Logs:Purity of Purpose
| Purity of Purpose | |
|---|---|
CN homophobic slurs, violence, blood | |
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2022-03-08 "The wages of sin is death." |
| Location
<NYC> HAMMER Field Office - Federal Plaza | |
The DHS building in Federal Plaza is what you'd expect; an austere-looking office-building with multiple floors and offices to handle the many bureaucratic issues and legal proceedings surrounding a federal agency dedicated to matters of 'terrorism'. HAMMER's offices are a notably recent addition, and include their own small parking garage for dedicated vehicles, a data-center, and even a small holding pen. Among these amenities (notably much more stark and straightforward than the rest of DHS) is a small room with ugly florescent lighting and several recently trimmed electrical wires (neatly capped and twisted off) dangling from the walls. This previously obscure office building has become the focus of almost daily demonstrations in the three weeks since HAMMER took Jax Holland into custody. The cloudy sky and the chill wind have not dissuaded the protesters today -- in fact, it's an usually large crowd for a weekday afternoon, even considering the live music. Today's headlining artist might have something to do with this sudden spike in the popularity of justice and civil liberties, and though he is not on stage currently many who showed up to see him are lingering. The free food being served up by the wellness team might have something to do with that, too. Steve is putting his muscles to use carrying cambros full of hot beverages and stacks of covered chafing dishes redolent of food from a van parked around the corner. He's wearing a red canvas jacket, a purple-white-black plaid flannel unbuttoned beneath to show a black t-shirt with "NEVER AGAIN" in bold yellow letters, comfortable straight leg jeans, and ever-present black combat boots. The shield slung across his back prominently displays Friend Bear's crossed sunflowers, and a pink armband on his left sleeve marks him somewhat more officially as a member of the wellness team better known as Care Bears. His latest load deposited, he accepts a cup of coffee from one of his teammates and turns to survey the crowd with piercing blue eyes. Should Ryan have a bodyguard? Probably in a crowd like this he is supposed to, but what he has instead is a thermos in hand and a guitar slung across his back in a cloth case embroidered with black roses and heavily adorned with various left wing patches. He makes a bright target, too, dressed today in a metallic pink vest embroidered with chaotic black lines evocative of thorns or fangs and claws, a gauzy black poet shirt that may serve just fine under stage lights, is likely doing little to keep out out the chill right now, metallic pink trousers so tight they look painted on, and black platform boots, the front and sides of their thick soles adorned with rows of chrome fangs arranged into savage snarls. He's just detaching himself from a crowd of fluttering college-aged youths who have surrounded him as he talks to a young woman wearing a press pass. His warm smile hardens into a rictus as he puts space between himself and the knot of people. It's Steve's crew that he's turning to, eyes too-bright and too-wide as he fetches up against a table full of recently deposited cambros. He holds the thermos up, giving it a hopeful waggle. "Which one these things got caffeine. I'm gonna fucking blow if one more reporter tries hounding me bout irrelevant-ass shit without even any coffee to fortify me." Steve looks, if possible, even more alert when he spots Ryan unaccompanied. If he had any thought of asking about the absence of a bodyguard, though, he keeps it to himself and offers instead a soft "hey". To the question points somewhat reflexively to the cambro nearest to him. "Coffee, fresh from Evolve." He waggles his own cup by way of demonstration, as if "coffee" needed any such thing. "Would you actually mind it less if they brought you coffee before asking about -- I'd wager just about anything and everything but the action?" Polaris is busy writing out labels for the just-arrived beverages and stops in the middle of slapping a "COFFEE 🖤" sticker onto the wrong cambro, correcting to the one Steve indicates. Her black canvas motorcycle jacket is decorated with a wealth of steel spikes and studs and d-rings, her black jeans have far too many (also steel) zippers, and her heavy black boots have steel plates at the toe and heel, to say nothing of all the buckles. She's got a pink armband of her own and a slouchy scarlet knit cap that looks all the brighter beside the leaf-green braid hanging over her left shoulder. "There's still somehow people showing up who don't seem to get what the protest is about, but I wouldn't expect that from the journalists." She pulls a disgruntled moue and allows, "I guess knowing doesn't mean they care. Dude, you need any food?" The question is apparently just for Ryan; she passes Steve a foil-wrapped burrito without asking if he wants or needs it. There's a small knot of counterprotesters that have been gathered across the street, waving a trite and typical amalgamation of signs. The cluster of cardboard is parting