ArchivedLogs:Us and Them

Us and Them
Dramatis Personae Anette, Dusk, Steve	2016-04-24 "We /are/ lending a hand. The hell are /you/ doing, Cap?" (Warning: graphic violence.)
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 been a very busy Sunday already -- church in the morning, an organizing meeting to interpret for later in the morning, a lunchtime rally followed by a march followed by /another/ meeting-cum-dinner-cum-fundraiser for the veeery beginnings of a planned shelter for homeless mutants. After all this Dusk is making his way -- kind of slow, kind of meandering; he has a stack of flyers detailing marches and rallies planned for /next/ week tucked under one arm that he is putting up on his path back -- gradually back towards the Commons. Hopefully for dinner. Even in the eveningtime it's quite pleasantly mild, now; he's only barely dressed, jeans and Vans sneakers and no shirt though a long-sleeved black flannel is tied around his waist in case the temperature drops Too Much. His wings are eye-catching as usual, deep red skin with the fuzz layered over them a faintly iridescent black; fine silver veins glimmer along their length, threaded across them like the wings of a dragonfly. He's just taken off, briefly, temporarily abandoning the ground to join a young woman smoking on her fire escape when she waves him up to ask for a flyer. Steve has been walking loosely with Dusk, sometimes ahead and sometimes behind, crossing the street at intervals to tack up poster. He's somewhat /more/ dressed, though: a red t-shirt with a yellow star on the chest, crisp blue jeans, and somewhat scuffed combat boots. He wears his shield across his back and a battered olive drab messenger bag decorated with a black winged wolf over one shoulder. Pausing now, he draws staple gun and a fresh flyer from his bag and neatly attaches it to a community bulletin board, only covering over one of six posters for the same music festival. He looks up from his work to watch Dusk take wing, the faint twitch of a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The weather may be mild but Anette is still wearing one of her many coats. Granted, the warm(er) weather means it's one of the thinner ones. And she's going without her gloves though she tucks her talons inside her sleeves whenever possible so as not to bring attention to them. Still, she seems relatively comfortable, walking down the street at a brisk but casual place, in no particular hurry to get wherever she's going. Dusk's wings do prove eyecatching and, even a block or so away, she recognizes their color and irridescence. A soft smile appears on her face as she walks a bit faster to catch up with him, while watching him fly up to the fire escape. Once within earshot, she calls out to him, "It's a wonder you're not drowning in tickets and fines." She finally stops a few feet away from Steve, taking a brief moment to glance him over, eyes lingering on the shield before she breaks out in a grin. "Ah, zombie frisbee. You always carry that thing around?" Dusk has perched himself on the rail of the fire escape in a crouch, one wing curled loosely against the railing for balance and the other bumping casual and light up against the shoulder of the woman he's passed off the flyer to -- she's tipping her head in towards him, grinning over something being said though not much of the conversation is audible from the ground past a snatched word here and there of Spanish. Dusk glances up at the call from the ground, shoulders shaking in quick laughter at something his companion has said; he shakes his head, lets his wing fall away from her arm as he twists back around. "Buzzkill," is his lightly amused accusation. "If you didn't hide those wings all the time you'd know the cops have to actually /catch/ you to arrest you. We live in pretty interesting times but pigs /still/ don't fly. Not even any of the MID ones, yet. Glaring oversight, honestly." His wing touches lightly against the back of the woman who stands beside him before he stands up, tips himself off the edge of the fire escape to push back into the air, briefly rising before starting to glide back down. But then catching himself, pulling higher once more with a frown. This time he lights another two stories /higher/ on the balcony, looking not back down to the ground but out into the distance across the city, wings twitching in small restless fidget at his back. "Guten Abend, Fraulein." Steve's smile goes even more crooked. He shakes his head. "I hear they find reasons enough to fine you regardless, whether they see your wings or not." Smoothing down the edges of the flyer, he tucks his staple gun back into his bag. "But yes, I do like to keep the shield handy." He's walking toward Anette for easier conversing, but