Logs:Of Broods and Bravery (Or, Unsung Heroes)

Of Broods and Bravery (Or, Unsung Heroes)
Dramatis Personae Joshua, Jax, Ryan, Marinov, Scott, Halim, Shane, B, Ion, Tian-shin, Nanami, Gaétan, Kavalam
In Absentia Steve	2024-05-20 "we've also seen wide admiration for a team many Americans are now calling real-life superheroes --" (set concurrently with the Brood invasion, Avengers-side.)
Location New York
It's been rowdier here than was perhaps predicted, but that's how these things go. Somewhere in the background there's a mundane kind of chaos raging -- police blustering at protesters, protesters yelling at police. Joshua is a short ways away from it with the patient he's currently been treating, running down a list of Concussion Aftercare Tips with both the young man and his roommate. He stops mid-instruction, though, as the atmosphere around them shifts, as all eyes start to turn skyward in confusion and then stark horror. His breath has caught, though his expression doesn't change from its mournful droop. He's digging his phone out of his pocket straightaway, but when he taps its side button three times in succession the panic button returns an error. It's only when he opens it to send a text that his eyes are widening in some betrayal of his growing horror. He doesn't ask permission -- not from his medic partner and not from his patients -- but reaches out to -- -- deposit all of them in the relative quiet of Chimaera. "Stay here. Stay safe," is the instruction he's giving them now, and vanishes. --- The chaos has been spreading -- a lot of panic, a lot of fear. The protesters at the ruins of the seventh district have been scattering, but not quickly enough. As the first of the aliens emerging from Midtown streak down from the sky there's a lot of screaming, fear thick in the noise that saturates the air. But these particular bugs don't reach their prey. Several of the fliers slam hard against an iridescent wall that's stretched wide and high. Jax's single eye is wide, but the fear in his expression doesn't echo in his quiet and steady voice as he turns to the nearest protest marshal: "I can hold 'em off. Mendel ain't far and s'real secure. Get as many people as you can there. Sugar --" What's he going to say next, it is unclear, but as he looks down to his best friend, the fear is starting to jangle much louder. At his side, Ryan has -- mostly just been staring. He looks slightly nauseated, flinching at the screams as if each one is an assault. He is gritting his teeth as Jax looks down at him, and though he glances, too, over his shoulder at the panicking evacuees, he isn't moving. He rolls closer to the forcefield, still wincing, still bracing. The thrum of sound he projects vibrates deep through his chair, pushing him slightly back and can be heard as low whine outside its tight cone -- the aliens, though, clearly feel it entirely differently. For the lucky ones, their exoskeletons are crumbling before they die; the less lucky ones are dealing with the twitching contortions of their flesh still trapped inside the oddly amplifying resonant chambers of their carapaces. He pushes forward again, this time remembering to push his wheel locks into place. "We can hold 'em off." --- "This way, I can get you to shelter." Marinov is speaking gently, to a woman and two children. They wear dark pants with pleated loose legs, and a tight cropped tank top, athletic wear that they wore in anticipation of having to run around. The woman shifts so that she is between the feline mutant and her children, as if they are the threat rather than the aliens who are showing up in greater and greater numbers. When one of the children exclaims with excitement, "Kitty!" one of the Brood turns their attention onto the family, stinger primed to pierce its prey. Without a moment of hesitation, though, Marinov dashes towards the creature, their claws tearing through its tough exoskeleton as if it is nothing more than paper. While the bug-like alien tries to defend itself with its sharp limbs, Marinov pushes them back with a growl and then, finding purchase in a segmentation between its head and abdomen, tears these asunder. When the alien falls to the ground with twitching limbs, Marinov turns back to the family with a pleading look. It is only when the same child says, more quietly but excitedly, "Good kitty!" that the mother acquiesces and starts to follow to a safer place. --- Scott is not totally finished either undressing or redressing, still in an eclectic mishmash of his street clothes and his X-suit -- body armor unclasped, his visor on his head and his glasses on his eyes. On the locker room bench beside him is today's sign-out sheet, fairly long for a Monday afternoon and much too long for comfort; on his other side is his phone, which has just gone to Joshua's voicemail. He is tapping to just dial again almost on automatic as he finishes buttoning his pants, like maybe if he is persistent enough the call will go through, though a glance up at the holographic display currently sitting in his locker (too narrow for the display, cutting a few inches off each side) tells him that the NYC signal/news/everything blackout is still on. Scott only really slows, momentarily, to toss his glasses into his locker and affix the visor over his face; even with his eyes shut, though, he is able to retry Joshua's phone with deft accuracy when the call fails again. There is, yet again, no answer from Joshua's phone. The call cuts off on its own just a moment after Joshua's voicemail has picked up. Though the call has ended, the phone is talking to Scott all the same. Unsurprisingly, it isn't Joshua on the other end. "Aliens aren't jamming my connection." Halim's voice is crisp and clear and as monotonous as ever. "Just get down there. When I find them, I'll be in touch." --- These bugs tower over the diminutive blue biker, even moreso than they tower over most of the terrified assortment of protesters and day traders and tourists and passersby scurrying for shelter beneath him. What Shane lacks in stature he's making up for in