Difference between revisions of "Logs:Birthday Punches"

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(Created page with "{{ Logs | cast = Akihiro, Flicker, Ion, Steve | summary = "I’m getting too old for this shit." | gamedate = 2020-01-14 | gamedatename = | subtitle = CN: Vio...")
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| cast = [[Akihiro]], [[Flicker]], [[Ion]], [[Steve]]
| cast = [[Akihiro]], [[Flicker]], [[Ion]], [[Steve]]
| summary = "I’m getting too old for this shit."
| summary = "I’m getting too old for this shit."
| gamedate = 2020-01-14
| gamedate = 2020-01-13
| gamedatename =  
| gamedatename =  
| subtitle = CN: Violence, blood, mutilation, guns, Nazis.
| subtitle = CN: Violence, blood, mutilation, guns, Nazis.

Revision as of 20:00, 26 January 2020

Birthday Punches

CN: Violence, blood, mutilation, guns, Nazis.

Dramatis Personae

Akihiro, Flicker, Ion, Steve


"I’m getting too old for this shit."


<NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village

Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival.

The city is still going through a bizarre mild period, the weather entirely unsuited to the middle of January. For all this might prompt stress and grumblings about climate change, it's also prompted a large number of people out and about taking care of the brief interlude of spring.

Tompkins Square is bustling, the game courts packed, the dog park full and noisy, several different buskers vying for the attention and coins of those passing through.

Over at one side of the park, there's a particularly boisterous bit of revelry. Several tables heavily laden with foods have been set out, a large speaker system is hooked up to a makeshift stage where a trio of dancers in colorful ribbon skirts are whirling to the exuberant beat of several hand drums. The tiny festival in miniature has no shortage of signage and palm flyers proclaiming (among various "Abolish ICE" & "Refugees are welcome here!" type slogans) to be a fundraiser for RAICES, raising money for immigrant legal aid.

Somewhere, past the music and the hubbub of conversation from people gathered around hefty plates of food, there's a thrum of approaching motorcycles -- not quite lost among the general background traffic white noise.

Flicker has been very occupied over on the basketball courts. The group of young men he's been with is in an odd mix of actual athletic gear and, for four of them, slacks and button-downs (two still have their missionary nameplates pinned to their chest pockets.) Among his group of church friends it likely wouldn't be wholly fair for him and Steve to be placed on a team together, so despite showing up together they have been facing off in this pickup game.

It still hasn't entirely evened the odds, but things are at least perhaps not as unbalanced as they might otherwise be -- as the game is approaching its end, Flicker has increasingly been struggling to catch his breath, pausing more and more frequently for bouts of coughing. In an unusual departure for him he checks out early, dragging himself off the court with apologies and abbreviated goodbyes, to grab his inhaler and a drink of water.

His khakis and green-trimmed grey polo are a bit rumpled from the game, his face more flushed than it ought to be. It take him some time to catch his breath, but once he has he's already looking across towards the bounty of available food. His smile comes bright but delayed, his voice still a little winded. "Got an appetite?"

Steve had stripped down to a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans for the game, through which despite his impressive feats of athleticism he showed no signs of wearying, not even breaking a sweat or breathing hard. He is sniffling slightly, though, as he pulls his green and white flannel back on. Claps Flicker on the back with a surprisingly gentle hand. "Boy, have I ever." His smile is a little faint, a little wistful. "They seem like very nice fellas. Though ah...I get the feeling I wasn't quite what they expected."

It will surprise likely nobody to find Ion, in the middle of the bustle over in the fundraiser. His guitar is popped up against a table, at the moment not being put to use -- His hands are well occupied with serving bowls of rich potato or beef stew, crispy roasted vegetables, cumin spiced fried rice. He's in jeans, heavy boots, his weather-beaten Mongrels cut worn open over a grungy white tee. He's chattering freely with the people who come to get food, a good number of which he seems to know and -- honestly not a significant difference in his level of jovial familiarity with those he doesn't. "{Ey, Paula, how's your gran been? You take her home a bowl, huh? On me --} coffee's fresh over there Lisa you know you ain't gonna last your shift without no boost -- {yeah? she on fire up there, huh?}" His gesture toward the stage is underservedly proud. "{She's my little sister, yo, she's damn talented.}"

Akihiro finishes locking his bike down and heads into the park proper, flashing anybody who meets his gaze a friendly enough smile.

