Logs:Of Mishaps and Magic (Or, Apex Predators)

Of Mishaps and Magic (Or, Apex Predators)
Dramatis Personae Chloe, Deanna, Jax, Alma, Anahita, Blink, Clint, Cyan, Derek, Horus, Joshua, Kavalam, Lucien, Quentin, Rocket, Ryan, Scott, Spencer, Steve
In Absentia Shane	Winter Break "-- L'Entente has a way of handling these things."
Location <NYC> Le Bonne Entente - Astoria
25 december. early morning. le sanctuaire patio. The orchestration of the entire enormous Evolve Christmas Dinner was a good deal easier when Shane was around, years of practice honing the chaos and volunteer coordination down to an art form. Jax is not Shane, but he's been armed for the past several weeks with Shane's extensive notes on schedule, planning -- ask these people this long in advance about food donations, figure out menu this far out, check in here here and here with volunteers. With any luck, dinner and the accompanying festivities will go smoothly today. If only the same could be said for Jax's own personal morning; it was chaos around the suite, an at-once frenetic and sluggish mess of disorganization. Where are his notes where are his keys where is the dog where is his head. They've finally gotten just about ready to go; he's exiting the cafe onto its patio with his first of what is sure to be many cups of coffee in hand when he stops. Groans. Pats at his pockets, where his keys are but not -- "Oh my gosh I forgot the Evolve keys they're in -- y'know actually it's quicker if y'just take me oh goodness." Spence is also not Shane, but he has energy and speed and a deep determination to help. Probably most of his efforts did ultimately turn out helpful, but at least some of it might have been easier to appreciate if he kept better track of which tasks he actually completed and which he started then forgot and which he chucked into another dimension for some reason but don't worry he's on it -- just one second! "Keys keys keys," Spence is chanting this...as encouragement, maybe, for his father's memory? But he looks kind of guiltily pleased at the request. He claps a hand to Jax's shoulder, still chanting "keys keys ke --" -- THWUNK. As Spence's voice abruptly truncates there's a quiet whizzing, a quiet impact. At this dark pre-dawn hour there's nobody around the patio to notice the arrow quivering in the side of the building, just about eye-height to where Jackson had just been standing. Well, nobody at the hotel, anyway. On a rooftop across the river, there's an also-quiet cursing; Chloe is lowering her bow with a faintly disgruntled frown. "Seriously," she's telling nobody except the frigid river, "that was a great shot." --- 25 december. late night. lunar terrance. Jax is ready for bed, now, no doubt heading that way soon. He's in thick soft pajamas, a warm blanket draped around his shoulders. There's a late-lit chanukiah burning low in the window, candles down to nubs, now. The little gas firepit on the terrace has been crackling for a time as he finishes up some final Evolve administrative notes before turning in, tablet on the arm of his chair and a mug of cocoa in his hands. The third time in a row he stifles a yawn he is maybe, possibly deciding that the rest of work can wait until morning -- although the black cat snoozing in his lap is dissuading him at from relocating just yet. "Jackson-uncle," somewhere inside there is video gaming and a lot of latkes. Right now Kavalam is poking his head out with a small plate of the potato pancakes, then emerging more fully to take a seat beside Jax. Behind his glasses his eyes are large and serious as he proffers the plate -- "Please settle up this argument. I am right though that's what you need to know. This tamarind chutney it is the king of these latke toppings -- your fool son and boyfriend I know they'll try to tell you otherwise but," his intense aura is, here, slipping out to encompass Jackson as well, very important in order for him to say, sotto voce: "Because you are an honest man I know you will judge mine the best. Also Ryan-uncle needs no more ego." On a different rooftop, not so very far away, Deanna -- sniper rifle just set up -- is straightening. Frowning. Didn't she have a target out here tonight, not normally like Chloe to be sloppy about recon. Just for good measure she's peeking through the sight again, but then, with a huff, slouching back to double-check her schedule. --- 26 december. morning. front entrance. Clint is not looking at his most superheroic today, pale and exhausted and bundled up, but his steps lighten as he approaches the hotel's grand front entrance. Then he suddenly brightens and veers off at not quite a jog along the colonnaded walkway. "Chloe!" This uncharacteristic effusiveness might have as much to do with the archery bag he's spotted as the woman attached to it. "You on your way to shoot with him, too?" He rotates his sling bag -- an enviably compact bow case -- around to the side and pats on it. "He's so busy, sometimes you kind of just have to ambush him." It's true that Chloe has been looking up at the tall bell tower of Le Bonne Entente with very much the assessing glance of someone who is considering scaling it. Was she doing so in search of the hard-to-pin-down proprietor -- well. There's a hitch in her step, a faint tension in the fingers she curls around the strap of her own archery bag, but these things are probably just a startle reflex -- when she turns her smile is as sunny-bright as it ever is, her greeting hug effusive. "Great minds, huh? C'mon, bet he'll have a harder time saying no to both of us." --- 26 december. afternoon. elevator. "Wayminit wait you going up?" There's a cheerful, hopeful voice from outside the elevator -- is it really that urgent they take This Elevator, probably not, the elevators are quick and smooth here, but there's something about a just-closing-elevator-door that seems to prompt a hurry reflex in a lot of people and Chloe is not immune. There's a black archery case swinging brief between the closing doors, stalling them and then sending them back open again, and one elegantly-dressed woman is following the case through to slip inside. Her, "Thank-you!" is light and trilling, as if the elevator's occupant had been the one to stall it rather than her own unnecessary haste. She's calling to someone outside: "C'mon, sugar, time is money." The elevator’s one occupant is giving her a wide-eyed, somewhat panicked stare, before they decide their best course of action is to keep their mouth shut. Normally Cyan would never take the elevator. Elevators are tiny contained spaces with poor ventilation where you are forced to stand close to other people. It is the worst place to be for a mutant who’s very exhalation is a detriment to others and who's also forgotten his face masks for the first time in almost a year. But today he’s sick, and the elevator was supposed to be empty, and barrelling past the woman now seems like a great way to get attention. So he simply nods at her and stands still, hoping that getting off on the very next floor will be enough to limit the exposure. And if it doesn’t, well, it’s the 26th, it’s not like anyone’s got anything important to do on the 26th. "Whose time. Whose money." Deanna is not hurrying -- she's sauntering at a measured and deliberate pace after her wife into the elevator. In contrast to the other woman's warm cheer her expression is dour, halfway to a scowl if not for the fact scowl would be far too colorful a term for the aggressively indifferent nature of her grim aura. She jerks her chin up silently to the other elevator occupant, though her eyes are narrowing slightly on his face. She's positioned herself solidly in between Chloe and Cyan as if she expects there's some high risk of malfeasance to occur in this twenty-second trip. Maybe she's right, too, because as the elevator starts to move again she's staring up at the numbers. Numbers? Are those numbers, kind of sparkly, kind of -- "We on the right elevator. Why's it dancing." She's hooked her arm through Chloe's, leaning heavy against the smaller woman, and as she stares entranced at the singing-glittering lights she's deciding as confidently as though they did not have a pressing mission to carry out here: "-- good time for a vacation." --- 27 december. afternoon. lunar suite terrace. It's actually pretty mild out today, rendering the terrace an almost pleasant place to have a small study session even without the use of the little central firepit. The firepit does make things cozier, though, and cozier still is the fresh hot cookies and cocoa that Jax is carting out to the small balcony study party. "Hey, sugar, you gonna be staying for supper? We'd love to have you." It's hard to tell how true this sentiment is; his mental plane is at once too-loud and too-flat, currently a chaos of unreal colors and psychedelic painting that feels wildly detached from anything like Genuine Emotion. "Hey, thanks, Mr. Jax!" Quentin's eyes have lit up at the treats. He's rubbing at his head with a faint grimace -- there's nothing particularly subtle in the dance of his eyes between the books strewn across the table, the fresh cookies, Jax himself, as he weighs the benefit of delicious cooking vs. the nightmare of extended exposure to this particular psionic headache. He's not answering immediately, though, just twisting around so that he can snag a couple of the cookies off the tray. It makes his first reply "-- eef'r mafin --" fully unintelligible. It somewhat coincidentally also takes his eyes away from the glorious view which, also, means that neither he nor anyone else notices the silent plnk-plnk as a pair of bullets stop short on his invisible telekinetic shield and drop, harmlessly, down below. Off in the distance, Deanna is staring. Over at the hotel. Then at her wife. Then at the hotel. "The fuck." --- 28 december. morning. delivery entrance. "-- don't give our family's babies away to just anyone," Jax is saying brightly as he helps unload this small but precious shipment onto a dolly, "but I know they gonna be in good hands here." He's carefully setting the last of the peach saplings into its spot, checking it over again to make sure it is steadily situated. "Gonna take a *couple* seasons yet 'fore you'll get a real bounty but trust me, it'll be worth it. Though who knows I swear 'tween your magic and that place's for all I know these gonna spring up like weeds an' I'll be makin' pie off 'em