ArchivedLogs:One Part Vengeance, Two Parts Blood, Agitate Well
|One Part Vengeance, Two Parts Blood, Agitate Well|
"I could let you know how this story's going to /end/." (CW: blood, violence)
The most populous of the boroughs, Brooklyn has nothing if not character. With a thriving music and arts scene, and a distinctive New York slant to its stereotypical gritty accents, Brooklyn ranges from the high-cultured to the very much working class. From botanical gardens to beachfronts, Manhattanites might like to think their borough is the only one that matters, but Brooklyn has a lot to offer of its own.
It's a sunny Sunday afternoon in Greenpoint, and all seems well with the world. There are a half dozen motorcycles parked outside a faux-dive bar with a custom handpainted sign that reads 'Jimmy's Joint'. The window beside the door is crowded with outward-facing signs ranging from 'Blue Lives Matter' to 'Bathroom for (paying} customers' to 'HUMANS ONLY'! There is a small knot of people smoking near the door, gathered around two men in Purifiers' cuts.
"...and the other one was this giant-ass bug creature," one of them is saying, "straight out of a nightmare. It even had a scorpion sting -- poisonous one!"
In such a crowd, at such a hangout, the growl of approaching motorcycles is nothing unusual. The /riders/, on the other hand -- maybe not so welcome around these parts. In the lead, a unthreateningly diminutive figure on a small silver and green sport bike, silver and blue helmet decorated with a sharptoothed sharky grin on its base plate. The rider is in black skinny jeans with silver-embroidered vines detailed up their sides, a pair of extremely stompy shiny metal boots, matching gauntlets, a MUTANT MONGRELS cut with 'Dog of War' patched under their 'Pack Member' rank, a pair of fencing foils crossed beneath the sharktoothed skull of their insignia. B stops her bike not far from the line of parked ones, pulling up in front of them to stop sidelong behind two of the Purifier cycles. Beneath the helmet, when she pulls it off, her /actual/ smile (thin and tight) is not nearly as toothy just now as the helmet would want people to believe.
A shiny black Suzuki SV650 pulls up alongside B's bike, its rider lanky-limbed and graceful when she dismounts. The horned, fanged skull on the back of Scramble's cut has hypnotic, swirling eyes and bright cartoon birds circling it, her jeans are tight and tucked into the tops of her worn Doc Martens, and her helmet is covered entirely in a dizzying Rube Goldberg contraption in stark gray and black. She's not smiling at all when the helmet (and the cap beneath it) comes off, her afro slowly decompressing once it's released. "Oh hey, is it story time?" her tone is...oddly flat. "Maybe we should help them out a bit."
The Yamaha FZ-10 that rounds out the trio bears another Mongrel on its back. Natalie's cut matches the others', more or less, though the skull insignia on her back bears a tilted-askew halo. Her deep red hair is tied back into a messy but functional braid draped down her back -- it doesn't entirely prevent the helmet from leaving her hair squashed and mussed, but does at least keep the bulk of it out of her eyes. She hops lightly down from the bike, hands tucked into the pockets of her cut as she saunters after the others. "If you don't mind spoilers," she calls to the Purifiers out front, "I could let you know how this story's going to /end/."
The Purifiers fall silent when the Mongrels dismount. One of them elbows a member of their audience and mutters something into their ear, prompting him to slip back inside the bar. The others gathered around shuffle back awkwardly, shooting sidelong glances at B.
"Guess word got around," the Purifier who had been telling the story says, raising his voice now to address the Mongrels. "Now even their bitches want some." His gaze is sliding down Natalie's body, appraising.
Four more Purifiers come out of the bar, watching the Mongrels warily. "They only sent girls?"
"/Is/ that blue one a girl?"
A laugh from the storyteller. "Hell, is the black one?"
This earns him a sharp look from one of his comrades, who looks tempted to snap at him, but instead turns his eyes on the opposing club. "We don't wanna start no trouble at this fine establishment. If you roll on out, we'll forget you were here."
B's huge coal-black eyes don't give away much as she stares toward the Purifiers. Hir gills flutter slightly along the sides of hir neck, hir heavy steps crunching on the dirty pavement as she moves away from the bikes, closer to the bar. "Trust me, after we've rolled out, you'll remember it." Though she's still well out of reach, one of her arms flicks outward. Not to try and grab the Purifiers physically -- but a long sticky-white strand shoots outward toward the storyteller with a soft THWP. Just as quickly, she yanks her hand forward, a sharp and disarmingly strong closer tug.
Storyteller looked about to give a retort, but B raising her hand sends him into action. He's reaching under his cut and stepping forward -- which really helps the tug of her webshooter, actually. He stumbles toward the smallest Mongrel, the pistol that had been concealed beneath his cut already in hand but not very useful with his arm entangled and attached to his would-be target.
