Logs:In Which an Attack on Freaktown Is Thwarted by the Totally Completely Benevolent Intervention of a Local Biker Club
| In Which an Attack on Freaktown Is Thwarted by the Totally Completely Benevolent Intervention of a Local Biker Club | |
|---|---|
cn: some nazi racism | |
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-09-22 "Oh, shit, it's the goddamn Paw Patrol." |
| Location | |
WeWork abandoned their little experimental cooperative 'co-living and co-working' venture (aka WeLive) located on the edge of Riverdale shortly after Freaktown became a thing; the large three-story building (with a 'communal' coffee-shop downstairs where you could spend your vouchers that you earned for maintaining the building yourself) became little more than a painful eyesore thereafter. It's largely glass, with all three floors exposed to view -- the people working on it apparently didn't think privacy was a thing that was important. Work's been slow, but the group's made a lot of progress -- the coffee shop's an actual communal shop, now, and includes a kind of awkward but still pretty half-decent kitchen; above, people are working on installing actual walls behind the plated glass so the office/living quarters above can actually be used as some sort of... well, space to do things in with at least some semblance of privacy. All in all, it's a pretty nice place... ...up until ten minutes ago, right when a bunch of motorcycles rolled up. A group of Purifiers; maybe 8 or 9 in total, rolling in with every intent to start some shit. And that's precisely what they were doing... ...up until five minutes ago. Because right now? Two of them are getting thrown -- at once! -- out through the glass window in front of the kitchen, exploding out in a rupturing shower of glass... as the rest scramble desperately outside, running for their bikes. Some have streaks of blood across their faces; others have scorch-marks. All of them look scared as hell. As the two Purifiers who were just thrown out the window land on their backs, a man -- about six and a half feet of Nazi tattoos, protein drinks, and modern race theory -- is gently floating out of this newly-made exit. He lands atop the sidewalk on a single delicately posed toe... his arms folded across his bare, muscular chest. "Degenerates," Mountain announces, his voice booming. Inside the kitchen, two more members of the Sword of Tyr are essentially lounging at the front counter, demanding snacks. One is a wiry blonde-haired beanpole with a leather jacket and a manic grin; that's Wick. The other is 6 feet tall, brown buzz cut, quiet and scowling with a vicious scar across the left side of his face -- that'd be Ernest. Ernest rolls his eyes at the horned guy behind the counter -- who doesn't look very happy that the three of them are here: "Look, just give us coffee, yeah? None of this weird-ass... fuckin'... Euro-trash shit. I don't want a beverage with mother-fuckin' pronouns..." He glances over at Wick, as if to see his reaction... but Wick's too involved with carving his initials into the bar using just a fingertip. Wisps of smoke rise from his digit as he giggles. It was not very long ago that the alert went out across Freaktown's safety network. Now -- too little, apparently, too late -- but a pair of bikes is swooping in rapidly from across town. In kind of odd-couple style, one is futuristic and as tiny-sleek as the rider atop it, dwarfed by both his companion's bike and his companion. Shane's cut is much more familiar, the Mongrels mutated skull-and-cross~~bones~~bows immediately recognizable. He hops off his bike, huge black eyes taking in the trio inside the kitchen as he approaches the shattered glass 'entrance'. "Unfortunately, all we have around here is weird-ass. Think y'all should get your coffee somewhere else." Beside Shane, Taylor's bike is a hefty monster of a thing and, well, so is he. His largest arms are currently coiled loose around himself, though his several other pairs writhe unsettling and serpentine behind him. His boots crunch on the glass, and though as Shane addresses the Nazis, his eyes are fixed straight on the horned guy at the counter: "Y'good, fam?" his mind is scanning the three Swords with a keen attentiveness. Horned Guy visibly -- and internally -- shows signs of relief at the sight of Shane and Taylor, though it's more the sight of the Mongrel colors than anything. Outwardly, he's just tense, but inwardly, he's panicked -- there is a still-lingering trace of violence in his mind from just five minutes ago. At Taylor's question, he just quietly... shakes his head; a slight pulse of worry slips out toward the two of them. They're outnumbered, after all. "Oh, shit--" Ernest exclaims, spinning around on his stool to face Shane with a forced grin and laugh. "--it's the goddamn Paw Patrol." He clearly doesn't think of Shane as a threat; there's a slight anxious glance up to Taylor, though. His mind is a mix of scared and excited; this is a chance to prove himself. He kind of wants to start a fight... but only if he knows he'll win. "We're just helpin' you out, aye-meego," he continues. "Heard you been a little short-staffed..." Wick continues carving the bar. His manic grin isn't at all forced; even a tentative glance in his head reveals sharp gleeful edges. He is very much hoping for a fight -- regardless of who wins. Mountain, meanwhile, has turned from the two fleeing Purifiers... and is -- with surprising grace! -- stepping through the shattered window to regard the two new arrivals. Arms still folded over his chest. He doesn't care if this ends in a fight. Because if it does -- he knows who'll win. Shane doesn't step back, but he doesn't seem particularly keen to step to Mountain, either. "Short-staffed? You come to make the coffee yourself, then?" To Taylor his thoughts are definitely flavored with apprehension, the Spanish bastardization (predictably) stirring up a distant pang of longing that -- isn't only centered around how damn quick Ion could make short work of these fash, but that's certainly heavily figuring right now. "Kitchen's not up and running yet anyway. You head down the road," his head is jerking slightly in the vague direction of Freaktown's exit, "s'hella coffee over on 235th." Taylor says nothing at all. The longest of his arms are very slowly unspooling, though in their strange proportions where