His usually long hair has been significantly shorn into a fade, and the longer hair on top has been dyed an ash grey. Despite arriving on a motorcycle the man isn’t dressed for safety, instead of leathers he’s wearing a fitted white button down shirt (that’s only half buttoned) with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows, and a pair of black slacks that are held up by brown leather suspenders.

“Things holding up alright so far?” he asks as soon as he’s close enough to Ion, offering everyone gathered a small wiggle of his fingers in greeting.

The rumble of motorcycles is growing louder, louder. A cadre of bikes is pulling up to one side of the park, disbursing five young men into the park. They're dressed alike if not uniformly -- mostly shaved heads, jeans, black leather cuts that read 'Sword of Tyr' in runic-styled font over an image of a Viking with flowing blond hair, holding a sword high, looking more than anything like a fantasy novel cover from the 1970s. There's more than a little swagger to their steps as they make their way through the park -- one stops, tapping another on the shoulder and gesturing to Ion's table, murmuring something to his companions that earns a round of laughter before they start to draw nearer the gathering. "Don't got your nigger harem here today, huh?" The man who has spoken is lanky, about six feet even, his nose crooked and his grin bright and wild as he leans his weight down onto Ion's table, palms braced flat against it.

"I get the feeling you're often not what people expect. I might be biased, but I think that's probably a better thing." Flicker leans just slightly into the pat on his back, straightening after. Straightening his shirt, still holding his water bottle in his feather-painted mechanical hand as he heads towards the food tables. "Ion! Hey, happy birthday, man. Tell me you're responsible for some of this." He waves his water bottle generally at the food Ion is marshalling. "We'll take some of everything." He's caught on the edge of saying something more when the bikers start to arrive; he takes just a small half-step back from the table, glancing between Ion and then Steve and then the newcomers. "Guys, I really don't think this is a good time for all this."

Steve falls into step beside Flicker, taking in the raucous event around them with interest. "Oh, hey there," he says, flashing Ion a smile. "Happy birthday!" His eyes are already tracking the Swords of Tyr as they approach, though his expression remains neutral. "I hope you're having a good one." His icy gaze narrows on the newcomer who addresses Ion. Darts to Flicker. Then to the nearby volunteers and bystanders. "I'd suggest you let these good folks alone." His tone is even, but firm.

"Hey hey hey." Ion greets Akihiro with a wide smile and a waggle of the paddle he's been using to dish up the rice. "You hungry? I cooked so damn much, bro. -- shiiit, {boy you look like you need a soup. Flu hitting you too?} Getting every damn body this season." He's leaning across the table to give Flicker a one-armed hug before he grabs a pair of plates. "Extra-size serving for your boy, yeah?" His chin is jerking up towards Steve as he starts filling up a plate. He's in the middle of this operation when the other bikers fetch up at his table; he looks up from his pot of stew with a hike of eyebrows. Shoots a bright grin to Steve past the man leaning on his table. "Was great, s'bout to get better. Gonna get dinner and a show, huh?"

“Always brother.” Akihiro replies with an easy grin that turns into a smile when he sees Flicker and Steve. Whatever he was going to say is lost when he hears the bikers approaching.

One of his hands disappears into his left pocket and he produces a ring of tie-dyed fabric that he slides down over his face, concealing his nose and mouth, although that does very little to conceal the sneer he’s giving the men. “I /was/ going to take you nazi hunting for your birthday, but they just showed up.” Raising up on his toes he looks past the group, “Doesn’t look like they brought enough though.”

Attention shifting to the head nazi directly now he asks, “You want to go get a few more punching bags and meet back here in thirty?”

The longboned man with the hard-bright grin looks -- slightly nonplussed at the reaction (or lack thereof) from Ion. "You hear me, you goddamn mutt?"

