Logs:Things Might Be In Danger Of Getting A Bit Out Of Control

Things Might Be In Danger Of Getting A Bit Out Of Control
Dramatis Personae Natalie, Nick, The Rider
In Absentia	2019-06-18 "You got a license to walk your mutt?"
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. They come just a little after midnight. The thunder of the engines comes first. After that, there's a flash of light -- the metallic tangerine glow that saturates the otherwise empty streets glances off the chrome of their motorcycles as they swoop by. An initial head-count puts them at two... maybe three. Then, during the next round, it's four -- and on the next, six. Six Purifiers, circling the safe-house like a pack of vultures. On the fourth time 'round, they start whooping and hollering. On the fifth, they slow down in front of the safe-house -- as if to make it absolutely clear why they're here. There's been reports of visible mutants acting strange in the neighborhood. They're here to remind everyone who this block belongs to -- and how this is supposed to work. Natalie has been inside enjoying a cup of tea and some knitting -- she's about a third of the way through a large soft red-orange-yellow zig-zag striped blanket and looks none too pleased when the roar of the bikes circles back around. She slides a stitch marker onto her needle, tucks the whole bundle into an oversized USA GYMNASTICS tote bag. By the fourth time around she's peering out the window, eyes narrowed. By the fifth, she's on the stoop, leaning up against the railing in a ribbed white tank and her Mongrels cut (slightly askew halo perched over the horned and fanged skull on its back patch), stretchy black jeans tucked into her heavy tall boots, a number of short knives tucked around the belt that is slung loose around her hips. Her own ride, a sleek small Stark electric bike, is already parked outside the house, much quieter and more unobtrusive than the circling Purifier vehicles. Her brows have hiked up, distinctly Not Impressed with the theatrics out front. Nick had been reading opposite Natalie before (The Bees, by Laline Paull), and skipped straight from that to peering out the window, impatient for his buddy to get herself ready though reluctant to show it. He waits to follow her lead, though, perhaps because the patch on his Mongrels cut still reads "Prospect". Beneath the leather vest he wears a green t-shirt with the Green Lantern symbol on the chest, and black cargo shorts, a hunting knife strapped to the belt at the small of his back. A harsh growl ripples up from his throat as he watches the Purifiers come back around, and he looks about ready to leap off of the stoop and tackle the nearest of them. The whooping grows louder; like a pack of howler monkeys all trying to goad each other into throwing a rock at a reclining puma. The six Purifiers are decked out in sleeveless leather vests, denim coats, and black skull-caps. A few have very prominent leather bags fastened to the back-end (along with one metal bat that looks like it was bought right off Cold Steel's website). One of them -- we'll call him 'Blackbeard', on account of him looking like a salty, over-weight pirate -- is at the front. He's rolled his ride around to face the rest of the group, yelling something that can't be heard over the engines. Judging by the reaction from the group, though, it's not hard to grasp the gist. They're not doing anything. Not at the moment, at least. But 'Blackbeard' points to the safe-house, right at where Natalie and Nick have now emerged on the stoop. He gestures towards them, then makes a few vulgar hand motions that imply what he thinks they were up to in there. The engines rev louder -- and the whoops are now interspersed with laughter. Somewhere farther down the street, in alleyway over 50 yards away, a pair of headlights 'flip' on. Those with more keen senses may notice that along with the smell of charcoal, smoke, and cheap body-spray, there's also a distinct odor of... sulfur. Natalie's fingers drum against the railing. Her eyes skip from one faux-biker to the next, and she doesn't move from her languid drape as they holler and gesture. It's only when the new headlights turn on that she straightens, shoulders rolling in a slow lazy stretch, and steps to the front of the stairs. "Look," her dry voice is only slightly raised to compensate for the motorcycle's thunder, "I appreciate that you boys are real excited about your big night out, but can we be getting on with this? My tea is getting cold." Nick growls louder at the Purifiers' derision, but still waits on Natalie's signal, saying nothing. He raises his muzzle as if to howl his fury at the full moon overhead, but instead draws in several long breaths, scenting the air. His growling resumes after this, and he steps forward