ArchivedLogs:What though the field be lost?

What though the field be lost?
Dramatis Personae Kyle Whelan, Merit
In Absentia	2013-05-02 (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location <NYC> Villa Straylight - Greenwich Village
This small efficiency contains more electronic equipment than furniture. A projector hangs from the ceiling, pointed at a blank white wall opposite the single futon that doubles as couch and bed. Whatever view the windows might offer is completely obscured by blackout curtains, which, if drawn aside, reveal solar panels affixed to the casements. A slim, portable generator sits beneath the central window, while a larger, less portable one supports a pegboard and serves as an end table/night stand of sorts. Partially disassembled PCs, mixers, amps, and speakers occupy much of the floor space, but not to the point of making the room unnavigable. A small work table in the corner is covered with coils of cables, boxes of screws, and various tools, while the kitchen counter remains surprisingly uncluttered except at mealtime. Merit slips into the dimness of his apartment building and removes his sunglasses with a faint, contented sigh. He produces a pack of Sampoernas from one pocket of his leather jacket and a sleek steel lighter from another. Shaking loose a cigarette and passing it to his lips, he pauses in front of a prominent "No Smoking" sign to light it. The brief flash of yellow flame leaves the cavernous hallway darker for its failing fluorescent lights. Ascending the stairs, Merit exchanges his lighter for keys. He hesitates in the doorway to his apartment. The brand at the tip of his cigarette glows bright, then dims; the scent of cloves blossoms and mingles with the backdrop of stale tobacco and marijuana. His eyes sweep left and right as he goes through the practiced motions of unlocking his door. There are people approaching, notable through footsteps around the corner and through the approaching field leaked by multiple cellphones. They're not approaching all that hurriedly, all that threateningly, sort of an easy saunter around the hall towards Merit. Three of them, and in dress they're conspicuous, NYPD uniforms and casual expressions. "Merit Constantine?" One of them is even flashing a badge. Another has a Dunkin Donuts bag. The third, bigger, burlier, all muscles and short-cropped blond hair, is giving his phone a kind of irritable glance that eases as he pockets it and looks up. Merit eyes first the badge, then the belt, and expels a long stream of smoke between subtly painted lips--generally away from the faces of his uninvited guests. "Yes," he replies, taking the cigarette from his mouth and the key from his lock. "Is there something I can do for you?" He meets the eyes of the officer who had spoken and arches one slender black eyebrow at him. "Perhaps," the officer says -- younger, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, not /quite/ as burly as the musclebound blond. He puts away his badge, hands dropping back to his sides. "You're quite involved in the club scene here, yeah? We've been investigating some disappearances and we were hoping you might be able to help us." "I am," Merit says. He takes a drag on his Sampoerna and studies the officer minutely before exhaling downward. The clove smoke curls and eddies over his impeccably sloppy dress shirt, starch white and smooth, but half unbuttoned. "Alas, I do not know anything about this matter. If you will leave a card, I should be glad to contact you if anything comes to my attention." He starts to bring the cigarette back up to his lips, but pauses. "Is that all?" The officer who had been speaking tips his head, perhaps acknowledgment, perhaps dismissal. He steps back, slightly, off to the side to allow his companion forward. The other young man shifts his Dunkin Donuts bag into his off-hand, rummaging in a pocket to pull out a business card. Fairly standard NYPD issue. Contact information for a Det. Bradley Irvine. Transferring cigarette to mouth, Merit accepts the proffered card with the barest dip of his head. "Thank you, Officers. Good day." So saying, he pockets the card and goes again to open his door, though without turning away completely from the looming pack of police. It is hard not to turn away from at least one of them; the officer who originally spoke had stepped back to Merit's other side to allow the maybe?detective to offer his card, and the third burlier one ends up forming somewhat of a triangle with the other two, a point that leaves Merit between the three of them and the door. It is quick, when they move. The officer with the business card barely even looks to his companions, just nods -- politely, even! -- to Merit. He's taking a half-step back as Merit turns back for his door, but even as he does so his companion is taking a half-step forward. He draws his baton in one smooth motion as he does, a heavy chhhhk as it expands coming in a bare half-second prelude to the weapon being swing up heavily towards the back of Merit's head. Merit jerks out of the way as though he /had/ been struck, but from the side instead of behind and just barely hard enough to remove him from the path of the baton. He launches himself at the donut-bearing detective, a maneuver as graceful as it is desperate. The officer throws out a hand -- not to block this oncoming attack but to fling the Dunkin Donuts bag towards Kyle. PROTECT THE DONUTS! The man behind Merit is moving forward as Merit does, baton swinging back down towards the electrokinetic again as his partner throws the hard edge of his hand in a sharp chop towards Merit's