance. The stone there is blackened and charred, where they'd incinerated Briar's body. His smile is dark and gritted, the heat still rippling and rising off his body. "It makes it hard, man. To wanna just run away, now... make all this just another fucking story about a few dumbass freaks causing trouble and then getting chased off again. We /won/." He'd /shared/ that look between Ion and Munch, for the word 'reinforcements', but only meanders over to look over Ion's shoulder, down into the cooler as well. Dusk folds his wings in against himself when the hug ends, though one stretches again to brush lightly against one of Isra's. "That'd be really good," he agrees. "Thanks. It's quiet now but who knows how long --" His lips press into a grimace. His eyes follow Kay's, towards the charred stone by the entrance. "Not sure you ever really have a plan, things like these. Sometimes the world just kind of makes a plan /for/ you." The coolers are packed quite full of mostly food. Basmati rice laced with saffron, fried okra spiced with mustard seed and tumeric, cauliflower, tadka dal, tandoori chicken wings, kheer, chai cupcakes. It isn't /all/ food, though; in their own sealed box atop some of the sealed food containers, one of the coolers also has neatly packed first aid supplies. And toiletries. Dusk folds his arms over his chest, looking from the charred step to the sleeping girl. "I'll talk to her," he says, quiet and heavy. "See what she wants. But you gotta tell me what /you/ guys want, too. There's a lot of people out there who --" His wings flutter, at his back. "-- There's a lot of people who'd like this to go away. But. S'a lot who'd like it to /grow/. You won. There. But that doesn't mean shit if you don't /keep/ winning. You all leave here in bodybags, and that's not a win, man." "So," Munch rumbles, that dark metallic voice suddenly looming -- his eyes, a moment before, had been lingering on the blackened stone where Briar's body had once been. But now they've snapped on to Dusk as he speaks; there's a /focus/ to them -- to his posture, to his tone -- that wasn't there before. A determination -- /anger/: "Let's not leave in body bags. Let's rest up -- and then just /walk the fuck out/." Munch's fist hits his palm afterward. The sound is a combination between a leathery THWOK and a metallic CLONG: "And wreck everything and everyone that gets in our way."