Logs:In Which A Trap Gets Sprung And Some Trespassers Get Spooked
| In Which A Trap Gets Sprung And Some Trespassers Get Spooked | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2019-06-01 "Thank you for your cooperation." |
| Location
<MOR> New York Below | |
Buried beneath the bustle and noise of New York's busy streets, the world underneath the city is a quieter place. Quieter, but far from deserted. Occasional ladders, often rusting, ascend to the city above and are evidence that at /one/ point these tunnels had been in use, or had been planned for it; perhaps by way of maintenance, or access to subways or sewers. These stretches have been abandoned by civic infrastructure for some time now, though, but occasional scraps of evidence -- discarded food wrappers, piles of tatty blankets or moldering old mattresses, sometimes voices carrying echoes through the dank concrete -- give evidence that /someone/ still uses these tunnels. The rumbling of subway trains sounds frequently through the walls, many of the train routes accessible through various doors and openings. Clickclickclickclick. Clickclickclickclick. The sound of pincered feet moving rapidly against damp concrete floors echoes oddly, down here. It's dim but not totally black, occasional shafts of light trickling through from grates and manholes far overhead. Even in the spaces in between, Nessie doesn't seem bothered by the dark, picking her way easily around some deeper patches of slimy murk, sidestepping places that she knows to be snared with Marrow's traps, equal parts dark-adapted eyes and simple ingrained memory. "Do you think we could grow mushrooms down here?" she's asking, hopefully. There's a box in her arms, full of vegetables and herbs plucked from one of several guerrilla gardens planted above. "Lots of mushrooms can grow all /kinds/ of places, right?" Bug's hair is crawling with the little red and black fuzzy insects that make up his body, which mostly just seem to be riding high to enjoy the vantage point. One rides in the box, searching around blindly for anything it might be able to collect nectar off of. "Yeah, I think some of the ones you can eat grow underground! I've read that before somewhere," he says excitedly, slowing in order to look around as if to find where a good place for them would be, while still avoiding any dangers. "We could be farmer marketers. Like, howdy partners, we got mushrooms!" He makes a motion like he's dealing out cards. "Would you wear a big straw hat? If we're going to a farmer's market and saying /howdy/ I think we need big straw hats." Taylor doesn't move quite as deftly in the darkness as Nessie -- for this reason he keeps nearby her, letting her pick the footing. His healing arms are still growing back out, kind of twitchy, the skin beginning to crack and chafe at the ends with the new growth. The /bony/ arms carry a tote bag full of leftovers taken from Evolve. "We have a lot of space, I bet we could find some good mushroom farming." When the Morlocks round a bend, the dimly lit tunnel floor looks a bit...lumpier than usual. The lump is in a darker patch of shadow and, of note, near one of the known traps. It's hard to say whether the unfortunate victim is still alive, but the shape is approximately human-sized and very, very still. Nessie comes to an abrupt stop as she rounds the corner. She hugs her box tighter to her chest, clicking slowly a few more steps forward, but then stopping again. "I think we caught someone," she whispers. "That trap has a body. Do we -- what do we do with bodies?" Nervous, she backs /back/ up a few steps. "We should tell Marrow." "Yeah, huge straw hats, and I'll even put a wheat between my-" Bug stops talking and stands rigidly when the body is pointed out to him. "Do the rats eat them maybe?" One of the bugs in his hair takes flight towards the lump. He rubs one of his unblinking segmented eyes. "Yeah, Marrow will know. She's good at..." He gestures vaguely towards the body, only finishing mentally, << Corpses. >> "A /good/ wheat. Picturesque one with the --" Taylor stops, too, though, several of his stump-arms twitching. He steps forward slowly, cautious in the dim light. He doesn't so much strain with his eyes as his mind, listening for any unfamiliar minds in the passageway. The mind of the person in the trap is immediately apparent to Taylor, dominated at the moment with pain and terror. << Oh God, oh God, there's /three/ of them! >> There /is/ a second mind present -- much calmer -- its owner concealed, surely, in a niche beside the trapped person. << Three. We can take three, >> they're thinking, forcefully, << /I/ can take three. >> And then they whirl out into the open, a pistol held steadily in both hands, levelled in a textbook aim at Nessie. "Federal agent," they say. "Don't come any closer." Only their arms -- clad in filthy tactical gloves -- and gun, its black barrel gleaming, extend into the nearest patch of light. "Ohmygod." Nessie's squeak is high and breathless. Her tail flicks overhead, and she scrambles backwards with a sharp gasp. "Go away!" << Agent of what why are you agenting in the sewer we should tell Marrow oh no oh no don't shoot! >> Bug squeaks in surprise and then becomes a bit more rigid where he is, his component bugs louder in his mind than usual: << UNDER ATTACK! PANIC! >> << No, stay still! >> << THREAT! STING! >> << NO, STAY STILL! >> He stares forward and opens his mouth to say