ArchivedLogs:Overwatch

Overwatch
Warning: Violence
Dramatis Personae Clint, Dusk	2016-06-06 "I think you're misunderstanding, y'all. You don't want the trouble /you're/ going to have if you try this shit."
Location <NYC> Clinton
Despite its rough and tumble reputation of old, Clinton has come far from the illegal gambling and shakedowns of Prohibition, and the gang warfare of West Side Story. Clinton has now become the industrial supply center for midtown Manhattan, with hospitals and the light industrial and commercial businesses required to support so many thousands of people. The neighborhood has become quite expensive, but many actors still cram together in small apartments due to its proximity to Broadway. The day had been beautiful and warm, the blazing sun tempered by picturesque clouds that never linger long enough to create any real gloom. As the sun set, the city cooled pleasantly, and the glow of twilight seems to linger on well past the evening commute. Monday nights aren't the most lively in Hell's Kitchen, the surrounding theatres and clubs lying quiet, but the streets are far from abandoned. In the southwestern corner of the neighborhood, near the docks and the industrial quarter, a cluster of mostly young men are gathering in the street, looking up at a condemned building whose boarded-up doors bear torn and weathered posters promising a brand new luxury condominium development (Coming Soon!). They seem to be waiting for something. Across the street, perched on a steel beam in the skeletal framework of a new construction, Clint is also waiting. He's dressed in a tight-fitting outfit made of glossy black stretch fabric, with even glossier purple satin trim and markings: most noticeably a bold, inverted chevron on the chest. His boots and wristguard are likewise purple, as is his headgear, a kind of helmet with a winged masquerade mask. He wears an intricate quiver across his back and carries an even more intricate compound bow in one hand, his thumb playing idly over a dial on its grip. On a nearby rooftop, several stories higher than the roof of the condemned building, there is -- not much, actually. A scattering of old shipping crates set out as furniture; an intermittent flutter of wings from resettling pigeons, a number of heavy lengths of chain dangling off the guardrail that runs along the edge of the rooftop. One corner of the roof, tonight, has also sprouted a gargoyle -- or, at least, a dark silhouette of one settled silent and still behind the railing, wings pulled in tight against his back. Not quite so dressy as Clint, Dusk only sports a black tank top, grey-black denim shorts, heavy black boots. Turning a corner from the direction of the docks a couple of streets up, a tall figure appears, pushing a shopping cart. Despite the weather, this individual wears a long, hooded coat, and walks with an old, jangly gait, their footfalls clacking quite audibly on the pavement as though wearing tap shoes. The cart is loaded largely with unsightly but serviceable produce, though there are a few other (dirty) (broken) household items mixed in. The group of people on the street pull in tighter as the cart-pusher approaches, blocking their path to the condemned building. "You can't go in there," says one of them, a muscular black-haired man. He raise his voice. "You've been holding back development on this block for long enough, and your kind isn't welcome here anymore. Time you move along." The hooded figure stops and waits patiently, then lifts their head to consider the building. Their face is elongated and covered in fine tawny hair, their very human blue eyes set far wider apart than the human norm. "We're not hurting anyone." Their voice is coarse and harsh and perhaps higher than most would expect from someone so tall. "And that's not your decision to make, anyway. Now, please just let me get home. I've got mouths to feed." "Maybe we didn't make ourselves clear." The black-haired man crosses his arms and nods to his compatriots, some of whom heft crowbars and other improvised weapons meaningfully. "You've been evicted, and we expect you out. /Tonight./" As if rehearsed, one of the black-haired man's crew lights a molotov cocktail and hurls it at one of the condemned building's broken windows. The bottle sails through the air, but bursts open before finding its mark, crashing in a cascade of glass and gasoline to the sidewalk. An arrow with black and purple vanes sinks into a sheet of plywood on the side of the building, its still-quivering length pointing back up towards its origin. Clint is up on one knee, calmly pulling another arrow from his quiver and nocking it, though he does not draw it back just yet. As the figures on the street below draw closer together there's a slight shifting from the watcher on the rooftop -- wings easing from their tight furl against his back, head tipping to one side. Dusk's iridescent wings have just started to unfurl when the molotov cocktail is loosed. He hasn't quite tipped off his perch on the rooftop yet, -- first towards where it shattered and then up along the arrow's length toward the scaffolding. In the dark, in the distance, it is hard to make out much of his features past the sudden reflective shine of his eyes, bright and wide before he drops from the railing with a small whoosh-snap of wings. Glides easily down over -- past -- the knot of people in a close rush of air, snagging a tire iron straight out of the hand of one man who is hefting it before he alights beside the figure with the cart, for a moment just looking them over in a quick sweep of glance before looking to the crowd. "-- Don't you have to own a building to evict people from it?" The question sounds