Logs:In Which Some Robots Are Lost, But Get Themselves Found
|In Which Some Robots Are Lost, But Get Themselves Found|
"Tempting, but I have too many other people to stab."
<MOR> We All Float Down Here - Morlock Tunnels
Accessible through what was once an office in a Brooklyn warehouse that has in recent years had a tunnel excavated right under its pried-loose floorboards, the way down into these tunnels is probably not the safest climb. The ladder is rusting through in many places and though the wall has handholds, they're often slippery. Many make the plunge, though, to find the tunnels beneath dank and cramped and labyrinthine. And none too pleasant smelling, sewage and mold and rot the primary aromas and many sections of tunnel steeped in what is hopefully mostly water, ankle-deep, knee-deep, waist-deep. Things float in it. Sometimes these things have teeth.
Splish. Splash. Squelch. It's a fairly damp trek in this part of the tunnels and getting wetter. Between the slime on the walls and the smell of something rotting a few tunnels back, not the most pleasant part of the domain to be navigating either. Aside from a cultivated care with picking his steps, Taylor seems unbothered by the surroundings, dressed in shabby old boots, ratty jean shorts, a grungy ancient tee with a red yellow and green fist raised on the chest, several holes gashed in it for hs extra arms. An equally beaten-up backpack slung over one shoulder, a flashlight (switched off despite the very dim lighting) in one hand. "Was somewhere hereabouts, I think." His brows crease, large eyes scanning the tunnel ahead of them. "Leech said a bunch round here got sprung."
Marrow has been living down in the sewers for closer to two decades than one by now. Long enough that with her enhanced senses she can practically navigate by smell alone. Still it would be foolish to rely upon a single sense, everything gets used in the dim light. The sound the water makes as they move, the rattling of pipes and even the direction the sewage flows. Each paints a picture as unique as a fingerprint to her - at least when she's not high.
Thankfully even Marrow doesn't do trap duty while wasted.. too wasted anyway. "He say which type?" she replies, sniffing the air for the ozone tang a trap damaged Sentinel might leave. "People or machine? Not that it fuckin' matters either way. We catch any Sentinels it'll mean people coming down to get 'em and if any people go missing they'll send the Sentinels to look..."
She's wearing a mixture of biker leathers and black odds and ends taken from the clothing supplies to cover any bone blade related holes. Usually she's sporting a pink mohawk but out on patrol she's pulled a hood up over it. Better to damage her 'do that way than get sewage in her hair.
"I'unno. When'd this section get checked last? No idea how long ago it happened, either. Hopefully s'recent enough we're not walking into a swarm of --" Taylor hasn't been speaking loudly but now he breaks off, head tilting at a scratching-skittering sound not too far distant. He clips the flashlight to his belt, freeing up his hands as he continues forward. Softer: "You had any trouble from these yet? Anole says they're dumb as rocks."
"Not checked recent enough," Marrow replies, spitting with disgust into the water at the skittering. "Nah, Can't say I have." And even if she had would she say? Unlikely. Her hand does slip into her pocket and bring out a lumpy metal sphere which she holds against her arm. A moment later the skin splits and tears as bone violently sprouts and wraps the sphere. Growing around it and out until it forms a hand the length of her arm. The heavy metal sphere forming the head of a simple but effective mace.
"You'd think they'd know better by now. Must cost a fuckin' fortune to clean scrap electronics out the sewage filtration."
Taylor's hands stay empty, but theres a slight shifting of some of the inky blackess around him as his two largest arms unwind themselves from his midsection. "I mean what's the NYPD's budget, like fifty-'leven billion dollars? They probably don't fuss much 'bout tossing money into the literal sewers and leaving it for other departments to clean up."
The scratching gets louder as they approach one of the side tunnels. Within, a short way down the corridor, is a pair of spindly-legged spidery robots, one of them heavily ensnared in a tangle of wires, two of its legs separated and lying on the floor nearby. The other, oddly meticulous, is carefully snipping through bits of the knot to leave discarded bits of wire in the gloopy pool underfoot.