Just to his side, another man -- nearly as tall, considerably broader, wearing oddly glittery crackled-glass looking bracers sheathed up his forearms -- snorts at Flicker. "Might want to stay out of this, cripple."

"Holy shit," a stocky man more heavily tattooed than the rest, with an actual short fuzz of blonde hair on his head, is busy looking kind of wide-eyed at Steve. Turning to whisper to the skinny babyfaced youth beside him, whose brown eyes widen suddenly. "Wait, you're Captain America?" He sounds just a little breathless for about half a second before he schools his agog expression into something more stoic. "I mean, you could be doing a lot better than hanging out with, um." He looks between Ion and Flicker and Akihiro. "You're just so much better than they are."

The last of the group is hanging back. Dark eyed, extremely heavily scarred, he just crosses his arms across his vest, surveying the others with a slight and pensive frown.

The wild-eyed man who'd spoken first is curling his hands in. Pressing his knuckles harder down against the table. His hand flies up a moment later -- not actually toward Ion per se, but only aimed to swat at the plate he's holding, knocking it back toward the electrokinetic.

Flicker's face is already pretty flushed, but he darkens just a touch further as the dismissive response from the Nazi wearing the bling on his arms. His eyes lower, his hands both folding around his water bottle. "He's my friend, is all. And this is a peaceful event."

When the lanky one's hand shoots up -- well, it's hard to really catch if Flicker moves at all. There's a slight shimmering where he'd been standing. The plate is intercepted before it's had a chance to move far. He's back in the same spot almost as soon as he's moved, though, nibbling on a spear of roasted asparagus. His water bottle has dropped neatly into place beside the large pot of stew on the table.

"I am Captain America," Steve replies calmly, though his eyes are shooting daggers at the large man with bracers. "I can decide for myself who to hang out with, and I happen to think better of men who treat their fellows with respect. And worse of those who insult my friends and apparently have nothing better to do than heckle folks who are just minding their own business." He turns more fully to face the group, studying the one in the back.

"Shit right? So goddamn considerate of them to bring me my presents like this." Ion's brows climb as the man with the bracers snipes at Flicker, though he doesn't reply. He's -- similarly abruptly Not There Anymore when his plate is struck; a brief jolt runs through the man in front of him and Ion is suddenly appearing just behind him, elbow slamming hard toward the small of the other biker's back.

“Here we go!” Akihiro shouts excitedly as Ion acts, rushing forward and slamming his into the teeth of the same biker, barely pulling his punch this time.

“If you’ve got friends, better call them while you can!”

Around the food tables things are very abruptly bursting into activity. A lot of the bystanders who had been gathered to eat drink or make merry are scattering (a few whipping phones out as they back away) The music has stopped, on the stage, though the performers haven't yet fled -- mostly watching the tables with a sudden wariness.

Lanky nazi huffs out a sharp breath as the ripple of electricity goes through him. The sharp hiss is followed almost immediately by a very large gout of flames; it licks out towards the food and Akihiro both, blistering in its close-range intensity.

"I said --" Bracers is only now returning his attention to Flicker. If he notices the appearance of Plate where Plate shouldn't be, he makes no outward sign of it. One meaty hand shoots out to grab towards the mechanical arm. "Keep your fucking mouth shut."

The Cap Fanboy doesn't seem like he quite knows where to look, just know. He's half bouncing in place, eyes reluctantly shifting from Steve to the blossoming brawl. He looks just about to leap towards the fighters when the flames start to flare. His hand drops to his side, fingering instead at the handle of one of several knives belted just beneath his cut. His fuzzy-haired companion is quicker on the draw, pulling out a pistol to level it -- just a little cautiously -- toward the tangle of slightly singe-y mutants by the stew.

The silent scarred-faced man -- is still just standing back. Arms crossed. Lips twitching slightly to one side.

Flicker doesn't pull back, when Bracers reaches for his arm. His eyes shift to the hand grasping the intricately decorated prosthesis. Shift to his plate of food. He draws a breath -- kind of raspily.

