ArchivedLogs:Predator vs Terminator

Predator vs Terminator
Dramatis Personae Trib, Billy	2014-06-27 Followed by talking to Jax.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. Behind a flock of widely eclectic New Yorkers that spill up out from the nearest subway entrance, trails a predatory young man in a thin white wife beater and baggy denim pants. His head is shaved and his pale skin is covered in an array of homemade tattoos, the most prevalent being a swastika neckpiece. Hands deep in his pockets, he prowls casually forward as the crowd ahead of him breaks apart. As the grouping dissipates more and more, a potential mark reveals himself. Stepping up out of a veil of steam rising up from one of the city's many grates, Billy is moving listlessly forward. His book bag slaps gently against his leg, heavy from the actual books it holds. An obvious mutant, he hasn't variated at all from his traditional white little polo and pale straight-leg pants. He suddenly stops, as if sensing something eminent. Both hands shooting out, as if to aid in his abrupt halt, he looks up at the street sign above his head. "Blerg!" He hisses to himself. He was in his head and got off at the wrong stop, again. Trib doesn't make it down to the Lower East Side very often. Occasionally, to visit a workout buddy or something like that. But one couldn't call him a /familiar/ face. Still, here he is, coming down the street with his half-hand shoved idly into a pocket of his jeans. He's got on a dingy-looking white t-shirt that strains against his chest, and renders the Planet Express logo there into something of an ovoid shape. In his free hand, he has his phone, his nose wrinkled at something on the screen. Which is probably why he doesn't spot Billy -- or the predator -- right away. Not until he gets closer, anyway. Which might take a few more seconds. Billy pulls out his phone, turning it to the side and using two fingers to expand on a map, view. Evidently, he's a little more phone savvy than Trib. "Aww, man," he whines to himself, still looking down as he begins to move forward again. The predator hangs back patiently, turning away and watching out of his peripheral, though not in infrared like his name might suggest. A woman passing him holds tight to her purse, glaring at him suspiciously. He doesn't even see her. Whatever is so confounding on Trib's phone doesn't hold his attention for long. Eventually, he scowls deeply at the device before shoving it into a front pocket. He pauses, looking up and down the street to get his bearings. This allows him to see Billy as he trundles along, and the boxer smirks before he heads in that direction, inadvertently falling in behind Billy's predator and nearly colliding with him when he stops and turns away. "Fuckin' watch it," the big man growls, giving the skinhead a hard glare before he moves on. "Fuckin' asshole." "You fuckin' watch, faggot," the skinhead sputters, falling back a step or two. His hands come out of his pockets to brace for a fall that doesn't come and his dark, shark-like eyes shift very briefly to his mark and back as he regains his balance. That is, not before something metallic flies forth out of his grip. He must have been holding onto it in his pocket, judging by how fast it comes spinning out. A blade, it reflects a gleam from the nearby street light before falling to the ground with a 'ping' between Trib and the bald thug. He freezes, lip curled up in a silent snarl at Trib. In a moment, he'll dive for it. Billy stops to look at his phone again, vaguely registering people talking behind him. He might even peek over his shoulder but not long enough to make any connection. "The /fuck/ did you just call me?" Trib's rumble is dangerous, now, as he turns back to face the skinhead. His jaw sets, and his eyes narrow as he sizes up his opponent. His attention follows the metallic object as it tumbles from the tough's grip, and the snorting sound he makes is almost /disappointed/. "Fuckin' /amateurs/," he growls, and steps forward, putting one big, booted foot closer to the knife. Like he's /daring/ the kid to do something. "Go on," he urges, his smile too-wide and overly toothy. "Pick it up." Whatever Billy's reaction is, Trib isn't really paying attention to it. His attention is all for the skinhead and his next move. The snarl goes through a transformation, as do Trib's opponent's eyes, shifting from vicious to a gleaming sneer. Curling in only subtle defense, he reaches a hand behind himself into the back of his waistband, the thin fabric of his tank rising up a little as he begins to draw up whatever he has hidden there. Billy does inevitably turn around. He has to if he wants to get back on the subway. At first, his apathy flicks to happy surprise, 'Hey, it's that guy!' His expression is frozen there as he assesses the situation, smiling though he suddenly knows he ought not be. Trib's snort this time is almost mocking. "Fuck me," he rumbles. "You ain't goin' to go an' /shoot/ me, are you?" He steps forward, and bends at the waist to pick up the discarded knife. He hefts it in his hand, looking first at it, then at the guy reaching for...well, it's /probably/ a gun. Based on the situation. Trib shrugs, and makes a show of picking his teeth with the blade of the knife before he smiles wide and bites through the thickest part of the blade with the same ease he might a candy bar. He chews it slowly, allowing the sound of shredding metal to fill the space between himself and the predator. He makes a point of swallowing audibly, watching the skin head with a bland sort of expression. Waiting for his next move. Billy likely shares the same look of deep, deep concern that the skinhead has. As the skinhead carefully retreats a step, Billy moves closer, reaching out his hand as if to influence anything at all. “Hey!” He calls out tremulously. The skinhead draws his gun, at first pointing it right at Trib but