Logs:In Which No Frisbees Are Thrown And No Teenagers Get Shot
| In Which No Frisbees Are Thrown And No Teenagers Get Shot | |
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| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2019-03-24 "Whoa! There's some news happening!" |
| Location
Red Hook - Brooklyn | |
This venerable south Brooklyn neighborhood occupies a peninsula jutting out into Upper New York Harbor. Though its residents have traditionally been poor, working class immigrants, it was once a booming port. Its fortunes declined dramatically in the latter part of the 20th century and has been slow to recover from the extensive damage wrought by Hurricane Sandy. Now it is mostly residential, poorer than most surrounding areas, and rimmed with half-renovated, half-abandoned industrial buildings along the waterfront. Most other New Yorkers have little cause to go there other than to visit the immense IKEA store. The Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary is a soaring gothic revival church of dark schist set off by three scarlet doors in pointed arches on its facade. Mass has just concluded, and parishioners are emerging, bewildered, to find the sidewalk in front swarming with media. Several news vans are parked on the street with satellite antennae deployed, and the NYPD is on site to maintain order. Beyond the dense band of reporters being kept off of church property, curious onlookers have gathered -- and are still gathering. Steve steps out into the warm afternoon sunlight, wearing a neatly pressed white dress shirt, solid red tie, and charcoal trousers, the matching charcoal jacket over one arm and his shield slung over the same shoulder. He does not look nearly as startled as many of his fellow churchgoers, but more resigned. He slips his phone from one pocket, snaps a photo of the scene, and meticulously types out a message with one index finger.
Taylor is, presumably, /not/ here for church -- at least he doesn't look it, dressed as he is in beaten up old jeans, heavy boots, a black tee shirt with text printed on it in bold all-caps lettering that says WHITE LIVES MATTER TOO MUCH, a black leather vest over top with heavy Mutant Mongrels MC insignia. Even without the vest it's. Probably pretty obvious he is KIND OF MUTANTY, what with the squirming mass of tentacles that he's flexing up, streeetching like some Lovecraftian interpretation of a flower toward the springtime sun. "Man, has church gotten /hip/ all of a sudden?" One middling-thick arm coils itself across his brow, shading his eyes as he squints toward the crowd just across the street. In his current /pack/ he seems unconcerned with the fact that the clusters of people are -- cringing, staring. Recoiling in horror as he makes his way closer! Safety in numbers, today. In a grey, well-worn hooded sweatshirt that looks much too big for him, Bug clutches a clipboard with a checklist on it close to his chest. The crawling movement of his skin is even more pronounced, and many of the black and red bee-like insects making up his body are actually out on his skin, in his hair and on his large black, segmented eyes to also soak in the sun. If he minds, he doesn't make any show of it, his thoughts instead turned towards the well-being of his topside hives. His attention is snapped up from his reverie at Taylor's statement, and he follows in trying to get a bit of a close look. "Whoa! There's some news happening!" Alex's ever-present hoodie is, for the moment, unusually tossed back revealing a feathery head where hair should be, black and lightly iridescent in the glare of the city lights. "Think it's someone important visiting, or just some like... Kardashian getting married or something?" Even as he speaks, there's a muted, rather painfully liquid-y sounding crunching noise as a few feathers sprout underneath his clothes, sticking out in occasional bumps under the loose sweatshirt. More substantially, a bird falls out of the leg of his jeans, giving a reproachful nip at the (frayed, not surprisingly) hem before taking flight with a croaking 'wok-wok' noise. The raven flaps quickly to gain some height, and then soars over the crowd of reporters and churchgoers, making a wide circle in the air above them. Nessie has been trotting along at Bug's side, peeking over his shoulder to read the clipboard notations with curiosity. She's dressed in a pastel green paisley peasant blouse, its flowy hem kind of bunchily getting in the way of her fidgety lower pincer-arms. There's a comically large and sadly moth-eaten straw