agility -- his sleek hoverbike darts rapid and agile in and out of the swarm. He's veering uncomfortably close to the bugs, weaving between lashing tentacles and blasts from their guns. He's commandeered some of the Brood's own energy weapons for this effort, though even with this he's got a fair few gashes of his own slashed bright against his blue skin; though he's not particularly flagging as he picks off the encroaching swarm, odds are not looking great for the people below as more bugs close in on the group. Zap. Zap. Zap-zap-zap-zap. At first it's hard to see quite where Shane's assist is coming from -- the Giant Bugs are dropping faster. The counter-swarm on its way is much much smaller and much much prettier, a throng of gleaming colorful metal bots swooping down, bright repulsor-blasts finding weak points between the invaders' carapaces. Behind them, a second blue shark -- B has abandoned her hoverbike momentarily to zip through the air, a larger blast from one of her gauntlets slowing a SpaceBug that's just about to swoop in on one of the people below. She finishes it off with a bigger BLAM, the recoil sending her spinning through the air -- oddly gracefully, as she lands back on her waiting bike. "We got you," she's saying, breathless, to her twin, loud over the hum of spacecraft and bug-wings and her own drones alike, "just get these folks inside." --- The subway is a very reasonable place to head for shelter right now, but this entrance to the 50th street station went dramatically out of service when a chunk of the building overhead came crashing down. The wreckage of the stairwell is providing some cover for those who didn't make it through, but it's also trapped them. The other entrance is just across the street, but it might as well be on the moon, when all that stands between them and a growing swarm of Brood now is one Chinese woman with a sword. Tian-shin's sword avails little against the aliens' carapaces, though she has hacked off quite a number of tentacles. The corpses strewn around her look for the most part like they exploded from inside. The maimed but still dangerous bug in front of her rears back, chittering in high-pitched distress until the pressure inside its armored head ruptures its eyes and mouth, whereupon it crumples unceremoniously to make way for more of its brethren. Even after that bug has crumpled, the chittering is spreading. It's accompanied at first by a bright but distant crackle-pop that licks along the edges of the swarm, but this is spreading -- and spreading -- the air itself crackling with charge as a brilliant blue-white energy snaps sharp and dangerous between the bugs. The chemical burning smell of electrical-roasting bug meat is probably a bit nauseating, but maybe it's a worthwhile trade as the crowding horde crumple from airborne danger to just so much heaped carrion. As the throng thins, it leaves one upright figure -- Ion is still shivering with energy, posture a little slumping but eyes bright and wide as he drags himself up to perch atop the heap of bodies. He's only glancing briefly at Tian-shin and her charges -- probably to many of them the beckoning of his outstretched hook is not very inviting. But then, it's not really beckoning them -- from surrounding buildings and lampposts and the subway itself, there's a crackling power pulling towards the gleaming hook. Ion stands up a little taller, a little more alert, twitching just a little with the influx of energy, and his eyes are fixed up and beyond on the darkening sky, the next approaching wave of buzzing. For all his exhaustion he's still throwing Tian-shin a crooked grin: "{Sorry I'm late}, you know how the damn C train be." --- Kind of absurdly, Nanami is still clinging tight to the bags of tacos and drinks they'd gone to pick up. There's little enough hope at this point in reuniting with -- wait, why do they have three orders, anyway -- whatever, she's got bigger concerns, like the many of bugs that are blocking their way down this street. She turns to backtrack but another pair of bugs drops with a CRUNCH onto a nearby car, lashing tentacles towards her. She lets out a small scream and swings her bag of food towards the bug with a crunch -- sorry, whoever wanted that tamarindo Jarritos -- that makes a satisfyingly loud noise but does very little to stop the onslaught. Maybe it's some misguided chivalry -- certainly Gaétan is no more durable than Nanami, but he's moving in front of the girl with teeth gritted and arm upraised to catch one of those whip-hard tentacles against his forearm. He grimaces at the contact, grimaces further as the bug starts to yank. The tentacle around him is oozing, grosser but less threatening now than it had been a moment ago as its flesh starts to run and drip like the bug is melting. The noise the bugs are making, now, is painful, a squealing-screaming-chittering that seems to bore into the skull -- but they aren't attacking. The armor plating is simply falling off one, its flesh mangled and twisted up beneath, sprouting a few strangely furry petals in one place, a cluster of iridescent pigeon-feathers in another. The other one is just glopping, carapace still intact but oddly misshapen as the body beneath it loses integrity. "Come on," he's reaching for Nanami's arm but pulling back and gesturing instead when he notices the bug-glop still on his hand, "we can cut through the park, looks quieter there." --- Washington Square Park should be an absolutely terrible place to hide from alien invasions -- mostly wide open, full of delicious juicy people making all kinds of noise. At the moment it's a bafflingly quiet eye in the center of an increasingly gruesome storm. It's not that there are no aliens in the park -- they whiz through it, over it, here and there -- but they're paying no attention at all to the terrified crowd below. Some of the people do leave, trying to flee to what should be the greater safety of nearby buildings -- a good many more of them are just huddled and terrified but not terrified enough to question this bizarre stroke of luck. Near