they twine around him it's difficult to get a good read on their actual length. << Fireboy spoiling for a fight. >> He doesn't voice his reservations about that -- nor his willingness to throw himself into one even against these long odds -- but in mental space it comes through to Shane all the same, as does a quiet background assessment of how many actual Freaktown residents might be in the blast zone if it comes to that. "Shit do I look like some sort of... fuckin'..." Ernest starts, rolling his eyes and lifting his hands, as if looking insulted -- he's actually trying to buy time so he can remember the word. "...coffee... maker... guy?" He laughs with a nervous energy, eyes flicking toward Taylor's shifting tentacles. A little flicker of red -- like wisps of smoke, but close to the skin -- traces up either arm. "Sides, ain't pickin' coffee beans your thing?" Even Wick can't contain a subtle little eye-roll at that one. It's clear to Taylor that neither Mountain nor Wick think too highly of poor Ernest. Mountain steps forward -- not on top of Shane, but clearly looming over him. Arms still folded, looking down at him... notably keeping Shane between him and Taylor. His voice is quiet, but sharp; deep, and spoken with a bizarre level of conviction: "You cannot maintain your borders against the stain of even this... seminal effluent." His head tilts back to where the last of the Purifiers are riding away. "Your impotence will betray you -- and you will be replaced." Mountain's thoughts are stern, disciplined... but there are little leaks. He wants to know who the Mongrels are sending to deal with Purifiers; he wants to know how many. He wants to know how thin they're spread. This is a fact-finding mission -- Ion's absence has put blood in the water, and he's here to determine if the wound is fatal. Shane's already improbably large eyes have gone just a little wider, and at the sides of his neck his gills ripple quick and then press down flat in time with a stuttery-short exhale. << holy shit holy SHIT, >> is kind-of-cackling in his mind, just slightly edged where it's layered over his continued apprehensiveness. << Man probably used to read Andrew Anglin every morning when he woke up before deciding the Daily Stormer was for uneducated boors. >> His head tips slightly back, regarding Mountain with his void-eyed stare in silence for a moment. "We been hearing that for years from every flatscan, pig or cracker who's feeling himself that day. Still here, though. Got no plans to leave." << ... feds would love these fash doing their job for 'em. >> Taylor's eyes flick to Wick. Then Ernest. << who he tink make -- >> He does not even finish this thought verbally, though his mind is now cycling through what he imagines Ernest's conception of The Coffee Process is. A bunch of Nameless Immigrants who all look kind of like Sparky on MID picking coffee in the back of a coffeeshop, then bringing it forward to color the beans gay and pronoun-flavored before roasting and grinding. Hopefully his brief slip into abstraction looks enough like a continued Stony Silence. It does. Mountain reads Taylor's silence as strength; in his mind, Shane is clearly a weaker 'talking-type' pokemon. He's already internally measuring Shane's skull with some sort of mental, internal... craniometer. Making 'keen observations' regarding his degree of 'philoprogenitiveness'. But beneath that absurdity lies something cold and calculated -- a mind that is sizing up Taylor and Shane, to make the call. Whether to walk away for now... or to test the waters. See precisely what measure of creature passes for a Mongrel these days. Wick leans back, having finished carving his initials in the bar. He is now bored. Mountain looks to him -- there is a brief flicker of uncharacteristic concern. Mountain's in charge, but Wick is... well. Mountain's going to have to make the call sooner than later. "Yeah, but you ain't heard it from us, green-go," Ernest exclaims with a cheeky grin. "We--" Mountain silences him with just a look. Ernest's grin melts; he slumps into a sullen silence, wisps of red tracing up and down his arms. Mountain turns back to Shane: "We have -- in defiance of natural selection and our better judgement -- repelled this degeneracy from your borders. But our benevolence has limits. Sooner or later, your weakness will demand our action." His arms unfold. This is the 'we are leaving' signal. Wick's displeasure surges. A small display of bottled water on the counter makes a noise; a cap pops off. The water inside is near-boiling. << Green-go? >> Shane is trying to sort this one out and coming up empty. His eyes are fixed on Mountain though his thoughts are already skipping ahead to a careful calculation of the distance between them and the truculent pyrokinetic. << where the fuck is Scramble >> is layered over a more tired, more bleak << (where the fuck is Ion) >> His gills are fluttering again, rapid, and then press flat. He takes a step back, coming even with Taylor now, but says nothing further to the other bikers. Mountain tenses for just a moment -- gaze locked on Wick. Wick glares at Mountain, and there is a near palpable tension in the room. The horned guy behind the counter takes several more steps back, and... Mountain speaks firmly, keeping eye-contact with Wick: "We're leaving." Wick scowls and stands. As he walks out, his arm sweeps out to the water bottle display; for just a moment, his entire arm is a sweeping curtain of flame. The display drops; bottles sizzle and pop, bursting in a rising cloud of steam. Wick stomps to the door, pissed as hell. Ernest follows like a dog with its tail between its legs. Mountain flexes his toes... and just like that, he rises slowly into the air, floating back in a lazy arch that carries him through the shattered window... arms folded, never breaking eye-contact with Shane. Not until he's outside. Only then does he go, turning to his bike. Shane stays silent, at least until the Swords have left for their bikes. << We have got to talk to Scramble, we got -- a real problem here. >> He's not voicing this aloud, though, just turning to step back through the broken window, eying the glass and the melted bottles of water. His chin lifts to the horned guy at the counter, but its Taylor he addresses with a flick of his claws towards the mess. "C'mon, let's get this cleaned up." | |
