Logs:Three if By Air

Three if By Air
Dramatis Personae Isra, Heather, Dusk
In Absentia	2019-07-04 Dusk's lips twitch as he watches Isra go bowling for (and with) fascists.
Location <NYC> - Lower East Side
July 4th; just after midnight. Somewhere in the Lower East Side: The organizers for the Purifier Parade Party have set up several trailers in a large, spacious lot tucked behind a local friendly bar -- a very patriotic one, too. At least judging by the signage out front and plastered to the windows (including a prominent 'BLUE LIVES MATTER' sticker). As for the bikers themselves... there's about thirty, in all -- most of them in leather, most of them on the older side. By the looks of the decals, badges, and numerous medals featured on their jackets, more than a few (though no more than half) are veterans. Most of the hogs have American flags mounted in the back, and include some form of colorful red-white-and-blue strips; at least one has a fluffy white-blue 'AMERICA CARES BEAR' strapped to the front (decked out with small aviator glasses, unlatched helmet, and a tiny black leather jacket with the Purifier colors). They're set up in neat little rows. Most of the bikers are split between two spaces: the bar itself (where, judging by the laughter coming inside, will leave more than a few bikers riding in the parade with a bit of a hang-over) and the trailers, where most are sleeping. Three bikers are outside, 'standing guard' -- although in this case, standing guard mostly just means drinking beer and talking shit. One of them is sitting on the ice-cooler, with the other two leaning against the bar's exterior wall. The three outside are near the bar's back entrance, which faces the bikes in the lot -- an open area approximately 30 by 30 yards, surrounded by half-rotted slat-fencing that's only around 4 feet high. The area isn't very densely populated -- there's a few homes, maybe a barbecue going on in the distance. It's around this time that one of the three hands his beer over to the guy sitting on the cooler and mentions having to take a piss -- disappearing behind the bar's doors. With the new moon safely ensconced on the other side of the planet, the sky is as dark as it ever really gets in the City. As such, Isra is not easily spotted as she circles high overhead, just a shadow of wings against the hazy deep blue sky, a darker blotch from which no stars shine. She circles down on silent wings and mantles them to shade momentum before dropping lightly, expertly, to the bar's rooftop. She perches at the edge, even more gargoyle-like than usual. The base color of her skin is its usual gray, but liberally dusted with drifts of black, purple, and silver, highlighting the inhuman angles and ridges of her body rather than diminishing them. Her talons and horns are glossy black, and her immense wings are painted in four distinctive bands of color: black, gray, white, and purple from top to bottom. She's dressed in a dark matte gray bodysuit that seems to swallow the light that falls upon it, and crouched as she is, motionless against the edge of the building, she is practically invisible to a casual glance. For the night's planned capers, Heather has opted out of wearing anything in keeping with her usual visually loud preferences, instead just wearing a faded black hooded sweatshirt, a pair of black canvas pants and a toolbelt (though it does not seem particularly heavy with tools). Her usual tinted goggles have been swapped out for a pair that has clear lenses, better suited for seeing during the night time. While subtlety is hardly her preferred style, her soft shoes make her footsteps thud relatively inaudibly against the soundscape of the city and the people who are preparing for the next day's festivities, and she makes her way between a couple of the trailers to get a good vantage point both of where the guards are and where her allies are at from the ground. Dusk is not far behind Isra, just a dark shadow against the sky as he circles overhead. His wings have lost their Pride designs, returned to their natural black, and he wears black tactical pants and a dark grey athletic tee. He does not stop and wait; as the others take up their spots he just dives, swift and quiet. Swooping in to skim low, angling to simply grab the two remaining Purifiers off the ground and continue back up into the air. The two Purifiers left at the entrance are talking; as Dusk descends, they appear to be laughing at a joke -- the one seated on the cooler leaning forward to light his cigarette. Flink, flink -- the lighter snaps; before it can ignite, it's tumbles to the ground. It's like a