ArchivedLogs:Metalheads

Metalheads
Dramatis Personae Munch, Micah, Elliott
In Absentia	2013-03-27 Micah and Elliott meet Munch!
Location East Village
There is a peculiar shouting match that has started somewhere outside of a club somewhere in East Village. The shouting match is centered around a very young, physically imposing man -- he looks 19 or 20, with an unusual shade of dark olive skin that has a peculiar /luster/ to it under the street-lights. He is currently clad in a white cut-off sleeved shirt, a patchwork black leather jacket, blue-jeans, and a frown. The frown seems less 'angry-frown' and more 'what-am-i-supposed-to-do-here' frown. He's currently flanked on both sides by three people outside the club, all of whom are arguing with him. 'Arguing' might be the wrong word, though -- because 'arguing' implies that there's a back-and-forth. There really isn't. The discussion mostly consists of the three men -- all of whom look substantially older, and probably a bit more inebriated -- pointing at him, pointing at a nearby motorcycle, then pointing at a nearby truck. Pitch-black; frigging /huge/. The sort of vehicle that resembles more boat than car. Apparently, they're claiming he 'dinged' them with his motorcycle; words like 'you better have insurance, you /fucker/' and 'open your goddamn mouth and /say/ something you freak' are echoing out across the street. An audience seems sure to soon form. The big kid with the motorcycle doesn't say much. He doesn't even /move/. He just stares at them, frowning, arms folded over his chest, like he's trying to figure out exactly how this entire situation is supposed to /work/. There is a woman heading out of a restaurant next door who is -- distinctly /not/ part of this shouting match. Dressed comfortable and bland in olive-drab cargo pants and a black sweatshirt, she is, initially, starting to turn her chair in the other direction than the fight. But the yelling draws her attention and she turns, contributing to that forming audience by wheeling her way over. "Woah, yo, hey," she at least doesn't seem shy about /making/ herself part of this shouting match, eyes slanting between all the parties involed with a frown. "S'all this about, how's about everyone calm down a minute?" Micah is returning from a quick essentials shopping trip, a messenger bag full of purchases hanging heavily against his patched jeans-clad leg. The cross-body strap is mostly obscuring the white text declaring 'I'm here because you broke something' across his faded black T-shirt. Both of his forearms are marked haphazardly with strange black crosshatching patterns in several places. He looks fairly contented and is actually singing to himself...is that "The Rainbow Connection"? It /is/. He stops mid-verse once his attention is finally drawn to the altercation-about-to-happen not too far in front of him. A hand reaches to his jeans pocket to withdraw a cell phone, prepared to contact the /authorities/. The sight of a woman in a wheelchair has a funny effect on the group of men who seem intent on yelling at the biker; it's almost as if her presence /forces/ them to justify themselves. But they're none too hesitant to do just that -- one of them steps away to gesture at him, angrily. "This fuckin' -- he fucked up my /truck/ and I just /paid/ for this shit -- and he's some sort of /freak/! He probably don't even have insurance--" It's clear the gentleman is, indeed, a bit intoxicated. And at a closer inspection, it's clear that the biker /is/, in fact, not human; his skin, while dark, has a bizarre greyish hue to it -- just shy of what you'd expect to be natural. On top of that, his arms are folded and he's just not saying a word. When the truck owner mentions that he fucked up their truck, he just shakes his head -- as if to say 'Nope'. "Fuckin' /say/ something man!" one of the other two says, and he steps forward -- as if to give the biker a shove. This actually doesn't work very well; his palms compress against the biker's chest and /push/ but the biker doesn't move, he just looks confused. The drunk actually ends up only managing to push /himself/ back. Elliott raises both of her hands, placating. "/Hey/. Hey. Dude. What's that going to help?" She's stopped at a short distance, not, evidently, wanting to get too close to /either/ the drunk man or the grey-skinned one. "Here, come on, look." She's turned her attention towards the car, her brow creasing slightly. "It's barely even a ding, okay, I bet this can get cleared up real easy. It's hardly even worth the trouble." Micah heaves a world-weary sigh at the shoving, coming close enough to address Elliott, but maintaining as much distance from the men as possible while doing so. "Pardon, ma'am? Is this a phone-the-police situation?" He glances at the van. "That little /ding/ what all this fuss is about? Could fix that in a half-blink. Wouldn't ever know it was there." Not just one, but /two/ people urging for calm amongst the crowd seems to have an effect; that, on