when Natalie does, dropping his weight lower, coiled to pounce. "You hear that, boys? Lady Dog-Fucker's tea is gettin' cold," Blackbeard announces -- and the response is more laughter, more whooping, more engines snarling. All eyes are on Natalie; a few drift to the Mongrel cut. More than a few mouths twist into scowls. "You got a license to walk your mutt?" comes another comment from the back. Then, someone else: "I bet that's her ride. That's why they're Mongrels; bitches ridin' fuckin' bitches." More laughter. At least one hand drifts to the hilt of that steel baseball bat. And then it comes: A roar of thunder. The sound drowns out the rumble of their engines like the moon eclipsing the sun. Half a football field's distance away, the source of the headlights has crept its way out of the alley and now sits squarely at the far-end of the street, directly facing the group of Purifiers. It's a black 1969 Dodge Charger. And as its wheels screech across asphalt, it literally is engulfed in flames. The taunts don't change Natalie's expression at all. Her thumbs hook into her beltloops as she starts to saunter down the steps, her eyes locked squarely on Blackbeard. "You boys are going to leave. We --" One boot is just hitting the pavement at the bottom when the Charger creeps into view. Natalie freezes. Her eyes open wider, her arm lifting instinctively in front of Nick as her mouth purses into a silent 'Wh--' Nick snarls at Blackbeard's words, but reels his reaction back in some attempt to match Natalie's sang froid. When she wades into action, though, he eagerly follows, stretching his talon-tipped fingers as he prepares to spring-- Natalie's reflexes are faster than his, if only by an instant, and he comes up short against her arm. His head whips around toward the car as it pulls out. His nose twitches, trying to discern if there is anyone inside the burning vehicle. Of the six Purifiers, all but one manage to get out of the way. The one who doesn't is clipped by the side of the chassis as the Charger shrieks by. He's lurched into the air, wildly spinning alongside his cycle; when he hits, he lands in a crumpled heap by the curb. Of the six bikes they brought, three are sent twirling like out-of-control tops, shedding their parts; two are smashed aside -- and one crumples like aluminum foil. Blackbeard, having launched himself for the pavement a moment after that initial screech, is the owner of the now-obliterated bike. Red-faced and flustered, his attention is torn between the Charger -- its tires squealing sideways as it executes a near flawless bootleg turn -- and the two mutants in front of him, still at the steps. "-- fuckin' -- AMBUSH!" he snarls. Out of the five remaining bikers, two are running after the Charger, trying to reach it before it can accelerate again -- and three are coming for Nat and Nick. Blackbeard leads that charge, waving his Cold Steel baseball bat as he rushes to take a swing for Nat's head. The other two? Tweedle-Dee's going for Nick's torso with a knife; Tweedle-Dumb is searching his wrecked cycle for the stowed gun. The Charger has come to a stop. Nick has a brief opportunity to catch something in the driver's seat, but it's not precisely clear what -- something bone-white and burning. It looks... human. -Ish. The flaming car may have caught Natalie somewhat off-guard. The charging man with a baseball bat? That, she's well used to. For a moment, though, it looks almost like she's still transfixed by the fiery charger, her eyes locked onto the car as it plows through the Purifiers -- watching the bike tumble, the man crumple into a heap. The steady stare makes it all the more abrupt when she drops into a fluid -- nearly inhumanly fast -- motion, easily ducking the swing of the bat and sweeping low instead. Two of her knives have made it into her hand -- one is soon flying, hard and true toward Tweedle-Dumb's wrist. She's striking up with the other, at the underside of Blackbeard's bat-swinging arm as she twists down off the stairs. Nick hops off of the stairs to sidestep Tweedle-Dee's knife and, almost in the same instant, swipes at the arm wielding the knife. His claws are not razor sharp, but they don't need to be, for rending a little fabric and flesh. At least a part of his attention, though, has remained on the Charger all the while. "You fuckin' -- fuckin' -- ffuuhh --?" Tweedle-Dumb just stares at the chunk of metal now protruding out of his wrist. Like: Buh? How'd this get there? It's only when he numbly takes hold of it that he feels that first spike of pain -- and proceeds to yelp with anger and anguish, scuffling back as he yanks the knife free. It clatters to the asphalt, coated in blood. He turns, looks back to the ruined bike, and darts forward to grab the pistol with his other hand. Tweedle-Dee