ArchivedLogs:Rooftop Monsters

Rooftop Monsters
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Shane, Violet
In Absentia	2014-06-23 '
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. It's late at night; the city's cooled off considerably though it hasn't gotten all /that/ quiet here in this part of town, the rush of traffic, the sound of arguing in the streets below, a car alarm beeping as a bike clips a mirror, smalldog yapping at that bike, skateboard wheels rattling over cement, music blaring from the open window of an apartment across the street, chatter from a fro-yo place on the corner, guitar being strummed out of tune. Several stories up, the noises filter up only in odd muted drift, still /there/ but strangely removed. Shane is listening, still. He's been climbing, been running, been /swinging/ from the webshooters clipped to his wrists but right now -- right now he's just draped, boneless-limp, eyes closed in sort of blissful repose where he's flopped along a wall of a rooftop, one leg dangled off its edge. He probably should be wearing clothes -- prooobably. But up here in the pitch-dark night there's not /many/ eyes to see. Just the quiet drift of city-noise from below, the slow content flutter of his gills, his chest heaving a little out of time like he's slightly out of breath and trying to catch it again. There's a cup on the wall down below where his other leg is draped -- half-finished remains of taro bubble tea, and a tray, also half-finished, of roasted pork. He'll probably get to them. At the moment, just sprawl. Right now, there's at least /one/ pair of eyes, though. Unbothered by the dark, faintly shining in the low light up here. Dusk is more dressed than Shane; khaki cargo shorts, Vans sneakers, no socks, just the boxy monitor around his ankle. He's crouched, gargoyle-esque, on the wall by Shane's head, wings mantled wide -- kind of behind him, though one is kind of almost protectively up by where Shane lies. Its edge brushes, gentle, against those fluttering gills. His eyes fix down on the city below. One of his hands grips the wall between his feet, though his other clutches a bubble tea of his own. Almond. Mmm. What is more deliciously naughty: streaking through the city or glorying in the strengths that one's mutation brings? Violet surely couldn't answer the question if it were posed--to her, both are equally naughty, both equally delicious. She too has been propelling herself through the city, but her method of locomotion is decidedly less web-based. For her there has been running, leaping, clawing. Brick walls have been scrabbled up, tarred roofs bolted over and walled terraces jumped. For her, this Parkour has the additional dangerous element of doing so bare-assed...unless one counts the sleek coat of fur that covers every patch of visible skin. Where there needs be additional fuzz to provide modesty, there is additional fuzz--though patches of white join black and cinnamon, in traditionally more hidden places--but that pelt isn't so thick as to hide the definition of finely tuned muscle beneath. And, right now, that muscle is aimed to one goal: getting her to the top of /this/ building. Below the pair lazing about above, like lazy lazies, there is a scratching, scraping noise. Just two seconds later, Violet explodes over the edge of the building directly before them. She'd powered her upwards push of haunches to bring her up and over but, finding /obstacles/ there provides a stark moment of terror. Fur immediately bristles, orange eyes fly wide and she utters a yowl of displeasure--a sort of shrieky, "Yweorghrarl!"--before having to scramble as surprise makes the leap fall short. Gravity works, folks. Hopefully those unsheathed claws find brick rather than flesh to sink into as certain universal laws take over. Shane probably doesn't know the meaning of the word modesty, no fur, just gleamy blue skin, thick and leathery though, as it turns out, not so leathery as to provide armor against sharp claws. Shane's teeth bare as he twists over onto his side towards the source of the noise. With his gills fluttering fast, the hiss he would be hissing is silent, no /air/ expelled through abruptly non-functional lungs; reflexes kick in almost too fast for pain to even register, hand twisting down to clamp around Violet's arm