his eyes track up toward Dusk again when the other man alters his flight path -- and his body language. "Trouble?" "True. I like giving them less reasons to fine me though." Anette looks up to Dusk and shakes her head. "There's not many things in my life I'm proud of. The wings are pretty much it and I'm a tad overprotective of them." She smirks and is about to continue but Dusk's reaction catches her attention and her smile falls, eyes narrowing as he focuses on him, her form stiffening. "What's wrong?" Dusk is too high up to be paying great attention to what's on the ground, at the moment, eyes focused off into the distance for a few beats longer before he takes flight again. At first he wings farther away, circling back a short while later to thump down onto the first-floor fire escape, this time. "People lighting shit on fire. Lot of people." His brows knit. "Not like it has been." "{Fair enough -- those fines, they can really pile up.}" Steve concedes in German (stiff, precise, with a heavy French accent). But his eyes are still following Dusk, his brows knitting heavily when the man returns with his news. He reaches one hand down and clips the flap of his bag shut. "I'll go and try to talk them down. Or, failing that, we can make sure no /people/ are getting set on fire. Mind giving me a lift?" Despite her earlier comments regarding her wings, Anette decides now is a good time to drop her coat, slipping it off her shoulders in a well-rehearsed movement, stretching her wings out and giving a few practice beats before becoming airborne herself, her coat tucked in the crook of her arm. Circling above them, she waits for Dusk and Steve to catch up with her, while taking the time to listen in as best she can to the distant chaos. Dusk doesn't really need to be asked twice -- or once, for that matter. He's tucked his flyers away into his messenger bag, gliding back down as soon as Steve starts to shut /his/ bag. He waits only long enough for Steve to get his things situated before scooping the (much larger) man up in one arm without much discernible effort. "{Hang on.}" His wings spread, bearing them just as easily back up into the air. Once they've cleared some of the lower buildings, it's easier to see the beginnings of reddish-orange glow across the neighborhood. A crowd, loose and disorganized -- certainly no sort of /march/ as in the rest of the day -- clustering here and there by some buildings. As Dusk wings closer, some yelling, some shattering -- the windows of a car parked out on the street. It's yelling that only grows -- not just clearer but more pointed as the vampire-bat glides nearer, at least some number of people catching sight of him and his Patriotic Burden and pointing. Shouting. Waving. "-- Fucking /Captain America/," someone sounds /quite/ surprised at /this/. It's a day for fire escapes, it seems; Dusk picks one near the recently smashed car to set Steve down on its lowest platform, wings folding in behind him. Steve looks quite used to traveling via winged friend, and curls one arm around Dusk, carefully situated out of the sweep of his massive wings. With the other hand he gives Anette a salute (respectful, if casual and /maybe/ a little cocky?) just before his ride takes off. He sucks in a sharp breath as they climb steeply up. "{This always feels /amazing/,}" in Spanish now, near Dusk's ear, though not loudly. Pale blue eyes are searching the street, though, trying to discern the level of belligerence and danger. "Gracias," softly, when Dusk sets him down. His hand squeezes down on the other man's shoulder before letting go. "May I please have your attention?" His voice is pitched to carry, commanding despite the wording of his request. "I understand you have strong opinions to express, but people's lives are at stake here. I urge you to exercise restraint, and render assistance to those in need until the fire department and EMS arrives." He does not wait for agreement or disagreement, but flips over the railing and drops down to the sidewalk, landing in an easy crouch before jogging toward the nearest fire. "You," to a scrawny young man with a phone in hand -- photographing or texting or some combination, "please call 911." When Dusk lands on a fire escape, Anette lands too, choosing the platform directly above them, tucking her wings close to her once she's landed and leaning forward against the railing to watch the crowds and Dusk and Steve below her. She grins a bit at Steve's salute, though she remains focused for now, performing her own little survey of the situation, yellow eyes scanning the crowd and their activities. When Steve begins speaking, she raises a brow, eyes drifting down to him as she listens to the speech. "If they actually listen, I'll be impressed," she