top of the fact that pushing the greyish-dark kid isn't really having much of an... impact. But when Elliott mentions the ding -- and when Micah mentions it /again/ -- the biker seems to notice, head cocking to the side. And then, suddenly... /finally/ -- he moves from his post. His foot-falls have a sense of /impact/ to them -- like there's a bit more weight there than it looks. And he's moving straight for the truck... and the ding. That gets all three of the men instantly agitated -- the owner moving forward rapidly, as if to grab him. "What the fuck are you -- stay the fuck away from --!" But by then it's too late; the dark grey skinned biker has reached out -- pressed a palm flat to the ding -- and /sliiiiiide/. There's a faint 'clunk' noise as the ding disappears -- like clay being smoothed out. At which point... the biker looks up -- at Elliott and Micah -- with a big, self-satisfied smile. As if to thank them both for that great idea! THERE. PROBLEM SOLVED. Elliott quiets, as the big man slips by. She tenses, too, although only barely visibly; mostly still calm, though on the wheels of her chair her gloved hands are curling tighter. She pushes herself back a few inches when the dark-skinned biker nears, shifting closer to Micah. Her head shakes, slightly, her answer quietly murmured: "No, I don't think it should be. Yet." Her smile is a thin tight thing as she watches the man fix the car, her fingers clenching tighter at her wheels. "There." Her head jerks towards the car. "It's all fixed now. Everyone can just get back to their nights, right, gentlemen?" Micah is keeping his phone in hand, at the ready for a 911 call if things go south. He watches the grey fellow fix the van with an expression that is clearly /impressed/. "Well, that was handy. I'd've had to run and get a tool and come back, but there y'go! All fixed. Nice work." Elliott's wheeling closer pokes at his protective side, and he closes the last few steps between them, standing at her shoulder as he waits for the other shoe to drop. The three men are clearly not sure what to do at this point. The owner of the truck inspects the place where the ding was; his hand moves over it several times -- he looks from the ding to the grey guy, then to the ding -- then... one of the three starts tugging on him. "C'mon, Mike," he says. "Let's just -- get the fuck outta here." And so they do, with a final parting glance toward the biker -- clamboring into the truck, starting it up. The small crowd slowly starts to disperse; a few utterances of 'isn't that against the law?' might be heard -- along with someone talking about calling the police /anyway/, but... the biker doesn't seem to have heard. Or cared. He's just slow-walking his way toward Elliott... and Micah. Still wearing that big, cheerful smile. "Thank you!" When he speaks, it becomes instantly clear why he hasn't done so until this point. His voice is deep -- but it's also /metallic/. It has a strong Darth Vader vibe to it; like he's talking through one of those 'robo-voice' modulators. Elliott wheels another inch or so back, as the big man comes towards them. She isn't smiling, now, even the tense-tight expression just faded into a thin press of lips. "Hey," she says, wary if not actually nervous, one hand still on a wheel but the other lifting it a typical halt gesture, "This is all through, now. I didn't want any trouble. Don't want any trouble. We're done here." Micah thumbs his phone's screen off and shoves it back in his pocket. When Elliott starts to back away uneasily, he steps forward, holding a hand out in greeting to the grey man. He's wearing a warm, lopsided grin like a favourite faded T-shirt. "'Welcome. I'm Micah. Nice to meet you." Hazel eyes shifty-glance side to side. "You should maybe not stay /right/ here, though. In case someone has decided to call the police on your act of helpfulness, there." The gray man pauses as Elliott wheels back; the big, cheerful smile fades into a well-practiced neutral expression. He takes a careful step back, as if to give her extra room -- by the look of it, he is accustom to this response. But when Micah steps /forward/ into that space, the neutral expression becomes somewhat confused -- as if parsing the difference in their two responses left him slightly addled. Hesitantly, he reaches to clutch Micah's hand, and -- hm. He has a very strong grip. His skin yields to touch, but has a peculiar /hardness/ to it, too; like suede wrapped around rock. At the mention of police, his brow wrinkles and he looks even /more/ puzzled. Without speaking, he mouths the word questioningly: 'Police?'