in return. It's not a /great/ reflex, admittedly -- it helps pull her up more securely, sure, but it digs her claws in just that much deeper. "{Goatfucker}," bursts out in sharp Vietnamese, hand pulling back, towards the roof and away from Violet. "You're fucking everywhere." Dusk's wings flare out wide and startled with a sudden crack, a whoosh of wind, his eyes opening and hand clamping down in a tense moment of spook at the shrieking. His bubble tea drops; attempt to catch it again seizes only on its straw as the drink falls to the ground many stories below. He winces -- more for his lost bubble tea than for Shane's claw-pierced arm. His frown is definitely directed down towards the splatter far below. "S'just what happens when you keep feeding strays. I mean. Your family still hasn't gotten rid of me." After a pause he looks reluctantly away from his lost tea, crooking a grin over at Shane. "-- Your family still hasn't gotten rid of /you/." Violet has her own animal instincts to battle. The urge to pin her ears and peel lips back from brilliant teeth and hiss--that instinct cannot be resisted. Sinking claws down into stuff that gives far more than brick does, while her toes perform the same function against the side of the building below? That one happens too. But after that, it's the /human/ instincts that surface...and those are probably a little worse, even if they do come without bloodshed. Still making her theatening snakey face, her gaze flicks towards Dusk, flitters to Shane's face--and then snakey face is gone, replaced with a sudden peal of laughter. She /laughs/. And laughs. A full, rich belly laugh, strong enough that she has to grip Shane even /tighter/ to keep from shaking herself right off the side of the building. "...m-me? /Me/? Oh, damn...gggssss. Sec." The laughter is still seeping through, even as she gets a better grip with toes and toe-pads, allowing for a relaxing of the claws. "P-pull..." "Khhhh." Shane's lean muscles tense, pitch-black eyes opening to dominate his narrow face with the sinking of claws in a freakishly wide-eyed look that resembles something nightmarish-demonic far more than it resembles any cutesy-anime expression. "Gonna laugh yourself right off the damn --" He shakes his head, turning around so that /he/ can brace himself better against the wall when he pulls, deceptively alarmingly strong for his lean-small frame. "What's so damn funny?" Dusk's eyes are skimming over Violet, as that hissing face melts into laughter. Down from face to fur-covered muscles, up along to where Shane's hand grasps hers. Along to where his muscles tense to pull her up, back down to Violet. He exhales slowly, one corner of his mouth hooking up as his wings pull slowly back in to fold at his back. One hand lifts, fingers curling into his hair to scrunch through it briefly, leaving dark waves a little more tousled. "Roofs are /usually/ pretty safe." "Fffssss," Violet joins Shane in making all the noises. Courtesy of his pull--with more oomph than she'd expected--and her own push with those braced toes, she goes rolling right over him. No simple trick or easy move but she makes it look easy all the same, flowing over him and then twisting on the way down again to get feet and knees touching down before the rest of her. "/You/. Came out here to get /away/ from all ya'll!" Traces of that bubbling amusement remain in her voice but her attention is already diverted. Bloody claws, bloody puncture marks on the poor sharkboy. She briefly glances at the former before leaning over Shane to get a better look at the latter. "Gotcha good...sorry 'bout that, fella. That's what I /was/ thinkin'..." Per Dusk's observation on roof safety, the other male earning a glance. "Now'm not so sure." Shane's brows raise as Violet rolls down over him, his head twisting around to follow the motion with a slightly wide-eyed impressed look. "Hey, we're not that bad," he answers her with a snort, a bright grin. He stoops to pick up his bubble tea, hopping back up to sit on the wall, backwards this time with both his legs dangling squarely into its /inside/. He holds the bubble tea in his unpunctured arm, his bloodied one stretching out so that he can look at it, too, turning it one way then the other with a shrug. "Did kinda, huh? Your pointy ends are really pointy. I never