fairly idle, really, the stolen tire iron held lax at his side. "Look, I don't think anyone wants trouble." One metallic-gleaming thumbclaw twitches towards another rag-stuffed bottle in a different man's hand. "Especially not the kind that's going to start." The black-haired man glares at the arrow, then squints in Clint's general direction, though it's not clear whether he has actually spotted the archer. "We're not making trouble," he replies calmly, "just cleaning up our neighborhood. That building's gotta go anyhow." Another man lights his molotov cocktail and wings his arm back, ready to hurl it. A redheaded young woman among their number preps her own bow, lifting it to fire at Clint. Clint dive-rolls sideways along the steel beam, dodging the admittedly well-aimed shot and coming up in a low crouch to loose his own arrow in retaliation. His arrow strikes the redhead squarely in the shoulder, but does not pierce her body. Instead, its blunt head splits open and two weighted cables spring out, tangling her arms and her bow alike. The hooded figure brays and backpedals, their hooves skidding and clicking on the uneven pavement. Up close, the roots of their large, curling horns can be seen beneath the hood. Their eyes skip between the black-haired man and the shattered bottle, then up to the winged figure as it sweeps down. "There's folks inside," they say, their voice gravelly and soft, meant for Dusk's ears, "there's /kids/. We ain't got nowhere else to go." One of Dusk's wings stretches out, a long wide sweep that bats the bottle out of the man's hand with a hard thwack of bone against wrist -- though Dusk hisses softly as it falls against the soft nap of his wing, instead. He rolls the bottle towards himself, tugging its lighted wick out of it with a low growl and stamping it under one boot. His other wing mantles halfway around the hooded figure. "How many are you?" Despite the growl still rumbling softly beneath Dusk's words, his voice is oddly level, given the hostile crowd they face. "Do you want somewhere else to go? I can handle /these/ people -- but I want to know what's best for all you." A little bit louder, towards the gathered group -- though still calmly, all things considered: "I think you're misunderstanding, y'all. You don't want the trouble /you're/ going to have if you try this shit." His head has tipped back, eyes flicking up toward Clint and his perch. Louder /still/: "You good up there?" "There's eight inside," the hooded person says urgently, their hooves stamping nervously. "One of the young'uns' got no control when she get riled up." They stare up at a fire escape. "If you know somewhere that'd take us, even temporary-wise--it'd be a blessing." "I'm just dandy," Clint calls back, drawing another arrow after he casually hops down half a storey to another beam. The black-haired man grimaces. "Spread out," he hisses at his people, who obey at once, "get that building going and these freaks aren't gonna have time for us anymore." So saying, he draws a pistol from beneath his denim jacket, takes aim at Dusk, and fires. The man who had been holding the molotov cocktail is clutching his wrist and cursing up a blue streak. The redheaded archer is desperately trying to extricate herself from the bola. Two more bottles fly toward the building, and Clint shoots one of out of air; the other was aimed a little low, and smashes against a boarded window, catching the plywood on fire. "Yeah, I know a --" Dusk bares his teeth, fangs glinting briefly as he twists, wing nudging the hooved person sideways. The thrum of growl has deepened in time with a bright read tear grazed open along the muscle of his shoulder, but this doesn't stop him from relinquishing his hold on the person beside him and launching forward -- his wing curls, now, around the man who had shot him as his other snags one of the molotov throwers from the crowd. For all their thin appearance their strength is rather immense as he yanks both men along /with/ him toward the window -- hurling them bodily into it. And then thwapping them there /again/, in an effort to smother the growing flames before they can spread from their section of window. "No!" the hooved mutant cries, staring at the fire. They linger only a moment longer and then makes for the rusted old fire escape on the side of the building, taking the steps two and three at a time. Before they're half-way up the first flight, a pale, skinny teenaged Latina has already scrambled out of the second storey, staring wild-eyed at the confrontation in the street. "Hold up!" the hoofed person calls to her. "Go back inside and get the kids ready." The black-haired leader and the molotov hurler both flail at Dusk's wings with varying degrees of effectiveness, but ultimately are no match for his strength. They do, however, make decent fire blankets, the impact of their bodies cracking the burning plywood enough to dislodge it from the window altogether so that it falls to the sidewalk outside, still aflame but no longer threatening to ignite the building itself. Clint's next arrow casts a net around the only other person still holding a molotov cocktail--luckily unlit, since it remains in his hand as he topples to the sidewalk. Of the rest, those who can are fleeing already. Dusk drops his writhing fire suppressants to the sidewalk, wings snapping down hard to brace spars across their chests, talons clicking to the sidewalk to pincer them -- more or /less/ down, though somewhat inefficiently, now. His eyes flick up -- to the fire escape, first; to Clint, second. This time lingering longer than they have any time before -- maybe on the bow. Maybe on the purple mask. "They actually leaving?" A thumbclaw