next summer. -- you got any questions at all, you know I'm happy to kibitz." "I cannot adequately express how honored we are by your trust." This has not stopped Anahita attempting to do so in her uncharacteristically giddy excitement through the bestowal of these treasures from the South. "I fear you have just signed yourself up to be regularly harassed for advice. No amount of research can equal practical and generational..." Notwithstanding its brakes, the dolly rolls itself right past them and down the drive. Anahita catches it before it can pick up any speed, but one of the young trees aboard is pitching wildly back and forth as if impatient with its ride. She steadies it, then gives an indignant gasp -- perhaps also unable to adequately express how outraged she is at the long arrow impaling the sapling's trunk. --- 28 december. nighttime. le sanctuaire patio.' "Huh," Joshua is replying, not for the first time. There's been a keen interest in his droopy expression, almost enough to take the edge of his usual air of melancholy. As the explanation has continued, though, the interest has been joined by a slow but steady dip of his brow, further and further as he tries to puzzle some of the more technical details into sense in his brain. Probably this hasn't entirely worked, because he is finally simply leaning forward in his patio chair and squinting at the gadget before asking, direct: "-- but. Like. Practically. What's it -- do." Jax has not been a part of this explanation -- he's off at a nearby table, rubbing at his temple and paging on his tablet through a mountain of paperwork. Somewhere between the tediousness of his tasks and the intrigue of whatever-is-happening nearby, though, his attention has strayed farther and farther from his tablet and more and more towards Joshua's table. At the hopeful promise of actual demonstration he's looking up more openly, peering across at the adjacent table as he takes a swallow of his long-cold coffee. The explanation that has been getting steadily more technical and animated pauses for a moment as Rocket as he realizes he was veering into tangent hell. He repositions where he is standing on his chair so that he can more properly show off. "Oh, yeah, right. I was getting to-- I got smaller hands than your people, so catching stuff--" With a wiggle of his fingers on his gloved hands, he then tosses a handful of loose change with the other. Then, he swipes his hand in the air. Along the plane of the movement, each coin slows down when in proximity to his glove, enough that he can catch them all in one deft motion. "--is easie-" His eyes widen and then he hops up, "YEOWCH!" All the coins (and a distinctly uncoinlike bullet) clatter to the ground when he opens his hand and starts waving it. "Hothothot!" He clutches his hand close to his body, and hotly snaps at the room in general, "Who's the funny guy jokester here? Is this one of those tiktoks?!" --- 29 december. morning. front entrance. "-- don't actually know so much about printing the real old fashioned way," Jax is chattering, bright and excited as he slips outside after his companion. "But all the blocks look like a whole lotta fun to play with so I'm sure it'll be fun." He's squinting one way down the street and then the other, dawdling near the front entrance as he evaluates the current Taxi Situation and waffles about calling a Lyft down to Dumbo instead. "-- shoulda just saddled up Sugar, woulda been quicker. Hindsight." It also probably would be quicker if their trip over to Chimaera weren't rudely interrupted. But it is -- Jax & co. only just stepped outside when a huge winged shape is divebombing -- Horus lets out a triumphant screech as he rockets off with one iconic star-emblazoned shield gripped tight in his talons. Not quite tight enough, though, because he's veering sharply to avoid a pair of crows just taking off from the roof -- kiiind of bumps half into an eave -- the shield drops from his grip, bouncing off a tree just on the property line to go skitter-bumping oddly quietly over the stones. "I'm sure you'll love it." There's a hint of pride in Steve's assurance. "It's good, messy fun --" He ducks just a little too late to evade this sneak attack from above, and in the attempt almost stumbles into Jax. He narrowly averts that collision, but overbalances in the process and topples toward the neat row of holly bushes lining the walkway. Whether to avoid a facefull of prickly leaves or the groundskeeper's quiet reproach, he twists mid-air and executes an impressive vault over the hedgerow. His briefly stolen shield had been on course to roll right past them but, as if called to its master, hits a boundary stone at just the right angle to spin sidewise through the air and settle neatly over...a metal cylinder sprouting wires and an antenna concealed by the holly. Steve sticks the landing atop his shield in almost the same instant the bomb under it detonates with a muffled WHUMP, spending its shrapnel harmlessly against the vibranium dome. --- 29 december. afternoon. lunar suite terrace. The spread of snacks out here has dwindled. There's just a few drops starting to patter down just beyond the balcony, but the overhang keeps the terrace