wasn't expecting a dog with reflexes. The knife he's holding swishes through empty air; the claw rakes across his bare arm, carving a swathe of red through the patchwork pastiche of Nordic syncreticism he's tattoo'd on his bicep. Snarling with rage, he stumbles back, grasping at his arm -- then lunges forward in a vicious stab aimed for Nick's throat. Blackbeard is, unlike the others, surprisingly calm once he gets into the thick of it. When Nat's knife slips underneath his arm and inserts itself into his flesh, he grimaces -- but he quickly steps back, letting the arm go slack and tossing the bat to his other hand. He gives her some distance, falling into a familiar fighting stance -- taking another swing at the center of her hips and belly. As the two other Purifiers reach the Charger, its driver side-door opens. A figure emerges -- clad in black. His head... it's burning. A bright, florid orange-yellow. One of the bikers lunges with crowbar. It's seized -- squeezed -- and begins to glow red-hot. As he screams, his companion drops his own length of chain and runs. The crowbar hits pavement. The biker sinks to his knees, screaming as he clutches at his palms. Meanwhile, the driver -- the Rider -- turns. A pair of blazing, orange eyes peer out from the swirl of flames that engulf his bone-white visage -- staring directly at Nat. He walks forward. Beneath his feet, the asphalt smolders and boils. Natalie yanks the knife back down as she takes a step back as well, springing back onto the staircase. Onto the stairs first, and then the railing; she levers herself off of it to leap this time over the swing rather than ducking it. Kind of over it and kind of onto it, stamping down onto his outstretched batting arm as a springboard from which to vault over the large man's head, her knee crooking tight around his neck mid-flip. It's likely from this upside-down perspective, too -- just a little preoccupied -- that she notes the Rider's shift of attention. The toe of her boot presses down onto the asphalt harder when she lands, as if testing its continued integrity as she takes a step back. Nick isn't quite fast enough to avoid the second attack altogether. Tweedle-dee's knife sinks almost a full inch into the thick brown fur around his neck without meeting resistance, and the skin it does find is too loose and supple to suffer much worse than a scratch. But all this does position the Purifier well for Nick to grapple, which he does presently with a snarl, gripping both lapels of his opponent's leather vest and slamming him bodily into the side of the stoop twice. It's only then that he can spare the attention to see the flaming person stepping out of the car, his ears pressing back. His eyes dart to Natalie, uncertain. "You know that guy?" he calls. "...Nazarov Lidiya..." The Rider is speaking. It's low, at first; easy to miss if you're not paying attention. But with each step he takes, his voice grows louder -- stronger. A deafening hush that slices through the screaming and shouting from the bikers. There's something almost dream-like about him. Blackbeard grunts as Nat springs back, then on the railing, then forward. It's clear the veteran biker was expecting a street-fight, not an intricate dance -- when she flips behind him, he manages a 'GRK' just as her knee hooks 'round his neck and pulls him down. His arms flail, the bat swinging uselessly as Nat dangles from behind him. When she lands on her feet, he's smashing into the ground with a curse and yelp. "Markov Misha. Kalinin Elizabeth." Tweedle-Dee was expecting his weight and boldness to carry the blow through -- he didn't count on Nick just eating it and body-slamming him into the stoop. The first hit knocks the wind out of him; the second makes his spine and head go THNK. He's not unconscious, but he's not getting up. Slouched, he groans. The knife slips out of his fingers. "Ustinov Vitaly. Zimin Zoia." Tweedle-Dumb gets to his feet and brandishes the pistol in his good hand. He turns to Nat and Nick, getting one brief moment of smug satisfaction before... THWCK. The Rider tosses him aside, sending him skidding over asphalt. He lands in a sprawled heap near the opposite curb. The pistol lands at the Rider's feet. He steps past it. "They're waiting for you, woman." The Rider addresses Nat. Now, as he approaches charging distance, it's clear that the burning face isn't a face at all. It's a bleach-white 'skull', with rows of extended teeth that resemble the beak of a fierce, hungry bird of prey. "Never met him." Natalie's fingers have curled tighter around the handle of her knife. Maybe, originally, it was meant for Blackbeard after he goes down -- but now she's just standing. Chin slightly tilted up as she watches the Rider approaching, her eyes slightly narrowed. "You must be