Logs:Taking Up Arms

Taking Up Arms
cn: graphic violence
Dramatis Personae DJ, Erik
In Absentia	2022-05-18 “Humans almost never choose correctly. I welcome you to prove me wrong, gentlemen.”
Location <NYC> Riverdale - The Bronx
It's a glorious day in New York, sunny and warm with just the right amount of breeze. The town square is bustling, the expansive yards are full of mutants sunbathing or eating their lunches or tending the ever-growing gardens. At the edge of one yard, a pair of toddlers is extremely excited to have found a) a number of large rocks to climb and b) a very friendly goat to climb them with. A little girl in flower-covered overalls is trying her best to get up to where Ophelia has perched at the top of the boulder; her small companion, dark-furred with long nimble fingers and a prehensile tail poking out of her grubby jeans, is doing much better on the ascent. At a small distance, DJ, in jeans and a neat green polo shirt, has been perched on the fence, nibbling a turkey-lettuce-tomato sandwich liberally drenched in mayo. He's occasionally watching Ophelia and the kids -- especially the girl who keeps tumbling back off the rock, though she's never yet gotten high enough to do herself any real damage. There's something melancholy beneath his passive concern, and neither his sandwich nor the bottle of lemonade he's been sipping are quite driving it away. Punk German Grandpa Max is not becoming a staple around Riverdale, exactly, but after a month of fairly frequent visits he’s not a stranger, either. He’s shed the heavy denim jacket that characterizes his disguise best, dressed in a loose black-and-white checked shirt, sturdy work jeans secured with heavily steel studded belt, and steel-toed boots. The studded and chain-covered facemask and sunglasses remain, as does the red pink in his hair, and steel link bracelets with no clasps fastened around each wrist. He draws up to the fence where DJ’s perched, not really seeming to notice the other man at first. His attention is taken up by the children playing for the time he’s been here, for the time is took to walk this way. Expressions are hard to read under all that is covering his face, but there’s a sad droop at the corner of his eyes. After a moment, glancing sidelong at DJ, Erik asks: “Are they yours?” DJ certainly has noticed Erik, as he draws up; the flick of his eyes is rapid, over the studded mask -- the hair -- the bracelets. His gaze has skated back away by the time Erik speaks, but snaps right back to the other man at the question. "Oh, no, I -- no. The goat is mine. The kids just like her. Not actually what nanny usually means there, but she's been good with them, too." He takes a sip of his lemonade, returns the bottle to where its been sitting atop the fence post beside him. "Does kind of feel like the kids around here are a little bit of a collective responsibility, though. If it takes a village -- well, this is the kind of village I'd hope all our kids could have." A small huff of amusement rattles the mask. “They certainly do not seem to want for a different nursemaid.” Erik leans onto the fence, arms lightly crossed over the top of it. “It should be a village project, no? The keeping and care of our young ones. It’s too much to expect one or two people to do all alone — you burn out, you lash out, and the children suffer for it.” His accent, still distinctly German, is not thick enough to mask the tinge of pain at the end of his sentence. "I have commanded you to bring up your children in light and truth," has the marked intonation of a quotation. "The world's got way too much darkness in it for one couple to keep it all at bay, for sure." There's a quiet earnestness in DJ's tone. His eyes have slipped back to the kid-covered rocks. "Do you have -- are you -- speaking from experience?" The quote stirs nothing from Erik beyond a brief furrow of brow, a quick glance like DJ’s face might have the answer to a question he’s definitely not going to ask. “I had — have — I was a father, once.” He struggles through the sentence, eyes trained on where Ophelia keeps watch eye over the mutant children. “I remember how difficult it was, when we moved away from my wife’s family. I don’t wish that upon any other father.” "I'm sorry." This, too, sounds very earnest. DJ's eyes skate just briefly back to Erik while he struggles with his answer. "Feel like with our people it's -- probably the unfortunate norm. Places like this -- I mean, there aren't many places like this. Not many communities ready to welcome our children. If we really want to build a place where --" His words are getting more animated, more intense, and he checks himself at about the point where he starts gesticulating (sandwich still in hand; it sheds a few shreds of lettuce to flutter to the ground with the motion), lowering the sandwich and his gaze