seating nice and dry, the temperature still balmy even with the start of the rain. Jax has been vacillating somewhere between matter-of-fact and slightly put out in his retelling, "-- it is getting a little bit, um, distracting," as if the repeated murder attempts are just a bit of an inconvenience really! "-- but what can y'do. Ryan's had to deal with way worse for years, I'm sure it'll..." He is taking a sip from a bottle of pear cider as he dithers about exactly how to finish this sentence. Somewhere in the polished-mirror reflection of his sunglasses there's a new glint. Under other circumstances he would probably notice but currently depowered and de-sensitized, he probably does not notice the arrow fast incoming toward his blind side. Scott has been nodding, slow and understanding and considering, through this entire retelling, initially this was to signal that he is actively listening, though by now it has begun to seem rote, like he's just enjoying the rhythm, one hand crooked thoughtfully against his chin, the other tapping his cider bottle nigh-silently against his leg. It's lucky that he's sitting at the angle he is, with his own peripheral vision quite compromised too, but -- as luck would have it -- he spots the arrow gleaming into view at once, and with a hasty peek over his own glasses he obliterates the arrow with all the force of, perhaps, a midair Ford Ranger. The broad beam of red disappears; the crushed pieces of the arrow shower down into the street; Scott's glasses are fixed over his eyes once more, his brow wrinkling slightly as he springs up to his feet, surprisingly spry, frowning off into the distance. "I see what you mean," he says, then, a little ponderously, "I'm not sure that this is a 'what can y'do' situation. We could draw you up a security detail. Write up some incident response SOPs." He makes this suggestion rather impassively, but there is a faint keenness in the very slight lift of Scott's already very upright posture. "Yeah," he says -- still, his voice is blithely casual, "I'll get you a binder." --- 30 december. morning. lunar suite terrace. "-- real sorry 'bout all this," Jax's voice, very apologetic, is just kind of materializing out onto his terrace, mid-sentence as he steps through the swirling purple portal that has just appeared there. "I mean, Scott's right of course but like, my schedule's wild and it's early to be putting you outta your way and -- I think you can probably get going now, though, I really appreciate your help and I'm sure there won't be no problems if I actually stay inside here to do my --" He's breaking off here, though. Tilting his head slightly to the side to look with a frown and then -- more exasperation than alarm at the contraption of wires and plastic explosives that is peeking out from beneath the lip of his fire pit. He rubs his hand against his cheek, and just sighs. "I would have just been out of my way somewhere else, delivering way less important things." Blink is a little tense as she sets foot onto the terrace, peering around them but still not spotting the bomb until she follows Jax's gaze. She's definitely more alarmed than he is, but still her "eugh" sounds more like the kind of exclamation people make when they're startled by vermin than explosives. The portal they just exited closes and another one immediately opens under the device, which unceremoniously falls through and plunks into water on the other side. Blink snaps the portal shut just as the still-rippling surface of the East River behind them erupts in an uneven spout. --- 30 december. afternoon. side entrance. The car -- not Ryan's sporty bright convertible, this is an unobtrusive black sedan like half the others on the street -- pulls up quite close to the entrance. Even so, it's a little bit slower than would be ideal to get out, get Ryan's crutches, help him out of the car as well. Jax has just thanked Ryan's driver and is offering an arm, picking up the thread of the same argument they've been having half the drive. "-- could just go home -- 'least till school's back in session, it's silly imposing on everyone like this. School be starting again soon, I'm sure for the next couple days it won't be so hard to figure out -- something." Alma isn't helping Ryan or Jax, and she hasn't picked a side in this argument, either. She's just kept her usual quiet watch as they make their way toward the door. A rifle shot rings out sharp over the grounds, and Alma pivots smoothly, narrowing her eyes in the direction of the report. The path of the bullet curves uncannily around its target and his two companions and right into the ground. Though she evidently cannot spot the sniper, she knows exactly where the shot wound up, and stoops to pluck up the misshapen slug. She holds it up for Jax to see and adds -- calmly, matter-of-factly, "This one was for you." "And what -- stay inside forever? There's a ton of bigots and just one you, they could keep this up a long-ass time -- you can't go inviting freak level problems and then turn yourself into a fucking flatsc -- This slur is aborted abruptly at the crack of the gun. Ryan has not quite gotten his crutches situated in a proper grip, which makes him extremely wobbly