scene right out of a horror movie: Both Purifiers are hit, seized, and plucked up into the air before they can even think to scream. One of them is older, heavy-set, with a salt-peppered beard; the other one (the smoker) is younger with a buzz-cut. Both are briefly stunned as they find themselves plucked up beneath those bat-like wings... but that shock and confusion doesn't last for long. The younger one is already writhing in Dusk's grip, reaching up to try and grab whatever's seized him -- while the older one is kicking and starting to yell. Isra drops off of her perch as soon as Dusk swoops passed her, diving in to rip the entire gas tank from the frame of the flimsiest looking motorcycle in sight, only to pass the whole thing off to Heather (being a polite sort of terrorist, she has made sure the dribbling snapped fuel line points up). Heather has already zipped out of her hiding place upon seeing Dusk pick up the two guards, and her eyebrows shoot up when Isra passes her the gas tank. She chirps something quietly and incomprehensibly, and starts upturning the tank to soak some of the bikes in gasoline. The tank is discarded to the side once it stops producing any more liquids and she moves on to the next intact bike nearest to her. Dusk carries the two men with seemingly little effort as he wings back upward. He does partway release them -- if only to get a better grip, grabbing them by their kicking legs instead. Not for long, either. He's swooping down by Isra again, to pass off the Purifiers to her like flailing fascist batons. Diving back downward, he starts at the other end of the bikes from Heather. When he eschews the bikes and scoops up the nearest trailer, it makes it more readily apparent why the men gave him little trouble. He doesn't keep it in hand for long -- regardless of its weight, it's still a cumbersome size. He hefts the entire thing high enough to hurl it in its entirety at the row of bikes. The men are now both yelling as they writhe; the younger of the two manages to get some awkward swings at Dusk's forelimb, but it amounts to little more than a few glancing blows. Once they're gripped by the legs, both just wriggle like flexing worms -- red-faced and screaming. They flail as they're passed off to Isra -- blindly swinging with their hands and feet. The trailer creaks. The thin layer of metal encasing its roof makes several 'pops' as it crumples beneath Dusk's grip. Once thrown, it spins over asphalt like an out-of-control top, shedding parts as it goes. At least three of the thirty bikes are obliterated by it; six more are slapped down and damaged. When the trailer reaches the end of the parking lot, it rocks back and forth -- one door bent open. A bare, tattoo'd arm emerges, gripping the edge. It's streaked in blood. Yelling comes from inside the bar. Two men step out, beers in hand. Once they see the row of wrecked bikes, they turn around and holler bloody murder, gesturing wildly. Flashing Heather an encouraging (fangy!) grin, Isra launches herself into the air again, streaking up through the dim air to receive the fascists from Dusk. The rush of blood to their head as the rapid descent transforms into slightly less rapid--if no less alarming--ascent is likely unpleasant. "Do keep still, unless you are in quite a hurry to get back down on your own," she tells them, her voice booming and doubled as both her vocal chords engage. She banks and starts descending, leisurely at first but making use of gravity to picking up speed, watching the men who emerge from the bar carefully for signs of weaponry. When the trailer crashes into the bikes, Heather adjusts her goggles slightly as if to confirm the reality of what she's seeing, and at the grin from Isra prompts her own lips to upturn slightly and her shoulders to relax. There is a slight blurring at her edges and then she is in movement, becoming a total blur of motion as she moves past the bikes she soaked and draws a wrench from her tool belt to start striking the sides and tops of the bikes she passes in wide arcs. The force is enough to smash through into gas tanks, destroy the wheel assembly, or smash apart the front console when she lands. It's also enough to be bending the wrench she's wielding quite out of shape. Dusk backwings a little, pulling himself out of reach of the scattering debris from the crashing trailer and smashing bikes. He gives Heather a quick smile, too. Keeps an eye on the door to the bar, though he doesn't approach the Purifiers who have emerged. He dives down to grab one of the damaged bikes that's just fallen, hurling it hard toward some of the cycles still standing. Both