The plate vanishes from his hand, sent to join his water bottle on the (dangerously toasty) table. Bracers, grabbing him, vanishes too, reappearing -- about six feet above where he'd been standing. Flicker is in the air beside him in the next moment -- then they're both several feet higher -- then a sharp quick snap of his mechanical hand sends the other man accelerating a bit more quickly toward the ground.

Steve doesn't seem surprised or displeased by Ion's casual escalation, only assumes a fighting stance, shuffling his right foot back and wide a step as his weight settles lower. His eyes go wide, though, when Fuzzy produces a gun. He takes a step, diagonally, toward where Flicker had stood until just a moment ago, then snaps a high kick just as Bracers comes slamming back down, redirecting his trajectory right into Fuzzy.

Not quite so much into Fuzzy; the large man does tumble at his compatriot -- and then right through him. Fuzzy looks quite unbothered by having a large man sail ghostlike through his body; he redirects his attention to Steve instead, pulling the trigger only once before Fanboy launches himself towards Steve. Despite fingering his knives so lovingly just a moment before, he is empty handed, fists just balled up as he sends a slightly wild right hook for Steve's jaw.

Silent, in the back, just tightens his fingers around his biceps. There's an odd tug at Steve's muscles, his legs very briefly but abruptly going stiffer, unresponsive.

As Bracers hits the ground, winded, teeth bared, eyes narrowed, he doesn't immediately find his feet again. The crinkly-shiny armguards he wears are disassembling themselves, though; now only simple sheaths of leather. The glitter that had been wrapped around them is transforming into a whirling chaos of sharp shards of broken glass, spinning in a maelstrom around him before several of the pieces break off, scatter, fly up in a jagged cloud towards Flicker.

Ion hisses, a crackle of energy flickering to life around him. The next sharp blow he aims at Lanky comes with a heavy jolt. He's vanished again, reappearing just on the opposite side of the pyrokinetic. The flames glint off his bared teeth, his dark skin ruddier in their sudden glow. "Fucking --" Though he's aiming another hard punch at the man's head, kind of heedless of the blistering heat around them, his eyes briefly skip away at the sound of the gunshot. "S'goddamn fucking kids here, bastard."

Not that that's stopping the sizzle-crackle of lightning he's sending Fuzzy's way.

If the flames were meant to stop Akihiro, they just seem to make him angrier, a bellow of rage tearing through him as his shirt and face mask ignite.

Seeing Ion take the man his attention turns to the gunman, and then bracers. “You fucking thought!” he snarls, claws popping. In the blink of an eye he throws himself at the fuzzy nazi, aiming to drive the claws into the meat of the man’s thigh.

Admittedly, there aren't many kids left nearby for long; a good swath more of the park is very quickly evacuating once fire and lightning begin to fly.

Neither the blast of lightning nor Akihiro's claws don't make much impression on Fuzzy. Like his fallen companion had, these too pass harmlessly through the man's leg. His smile is thin, sharp; he slams a fist straight for Akihiro's gut, aimed -- sort of smack in the center of the man's stomach cavity before, abruptly, his arm becomes solidly tangible once more.

Lanky is whirling on Ion, his jaw clenched and a low flutter of flame now dancing around his arms. He staggers backwards with the punch, returning it with one of his own, his fist preceded by another heavy blast of fire.

Flicker has flashed back down to Fuzzy's side in the interim -- though his rapidfire attempt to disappear the gun in the man's hand does not accomplish much, intangible as the man is. He's vanishing again a moment later; when he drops down nearby Bracers it is with a sudden sickly pallor, wide-eyed and tense as the flurry of glass whirls. There's a darker wetter bloom of blood spreading along the side of his shirt. He can't help a very brief glance across the park -- off in the direction of where the Lofts sit far across the way -- before he fumbles backwards to grab a fistful of disposable flatware off one of the serving tables. The plastic spoon in his hand is probably not the most intimidating weapon of choice, but it's what he brandishes first before relocating it -- its handle poised to reappear just about through Bracers' shoulder.