now, "HUMAN LIVES MATTER" and "Protect children from TERRORISTS" moving aside to make way for a stream of white-on-black crosses. The line of police standing nearby barely look up at the approaching Purifiers, who are making a beeline for the Care Bears' table. The Purifier in the lead is a massive brick wall of a man, tall and broad, with a pistol openly visible holstered beneath his vest. He isn't drawing it; just reaching casually to bat the thermos from Ryan's hand, looking down at the smaller man with a disgusted snort. "Know you're a freak," he says, eying Ryan's outfit, "but you don't have to be such a faggot about it." At his right hand is a man a full head shorter -- though as tall as Brick Wall is, that's not saying much. His smile is thin and snaggletoothed, his expression halfway to a leer as he approaches Ryan and Steve. "Husband's been in jail a week and you're running back to the boyfriend already?" "Yeah, guess they'd have to give me something much stronger than coffee to make their bullshit worthwhile." Ryan uncaps his thermos, leaning in to fill it up from the indicated cambro. His smile skews sideways, head shaking. "Nah, thanks though. Not much hungry lately, I don't --" His eyes are ticking up, a moment too delayed; his breath hisses in sharply when the thermos is knocked from his hand, hot coffee splashing over the sheer fabric of his shirt. The thrum that ripples through the air can be felt more than heard, a distinctly uncomfortable vibration buzzing in teeth and stomachs for a heartbeat before Ryan lets his breath back out, slow. He straightens deliberately, hand skimming down over his chest to flick coffee off of it. His gaze strokes up and down over Snaggletooth in truth, his tight-clenched smile only set all the more on edge by the heavy dilation of his eyes. "What, you getting jealous? Hate to disappoint you but I don't fuck fascists." Steve accepts the burrito as automatically as Polaris hands it to him and starts to unwrap it. Then stops at the sight of the approaching Purifiers, setting it down on the prep table with a very small sigh. His jaw tightens when their ringleader spills Ryan's coffee, and he moves a step closer, hands very deliberately relaxed and at his side though his weight has settled a little lower. "That's enough," he says, maintaining steady unconcerned eye contact with Brick Wall but keeping the rest in his peripheral vision. His voice is firm, commanding, and calm, but Ryan can feel the wrath and protectiveness roiling beneath it. "Walk away." Polaris says nothing. She just nudges another Care Bear to draw their attention, then slips out from behind the table to stand beside Ryan, on the other side from Steve. Her wire rings writhe and twist, but she still does not speak as she eyes each of the Purifiers in turn, gaze flat and unimpressed. The Purifiers are not walking away. Just stepping in closer, fanning slightly outward so they've formed a curving wall between Ryan and the crowd. One of the Purifiers -- a lanky, much-scarred man with sandy hair and several missing fingers -- is snorting at Ryan's retort, until he's elbowed in the ribs by a stockier fascist with HARD and LUCK tattooed across his knuckles. Hard Luck raises his eyebrows when Steve speaks. "What, you gonna make us, mutie-lover?" Snaggletooth does not look pleased at Ryan's insinuation, his lips twisting into a snarl. "That's not --" he starts to complain, before Brick Wall cuts him off with a raised hand. He doesn't speak next, though; the Purifier who does is shorter, younger, with an anachronistically friendly smile and a Texas twang in his voice and the earnest energy of a youth pastor. "What do you think you're gonna accomplish out here? Your terrorist friend's in the Lord's hands, now. And the Lord, well, He don't take kindly to abominations." Fingers snickers at this. "Neither does HAMMER." Ryan's jaw clenches. His smile drops, some of the color fading from his face as the Purifiers talk about Jax. Though he hasn't previously seemed to be suffering from the inadequate covering of his outfit, now a small shiver runs through him. His hands ball into fists, and it's with a deliberate effort that he turns to try and edge past the table and away from the Purifiers. The nearest Purifier to Ryan -- Hard Luck -- doesn't seem inclined to let Ryan slip by. He's reaching to grab the guitar case as the other man passes, yanking it back hard to pull the musician toward Fingers -- -- who is brandishing a nightstick, now, in his un-mangled hand, whipping it up hard toward Ryan's side. The rest of the Purifiers don't seem particularly concerned about the crowd, nor the nearby line of police in their riot gear. Brick Wall and Youth Pastor have closed ranks to put themselves between Steve and Ryan. None of them are paying Polaris any mind at all. Steve does not answer Hard Luck's question. Does not acknowledge it in any way, though he does dart an opaque glance in the direction of the riot cops, then at the crowd all around them. His eyes snap back to Youth Pastor at the word "abomination" and his right hand balls into a fist -- just as Hard Luck makes a grab for Ryan. He tosses his (hot!) coffee aside -- kind of incidentally toward Brick Wall's midsection -- and swings at Youth