both. "Sorry, I just... they're the most sacred duty we have." Erik hums, acknowledging DJ’s sympathies without looking at him. The longer the younger man goes on, though, the more Erik’s forehead creases, until a stray bit of lettuce hits the side of his glasses. Turns to look at DJ more fully, eyes narrowing. “A sacred duty,” he echoes, unimpressed. “Like there is a god that gifts them to us.” There’s a little curl of something in his voice, not quite anger, not quite bitterness, but somewhere in between. “The things I’ve done to protect our children — no just god would ask that of us. No just god would make us fight so hard for a chance to see them grow up in safety." Overhead, there's a very quiet droning hum, very easy to miss over the ambient sounds of conversation and excitable children. The drones that are gliding down from the sky don't have much of a footprint past that soft noise. They're Sentinels, at least in their odd spiderlike appearance, but subtly different in size and coloration than the metal spiders that patrol the city. To Erik's senses, these robots don't feel like much; not much to latch onto in their composite bodies, their power sources carefully shielded so only the faintest traces of EM signature are leaking out. At first the robots are just doing a circuit of the neighborhood, high enough up as to be barely noticeable; it's on their next pass that they have to swung lower, oddly menacing as they circle towards the climbing children. The black SUV that pulls up by the curb as the robots swoop down doesn't itself look all that conspicuous; people come and go from Riverdale all the time. The men who it disgorges, though -- ballistic vests, the clipped haircuts and arrogant swagger of ex-military, ugly sneers as they look around at the gathered mutants, the playing children, the peacefulness of it all -- they don't much look like they belong here. DJ blushes deep, picking a scrap of turkey out of his sandwich. "I mean -- yeah, they are a gift from God. Heavenly father doesn't make us do anything, it's human choice that --" Here he cuts off sharply, his eyes turning skyward even before the drones are swooping lower. His eyes are flicking to the children -- to Erik -- to the car when it comes in. His sandwich has disappeared from his hand -- to where there's absolutely no sign -- hopefully not his pocket, though he's traded sandwich for a phone that he taps at very briefly. "I think," his voice hasn't lost its intensity as he looks to the Pack Of Goons, "that you all want to turn around and get out of here, now." “Heavenly what?” Erik is starting to ask, eyebrows raised as he cuts across DJ’s words, his tone heading in the direction of irritated. When DJ’s attention darts up, Erik’s goes outward, snapping first to the vehicle, then the children, back to the men with a deepening furrow of his brows. Finally up at the robots sweeping overhead. His jaw tightens. “Children,” he calls, “inside, please.” He’s straightening up, rolling down his sleeve and moving to put himself in between the strangers and the children. The bracelets, pushed up under his sleeves, have quietly begun to undo themselves. The first of the Military Bros to emerge is looking over to the playing children with a hoot. "Shit, didn't know you all had a whole fucking zoo up here." Military Bro #2 doesn't quite roll his eyes at DJ's warning, but it's a close thing. "Hear that, boys, the cripple says we gotta get." Military Bros #3 & #4 have already drawn handguns even before fully emerging from the car. "Do you freaks really think you can just steal our land and get away with it?" says #3; #4 is eying the children with a nasty gleam in his eye, raising his gun to level it on the furred girl like this is just target practice. DJ's alert has gotten a lot of Riverdale moving. There's an increased clamor from the town square, but a lot of the residents are hastening indoors. A young woman is racing out of the nearest house towards the children, eyes wide and panicked as she calls out to them. The drones are splitting up -- one is dropping towards the panicking young mother, one following the fleeing mutants. The quiet fffp fffp of the darts they are shooting is easily missed over the raised voices. DJ is tucking his phone back into his pocket, eyes cutting to Erik when he straightens. In the next instant, he's not on the fence anymore -- the faint blur of motion he leaves behind is hard to track in its jittery erratic path. The two girls vanish from the rock, deposited beside the woman coming for them to let her take them inside; a scrambling teenager suddenly finds himself shunted out of the path of the second drone. The first drone has vanished from the air -- and reappeared squarely in the arm of MB4, severing it messily below the elbow. When DJ reappears beside Erik, he's holding the missing Half An