throat. Just to the edge of this sudden flurry of action, Kyle is -- getting a donut? He's caught the bag and is opening it, anyway. Cops got /priorities/, man. Merit ducks his head and twists away from the incoming blows--they still hit him, on one shoulder and the opposite arm. Grimacing, he flicks his clove cigarette at the face of the disarmed donut-wielder and slams his shoulder into the sternum of the baton-wielder. This would have been an impressive tackle for a man thrice his mass, but even his willowy frame made an impact on someone who was already moving toward him. The officer hisses as the cigarette flies into his face, sparks and butt leaving a reddening burn against his cheek and one eye squinted up against the sudden pain. His next strike is wilder, less well-aimed, elbow jerking towards Merit's ribs. The baton wielder oofs, teeth baring with this tackle, stumbling backwards against the hallway wall with a sudden hiss of breath, his hand dropping to his side. His other comes up, though, trying to lock around Merit's neck -- perhaps choking and perhaps just trying to /hold/ the willowy man. Focusing his fury on the man he has just staggered--and probably cannot get away from so easily anyway--Merit bites the hand moving toward for his neck. He grinds his incisors and left canine into the webbing between the officer's thumb and forefinger, drawing blood. His other assailant's elbow catches him in the side solidly. Merit yelps, releases the hand, and aims a somewhat haphazard kick in the general direction of donutmaster's leading knee. "Fucking mutie /freak/augh," this is the response that the batonman gives to being bitten, and this time it is his baton rising as he struggles against Merit's bite. Not exactly a hard crack of motion but a strong pressure regardless, against Merit's solar plexus as he fights to wrest his mouth away from TEETH and his arm against Merit's neck instead. "Ksssshh," says the other, hobbling back a step and then pulling his own baton to crack it down towards Merit's shin. Kyle is watching this almost impassively. Almost. His brows are furrowed deeply but frowning is kind of his default. He's reaching into the Dunkin Donuts bag for a delicious chocolate-glazed -- oh, no, wait. No donut. Just a syringe. Probably far less tasty. Ducking his head low before the arm has a chance to close around his neck, Merit braces right hand on left fist and elbows batonman in the gut. The blow connects too low to wind the larger man, but it cannot feel good. Donutmaster's baton cracking against Merit's shin draws a muffled shriek from him, and when his mouth closes it does so on the forearm of the man trying to hold him in place. He does not get as good of a grip as he did before. Too much muscle in the way. His hand finds its way into the pocket of his tight black jeans. Merit's eyes skip from opponents to the next, keener and wilder as steel gray irises shrink. A faint whiff of ozone tinges the air. Donutman is thwacking again. Another heavy blow aimed for Merit's gut. "Jesus fuck," it's almost an irritable mutter under his breath. Like Merit is /inconveniencing/ him. The batonman's teeth clench tight, a low choked growl sounding in his throat. It's a strangled sort of noise, raw and pained with the elbow, with the teeth. He turns, using his not insignificant body weight to try and /slam/ Merit forward against the hallway wall. Kyle is approaching, eyes narrowed. His meaty hand is reaching for the arm that Merit used to elbow the other officer, seeking to grab it firmly and hold it in place The blow to the abdomen followed by impact with the wall dazes Merit for just a moment. His eyes track to and latch onto the third officer, the new keeper of the Dunkin Donuts bag. The hand that was in his pocket slides back out and cups batonman's crotch. A series of sharp SNAPS sound as electricity discharges between the two men. Even as Merit tenses to flee, however, a firm hand has closed over his other arm, pinning him in place. "Oh, no you don't, motherfucker," Kyle is growling this even as the other man is -- well, /tensing/ up, hard and rigid which, in his current position, really just makes him slump harder (if less coordinated-ly) against Merit. Kyle, though, is very singularly-focused -- on taking that syringe and /jabbing/ it into the muscle of Merit's bicep, through shirt and all. Whatever he deperesses into Merit's muscle /burns/ fiercely. It doesn't take long before the sedative will take effect, though, heavy-wilting-sleepy; it's not the kind that will knock Merit out but it /is/ enough to bring a sort of slack-jawed weak-muscled droop to the electrokinetic. "Fucking hell, did he kill --" Donutman is eying their other companion. Kyle grits his teeth, still keeping a tight grip on Merit's arm. "No. Shit, though. Asshole doesn't go down easy." Merit tries to yank his arm out of Needleman's grasp several times, but only succeeds in upsetting his own balance and sliding down along the wall. He grits his blood-stained teeth and glares up at the other man. "What though the field be lost?" he says, very quietly. "All is not lost: the unconquerable will, and study of vengeance, immortal hate, and...courage never to submit or yield." "Fuck me, it's philosophizing at us." This earns another kind of more halfhearted baton thwack into Merit's midsection. But then Kyle is turning the electrokinetic around, handcuffing him securely. One of the others is gathering Merit's housekeys, locking the apartment door back up. Neat and tidy. "You'll yield," Kyle is saying, as they haul Merit to his feet to half-drag, half-carry him away. "They all do."