The moment Bracers should have struck Fuzzy but didn't, Steve is moving forward. His left hand, for anyone quick enough to notice, twitches upward, reaching for a shield that he isn't carrying. The absence of the shield doesn't slow him -- he just pivots to present a smaller target -- but Fuzzy's bullet a fraction of a second later does. The impact knocks the breath out of him, but despite the red blossoming across the right side of his flannel, he's still on his feet and steady enough to receive Fanboy's punch. Perhaps he might have received it differently if his legs had obeyed his command, but as it is he just takes it right to the face. Landing a solid punch on Steve's cheekbone is likely a painful proposition for Fanboy, especially when a moment later an impossibly fast cross answers him on the opposite cheek.

Silent's fingers relax, tighten again. This time it's Akihiro whose body won't quite cooperate, muscles seizing up for a moment before Fuzzy's punch. Another slower flex of hand, and Flicker is sent stumbling jerkily forward toward the whirling storm of glass.

Fanboy's punch connects with a hard thwack. Where his knuckles connected Steve's flesh warps, twisting and shifting runnily to leave odd melted imprints in flesh where the hard bones landed against skin. The young man's teeth clench, his other hand jerking upward towards Steve's arm -- though a little wildly as he stumbles backwards with the punch. Launches himself forward again a moment later, fingers raking up toward Steve's face.

Ion's breath hisses out as the flames sear towards him. He isn't in one place for long, barreling forward and through Lanky in another fierce jolt of power, another jagged crackle of lightning in his wake licking out toward the pyrokinetic.

“Don’t be such a bitch.” Akihiro spits, his burnt skin healing up almost instantly now that the flames are gone.

Adjusting himself he attempts to put his claws in the way of the punch, but his muscles sieze and instead he stumbles into the hit, gasping as the fist materializes inside of him, what’s left of his shirt turning crimson. The wound doesn’t stop him at all though, and he attempts to drive his claws into the man’s stomach while he’s tangible.

Fuzzy's teeth grit, eyes wider when Akihiro just keeps coming. The fist he starts to lift is dripping red; his fingers clench tighter but drop to his side when Akihiro's claws pierce his midsection. He's melting out of phase only a heartbeat later, though this isn't enough to stop the dark red spreading across his shirt. He grabs kind of wildly for Akihiro's face, fingers raking towards the other man's eyes in a bid to rake through them -- with brief intermittent bursts of solidity on the way there. There's not a lot of power to his strike, though, only sporadically tangible as he is, perhaps there doesn't need to be. His other hand curls against his stomach, his face considerably paler.

Silent just -- continues to stand. Watching the fight intently. For a moment, Ion's legs give out beneath him. For a longer one, Steve's entire body freezes where he stands.

The flames are starting to sputter out, with this latest jolt of power. Lanky has dropped to the ground, smoke curling up from his cut as his muscles twitch.

The storm around Bracers is fluctuating. A shower of glass shards whirling in Akihiro's direction; the halo around the nazi himself is just ballooning outwards to spread nearer Flicker. He hasn't actually moved from where he first dropped to the ground, ensconced in the middle of his glittering storm. He reaches automatically to tear the spoon from his shoulder with a snarl. Looks almost immediately as though he regrets this when blood begins to pour from the ragged hole now there.

Flicker stumbles forward towards the glass. Reflexively spasms back away from it, flutter-hopping farther away nearly as soon as he's come closer. The (now slightly shredded) polo shirt is growing further wet splotches; there's sharp lines of red drawn across his face, too. Another pair of spoons join the first, sent out to lodge themselves in Bracers' arms. His breathing is growing rougher, his eyes casting about wildly as his body betrays him. Landing on Silent with a deeper frown that is likely not helped by the cloud of glass spattering at him. Several quick jumps carry him up high into the air and out of the storm; when he sets back down it is beside the silent Nazi, reaching a bloodied hand for the man's shoulder.

Steve has barely steadied himself by the time Fanboy comes at him again. This time he sidesteps and catches the arm that had been grasping at him, twisting hard -- likely breaking it none too prettily on the way to throwing Fanboy to the ground, back-first. Perhaps he had intended to follow this up with something else, but his muscles have seized yet again, leaving him momentarily defenseless.