thought roofs were safe, though. I just thought they were where I got to be the /worst/ monster." His eyes are fixing on his arm with this statement with /amused/ contemplation. "/We're/ everywhere, too. We just --" Dusk trails off, when Shane stretches out his arm, his attention caught by the glistening marks on the boy's skin. His pupils are widening in his large eyes, and his wings shift slightly against his back. He draws in a slow breath, pulling his eyes upward with a gradual re-emergence of his sharp-fanged smile. "Nah, though, I'm pretty sure I win that award on most rooftops around here lately." He flicks a wingtip towards Shane's arm, shaking his head slightly at Violet. "He heals fast. And you should see what he does to himself every Friday on /purpose/. That's nothing." "Nah, you're not that bad." This allowance from Violet comes coupled with a grin that hints at more she /might/ have said. A short-lived grin, to be sure. With Shane's arm on display, it dims while she sniffs at the air--no doubt testing for the amount of blood that's gone from inside to outside. "You, uh...up to date on your shots?" Maybe? Hopefully? She settles back on her haunches, tail curling neatly across the top of her feet and arms pushed straight down through her thighs, fingertips just touching roof surface. It's the perfect posture from which to study Dusk for a moment, silent /just/ long enough to seem thoughtful. Then, curiously, "Friday? This another Micah-style joke about whips'n'collars?" There's blood enough stippling the air to have a good deal of coppery tang scenting the night, sharp enough to sharp senses and probably maddening to the vampire specifically attuned to it. Shane, though, is clearly a firm believer in Oscar Wilde's philosophy on temptation; noticing Dusk's dilated pupils, his deliberate breath, he simply scoots in closer, stretching his arm out nearer Dusk's mouth. "Mmm? Oh. Yeah, I'm -- I'm healthy as a. Uh. Some -- fucking. Healthy metaphor. I don't actually know how healthy your average ox is. I'm healthy as a mutant shark with two overprotective dads and a pretty decent healing factor?" He shrugs a shoulder, dipping his head to sip at his tea. Around the straw his teeth flash in grin. "Nah, not sex, it's the /other/ best way to use your body. Run a club Friday nights. Fight club. Freaks only. Friendly fighting. I mean, it's tough, gets bloody, but it's friendly." A low growl rumbles in Dusk's throat; it doesn't /stop/ as he lifts his hands, curling them around Shane's arm to pull it closer and fastening his lips against the deepest of the punctures with a softly relieved exhale. His wings relax against his back, and the sharp press of one fang /widens/ a hole Violet's claw had already left. There's a strange overlapping sound to his voice when he speaks, dual vocal cords both working when he pulls his head back just enough to talk, growling still rumbling quiet and low underneath his words. "Yeah, it's kind of. I mean, s'-- medics. Healers. There if shit gets serious and uh. They do /not/ tolerate anyone starting /actual/ trouble. Just a place for people to -- practice. Fight. Our way. But somewhere safe. We've had kind of a, uh. problem. With people --" His wings shift against his back again, mouth returning for a moment to suck at the blood coming from Shane's arm. "-- s'good to be able to defend yourself, you need to." "Fight club." Fur shifts and rearranges on Violet's face--lifted brows, lips turned down in a thoughtful bunching. The very idea is almost enough to keep her from paying much attention to the feeding going on. Almost. But with B's scientific queries still fresh in mind, she tilts her head to keep a curious eye on the point of contact between shark and bat. "Healers is good," she says slowly, "and keepin' it...friendly. Not too many chances t'really go head t'head with folks who can hold their own against..." Well. Claws. Teeth. The easy, fluid roll of muscle beneath shoulders and along flanks when she lightly shifts her weight. Y'know, that sorta thing. The idea /must/ intrigue, for her tail flips back from its neat curl whip and dance behind her. Her grin is sudden and fierce. "Only ever thrown down with normal assholes. Not much fight there." Shane hisses for real this time, gills pressing flat and his breath sucking in sharply