then, waving it between the two men, “What the fuck? Was this a fuckin’ setup? Fuckin’ mutie skum!” He lunges, not for Trib, but for the weak one - grabbing hold of Billy’s collar like it’s his scruff and trying to drag him closer. "If I was settin' you up, fuckhead, you'd be fuckin' dead already," Trib rumbles, and his eyes slam into slits when the punk grabs Billy. His teeth grind, and there's a shift in his skin as a dull metal color begins to seep in, spiderwebbing its way along until no more flesh-tone can be seen. "Let my friend go." It's not a request, and Trib seems unmoved by Billy's predicament. There's a pause before Trib rolls his eyes, and lifts a shoulder with a creaky metallic sound. "/Please/." "Who /are/ you?" Billy demands, glaring through his panic in Trib's direction. After all, he assumes Trib must have some history with this guy or know him somehow. His hands grab at the one, strong arm dragging him closer but loosen when the cold barrel of the gun grazes through his hair. "You want your little boyfriend back, you back the fuck up off of me!" The skinhead's voice deepens to disguise his own panic as he drags Billy back another step. Billy, for all of his whimpering through this, doesn't make it too easy to be moved. He plants his feet into the ground like a mule. Somewhere in the background, either from the street or the many windows above, a woman witnesses the scene screams. The gunman turns his attention to Trib and starts firing. "Dude, I ain't fuckin' /on/ you," Trib growls, rolling his neck with the sound of singing metal. There's a small note of satisfaction in his gaze when Billy plants his feet, then it goes hard again as he looks back at the gunman "Yet. Now let my friend fuckin g -- " Trib breaks off as the woman screams, turning to look in the general direction for a brief moment. And looks back into gunfire. He looks both disappointed and furious as he steps forward, lifting an arm to deflect the bullets away from his face. Any that hit his body are left to ricochet as they will. "You dumb fuck," Trib growls, reaching for the gun with more speed than his metal form would suggest. "Gimme that." There are more shouts from the surrounding area, and suddenly silence as bystanders duck for cover from the bullets ricocheting off of Trib. "No," the skinhead snaps back, the dialogue reverting to that of an adult reprimanding a petulant child. He's too freaked out to struggle, or even maintain hold of the gun once Trib has a grip on it. Instead, he throws Billy to the cement and stumbles back, "Don't you fuckin' come near me!" The thug screams, turning up his nose at something else. He looks down at his own torso, touching it with his palms, "What the fuck?" His white tank-top is damp, but instead of going red, it goes clear. His palms, where they touched it, start to shake as they whiten as well. He rubs his head in thought as he panics, which only causes it to spread to his face. The man lets out a phlegmy, guttural howl. Off to the side, Billy is quiet as he pushes himself up from the ground with one hand, the other cradling his body. Beneath him on the pavement spreads a pool of milky white blood. Trib wrests the gun away from the skinhead, glancing over his shoulder as people begin shouting. He doesn't say anything, but takes the weapon and tucks it into his own waistband. He looks confused when the guy starts screaming, then concerned as he begins to lose color. "What the fuck?" he growls, and he looks around to those standing nearby, Perhaps they can help him. Then he spies Billy laying on the street, and the skinhead's problems are forgotten (possibly ignored) as he goes to squat by the other man. "Hey, Billy-boy," he grunts softly, reaching out to offer a supportive hand. "We need to get the fuck out of here." He eyes the milky blood, glancing back at the skinhead. "Mutie clinic ain't too far," he rumbles softly as he turns back to Billy. "Can you make it?" Billy examines the ground himself, too in shock to have any reasonable reaction, "I'm registered. I don't want to get in trouble." No, he'd rather bleed out. His voice is soft and calm and when he looks up towards Trib, his eyes do look a little too-dead behind his glasses. Behind them, the assailant regains enough of his own mental composure to take off. "I ain't goin' to fuckin' argue," Trib says matter-of-factly, his assessment of Billy's apparent shock quick and to the point. He loops a hand under Billy's good arm, hoisting him off the ground. "The clinic don't give a fuck if you're registered. They're for /mutants/. To not fuckin' die." And since there's no time to be delicate about it, the big man is just going to haul Billy along as fast as he can towards the Mendel Clinic. Which is, fortunately, faster than one would think a metal man could move. Fortunately as well, the blonde weighs about as much as one would expect: just about nothing. "You look like you're in a CapriSun commercial," Billy protests in a whisper, shaking his head in disapproval. He moves cooperatively, however. Hunched inward, Billy keeps his arm plastered to his body awkwardly, like a praying mantis's. The guards at the door seem ready to stop Trib as he comes up the steps, but the sight of Billy makes them change their mind. Trib surrenders the gun, and in no time they're inside. And then Trib can only watch as the professionals converge on Billy and whisk him off to (hopefully) save his life. He stares after the other man as he disappears down the hall, and then sighs heavily before he moves into the waiting area. "Fuckin' perfect," he mutters, frowning deeply as the receptionist approaches him with a clipboard and the look of Someone With Questions. "Fuckin' /Sharpes/." Blank-faced, Billy watches Trib until he's carted out of sight. He barely even tries to comprehend any of the questions being asked of him as the double-doors swing closed, sealing off him and his gaggle of medics.