Purifiers don't seem very reassured by Isra's now-booming voice. The older one does go limp, though. The younger one is still wriggling, but at this point, it's pretty clear he's not going to get very far -- and the blood surging into his head is leaving him increasingly dizzy and confused. He's definitely still screaming, though. Bikes clatter and clank as Heather rushes past, sending sparks flying. Dusk's own bike-toss permanently takes out two more bikes -- the one he just threw, and the one it directly hit. Two more crash to the ground beside it; at least one looks like the front assembly is bent in a very 'non-functional' way. All in all, between Heather and Dusk, almost all the bikes are obliterated, disabled, or significantly damaged. There's maybe six bikes still standing that haven't been touched, yet -- the rest are on the ground, in pieces, or soaked in gas. Cue the Purifiers coming out of the bar. The two at the front rush forward, trying to assess the situation. One runs for the trailer to help the man with blood over his head and arms as he crawls his way out of the skyward-facing door. The other steps toward the blur that is Heather -- but it's clear he's not sure what to do. Three more are coming up behind him, though. And judging by the brass knuckles and pair of snapped billiards cue sticks (their tips now sharpened wooden points), they know precisely what to do. Isra tucks her wings closer to her body, though she can't really manage a raptor's stoop with her two passengers. Even so, they do pick up speed, she snaps her wings out as they near to bar to pull them sharply up and losing some of their momentum. Not all though, and she uses what remains to climb back up without flapping again, but not before releasing her captives as projectiles toward their fellows as they emerge from the bar. When she's above the level of the bar again she beats her wings once, twice, then banks, watching her for comrades' departure before she leaves herself. Heather takes swings at a couple more of the bikes and then tears the 'AMERICA CARES BEAR' from the front of one of the last ones, stuffing it unceremoniously into her toolbelt, and then takes care of ruining its former home as well. She raises her eyebrows slightly at seeing a Purifier stepping towards her, and she shows the bent up wrench and waves a finger back and forth reproachfully as a helpful suggestion to rethink his actions. She does replace the wrench in her belt, though, instead dashing back to the gasoline soaked to instead pull out a matchbox from one of the compartments, strike a match and then drop it. Before it even hits the ground, she is in a full speedster sprint out of there. Dusk's lips twitch as he watches Isra go bowling for (and with) fascists. He spares a brief glance for Heather -- nodding to himself when he sees her dashing quickly from the oncoming aggressors. He's almost casual about picking up another unharmed bike by its rear tire, swinging it around to release it shotput-style towards its nearest intact fellows. He plucks one of the flags off of a downed but not entirely destroyed bike, flicking it towards the incipient flames Heather's been kindling before he takes off, as well. The biker with the brass-knuckles gives Heather the stink-eye when she waves her finger at him; he doesn't seem particularly dissuaded by her helpful advice. More than that; he looks pretty pissed that she's appropriated his Care Bear! But before he can go ahead and do something stupid, Isra is descending from above with two of his cohorts -- hurling them like bowling balls for him and the other two. Brass-Knuckles takes the brunt of it, collapsing underneath the weight of the older biker -- the younger is sent tumbling into the pair with billiard sticks, knocking one over and forcing the other back. When several more bikes go up in flames, they're all backing away, spitting out a litany of curses and slurs that are hard to catch above the roar of chaos. More bikers are flooding out, now. But as they do, the bar's owner elbows his way to the front. A large, gray-haired, heavy-set white man, he's wearing a colorful AMERICA FIRST t-shirt and holding what looks like a stack-barreled 12-gauge shotgun. As soon as he fights his way to the front, he's aiming it -- and opening fire on Dusk's retreating form. Given the distance, it's the wrong weapon for the job -- and a pretty hard shot to make on account of all the fire and smoke. But even if it doesn't hit, all three mutants can still hear the deafening BOOM of that shotgun blast... followed by a second, then by a third. Just in case it wasn't clear the first time.