The other Purifiers spring into action with varying degrees of rapidity, though they seem to have no consensus on the appropriate level of escalation: two have drawn knives (one Ka-Bar and one butterfly), two have armed themselves with bats, one has a /hatchet/, and the last two seem to just be wading in with fists bared. Butterfly knife is sawing at the web strand connecting Storyteller to B. Ka-Bar goes for Scramble, while Hatchet heads for Natalie, their less confident comrades following suit.
Scramble's expression doesn't change -- not at the trash talk, not at B's attack, and not at the sudden alarmed mobilization of the remaining Purifiers. She draws one of the long knives sheathed at her hip, flips it into a defensive reverse grip and calmly goes forth to meet Ka-Bar. She does not attack him with the knife, however. The moment she's near enough, her powers sink into his mind, wrenching until something comes loose.
Ka-Bar's face goes slack. Then he looks down at his hands, at the knife. And just...continues doing that.
Natalie hangs back a second longer than the others, watching the suddenly blossoming fracas with a moment of oddly calm detachment. When she does spring into action, it's a flurry all to herself. She tucks into a low roll, ducking beneath the hatchet the leadmost Purifier to her is wielding. She's grabbed a twisted and broken strip of metal off the ground as she moves -- it looks like the gnarled remains of some unfortunate vehicle's bumper -- and cracks it hard against the knees of the hatchet-wielder before whipping it towards the backs of the knees of the nearer man with a bat.
While Ka-Bar stands still, Baseball Bat steps around him and attacks Scramble with an enthusiastic overhand strike. Hatchet grunts and looses a few choice profanities, but swings his weapon at Natalie anyway, his stroke wild with anger and pain. Basebaall Bat #2 doesn't take his kneecapping quite so well, doubling over and swearing up a blue streak. Storyteller, meanwhile, is trying to aim his pistol at B, a process complicated by Butterfly Knife shaking the web strand in an attempt to cut it.
B's other hand snaps up, another thick and sticky rope of webbing whipping out toward Butterfly Knife. Her next tug isn't to pull the Purifiers closer, but to jerk the knife-wielder sharply toward his pistol-toting brother. The strands prove difficult but not impossible to cut, gunking up the knife blade considerably in the attempt. B isn't waiting for the man to finish hacking at it -- she severs the first strand from her bracer herself, leaving the other connected as she springs not around but clear over the pair, letting the mess of adhesive tangle between the others. Hir metal-sheathed claws come up, when she lands, raking out toward the gunman's face.
"Fucking -- oof!" Storyteller has just managed to get his gun upraised when the newly ensnared Butterfly Knife staggers into him. Both men flinch when B jumps, Butterfly knife still trying to pull his weapon free even as the webbing flops down over them. Storyteller whips around, still trying to bring his pistol to bear and more or less turning right into B's gleaming claws.
Scramble ducks under Baseball Bat #1 and slashes up at him with her knife. The blade scores the leather of the man's cut before cutting into his arm, leaving an angry streak of red. As he cries out in pain, Scramble's powers reach into him and wrench. His yell transitions into a full-on scream, and he drops the bat to clap a hand over his wound, babbling in abject horror.
The mangled length of bumper slices upward, thwacking against the hatchet's hilt and sliding to rest along its blade. Natalie twists to the side, shooting out a foot to slam higher, toward Hatchet's groin. She's spinning, regaining her feet with improbable alacrity. Dipping just to the side to grab B's assailant's arm, twisting it around and sharply behind in order to shoot at Baseball Bat #2's already injured knee with his comrade's own gun.
Hatchet grunts when his blow is intercepted, and while struggling to pull his weapon free doesn't quite close his legs in time to guard against Natalie's kick, which lands all too solidly. His breath comes out in a limp huff and he loses his grip on his weapon before collapsing into a heap, clutching his wounded gonads. Baseball Bat #2 has just recovered and is winding back for another swing at Natalie when she grabs Storyteller -- far too busy between B and the loops of webs gluing him to his comrade -- and fires. The shot rings loud and Baseball Bat #2 screams. The few spectators watching from a respectful distance scramble for cover, and the man who's just been shot falls over on top of his already downed brother.
B's teeth are clenched, gills still fluttering. Her next slice of claws comes sharply upward -- not so much across as /into/ the soft underside of Butterfly Knife's chin. A harsh outward shove propels hir speared Purifier in the direction of Scramble's babbling one. Hir other hand comes up to grab the Storyteller's face, tips of hir metal claws pressing sharp against his cheeks face. Under other circumstances, it might be almost comical; she has to tip her head back, rise up onto her toes to even /somewhat/ approximate looking the man in the eyes. "You still want to finish that story of yours, flatscan?"
Storyteller is the only Purifier left standing other than Ka-bar, who has not moved at all, still staring down at his hands. His eyes are wide and unsteady as B grips his face. He opens his mouth but can't quite speak, his teeth chattering now. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he looks left and right at his crew, then back at the diminutive mutant whose bloodied claws are digging into his face. "N-no," he whimpers.