"'S why I block the pipes to One Police Plaza before every big game," Marrow says with a wry grin. Everyone needs a hobby and hers? Fucking up the plumbing on the cities biggest police station every time a New York team is due to play. "You wanna do the honours or shall I?" It doesn't take much hunting around to find a small object to throw over the bots to act as a distraction. No use in being careless and getting shot by a dart full of who knows what or zapped by a tazer.
Taylor snorts, head dipping with the brief amusement. "Think they even notice? Pigs like wallowing in filth." He watches as the free Sentinel pauses its work, perking to take notice of the rattle-clank that skips down the tunnel beyond them. Hard to track in the dark, Taylor's two enormous limbs are snaking down the corridor in this moment of distraction, wrapping around the free Sentinel to heft it. Smash it against the ceiling first and then its companion, still bound by wires. Once and then again and again, heavier. The legs of the robot detach, clattersplashing down to the ground. Taylor drops the rounded body to join the severed limbs in the muck.
"-- Probably should drop them back topside just in case someone wants to come looking for --" Taylor's arms are retracting and he's only just started to move closer when he stops. His frown is not particularly visible in this darkness, but his soft irritable hffff can be heard clearly enough. "-- That's rude." The disembodied robot head is rolling itself back to life, collecting its disconnected limbs along the way. A soft whhhhz through the darkness heralds a dart -- thankfully aimed wide, it thwacks against the grimy concrete wall.
Marrow steps in and delivers a few short sharp whacks with the mace. Reducing what few parts remain to splintered shards and dented metal before they can try re-assemble or any more weird shit. Probably a little late given the dart has already been fired but it's the principle of the matter. "Oh you can bet they notice," she assures. "Anything disrupts TV time they get real cranky." There's a pause as she glances around, hand reaching for a pocket which almost certainly contains a joint. "Depends, wanna use these as bait? Put a few people traps down and let 'em come play fetch." She scowls for a moment then adds "Probably not the best plan long term. Too much heat."
Taylor relaxes slightly as the Sentinel falls back apart under Marrow's smashing. One of his arms swipes several of the detached legs from the floor, using them to stab at the currently blank display 'face' of the one still tangled in wire, watching until the faint green light goes out behind it. "Guess that depends how many cops you wanna be fighting next week. -- could just take a stroll by their headquarters tonight and chuck 'em back through the PD windows."
There's a momentary pause while Marrow tries to work out just how many cops she would like to fight. Her mouth splits into a wicked grin. "You don't wanna know the answer to that," she answers with a snort of amusement. It's a very big number. There's a hint of reluctance as she pats the pocket with the joint in and adds "Suppose we should play it safe though. We declare war on the cops gotta be with everyones say so."
"Breaking a few windows seems tame but I suppose we could pack the parts into some old nappies first." Nappies and cooking oil, the twin banes of the sewers, known for blocking whole sections up like foul concrete. "Got to make a statement, even if it's petty as shit."
This draws another laugh from Taylor, rough and short. "You in a pigsticking mood there are no end of 'em topside. Hang around the garage and they come by on the regular looking for trouble." He shakes his head, starting to wrap one pair of limbs back around him only for another to stretch outward and start collecting the Sentinel scraps into a pile. "Think we definitely passed something long dead on the way here. Could add that in. After," he says, unhitching his backpack from one shoulder, "we reset these traps."
"Tempting," Marrow remarks, chewing the idea over for a few seconds and then shaking her head. "But I have too many other people to stab. Too many places the pigs 'forget' to patrol where the Fuckwits of Humanity think they can hunt for mutants. And I don't like to disappoint." She sniffs the air. "Could do. How about... pregnant rats?"
None of the Morlocks actually know why Marrow on occasion gets a hold of rats. But the rumours... well she certainly isn't keeping them as pets or for food. And people tend to find they sleep much much better if they do not think about it.
"Yeah the traps." She glares at the broken machines with a new level of contempt. Making her do fuckin' work. "Then a joint or two. All work and no play right?"