Fanboy's cry is kind of strangled. It's accompanied with another melting twist of flesh, Steve's fingers starting to melt and fuse together where they've gripped the young nazi.

Steve's body is returned to his own control as Flicker lands beside Silent. His hand never quite makes it to the man's shoulder, though. It lifts into the air, wrenching unnaturally backwards just before his knees buckle to the ground. Silent's scarred face twists into a thin smile. Flicker's hand lifts, turning his fistful of plastic forks straight towards his eye before slamming back down.

Ion's arms are red and blistering, his breathing coming heavily through gritted teeth as the fire and smoke start to clear. He cast an almost dismissive eye towards Bracers still lying on the ground, the next arc of energy that shoots out towards the man stronger than the others. Farther away from Silent and Flicker, it's probably too late to be of much help with this immediate predicament when he notices the quiet nazi's current target, turning sharply to bolt in that direction.

Akihiro’s eyes pop and run down his face as the fingers in his eye sockets are suddenly tangible again, eliciting a gasp of pain, which turns into a low moan as they reach his brain.

He hits his knees just as the glass cloud hits him, shredding his back and the side of his face, showering the fuzzy nazi and the surroundings in gore.

This would be more than enough to kill or at least stop most people, but not Akihiro. In a split second his hands shoot up to take hold of the nazi’s forearms, squeezing hard enough to shatter bone.

Steve grits his teeth as he releases Fanboy. His breathing is quick and a little noisy, the lower right half of his shirt soaked through with dark blood. Perhaps he was going to do something else to keep his opponent down, but Flicker's unnatural (for him) movement catches his attention. He turns, eyes widening further as he takes in Silent's smile and maybe only now making the connection. Whatever he concludes about Silent's powers, he's launching himself at the nazi. He moves almost too fast for most eyes to properly track, and there's little finesse in this desperate attack -- just a powerful uppercut followed by a 250lb tackle.

Though a cacophony of sirens has descended on the vicinity of the park, the officers who have turned up seem extremely leery of throwing themselves into the middle of this particular chaos.

Lanky isn't getting back up. Fuzzy is screaming in Akihiro's crushing grip. Fanboy is whimpering as he slowly, jerkily attempts to drag himself across the grass, away from the fracas.

Bracers still hasn't gotten back up, but the whirl of glass around him continues in dizzying erratic storm, less focused than before after the most recent burst of electricity that's charged toward him.

Silent's grim smile has abruptly dropped off his face as both Steve and Ion charge toward him. His painful unnatural grip on Flicker spasms and releases, the utensils falling from the teleporters hand as the nazi's focus changes. He scrambles back, undoubtedly nowhere near quickly enough if not for the desperate lurching yank at Steve that comes with it. It's wild, without finesse, a violent wrench of muscle that aims to send Steve tumbling towards Flicker instead.

Steve actually has to bite back a cry of pain as Silent jerks him out of his intended path, abruptly redirecting him. He twists in midair, and though his muscles are not wholly under his control it does at least diminish some of his momentum. Flicker is probably the only one who can hear him hiss -- right before slamming into him -- "Shit!"

Flicker's body has gone tense under the grip of Silent's unnatural manipulation. He doesn't really even have time to look and relieved when his hand relaxes, the plastic forks dropping harmlessly down against his bloodied shirt. He only coughs, quiet and low, when Steve slams into him, a thick drip of dark blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. In the very next instant he has vanished, reappearing practically on top of the silent biker. It only takes the briefest of touch to blink the man over, relocating him straight into the middle of the churn of broken glass. Flicker's eyes close, his head dropping heavily back against the grass.

Akihiro let’s go of the biker’s arms, his hands moving to stuff his intestines back into the hole in his abdomen before it can close back up.

“Fucking Christ.” he mutters, head canting towards the sirens. Pushing back up to his feet he squeezes his eyelids shut, opening them again a few heartbeats later, bringing a hand up to shield his new eyes from the sun. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”