when he yanks Jax towards the building. His eyes are wide, fixed on the bullet long and hard. After a moment of silence he is hooking an arm through Jax's, dragging him back inside. "You not fucking entertained?" --- 30 december. evening. belfry. Jax actually hit not too far off center this time, despite his steep negative modifiers to perception. He is handing Lucien's bow back to him -- "This the prettiest weapon I ever seen, too." -- and going to pick his drink back up. "-- may not be at all practical but it is real fun." This comes with a small wince, a small duck of his head. "-- Ryan's been getting on my case plenty lately about practical. Can't say he's wrong but it ain't like this was a decision I made on a lark. The very faint squeeze at the corners of Lucien's eyes does not look like much; his soft hum does not sound like much, but to long experience it's clear enough he's well pleased with Jax's progress. He has not yet put his own Scotch down when he takes the bow, and he studies Jax long over its rim as he takes a pull. "I cannot tell you what the right call is -- for your sanity, for your life. But please do know that while you are under my roof no harm will come to you from malicious quarters." He's set his drink aside and is drawing his bow, now. Taking careful aim. When he lets the arrow fly it veers sharply and improbably away from the target, despite his own running streak of perfect bullseyes. It curves apparently wild, too high. It finally lodges itself in a wooden support beam, a second arrow that had been incoming knocked out of its trajectory and pinned by Lucien's erratic one. Lucien quirks up an eyebrow, the only sign of his shock in the hard tightening of his hand around his bow. "-- L'Entente has a way of handling these things." --- 31 december. evening. front entrance. Maybe this car is in a hurry. Maybe the driver simply has a strong impetus to get as close to the front door as possible. Maybe in another time, another passenger, he'd be a little more mannerly, but somewhere between his Rock Star cargo and his disability and the many murder attempts happening lately, this black sedan is cutting sharply up to the curb to snag a spot directly outside the front door in order to disgorge his passengers. Jax, in possession of two good legs, is getting out first, pulling Ryan's crutches out behind him and holding them -- a little bit unwieldy where they hitch up on the sidewalk, he's also got an armload of groceries and phone in hand and is trying to assist his friend out of the car. He's continuing some snip of conversation as he gets situated: "-- Apex? I'm not sure about a new social media but if you think it'll be better --" He's kind of glancing down at his phone screen while he says this. The vanity plate on the Tesla behind them, actually, reads APEX. It's pulling up behind their car with a squeal of brakes and skid of wheels -- clearly this driver was also trying to get up to the front door, but instead the car is bumping sharply against the curb and then blowing out its tire. A moment later the door opens to disgorge the driver -- average height, average build, average looks, his salt-and-pepper hair mussed in the back where it's finally beginning to go bald. He's wearing AirPods and a pale grey suit stained heavily down the front, holding his phone with the same hand he's using to drag a dry cleaning bag out of the passenger seat; he's not talking into the phone, just loudly into the surrounding area. The Airpods will get him. "We met at a conference in Palo Alto?" David is saying as he steps out of the car and directly into a slushy, slimy pile of yet-undrained street muck; he slips, grabs the open car door for balance, hauls himself back upright. "We talked about Austin? I put him onto this community note feature, I said, Elon, the Romans had a saying: vox populi -- look, can't you just tell him it's David from -- wait -- hold the door! You, there, can you --" He slams the car door, is about to just toss his keys to a valet and let someone else handle his flat tire, but he fumbles them -- doubles over to catch them -- in, finally, a stroke of luck this morning, he snags the keyring with his pinky instead of dropping them down the grate, and as he is straightening up triumphantly -- The shot is almost comically clean, speared straight through his neck; as David is dropping onto his knees, his dry cleaning and phone and car keys all spilling to the street around him like video game loot, there's a very small, tinny voice still coming from one AirPod as it bounces along the street -- "Sorry -- Derek from where?" -- before it disappears down a maintenance shaft. On another rooftop, not so very far away, Chloe is lowering her bow. Staring in absolute exasperation. "No, no, hell no," there's something stressed and agitated rising higher in her tone, an almost hysterical edge wellout of the norm for her usual poise on a job, "not this bullshit, not this damn time, I still got the shot --" Deanna has been watching this impassively. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, her brow pulled into a deepening frown. "This shit's cursed." She lifts her hand to stay her wife's bow. "Let's go get a damn drink."