hat heavily garnished with (also moth-eaten) (kind of dirty) flowers) sitting on her head, and it slips lopsided as she rises up-up-up on her long stilty legs to see over the... rapidly diminishing crowd around them. "Oh! Oh wait /that/ guy! I saw him on the news he's like. Like some kind of /war/ hero? Someone tried to kill /Ryan Black/," (this name is said with no small dose of Teenage Fangirl Fluttering), "and he /saved/ his /life/ he's like a /zombie/ or something I think he might be a mutant HEY," she's calling up to the raven circling above, "ASK HIM IF HE'S A MUTANT." Anole has been trailing the others, the sleeves of his baggy RENT sweatshirt rolled up and his hood pushed back. He speeds up once the crowd starts scattering from them, drawing up alongside his companions. "I heard about that." He sounds a little more doubtful than Nessie. "Are you sure he's a zombie? I heard the government like, cloned him from some World War 2 vet. That's different than a mutant." Nick is bringing up the rear of this Morlock spring outing, black leather MMMC cut worn open over a black t-shirt that features an almost luminous-looking white flower blooming to release a swarm fireflies that look more and more like stars as they ascend, forming the word "Brighter" at the top of the image, and jean shorts modified for his tail. His thick winter coat--the fur variety--is starting to look dull, but he isn't in full shedding mode just yet, and looks quite warm despite wearing so little. He lifts his muzzle high and sniffs at the crowd as it parts hastily at their approach. "Lotta cops, too," his voice is low and gruff as he moves forward to join Taylor at the front of the group. "Oh right, is that the guy with the patriot frisbee? I haven't hear anything about him being a zombie /or/ a clone..." He's narrowing amber eyes critically in Steve's direction as if this might help him discern zombie or clone status, but his ears swivel constantly, alert for threats. His text sent, Steve descends the steps of the church and comes up against the police line. Several officers are talking to him at the same time, offering to escort him out or thanking him for his service or -- in at least one case -- asking for an autograph. He politely declines as best he is able, then addresses the nearest reporters. "I am not giving interviews at this point, and ask that you respect the safety and convenience of the good folk who are here to worship. I hope you all have a wonderful day, and God bless." This said, he presses his way out into the press with a a lot of 'pardons' and 'excuse mes', until he suddenly...isn't crowded anymore. His eyes go very, /very/ wide and he stops short as he catches sight of the Morlocks, still a good distance away but effectively clearing a path through gathered onlookers and journalists. Alex gives Nessie a sideways grin, sticking one finger in his ear and twisting it this way and that as if deafened by her shout. "I'm right here, you know," he teases. "No need to shout." Above them, the raven continues its sweeping, briefly defecating on the windshield of one of the parked police cars before flaring its wings out and dropping down to flap its way only feet above the crowd of people, aiming for Steve and fluttering to a stop at his feet. Its head tilts this way and that, looking up at him from one eye, then tilting his head to the other side to study him from the other eye. Nope. Still the same. "Hi." Its voice sounds a little bit off, like someone fed a person's voice through a particularly cheap answering machine, but the word is still unmistakable. Another flutter of wings, and the raven takes off and makes an attempt to land on Steve's shoulder. "Are you a zombie, a clone, or a mutant? Or some combination? Inquiring minds want to know." "How am I just hearing this news now?" squeaks Bug, and he pushes his clipboard away from his chest to look at the writing, as if it will somehow reveal to him further details. It does not. "If he's a clone, do you think that there's like... a whole bunch of that guy running around the city? Must be confusing," he says sympathetically, "when news vans show up asking about your clone." There's some increased buzzing from the workers in his hair, perhaps expressing agreement to the sentiment, though some of them just start to take flight. "He /could/ be a mutant zombie," Nessie protests, her arms crossing over her chest. "Maybe they /cloned/ a mutant and then he died. /Then/ came back to life. Hey," this time she turns to Alex-the-human-shape rather than yelling, "ask