as Dusk's fang presses in. It doesn't last long; he relaxes, first as the startlement passes and then as the druglike effect of Dusk's bite starts to trickle in. He eases a little closer to the vampire, breathing slowing and his gaze shifting slowly back to Violet with a nod. "-- Had a problem with sick motherfuckers," he finishes Dusk's statement with a grimace, "kidnapping people and sticking them in cages --" His eyes narrow, head shaking once. "Figured it'd do us good to teach our own to. Well. Hold our own. And yeah. Fighting against flatscans doesn't always really get you much practice. It's Friday evenings. Not far from my coffeeshop, if you want to check it out." Dusk's pupils are not getting any less dilated with the drinking, admittedly; the druglike effects of feeding are stronger still on him than the effects of /biting/ are on his quarry. His wing curls out, brushing soft and fuzzy against Shane's back in a slow press as he sucks hungrily at the wound. "Healers, yeah," he manages to pull away to say. "Good ones, it can get rough sometimes. I can give you the address. The house it's at, actually, it's a safehouse for us. Not just Friday nights, any time you need a couch, you show up, it's a safe place to crash." His wing still rubs against Shane's back, tongue just lapping now at the blood. A crooked smile hangs on his lips. "Won't feed you near as much. Usually have coffee though." A sympathetic twinge goes through Violet when Shane hisses. She drops lower, slinking a little awaaaay from the feeding--but the ears remain up, and narrowed eyes are less suspicious, more a simple street wary. "Heard rumors," she says, after a visible swallow--likely switching from catty tones to human ones, given the roughness of her voice. "Folks goin' missing all over, yeah. Yeah...maybe. Might swing by. Less for crouching. Don't wanna get too /soft/. And theeeere it is, that statement not made earlier when she was teasing the shark about "all ya'll". This remark is teasing too, good rumor reasserting itself. "But for a good tussle...y'gonna heal fast enough t'keep from lightheaded, gettin' down from here?" Shane leans back, spine rolling into the brush of wing and his eyes closing; his gills squeeze closed, a small smile on his face. It fades at the mention of missing folks, head tilting to tip a glance over to Dusk. "Yeah. There's been a lot of fucked up around here." His teeth bare at the thought of going soft, and he nuzzles back further into Dusk's wing. A soft laugh pushes out past his suddenly bared teeth. "Oh. Oh man. That would need life to slow the fuck down for a while. When /we/ get soft --" But this trails off, his cheek turning now to press into Dusk's wing, too. "No," he finally answers, laughing. "I don't heal that fast. I can sleep here. Zzz." There's a little bit of a vacant look in Dusk's eyes that latches there somewhere around 'folks goin' missing' and doesn't really /leave/. "Yeah," he murmurs, softly, distant, looking not at Violet but somewhere a little past her, "we'll spoil you." Lap, lap, lap, he's still licking up the blood hungrily, wing still pressing back against Shane. He doesn't /really/ come back to the present, though he does give his head a small shake. "Don't be stupid. You have work -- you need clothes for work. You weigh. Two pounds. I can carry you home." There's a whuff of air through Violet's nose, not /quite/ one of her patented sneezesnorts--but pretty damn close all the same. "Sure, sleep right on up here and when th'sun comes up I know where t'come for baked shark." Morbid? Or simply baldy practical? She's not /telling/. "And y'know, all this cuddlin', ya'll aren't exactly convincing about the whole not soft thing," she /also/ points out with a grin. In the same moment she flows to her feet. Work has been mentioned; someone appears to be having an allergic reaction. "Who likes a spoiled cat? Not me. I'll leave ya to it. Work or cuddlin'. But maybe I'll see ya'll come Friday, hey?" "Oh. Oh right. You can -- he's strong," Shane informs Violet, wide-eyed again, cheek rubbing up against the soft wing. "And I'd taste better as sashimi." He relays an address to her, near a cross street as promised /very/ close to Evolve. "Friday. Maaaybe. Maybe Friday. See you." And then he's back to cuddling. Because he's toootally Not Soft.