Arm, complete with gun still in the severed grip. "I said you might want to get," he's correcting, mildly. "But I was just talking about how poorly humans sometimes choose." Erik misses most of DJ in this movement — but his eyes widen as he tracks the results — woman and children scurrying in, the teenager sent sprawling to safety, the sudden drip of blood on the tip of his boots as the arm hangs between him and DJ. Blinks, once, before the corners of his eyes crinkle into a smile. “Now isn’t that something.” He pulls the gun from the dangling severed arm and briefly examines it before levelling it back at MB 3, safety off and index finger curled around the trigger. “Humans,” he says, “almost never choose correctly. I welcome you to prove me wrong, gentlemen.” Military Bro #3 is squeezing off a few rounds when DJ starts moving -- far too slow and nowhere near his intended high-speed target, the bullets are mostly whizzing off into the trees beyond the yard. Hopefully there are no rich humans still hanging about the property on the other side. The second drone is circling back around -- its next volley of darts are heading for DJ and Erik. Military Bro #4 takes an entire stunned second before he starts screaming. He's batting at the bloodied Sentinel drone kind of ineffectually, scrambling back toward the SUV and away from Erik and DJ. Bro #1 pales at the blood and the screaming. He's yanking a ceramic knife from his belt, flinging it through the air toward Erik's shoulder on the gun side. "Not gonna let an old man and a one-armed freak --" "-- he's got two arms now," Bro #2 is cutting in, even as he tries to drag MB3 back into the SUV. "Maybe should go before he gets a third." DJ is moving again well before the dart gets near him. The second dart vanishes in midair; the ghostly trail of his path skirts by the Bro Squad. There's a small thump-clatter as their remaining weapons start to appear and collect in an untidy heap halfway between the Bros and Erik. The drone falls from the air, the severed arm spliced straight into the center of its power source. DJ comes to a stop by the falling drone; the defunct drone joins the pile of weaponry, once more leaving DJ with the -- considerably more mangled than before -- arm. "I think you should leave before I give this one back." The knife flies and Erik shoots, two bullets flying towards Bro the First before the knife sinks into his shoulder. There’s a sharp hiss of pain, a brief shiver of all the metal around the men when Erik drops the gun. “You should listen to your elders, young man. And —“ Erik tips his head towards DJ, “— your betters.” He’s not pointing anything at the men now, but he is squeezing with his power at the internal metal within them; slipping pins just out of place enough to cause pain, pressing fillings down further into teeth and gums. More of the Bros are screaming, now; a kind of strangled throaty sound from MB1, who is stumbling, bloodied, back to the SUV, a high-pitched sound from MB2 as he claps a hand to his mouth. "We'll be --" starts MB3 from inside the car, but whatever threat he's about to make doesn't quite make it out before one of his bros slams the door. The rest of his words are muffled behind the tinted glass as the SUV squeals away with its battered cargo. DJ's hand drops reflexively to the pouch at his hip, eyes darting back to Erik when the ball bearings inside it shiver. The hand vanishes from his grip, and his previously stoic expression is washed over with concern once the SUV has sped away. "I'm sorry," he's blipping back to Erik's side, "I should've stopped --" He shakes his head, eying Erik's face first before looking to the knife wound. "Do you want to come inside with me? I can take care of -- I'm a doctor." “Should have what, hm? Be truly everywhere at once, instead of just nearly?” Erik is smiling underneath the mask, tight with pain but still crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That was a remarkable display, from a remarkable fighter.” There’s another flash of delight at DJ’s next admission. “And a doctor. Fascinating.” He holds the knife in place with his left hand, wincing at the touch. “Lead on— my legs are still in one piece, I can follow if you go at a normal pace.” DJ blushes, his head dipping, "Had more practice than I'd like," he admits softly. "-- fighting, and patching people up." He grabs his abandoned lemonade off the fence, before starting -- at a casual walking pace! -- towards the nearby house. "I'll have you right as rain in no time, uh --" The smile that follows is just a little crooked. "I don't know what I should call you. I'm DJ." “Our people need warriors, soldiers. I hate that it is so, but since it is—“ Erik goes to shrug as he follows, winces instead as the motion jostles the knife. “— I am happy to fight, however slowly, alongside you. Call me — Max.”