View source for Logs:Indeed, we live as human beings, but we do not wage war according to human standards; for the weapons of our warfare are not merely human, but they have divine power to destroy strongholds.

{{ Logs
| cast = [[Leo]], [[Steve]]
| summary = "Well, thank God for small favors." (followed by [[Logs:In overflowing wrath for a moment I hid my face from you, but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you, says the Lord, your Redeemer.|a small decompressing]].)
| gamedate = 2021-12-10
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = <NY> Mya's Soul Food - Downtown Albany
| categories = Steve, Leo, Mutants, Mutates, Guardians, Law Enforcement
| log = 

It's been a dreary day, the overcast skies and intermittent snow flurries combined with the calling in of the National Guard in response to the uncontrolled COVID outbreak here not doing much to lift anyone's mood. Mya's Soul Food wasn't exactly bustling at the beginning of the day, but word has a way of traveling -- for some hours now people have been flocking to the little corner cafe, not ''just'' for its excellent greens and fried chicken and mac.

Leo ''has'' been conducting his clinic-of-sorts from a little corner table for most of the day, but is taking a break from the press of the crowd right now, out on the sidewalk in front of the cafe leaning up against its wall. Despite spending his day busied with the laying on of hands he isn't looking all that ''biblical'', dressed in a lightweight hip-length mandarin jacket with yellow piping, stitching, and buttons over a sunny yellow button-down with a band collar, slim indigo jeans with a slight flair at the cuffs, black chelsea boots, and a yellow-black check scarf. He's quiet, outwardly calm enough though to those who know him he seems more than a little overwhelmed, more than a little tired, his eyes slightly wide, his hands smoothing slow and careful at the front of his coat in short repetitive strokes. He isn't paying a ''lot'' of attention when someone asks if he's still going to be healing people, their mother is sick -- nor a lot of attention to the small knot of masked pedestrians ("100% HUMAN" reads one mask, and another, simply, a twisted DNA strand with a NO symbol over top) glaring at him as they filter slooooowly by.

Though he's standing beside Leo, and hasn't strayed far from his side all day, Steve is not leaning. He's casually dressed in a red canvas jacket with an enamel pin of Friend Bear's belly badge on the lapel, a blue-purple-pink plaid underneath, faded comfortable blue jeans, and his ever-present black combat boots. The shield he wears across his back is ''largely'' in its iconic pattern, though the star at it's center has been replaced with a snowflake. Even if he didn't have the shield, he'd likely be just as recognizeable as his companion, though the looks ''he'' draws tend toward a mix of admiration and confusion. He's been politely informing those who approach that Mr. Concepción needs a bit of rest, but he'll be back on duty in a while, thank you for your patience, etc.

As the latest supplicants and disgruntled not-quite-hecklers move on, he darts a concerned glance at Leo -- not for the first time since they stepped outside -- though he returns to vigilantly scanning the street a moment later. "You sure you don't need a longer break? This seems --" His lips compress as a National Guard supply truck rumbles through an intersection a block down, and his eyes track to a pair of young people in matching "FRIENDLY!" masks crossing the street to avoid them. "-- worse than the news made it out to be. Not just the outbreak, either."

"In the city I can understanding my hate club, at least. Do you think here they always have those masks?" Leo wonders instead of answering, "or they broke them out special when they heard that I was in town?" His head is still bowed but his eyes have lifted slightly to see the Friendly pair off into the distance. His fingers curl against his coat, and he agrees, softer: "It is bad."

Steve's head give a quick shake. "Don't know. But considering a lot of them are probably the same crowd that thinks masks violate their civil liberties, I'd guess they broke them out just to shield themselves from you." He manages to keep his expression more or less pleasantly neutral, but his voice comes lower, clipped with anger. "Won't lift a finger to protect their community from a lethal sickness, but they're all about safety precautions against the one that saves lives instead." He very deliberately relaxes his jaw, surveying the street again. "Bit surprised no one's tried to drive you off, knock on --" He casts around, presumably for wood that he does not find. "Well, thank God for small favors."