says, hopping up and over the railing and coasting to the ground after Steve as he jumps down to help. People have strong opinions to express, certainly. A few people are choosing now to express them at Steve: "When the fuck did you become a cop?" "Goddamn /race/ traitor is what he is." "Someone should take that goddamn shield from you you don't deserve it." "Look at the freaks he's hanging around with!" "/People/. Ain't no goddamn /people/ living /here/ --" This last is accompanied by another crash -- something being thrown through the window of one of the nearby rowhomes, this time. The crowd, it is quite clear by now, is notably devoid of picket signs. Of the interspersed visibly inhuman features that characterize a number of the /usual/ protesters that have been getting rowdy in the streets these days. The man with the phone takes a step back from Steve -- looking uncertainly to the group (quite large but somewhat spread out; some people down the block breaking in the windows of a small hair & nail salon, a closer cluster with spray cans disappearing down a near side street, though the arrival of Steve and the winged mutants has kept a large bulk right here to gawk. "Like the cops are going to help," he finally volunteers, "these freaks have been taking over /our/ neighborhood for too long now." Dusk's cheeks puff out. He hasn't followed the others to the ground -- has been scanning the crowd from his perch with a small knotted furrow of brow, a sinking of fangs against his lower lip. "/Uh/, guys --" is as far as he gets in his assessment when the others are jumping down into the thick of things. His hand lifts, fingers running through his hair. He ignores the crowd Steve is actually addressing, drawing in a deep breath and coasting down over their heads to drop down in front of the currently-besieged rowhouse. His wings flare out, snapping to their full width. "Might be a good time for you all to back the fuck off and leave the people inside here to the rest of their evening." Steve's jaw tightens a fraction, but his calm does not fail him. "I'm not here to /police/ anyone. I'm just a fellow citizen and a neighbor." He has not armed himself, and shows no inclination to, though his eyes follow both of his winged companions when they descend, then dart back to the crowd. "Whatever your politics, I hope we can at least agree that setting the City on fire is bad for /everyone./ So I ask you once again: lend a hand, or go home." There's an edge of steel in his voice at this last, a suggestion that his patience is not infinite. Anette doesn't respond well to the 'freak' comments and general animosity, her eyes widening and her hands balling into fists as she grits her teeth. Still, a couple of deep, if angry, breaths through her nose and she contains herself, keeping close to Steve as he leads the way. {"I really don't think they're going to listen and if we stick around, I can't promise I won't do something stupid,"} she says, switching to her barely fluent German. She stiffens, listening intently for any immediate dangers before she continues. {"And the police will just end up arresting us."} The crowd -- does not respond /well/ to Dusk and Anette descending further into their midst. The clamour increases, many people shifting back (a little tense) though others step forward (a little tense/r/.) One woman, short and muscular, crowbar slung casually over her shoulder, steps up in front of the young man with the phone, chin lifting to Steve. "We /are/ lending a hand. The hell are /you/ doing, Cap? Flying in here with these goddamn --" She exhales a short-sharp hiss through here teeth, sparing Anette only a brief disgusted flick of a glance. "This /been/ our neighboorhood since forever. We're just trying to keep it that way. You got an issue, maybe you shoulda stayed on ice." Behind her, some of the others are regrouping. Another window smashed out of the nearby salon, a pair of men clambering inside. More crashing noises from within. Dusk, though, nobody is particularly bothering to /talk/ to. Though the flared wings make the crowd back up -- for a moment -- a moment later a rock is lobbed hard at the wide glimmering target of his prettily painted wings. Then another. "Get out the damn /way/." Dusk growls, deep and low in his chest. His breath hisses in at the first hit, but he snaps his wing inward, batting the second rock away with a small snarl. Doesn't /move/, though, from the front of the house. His eyes are flicking -- one way, then another -- to Steve and Anette. To the large crowd already quite engaged with Destruction. "{Goddammit --}" is muttered more to himself than anyone else, in quiet Spanish. "No one is going to win here," Steve's reply might as easily be addressed to Anette as the crowd