Pastor. What should be a slow punch comes faster than a jab from Steve, but he does not aim for the man's head, rather for one side of his torso in a bid to send him spinningtumblingfalling into the path of Fingers' attack. While the other Care Bears are moving out from behind the tables to usher the crowd back from the incipient brawl, Polaris steps aside to make space for Ryan's exit. She does, admittedly, not look particularly surprised when that exit is thwarted. All of her rings save for the silver shield unwind from her fingers and coil around Hard Luck's hand instead, prying it from Ryan and redirecting the moment of his yank up--at his own face. A handful of ball bearings spill of their own accord from a pocket of her jacket and scatter harmlessly on the ground. Brick Wall bats the coffee aside, though not withough getting a good deal of it splashed across his arm. He's yet to draw his gun, though his hand has dropped to its grip. Youth Pastor curls slightly inward at Steve's blow, stumbling back -- he twists just out of the path of Fingers' blow though does fall straight into Ryan to push them both out of the way of the baton. His stumble collides with the guitar case with a heavy crunch as the fabric case caves in. He spits towards Steve as he straightens up, looking disappointed more than anything else. "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? What communion hath light with darkness? You were put here for so much more than fraternizing with these --" His lips curl back, shedding all traces of amiability from his expression, "demons." Fingers is undaunted by missing his first strike, closing the gap to lash out again, this time towards Ryan's midsection. Hard Luck's eyes have gone wide in the moment before his palm collides with his face -- it gives his unwilling facepalm even more of a flabbergasted look. "The fuck --" He's trying to shake his hand free of its new coil of metal, and only redirects his attention when the police bark their orders. His eyes snap to Polaris, fist balling -- but there's a moment of hesitation as he looks at the smaller woman. No such hesitation for Snaggletooth, who evidently does not have Do Not Hit Women ingrained in him. Or Do Not Stab Women, in his case; there's a knife flashing in his hand (one of several visible about his person) that he's throwing with startlingly good aim toward Polaris just about the same time Hard Luck is hesitating. Ryan's fists clench tighter when he's grabbed, and he starts to twist toward the blow of the baton, evidently less concerned with this potential injury than with shielding the guitar case on his back. To little avail; there's a brief flash of fury that crosses his expression at that crunch. "The fuck is wrong with you, I didn't ask for --" This irritable snap is directed not to the Purifiers but his own companions, truncated only by the slam of baton into his torso. There's another crack, though he does not look half so upset about his rib as he did about the guitar. It's only the flash of Snaggletooth's knife that draws another outburst from him -- this time a sudden disorienting boom of vibration that claps through Snaggletooth, Fingers, Hard Luck and Youth Pastor with an ear-shattering nauseating intensity. Everyone else a little farther off aren't entirely spared -- the blast thrums in teeth and eyes and ears, painful if not quite as incapacitating before it tapers off several more feet out. Steve actually flinches at the boom, but blinks his eyes clear quickly enough and doesn't really seem much worse for wear. Maybe it's because the Purifiers seem to have caught the worst of it he eases up and steps back. His attention flicks back to the police again, then to scan the crowd for injuries to the bystanders. The knife makes it alarmingly close to Polaris before she's able to slow it. With the blast of sound she flinches, too, reflexively starting to turn away. The flying blade slips the grasp of her power as her attention wavers and, though rapidly losing altitude, still tears through her jacket into her side. "Fuuuu--" is all she manages to get out before slapping a hand to her mouth--absurdly--to muffle the curse. She does not collapse exactly, but sinks precipitously to one knee, her breathing harsh and shallow, her skin suddenly ashen. An ominous rattle and shiver of metallic objects ripples out from her in a wave. When it subsides she sways and steadies herself with a hand on the pavement, though the movement draws out a pained hiss and a very decisive "fuck", after all. The Care Bears have pressed most of the crowd far enough back so as to only get a small taste of Ryan's thunderclap; there's some startled and distressed noises from the group, but nobody seems too much the worse for wear. The four nearest Purifiers are felled by the blow. Youth Pastor lets out an unholy screech as he drops to his knees. Snaggletooth has just hefted a second knife to take aim at Polaris, but crumples to the ground, the blade slipping from his hand. Fingers is losing the contents of his stomach all over Ryan's guitar case. Hard Luck lasts the longest, wobbling on his feet but then stumbling into Fingers and taking them both to the ground. Brick Wall, farther out than the others, flinches, his