. "Using mutant powers in public isn't legal," Elliott answers, in response to the mouthed word. She's watching the man carefully, watching /Micah/ carefully, a slightly concerned crease to her brow. "Man's probably right. You're probably best off getting lost." Micah's hand is not all that interesting. It's well-callused, with a firm grip, but just normal-fleshy. "Y'aren't from around here, are you?" the Southerner asks, somewhat /ironically/ in his obvious Otherwhere accent. "They'll ticket you for /powers/ in New York. Don't make sense...just made law. Happens all too often." The gray kid tilts his head at this; it has the look of a bird cocking its gaze at an odd angle to observe some curious little trinket. There /might/ even be a sound accompanying it -- like the creak of a metal girder bending about to conform to a new shape. His gaze shifts from Elliott to Micah, before he shakes his head in response to that question. And then, he's reaching into his coat with that big hand of his, pulling out what looks to be... a tattered photograph. It's a picture of three people, all in leather jackets, all in front of motorcycles; the jackets all bare the same patch /his/ jacket bares. Also, they're /all/ obvious mutants, except for one. Kay. His finger /stabs/ at that particular fellow. Like, LOOK. THAT ONE. THAT'S THE ONE. Then, that voice again, like some sort of metal-sheathed /engine/ that starts from his stomach and projects all the way up to his throat. It's the sort of rumble you can almost feel in your /bones/: "Looking." And then, sheepishly, as if only now realizing his manners -- his voice much lower (with a slow glance Elliott's way, as if trying not to /shock/ her with it): "Munch." He points at himself, just in case. "Makes plenty of sense. Those things are dangerous. Nothing wrong with trying to keep people safe." Elliott's expression tightens again, at the photograph. Her motions are a little jerky as she pushes back, again, once more scooting a short distance away. "Haven't seen anyone like /that/ around here." This comes with a none too comfortable look -- at the man, then the photograph, then the man again. Micah's brain tickles with a vague recognition...maybe brushing by someone in a stairwell? "Oh hey... I think I may be able to help you find him." He scrunches his nose up for a moment, reconsidering. "No, actually. I may be able to help /him/ find /you/. Y'got contact info? I can pass it on and he can get back to you if he wants." Micah digs into a back pocket and pulls out a business card, which he offers to Munch. The card has a blue background with white writing on it: 'Gorilla AT. Micah Zedner, MSOP, CPO, ATP". Two phone numbers, the second of which is circled in pen ink. "In case you need to get hold of me. That number is the best way. I can be a little hard to track down otherwise." Munch's head slooooooowly angles 'round Micah to peer at Elliott; whether or not he /disagrees/ with her summary concerning the state of powers -- and their inherent danger... well, he doesn't say. But then, when Micah recognizes him, Munch visibly /brightens/! He takes the card -- peers at it -- then smiles. And nods. The card disappears in his leather jacket; meanwhile, he reaches for one of the metal studs on his coat. Grips it. And... /tears/ it off. There is a sound like /crinkling/ as he squeezes it in his fist. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle... then he's rolling it between his hands -- and the stud flattens, like a pancake -- soon, he's making it thinner and thinner -- until it's more or less a large, paper-thin disk. THEN, he's carefully folding in the edges -- twist here, edge there -- until he's turned it into... a metallic business card. As a final touch, he proceeds to bring his fingertip down and /etch/ a phone number into the card itself. Before finally handing it over to Micah. /Beaming/. He looks very proud of himself. HIS card! Elliott tenses, at this display. She doesn't wait around to see the final etching. She turns, a little stiff-jerky, clearly not well-/practiced/ in this mode of transportation, yet, and wheels herself quickly away. With a short pause to retrieve her cell phone from a pocket, turning its headset on and then continuing Away. Micah spares Elliott a glance as she makes her escape, frowning for a moment. "Have a good night, ma'am." He turns back to Munch with a bright smile, accepting the 'card'. "Thanks...I'll pass this on." His teeth worry his lower lip a moment before he continues. "Just...maybe don't do.../that/...so much in mixed company, yeah? You're gonna get yourself in /trouble/ that way." Suddenly, Munch seems to remember. Oh, yes. He /did/ say something about that being illegal, didn't he? The brow wrinkles again. He thinks about this, before nodding, slowly. Yes. He won't do that in mixed company. He moves instead, toward his motorbike; each step a thump on gravel. A glance at the machine might provide indication that it's been heavily modified -- specifically, with supports designed to handle /extraordinary/ weight. As he sits down atop of it, he smiles to Micah, and gives him a thanking little wave! *RUMBLE* Micah shakes his head, chuckling to himself as the grey kid takes to his bike. He offers his own wave in farewell before ambling off, back on the path he had abandoned when all of this started. And he's singing again. About rainbows.