something, but can't formulate a sentence with his self-argumentation occupying most of his thoughts. Taylor takes a step back immediately, closer to the others once more, one arm reflexively lifting protectively in front of his companions. "Don't shoot." His palm is outward, his mind pressing more intently at those of the agents. << Can't tell how trigger happy they are. Think the trap got him pretty spooked. The corner's probably close enough to make it -- >> He doesn't sound /very/ confident, in the other Morlocks' minds. << That one's the barista, >> the standing agent is thinking. << He's injured. He can't reach us. >> Their hands tighten on the gun, but not the trigger. "You are tresspassing on government property," they say, their voice only quivering slightly. "You need to...vacate the premises." Beneath the surface, they are more concerned about their partner than any threat from the mutants and not actually very interested in shooting any of them. They're also distantly gratified to know that they /are/ on the right track, at least. Only it would be /so/ much more convenient if they could just send a flight of those scanner drones from R&D down here. "You're trespassing!" Nessie protests /huffily/, her tail swishing again. She's backing up, though, towards the corner they just came from, the sense of panic still strong in her mind. << BUG TAYLOR DON'T GET SHOT DON'T GET SHOT. >> "This is a /sewer/ this isn't --" << wait does the government own the sewer? >> Bug also starts to back up, the bee-like insect that had gone to investigate swirling around in the air before settling on one of the walls while he thinks soothing thoughts at the insects. He nibbles his lip nervously while staring at the agent's gun, his thoughts still racing: << Please be safe. >> << Isn't it municipal property? What are feds- >> << STING? >> Taylor is backing up slowly as well, once Nessie and Bug have started moving. He stays in front of them, hands still raised. /Mind/ still trained sharply on the agents. "We're going," he says, carefully. "Aren't the sewers city property? Why are federal agents mucking about in shit?" << I'm good, >> /tries/ to sound confident, but in the realm of psionic space it's a lot harder to keep up bravado; his stress and fear leak through his mental words easily enough. << They don't /want/ to shoot us. But they know who I am. >> Bug's fly on the wall (so to speak) can see both agents more clearly from its new vantage point. They're wearing identical tactical combat gear that looks too smart -- despite the filth -- and too advanced to have come out of a surplus store. They're even wearing /helmets/. The one who's trapped and lying on the group had apparently run afoul of a false floor panel that has collapsed and deployed downward pointing spikes to trap their leg -- /probably/ rather painfully, though without lasting harm provided they don't struggle too hard -- all the way up to their knee. They are lying on the sewer floor now, coated in muck and trying not to hyperventilate, their mind still a chaos of pain and fear, though they've calmed down enough to reach for their own sidearm. The one who's standing between their fallen comrade and the Morlocks hasn't budged or shown any sign of jumpiness, but their mind does automatically stray (with a strong dose of /irritation/) to the topics the Morlocks are asking about. << Department of Environmental Protection would probably say we're /all/ trespassing, but I guess one of these freaks stealing S.H.I.E.L.D. property makes it our jurisdiction. Unfortunately. >> Their annoyance grows. << Seriously, though, are they /stupid/? Who talks back at someone pointing a /gun/ at them? Maybe there are more circling behind us... >> Their anxiety spikes, then recedes slightly. They subvocalize 'Ops, Ritter, mayday -- I repeat -- mayday, agent /down/, requesting immediate assistance', and the speakers inside their helmet answer with a soft hiss of static. Their eyes flick up to the words 'NO SIGNAL' still floating in the upper left of their display and they mutter a quiet but audible 'Fuck.' Then, more loudly, for the Morlocks' ears, "Look. Just. Keep going." At a slight delay. "Thank you for your cooperation." Nessie squeaks again, hugging her box of vegetables /tight/ as she vanishes with a skitterclickclickclick around the corner into the darkness, her << don't die don't die >> receding along with her. When told to keep going, Bug doesn't need much more prompting to turn on his heel and start running after Nessie. << ... dressed up like robocops! >> A few of the bugs in his hair start flying up and around, landing on the walls behind him as he goes. Taylor is slower to back away, waiting for the others to get clear before he heads after them. Tense but keeping his hands UP! In view! Palms out. << They're looking /for/ us. They think we stole something, >> he tells the others, an edge of stress in his voice as he backs away. Only putting his hands down once he's gotten around the corner. << Shield property? We just steal food, not shit from creepy /federal agents/, I don't know what they -- >> Suddenly a brief memory flashes through his mind -- through their minds, echoed in imagery. A bright red-white-and-blue star emblazoned disc, Anole's terrified scrambling, police aiming guns at them, a tall muscular blond man staying the officer's weapon. With a heavier sinking feeling woven through the thought -- << Anole. >> | |