teeth gritting and eyes narrowing on Ryan as he takes a step back. In the same moment his hand has lifted. Gun drawn, now, and his companions on the pavement and not in the way, he pulls the trigger twice swiftly to a backdrop of sudden panicked screams. "Violent-ass fucking freak," is his comment as he fires. The police only now decide to close in properly. One of them stops to talk to Brick Wall, speaking a little louder than necessary with still-ringing ears when he assures the Purifier, "We'll handle it from here." Most of the line is setting up between the agitated crowd and Steve, Ryan, and Polaris, a wall of implacable shields that stops anyone from getting through -- even the pair of medics that are trying to push forward. The pairs of cops approaching Polaris and Ryan have already gotten plastic handcuffs out before they arrive. Polaris's duo is not wasting time about muscling her face-down to the ground to put them on, though Ryan's -- seem more hesitant, in the wake of the shooting. They don't approach, conferring with each other with heads bowed close together. The sergeant on site who had first given Polaris the order to get down is making his way up to Steve, an uncomfortable tension in his expression. "Sir," has more deference than his last barked order, "please get back, we need to secure this area." Ryan doesn't have time to look satisfied when Snaggletooth drops his knife and the other Purifiers go down. He's dropping, shortly after they do. His already coffee-stained clothing is getting itself freshly marred, blood seeping thick and dark against the pink of his vest courtesy of a fresh pair of holes torn in his shoulder and chest. It's possible he's trying to say something, mouth opened briefly as if to cry out, but all that comes out is a short gasp, his following breaths quicker and shallower than they ought to be. The ground around him rumbles in jittery pulses in time with his erratic breathing. Steve is moving toward Polaris before she's done not-quite-collapsing, but from the corner of his eye spots Brick Wall reaching for his gun. "Get down!" He reaches for his shield -- just as the cops move between him and the shooter. His hand freezes on the edge of the curved vibranium and he's sprinting, almost too fast for the eye to follow but not fast enough to get between Ryan and the gun. He drops to his knees beside Ryan, gaze skipping between the gunshot wounds. His cry for a medic booms loud over the panicking crowd and his eyes fix on the nearest cop. "Get EMS here. Right. Now." His voice is steady and commanding and deadly calm, though Ryan -- if he's processing anything at all -- can hear his rage and terror, too. He does not wait to see if the instruction is followed, but with a mumbled apology slides a hand under Ryan's shirt and clamps his palm firmly over the hole in his chest. Fumbles his phone from a pocket with the other hand and mashes the power button more times than is actually necessary to trigger its emergency signal flare, only stopping when it chimes acknowledgment. "Ryan's been shot, he's hurt bad, and -- Polaris, are you --" He turns just in time to see the cops bear her to the ground. "What the fuck are you doing she needs medical attention!" (Steve --> Dawson, Joshua, Luci, Sam): SOS @ 40.715601,-74.003102 Audio Message > "Ryan's been shot, he's hurt bad, and -- Polaris, are you -- what the fuck are you doing she needs med --" "Oh God, Ryan!" is Polaris's somewhat uninformative reply, her voice shaky and tight with pain but clear. Possibly she might have elaborated further, but then cops are seizing her. "I'm not resisting get your filthy hands--" This breaks off into a blood-curdling scream when she's shoved to the pavement, the knife that had lodged shallowly between her ribs pushed in to the hilt. Everything ferrous--and a few things not--in the vicinity judders with alarming intensity, and the police radios spew harsh static. She squeezes her eyes shut, breathing hard and fast between her sobs. The magnetic storm quiets, but does not stop altogether. Her lips are moving, the words too quiet for even the officers on top of her to hear. "You don't stop that we'll stop it for you," hisses one of the police officers who has been maltreating Polaris, at the shudder of metal. His partner sounds snippy and irritable as he radios for EMS, as if Ryan and Polaris's injuries are there solely to spite him. "Hey," says the cop Steve addresses, tone casual and thumbs tucked behind the armloops of his vest, "if your friends hadn't --" "EMS is on their way, sir," the sergeant beside him interrupts, then jerks a thumb between the other cop and Brick Wall. "Go see if you can get a statement from Wayne." The other cop narrows his eyes at Steve and Ryan, but untucks his hands and saunters off to talk to Brick Wall. The sergeant relaxes fractionally, as if now the situation is Under Control. The Purifiers scattered across the ground are slowly starting to recover. Struggle upright. Try not to fall over. It's Youth Pastor who speaks first, a thin and sickly smile curling across his face as he looks at Ryan and Steve. "The wages of sin," he says, kind of casually kicking some blood-spattered gravel in Ryan's direction as he gets to his feet, "is death." | |