before them, though its volume and intonation carry it over the general noise of heckling and muttering. "At the end of the day we all still have to find out how to live here together. I'm here to protect people from harm, human /or/ mutant." Now he does pull the shield from his back and straps it to his forearm, then moves to stand with Dusk in front of the building that currently holds the crowd's interest (and ire). As he passes Anette, he adds, quietly, "I'll not think less of you for leaving." The next rock pitched in Dusk's direction, however, finds the shield instead. Anette flinches at the sound of glass shattering, her eyes immediately darting to the source. The suggestion of leaving is considered. Seriously considered. After giving it a few seconds of thought, she apparently decides to stick around, hurrying to join Dusk and Steve in front of the building. "First sign of police and I'm gone," she warns, standing just behind them, her wings pressed tightly against her back. Though she does cast a quick wink in Dusk's direction, a playful grin momentarily crossing her face. "Can't let anything happen to those pretty faces. Or wings." There's a flicker of fireglow sparking to life inside the damaged store -- just one of a couple battered or enflamed buildings, now, on this street. In the building behind Dusk a large pair of eyes, huge floppy ears, a shock of orange fuzzy hair, briefly peeks up from one upper floor window, staring out wide and fearful at the crowd before someone else in the house yanks the tinier child away. "Oh," another man in the crowd -- bigger, burlier, a Sig P226 openly holstered at his hip -- is saying this with a sharp and rather unhumoured slice of smile at Anette, "don't you worry, bitch, the cops are on their way." A skinnier man beside him just smirks, jostles him with an elbow before hurling another brick up towards the window that the face had appeared at. Dusk doesn't return Anette's smile. Beneath his dark scruff of beard his own jaw is just clenched; his lips clamp thinly together. His eyes have darted to the man's sidearm with a faintly disgusted /huff/, hands balling tight into fists at his sides. The thrown brick never finds its target, though. He's off the ground in a moment with one easy leap and a /powerful/ downdraft from his immense wings; one wing cracks hard at the thrown brick, hurling it (now in several pieces) back towards the crowd from which it came. Perhaps it strikes someone in the crowd. Perhaps it /doesn't/. In the muddle it's hard to tell, really -- but /someone/ cries out, someone yells; and there's a loud crack of gunfire in the next moment, someone taking aim towards Dusk as he rises into the air. It's all the incentive the tense crowd needs at this point; even if Dusk is momentarily out of reach for those /without/ firearms many of the others on the ground surge forward. Perhaps they /had/ the house and its mutant occupants in mind as an original target for their baseball bats and crowbars and tire irons but with Anette and Steve in the way, it seems, they're more than happy to redirect their current ire. Steve may not see the target of the thrown brick, but the crowd's reaction to the rebounding one is easy to predict. He does not flinch at the sound of the gunshot, but drops his center of gravity. Braces his shield before him. Stills himself, for just a fraction of a second, and then moves forward with inhuman speed, pushing back those who rush toward him in a wide, sweeping arc to the left. Anette watches as Dusk takes care of the brick, still grinning to herself at his skill. That gunshot though, that brings her back to earth. Any sign of amusement, humor, anything, gone. She flinches, the shot having some effect on her more than it's sharp, sudden sound. Immediately following shot is one her infamous screeches and she stretches her wings out to their full length, taking predatory mode. A single beat and she's up in the air, just above the crowd and their reach. She doesn't bother to see if the bullet hit Dusk, not yet. Instead, she propels herself just above the crowd, eyes quickly scanning in the general direction of where the attack came from. She doesn't know for sure exactly who it came from but the sight of one armed person, weapon in hand, is enough, and she swiftly introduces her boots to his face and chest, aiming to knock him to the ground. The crowd parts like -- well, a very rowdy and violent sea, anyway -- around Steve's rush. Some people hurled back against others, some thudding to the floor, some ineffectual strikes thudding muffled against the shield. Some more intrepid close readily back /in/ in his wake, a chunk of cement lobbed at the back of his knees, a crowbar thwacked towards the small of his spine. Anette's strike