the center, Kavalam is standing on the edge of a fountain. For a while he was looking up along with everyone else, wide-eyed and distraught as the bugs descended. Now, though, he's shading his eyes with one hand, trying to peer hard toward the eastern edge of the park. He can't actually see the other side of the park clear from here, but that doesn't stop him trying. He starts to take his phone out, toying with sending a message -- but even his small shift of attention, here, just thinking about letting his friends see the text, and a bug is swooping lower in abrupt recognition of the feast it's been ignoring. It doesn't strike. It hasn't gotten near the family in question when it seems to forget quite what it's been doing. Kavalam sits down, just a little shaky, just a little pale. He's still clutching his phone very tight as his eyes, reluctantly, turn back up. --- Here in this intersection the traffic lights are all blinking red, little though it matters with most of the cars abandoned or crashed, with the aliens not respecting any posted road regulations. Cyclops is dwarfed by the enemy here, a lone figure in black and yellow standing with one hand pressed against his temple, his other hand thrown back as if to shield the crowd of elderly tourists in matching blue t-shirts behind him, still filing into a basement pub while the aliens making meals of this street are being buffeted back by broad bursts of red light. The optic blasts are flaring in broad flashes of crimson, not powerful enough to penetrate the Brood's exoskeletons but packing enough sheer force to repel them or to knock them off-kilter; the many reflective surfaces here -- car windshields and mirrors, already-fallen alien corpses, broken glass from the nearby buildings -- provide plenty of ricochets for this light show. The beam narrows only once to slice razor-thin through a tentacle reaching toward him, then widens to blast through the alien's open mouth out the back of its skull -- as another bug lands heavily over its broodmate's fallen form, Scott flips a nearby Prius into its face. Probably exactly what Scott needs at this moment is a Sentinel deciding to be extremely legalistic about NYC's Anti-Mutant-Powers Ordinance. One of the bots has just reconstructed itself from somewhere in the rubble, clambering out from beneath a crumpled car and over the carcasses of several recently-blasted aliens. It's not moving quite like normal Sentinels, though, oddly fussy in where it picks its footing, sidestepping a patch of Leaking Alien Gunk before carefully settling itself on a torn-off car door. "You are much easier than the kids to track down." the Sentinel informs Scott, in Halim's flat voice. Nevertheless there are coordinates embedding themselves into Scott's still signal-less phone, together with a list broken down into sections. Some of the kids' names have other X-Men attached (many of these say 'Joshua'), some are marked for Scott. "For once these children may be happy to see you." --- The Rec room is packed, still, much more crowded than it normally would be at this time of night. But then, there's a lot of kids finding it pretty hard to sleep, until their friends are home safe. A lot of kids unhelpfully glued to the news still ticking in on their phones and computers. Other kids who were trying to keep vigil but are scattered asleep, soundly or restlessly, through the anxious mess. Joshua has, not long past, brought one more pair of kids, terrified but largely unhurt, to unleash them for a catch-up on what horrors the day had held for everyone. He's back now -- no kids in tow, and he's slipping quiet into the Rec Room like he doesn't really want to intrude on this teenage haven -- staying just long enough to unload a couple large bags, rattling quiet with ice. He blips out -- -- and then back a second later, head ducking in a mild embarrassment, plastic wrap crinkling as he pulls the very large handful of colorful wide boba straws out of his pockets to leave them beside the drinks. --- In a testament to New York's resilience, the local news channel has scraped the morning news together in a clearly alien-impacted studio, the normally-panoramic view marred by shattered glass and the sounds of distant helicopters occasionally roaring past. The anchorwoman is wearing a solemn black pantsuit and perfectly coiffed, a steely stoicism about her demeanor, her newscaster's intonation. The T.V. in the Xavier's staff lounge is not turned up loud enough that her voice would cut through the usual chatter, but her voice is still audible today. "-- still ongoing in the aftermath of yesterday's tragic attack, the death toll now at almost seven hundred and still expected to climb as search and rescue efforts continue throughout Manhattan. Footage is still rolling in of the thousands of invading extraterrestrials, as well as the extraordinary deeds of the strike team known as 'The Avengers'. Led by New York's own Steve Rogers -- better known as Captain America -- these individuals single-handedly brought the attack to an end, saving countless lives in the process. Amid the international outpouring of support and sympathy, we've also seen wide admiration for a team many Americans are now calling real-life superheroes --" Despite of his six-ish feet of height, Scott's bulk is somehow less obtrusive than the awkward way he is tiptoeing around the other X-Men on the couches or the floor as he navigates back to his prized couch spot with a painfully apologetic stoop. Or possibly a stoop of exhaustion -- he has bags under his eyes, visible even below his glasses. He sets a handful of beers carefully on the table with a chorused clink, bottles clustered together by their necks; he snags one for himself, as well as a bottle opener sitting on a nearby pizza box, before he sits, somewhat more heavily than is his wont -- the pop-fizz is audible, too. Scott stretches one arm along the back of the sofa, behind Jean, and tilts his head back like he's watching the news, but after a moment the faint crimson light behind his glasses quietly flutters out.