ArchivedLogs:Lights Out

Lights Out
Dramatis Personae Anima, Kyle Whelan
In Absentia	2013-05-15 (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location <NYC> East Harlem
With the highest violent crime rate in Manhattan and a failing educational system, it is easy to overlook the charms of El Barrio. Amidst its problems, East Harlem is a place thriving with culture. Salsa dancing has a rich history in the neighborhood, and in the open-air markets a wide assortment of goods can be bought from the West African community there. In the city that never sleeps, Harlem never quiets down: the sounds of poor, the oppressed fill the air with a constant din from the multi-lingual shouts across streets, at crowded corners, or escaping from indoors. Sirens flash, their doppler-blares, and still other places there is the sound of music, as varied and rhythmic as all the peoples of El Barrio. Rich, spiced scents drift, encroached upon by all the filth ever-present in the city. Most alive of all, however, even on a weeknight, are the discotecas, one of which has a back alley exit into some thin, narrow hovel with a metal gate on one end and a dumpster blocking the view of the main street it feeds into at the other. It is here that Tanya emerges, clad in bedazzled crimson bra and flashy, sequin-sparkling hotpants. In the dark, however, such razzle-dazzle fails to cast light for fumbling, drunken fingers digging into the small purse hanging from her shoulder. Cue mutant power, the one time glow-in-the-dark abilities serves her well in the thought to be secluded alley. Tanyima's sweat glistening skin starts to emanate a pale light, bioluminescence casting a faint aura as she leans up against a hard brick wall, cramming a cigarette between her lips and flicking her lighter on, a small flame dancing up. The cool night air kisses her skin, the frigid intake of breath exhilarating with the rush of smoke into her lungs. "Jesus," this is the grumbled statement from a nearby police officer -- tall, thickly muscled, short-cropped blonde hair. Kyle is still in his NYPD uniform. "Those supposed to be /clothes/ you got on? Look like you're out here to turn a trick." He has a partner with him, a little shorter, a little less broad; still not a small man by any means although next to Kyle he almost looks it. Cigarette barely in mouth, long exhale cut rief, Tanya catches her breath to lift an appraising brow, staring into the dark to identify the source of the voice. In an instant, skin fades from its bright-glow to a dull, fading lustre. "I'm no prostitute," is the straightforward assertion, vision turned to glancing down at herself, then back to the two policemen with wary caution. She takes another impulsive drag, leaning back up against the door. "You know using those abilities in public isn't legal." Kyle has been watching, as the glow fades. He's just sort of watching Tanya with a faint frown. "Hasn't been for months." "I don't know what you're talking about," comes the evasive reply, another survey of the alleyway conducted. "Besides, this place looks pretty private to me." All luminescence gone, Tanya looks average now, all stick-thin and willowy, sheen of sweat the only, normal reflector of light in the dim, narrow space. "Don't get smart with me," Kyle grumbles, looking towards his partner and nodding to Tanya. "You have some ID?" He holds out a hand, fingers curling in beckoning -- gimme. Oooh, right. Call it perpetual bad luck: an ex-Promethean, Tanya has no documentation. Possessing her, Anima never got to procuring her some. "I..." She starts to look more panicked, fumbling for an excuse while it's clear she's not reaching for any card to provide him. "Don't have it on me." Kyle sighs at this, a little exasperated like: jeez, for /real/. He glances at his watch, glances at his partner. "OK," he says, a little impatient, "turn around, hands against the wall. I'll need your name and birthdate." "You have got to be kidding me." Tanya rolls her eyes, flicking her cigarette down to the floor. She stamps it out with the heeled back of her foot, turning in compliance. "Tanya Wood. November 7th, 1990." They are, apparently, not kidding. Kyle is pulling out a tablet-like device -- presumably perhaps to type in this information? Presumably, at least, in normal circumstances. His partner, though, is pulling out -- a taser. And with the same sort of impatient but otherwise emotionless abruptness, shooting it at Tanya. Zzzp. The shock comes unawares, Tanya facing forward, the electric pulse sending an agonizing current through clenched muscles. "Ghhh," comes through tightly shut eyes and grinding teeth. Weak in the knees her hands start sliding down the wall - because the rest of her is starting to crumple. "Some of them are so fucking easy," his partner is grumbling this while, kind of /casually/ slipping a syringe from his pocket. Kyle is taking out his handcuffs, stepping in to arrest Tanya's slide with a firm hand to her bicep. And then to handcuff her hands behind her back, probably a little tighter than necessary. "C'mon, now." Like Tanya has a whole lot of choice in the matter. "Let's go." Subduement: it's not a new experience, nor one that elicits much more of a reaction than a reflexive response to pain from Tanyima. With touch, though, there is an advantage; as Kyle's hand curls around her arm to support her the telepathic connection is established, a shallow probe that gleans whatever flits across his mind as its immediate focus. "Mmf." Head bent, she moves in the direction she's urged. There are a host of thoughts skittering through Kyle's mind as he leads her off to a waiting squad car -- the annoyance of paperwork on mutants using powers in public, whether he'll have time for Chinese takeout after this, if the fight tonight will be better than the one the night before. If Tanya would make a good warmup for that crazy shadow-lady. Admittedly, Tanya does not have overly long to taste Kyle's surface thoughts before two things are happening -- first, being pushed in standard sort of push-head-down nudge-inside fashion into the back seat of the squad car; second, the sharp poke of a needle. With a rather slack-jawed drooly cloudy-brained dose of sedative in it.