most certainly does knock her target down; the dreadlock'd man she collides with is solidly built and goes down with a /thud/, a good deal of blood running down his face to splatter against his white tank. But the heavily armed group around him is just as swift to introduce /their/ weapons to Anette -- a heavy tire iron cracking out hard against one wing, a muscular woman swinging a baseball bat in towards the owl-woman's ribs, others not bothering so much with weapons as they are reaching for her legs to drag her /down/ to the ground and stave off further aerial attacks. There's a snarl, a spattering of blood dripping from overhead -- certainly the bullet has found /some/ target, because Dusk's flight path is abruptly more erratic. When he tucks his wings in close and veers sharply back down, it's also to the center of the crowd -- just by where Anette has vanished into the press of people. He doesn't seem particularly concerned about grasping hands or wayward weaponry, though -- one wing sweeps out quick and hard, still trailing blood in its wake as he shoves at -- /whichever/ of the crowd comes into his vast reach. To shove them back, now, with his rather inordinate strength. "/Anette/." His other wing snaps out to intercept the path of the tire iron. "This is getting a little -- fff. Think we just need to find the families around here -- some place -- safe for the. Night." Steve does not seem very much bothered by concrete blocks, though he does wince just a little when the crowbar strikes him. He spins around on the same momentum of his first outward sweep, knocking back those crowding in behind him. Not retreating, though, he shoves his way through toward where Anette has gotten dragged down. This proves quite unnecessary, as Dusk has descended to extricate her. "I agree," he manages, bodily lifting one man and tossing him into a denser patch of humanity to clear more space for the winged people to take off again. "Out from the rooftops and fire escapes, or just call in teleporters." Somehow Anette manages to hold her own against the many thugs. A few get solid hits but nothing she can't walk away from, if a bit stiffly. The worst seems to be a gash across her right cheek, already trickling blood. Still, at the sight of Dusk, she quickly nods, making her way towards him, gouging her talons into whatever flesh she needs to rejoin him. The flying body does her a world of good and the second people clear away, wings are out and she's in the air once more, quickly gaining height and making herself out of reach of crowbars and bricks. “Rooftops, we’ll figure it out from here,” she calls back, making her way to that window where the orange fuzzy child had previously been peering through. Many of those who had been pressing in around the group are moving off -- the energy of a crowd is quick to change and there are many other targets, many other Things Being Smashed further down the block. Anette's claws find very little purchase, really, though; one swipe clangs against a heavy length of pipe thudding up to block her talons (as someone else is cracking /down/ hard from above on that same arm); another swipe meets the yoinked metal lid of a trashcan (which is subsequently slammed towards her face before she manages to take off.) There are a few more gunshots -- two at only a short distance range towards Anette and Steve from the burly man who had commented about the police, a few (somewhat wilder) from who-knows-who farther down the block just as likely to hit the rioting humans as Dusk's eye-catching wings. People seem less keen to engage with Steve or Dusk and their /actual/ crazy-strength, now, finally starting to scatter -- if only to continue the mayhem further along the street. "I'll ping all the teleporters. Hive can -- probably help us figure out /who/ needs to get the fuck out of here. Anette, let that family know we're getting 'em -- fuck. Somewhere. Another heavy /push/ of wings, a disgruntled snarl, and Dusk is -- swooping in to grab Steve, first. Then taking back to the sky, to light well out of reach on the roof of one of the recently destroyed buildings. Steve fends off the various improvised weapons with shield or hand, sometimes ripping them from their wielders' hands and sometimes just using them to lever people away from him. He sees the burly shooter leveling his gun to fire just barely in time to step between him and Anette, momentarily vulnerable as she is about to lift off. One shot skips off of his shield, the ricochet startlingly quiet, but the next catches him just below his right shoulder, his red shirt suddenly much redder there. He hisses sharply, staggers, and it's hard to say whether he /would/ have fallen because then Dusk's arm is around him and bearing him up into the sky.