flicks in the direction of a departing man's back right before he turns a corner -- out of Dusk's sight, if not out of Clint's at his higher vantage point. "Those are fucking handy. Should carry -- gorram human-nets on me /all/ the time." The human ringleader and his underling, both slightly singed and more than a little battered, struggle under the clasp of Dusk's wings. The heat of the blazing plywood lying broken on the sidewalk feels sharp on exposed skin. The teenager on the fire escape appears frozen in fear for a moment, but seeing the situation come under control, she nods and climbs back inside, only sparing a wondering glance over her shoulder at Dusk. In her wake, the admittedly rusty railing she had been leaning on suddenly falls apart and crashes to the pavement below, shattering into a dozen pieces. Her hooded housemate ascends the rest of the way much more carefully, placing their hooves gingerly, though they still watch the (immobilized) humans left in the street. "{Thank you,}" they call out to Dusk in Spanish, then repeats it louder as they raise their eyes to Clint. "God knows what would have become of us if you hadn't shown up." Clint watches the ragged retreat and fires at least one shot at one of the fleeing aggressors who, though out of Dusk's field of vision, emits a loud string of invectives that sound more startled or angered than pained. "I caught that one before he could dial," Clint says, "but some of the others might have managed to call 911. Best get those people out." The redheaded archer has finally extricated herself from the bola even as she herself retreats. Perhaps somewhat counterintuitively, she elects to shoot at /Clint/ and not Dusk, and this time the costumed vigilante dodges just a little too late. The arrow skips off of his torso, deflected by body armor, but its impact still upsets his balance enough that he looses his footing and falls from the beam. He manages to catch himself by one hand, and, swinging, flips himself back onto his perch with apparent ease. "I'll keep a lookout," he tells Dusk and the hooded one, as if he hadn't just almost fallen to his death. "{S'nothing. We don't look out for each other, then who --}" Dusk's Spanish is easy and fluid, a slightly nuyorican tinge to his accent. His words cut off sharp, though, wings are already snapping up -- releasing the (somewhat singed) (somewhat battered) pair on the ground to spread, when Clint is unbalanced. But they fold again when he catches himself, Dusk's brows lifting in time with an impressed nod. "I'll get everyone somewhere safe." After a momentary delay, he adds: "... don't see a lot of people out here in /costume/. Is there a theme to that?" "Police response is pretty slow down this way." It's a long moment after the question before Clint gives a short, bright bark of a laugh. "Well, I suppose it's half vanity and half concession to my day job." There's a distinct midwestern twang in his speech now which had previusly been absent, or at least so subtle that it was difficult to notice in the chaos. Then, gesturing at Dusk with a sweep of his bow. "We can't all roll out of bed looking fantastic." "/Hah/. My neighborhood, too. Can't say I miss them." When Dusk's painted wings stretch again, it's slower -- an almost luxurious roll as he steps back away from the discarded men by the broken smoldering plywood. "Hey, I /work/ at this. Though I guess the wings are kind of an unfair advantage. You are rocking the purple, though. -- You want a lift down?" He glances back to the window the other mutants had disappeared into, briefly, before looking back up to Clint. The dark-haired man who had lead the little eviction party slowly peels himself gingerly up off the pavement. His eyes cast around, perhaps in search of his gun, but he does not spot it. Instead, he goes to help his remaining fellow, muttering curses about the 'goddamned freaks' under his breath. "{Thank you.} I think it's a vastly underappreciated color." Even with such a common phrase, Clint's Spanish is even more midwestern-sounding than his English. "I'm alright. Better view up here, and I get where I'm going when I need. Hopefully also when I'm needed." The hoofed person climbs back out onto the fire escape, their hood pushed back now to expose an elogated head covered with the same fine hair that grows on their face, the horns curving from their temples uncannily like those of bighorn sheep. They carry a child-shaped mass of shadows in their arms now, and a heavy knapsack on their back. Behind him the other residents emerge in steady, orderly fashion, their meager belongings already packed. The teenaged girl who had come out earlier brings up the rear. "Coast looks clear," Clint calls out to them. "Safe travels. I regret that this neighborhood treated you so poorly, but may you find better welcome where you're headed. {Goodbye.}" He draws another oddly shaped arrow from his quiver, fits it with a bit more fiddling than usual to his bow, and fires it at a corner of the taller building where Dusk had perched earlier. The arrow trails a fine cable in its wake, almost invisible in the darkness, and its head sinks itself into the concrete with a sharp ka-CHUNK. Clint leaps from the beam and swings gracefully by the cable around the corner and out of sight. "Hot /damn/." Dusk's eyes open wide as he follows Clint's arcing path off the beam and out of sight. For a moment he lingers, watching as though he half expects the archer to return -- but then just shakes his head, resettling his wings behind himself. "{Alright, all. I'll try to keep the rest of your night uneventful, huh? Most excitement I got where we're going is fresh lemonade and a killer treehouse. C'mon.}"