a lot of fun at parties, a trick like that." She takes a step back as the flaming skeleton continues his relentless approach, past Blackbeard's head and toward one of the downed cycles. Her face has gone quite pale, but her voice is level. "Appreciate the help, but I think we can handle these guys from here." Nick kicks Tweedle-Dee's knife away from him just for good measure and goes to Natalie's side. He glances from the Rider to his companion, then back. "Yeah, thanks man," he tells the Rider. "We don't really wanna be drawing more attention than this assholes have already called, you know?" Despite these casual words, the fur on the back of his neck rises up, his ears still pressed back. And then he takes one very small step forward, his tail swaying slowly. Blackbeard groans, struggling to sit up. Tweedle-Dee is rolling over, clinging to the railing, trying to catch his breath. In the distance, the biker with the burnt hands is limping his way after his comrade who ran; Tweedle-Dumb is stirring in a heap on one side of the street, with the biker who was initially clipped stirring on the other side. The Rider isn't stopping. He isn't slowing. The fire around his head burns brighter as he gets closer to Nat -- and suddenly, he's lunging straight at her, streaks of flame tracing the path behind him, arms spread to tackle her with a lot more force than his lean frame ought to deliver. One small, near imperceptible detail, though: Those flames briefly splutter and dim for just a moment when Nick steps up besides her. When the Rider ignores their attempts to communicate, Nick's lips draw back from his muzzle, showing sharp white fangs. His entire body tenses, coiled just in time to spring at the flaming interloper. There's little finesse in this; he's more or less just throwing himself at the Rider in a bid to knock him down, albeit with teeth and claws bared. Initially, there's more weight to the Rider than Nick might expect -- it feels like he's denser than he rightly ought to be. But despite that, there's more than sufficient muscle in the mutant to drive the Rider backwards with the force of that impact, catching him mid-lunge. Claws rake across the leather race-suit he's wearing. Nick can briefly feel the hard, dense surface of the 'skull'. It's too smooth to be bone; it doesn't have the right smell to it, either. As Nick slams into him and sends them both sprawling to the ground, something else happens: The fires surrounding him splutter and go out. That resounding, deafening voice is gone -- replaced by the voice of a young man: "--mierda --" The toothsome bone-white skull is now a sleek, stylized, toothless full-face motorcycle helmet. Leather-gloved hands are grasping, shoving at Nick, a leather-clad knee jamming up for his mid-section. It's more a frantic response than a genuine assault. In the far-off distance, sirens can be heard. Natalie has been tensing -- poised, if not for this than something like it. She has taken another half-step back, muscles coiling even in the moment before the Rider actually springs. Her eyes dart briefly between the Rider and Nick -- then the Safehouse door. By the time she looks back, it's Nick who is diving. She lets out a sharp hiss through her teeth, catching herself short in her first instinct to reach for him. Her eyes widen when the flames sputter out. At first her eyes narrow sharply on the helmet. The skull-face styled on it. Her head tilts at the sound of sirens and all she says is, "Nick, you good? We should get in before they get here." Probably the abrupt changes would have given Nick pause if the person beneath him didn't continue fighting back. As it is, crazed with adrenaline, Nick chomps down wildly at the helmet. However strong he may be, the thing is just too large for him to get his teeth around, though it's probably a rather unsettling view from behind the visor. Natalie's voice snaps him out of it, though. With a savage warning growl at the man beneath him, he scrambles backward, regaining his feet and ascending the stoop in a single bound. There's more words the man in the helmet says -- most of them yelped out in panicked Spanish, struggling and scrambling to get away from the feral jaws that snap and scrape at the skull-like helmet he's wearing. Once Nick backs off, the man scrambles back, struggling shakily to his feet -- whatever wild sort of ferocity was in him seems to have fled with the flames. He cocks his head at the sound of the sirens, then looks back at Nick and Nat -- then, at Blackbeard, groaning as he gets up to his feet. The sirens get louder. "-- fucking... Echale, wei," he mumbles, before taking a quick running start to slam his foot into Blackbeard's back, kicking him back down. Then, he's hoofing it for the Dodge Charger. "Fuck, fuck, you fucking demon --"