him that." Though with the further dispersion of the crowd, she's just moving closer -- not /all/ the way closer, given the lingering cops, to call towards Steve herself: "hey did they clone you? Is that confusing?" Taylor rubs the smooth edge of one rubbery arm against his cheek -- then presses it to his mouth, covering a grin at the others' speculations. "I'd heard about the attack, but not that he was like. A clone zombie." He saunters closer, too, keeping himself conspicuously between Nessie and the cops as she approaches. "I mean, if this is some government project it makes /sense/ we wouldn't have heard a lot. Who knows what they're hiding." His brows have creased deeper, and he adds a bit defensively: "And /he/ didn't save Ryan, /Flicker/ did." He is /firm/ on this point. Steve is distracted from his staring by the arrival of Talking Raven. "Oh gosh," he says, taking a hasty step backward as the bird flies at him, denying it a perch. "Are -- are you a -- someone's.../pet/?" He looks around, eyes going /even wider/ at Nessie's approach, though he does not continue backing up (there's a wall of nervous reporters preventing that, in any case). "/Clone/ me? I'm not sure what you mean, uh...Miss." Anole has been slinking around to the side of the group, scrutinizing Steve curiously while the others interrogate him. There's an abrupt ZING of something long and pink, a sudden splat against Steve's back where the shield hangs from his shoulder. A sharp tug. Even /Anole/ looks kind of surprised when the shield comes free, yoinked back toward his face and dangling from his tongue. He shakes his head, dropping it into one hand (formerly green, but abruptly melting into the dirty grey colour of the concrete). "This is /not/ a frisbee," he objects to Taylor. "A pet?" The raven lets out a pealing set of caw's that match the laughter coming from Alex. "You can't keep ravens as pets." His voice comes out of both the raven's mouth and his mouth at the same time, though the raven turns to take off from the ground and fly back to perch on Alex's shoulder. "It's a federal crime, don't you know." His lips are pursed with amusement, eyes twinkling. "Doesn't have to be cloning. Zombies were an option as well." Alex points out to Nessie. The raven seems to melt against his neck, crinkling up and getting sucked into Alex's skin and vanishing under the slowly undulating tattoo of black feathers. "Could be zombies." Bug looks at Nessie a few moments. "Do you mean..." He pauses, brow knitted as he tries to think. "Oh, the mutant clone came back to life. Mutant zombie clone. Yeah, that'd make sense." He starts creeping forward behind Nessie, to try and hear Steve's responses better. "No wonder the news guys want to talk to him so much." He stands up straighter and more rigid when the shield zips into Anole's hands. While his thoughts quickly turn to worry about the cops, the more dominant thought makes him blurt excitedly: "What's it made of?!" Nick inhales deeply, nose twitching in Steve's direction. "Well, if he's a zombie, he's /real/ well-preserved." Then he sneezes and shakes his head vigorously. "Or maybe the frankincense covers up the smell of decay, who knows." He stalks over to Anole, though his eyes flick warily between Steve and the police beyond him. "I know it's a /shield/, but who /throws/ shields? It's gotta be /heavy./" "Wooooah!" Nessie skitters back a few steps when the shield zings past. Her tail swishes overhead, but her eyes are excited. "No, it's not a frisbee, it's --" Her tail flicks in Nick's direction when he clarifies. "Though I don't know why you'd --" She doesn't finish this sentence, some of the excitement very abruptly dimming from her expression. She sinks down lower on all of her legs, tail coiling in over her thorax. "/He/ throws shields." One of her pincer-arms gestures towards Steve. "I saw it on the /news/. Like I said he's a /mutant/. He's strong! I bet you both could throw it." She's looking hopefully between Nick and Taylor, clearly their current Morlock Bruisers. Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. And it /stays/ open as he watches the raven /dissolve/ back into Alex. His gorge rises, though it passes quickly. << Oh God, what -- that's also a mutant? They're /all/ mutants. >> This thought, oddly, calms him a little, and he schools his expression back to something reasonably polite. "I'm sorry, but I really should get --" He reaches back for his shield a split second too late to stop Anole from yoinking it. The change in his stance and movement as he swivels to face Anole -- lowering his weight and shifting slightly forward -- are subtle, but to Taylor, his mental landscape is abruptly sharpened to danger. A police officer has shouldered his way through the press to stand beside Steve with a hand on his sidearm. "Give that back to him at once, and move along," he barks severely. The sidelong glance Steve darts the cop is inscrutable, but Taylor can hear the vehement << Fucking pig >> beneath it. What he says instead is, "Calm down, Officer, they're just kids." << I think? /Aren't/ they?! >> Then, to the Morlocks. "Hey, um, I'd be glad to show you how to throw it...though maybe not with so many people around. For safety reasons." "I'm not throwing it! Where would I throw it, /why/ would I throw it, what would I throw it... at." Taylor darts a quick glance at the cops. Then to Anole. "What /is/ it made of," with an echo of Bug's curiosity. His weight has shifted just a liiitle more in front of the others as the cops' alarm increases. "I don't know like. Some kind of metal?" When Anole taps the shield against the ground demonstratively for Bug, though, it oddly /doesn't/ make the kind of clanging that might be expected. At the rest of the exchange Anole's /first/ mental reaction is /maybe/ 'throw it at the cops /duh/', even as Taylor is glancing that direction. He's starting to offer the shield back out, but when both Steve and the police turn to face him -- the latter with Hand On Gun -- his expression crumples back into a stark panic. He lets out a small yelp, and the abrupt jump he makes is far quicker and higher than any human should be able to manage, shooting over the gathered congregants to cling straight /to/ the stony side of the church behind them. Clothes and shield and lizardboy and all are fading into the grey facade of the building as he skitters around its side. "Weird! If it were metal wouldn't it go booooong-" starts Bug excitedly, though the his big grin turns to a look of surprise when Anole bounds away. All the insects that were occupying the surface of his skin, hair and clothes (and some from underneath his sweatshirt) take flight and start to swarm around him in alarm, as he holds up the clipboard up to his face as if to shield himself from attention. Nessie lets out a small yip, hunkering down further on her many limbs. She's abruptly and steadily watching the police through this, very wide-eyed. << don't shoot don't shoot don't shoot. >> A great effort is made to stop her tail from lashing as she backs up slooooooowly. "I'msorry!" she squeaks to Steve. "We'll get you a new..." << notafrisbee >> Nick's hackles go up as the cop steps forward, /his/ shift into fight-or-flight mode is a bit more obviously than Steve's. When Anole yelps and takes off--literally--he only manages "Ano--uhhh." He steps in front of Alex, trying to look unthreatening despite being a six-foot wolf person with a mouth full of sharp teeth and talons tipping each finger and toe. Taylor's broad shoulders square reflexively, every one of his many arms starting to bristle -- but determinedly relaxing again with a quickness as he looks to the cops. "Sorry, man, he gets. Really scared of --" His eyes dart to the cops pointedly. "Guns." He's holding all the /boneless/ of his limbs as relaxed as possible at his sides, his hands up and palm-out as he takes a step back. Only to the Morlocks: << I think we best get, y'all. >> Cries of alarm and excitement go up from the gathered journalists, churchgoers, and assorted rubberneckers at this abruptly exciting development. Heads crane and cameras pan to follow Anole when he leaps up onto the side of the church. The cop who had sternly warning him draws and points his gun at the lizardboy even as his camouflage begins to take effect, but he doesn't get the chance to test his aim. Steve flips his suit jacket over the cop's gun, the fabric whipping around to wrap weapon and hands alike, and tugs sharply down. Perhaps too startled, the cop doesn't actually fire, and the tug of Steve's jacket spins them to face each other. "Stand. Down," Steve grates out, his jaw tight but his voice calm, if only barely. "You are not going to take that child's life over /a hunk of metal./" His thoughts are a whirling chaos of outrage -- at the cop but also, yes, at Anole -- calculations as to whether he has any hope of chasing down the thief himself without affording the police more opportunities to get trigger happy, and beneath it all, somewhat incongruously, a hollow sense of loss and existential freefall. "Are you, Officer?" | |