The National Guard truck is loud, spewing polluted gases with every trundle of its oversized tires. There's at least one human person in there -- he swings out of the front seat to open the back of the vehicle. 

They're stacked in there, in rows of four -- OsCorp Guardian robots, NATIONAL GUARD emblazoned on their shiny metal chests. They march out unsettling synchronized, fanning out and down the block. Some of them appear to be here to relieve the human Guard at some intersections -- four march in on Leo's not-a-clinic. 

The LED green lights that mark their camera-eyes stare at Leo for a moment. The announcement that follows is familiar, down to the prerecorded intonation -- "This is an unlawful assembly."

"Oh," Leo starts to say as the truck pulls up, "you ''had'' to go and jinx --" He breaks off when the robot speaks. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. His hands drop to his sides, palms pressing flat against the wall behind him. The color has drained quite abruptly from his face. His head just shakes once, slowly, no, eyes blinking shut as if when they open again the Guardians will have disappeared from his sight.

"For Pete's sake..." Steve holds up his hands -- not very high, just level with his shoulders -- as he shuffles ever so slightly sideways to put himself between the nearest Guardian and Leo. "We didn't realize," he says, very evenly. His eyes skip between the bots, past them to the pedestrians on the street. "May we go now?"

"Place your hands behind your back and do not attempt to resist arrest." It doesn't appear that the Guardians heard Steve's question, or if heard, processed it as relevant to the task at hand. The four converging on Steve and Leo break into pairs, the first two crowding on Steve, metal hand-appendages clawing at his arms to tear them backwards while the second set attempt to converge on Leo on the other side. "The National Guard in partnership with OsCorp will restore order. This is an unlawful assembly."

Leo's eyes go very wide, when they open again. His "oh no," comes out extremely soft, and he still does not move until the robots reach for Steve. It's then that he steps forward, hands raised, his voice none too steady. "Stop it -- stop ''doing'' this he hasn't even done anything. I'll just go with you. Just --" A little smaller, "-- not this again." He's not looking at the robots but past them, to the human handler who had loosed them from the truck. "Can't you -- call off your --" A small gesture towards the bots.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. "Leo, ''no!'' They'll send you --" Maybe he breaks off realizing his friend doesn't ''actually'' need to be told where he'll likely wind up if the bots take him. He lets both Guardians grab him without much apparent concern, continuing in a low urgent voice to Leo. "Get down and cover your head. ''Please.'' Those Guardsmen won't let their pets hurt ''me.''"

The handler turns partway towards Leo. His facemask says "FRIENDLY" on it in bright clear letters. He raises one eyebrow and turns back away. 

Leo's step forward puts him in reach of the robots, who go to yank his arms against his back as well. The ones on Steve do the same, yanking back and spraying adhesive instant handcuffs onto Steve's wrists.

Leo jerks back -- too little, too late, only succeeding in wrenching his shoulder against the grip of the robots. "''No''," is much clearer, this time, when the Guardsman turns around. His teeth grit, and with his next sharp ''yank'' against the (much, much more powerful) grip of the robots something ''twists'' desperately out from him, latching briefly onto the programming of Steve's two Guardians and for a brief moment running amok.

Whether it's the bots' seizing of Leo or the near-simultaneous tug of the ones that already had hold of Steve, he evidently decides he's done talking. He does not actually try to strong-arm the Guardians, but grabs them ''right back'', drops his weight low and seems to just -- fall backwards? Fall backwards with enough force to throw him''self'' into a backflip and fling the Guardians, if they are unable to get loose, up over him and into the cement wall behind him. By the time he lands in a crouch the shield is in his hand, and the instant after that its edge is slamming toward the head of the nearer Guardian wrestling with Leo.

''CRNK.'' The Guardians spray adhesive into the air, their programming not fast enough to react to the sudden attack before they crash into the wall behind them. The closest Guardian trying to restrain Leo gets out something -- "Do not attempt to resist--" before the shield collides into its tin can head, green light blinking out with the severing of the power source. 

The heads of the two Guardians that flew into the wall are still blinking, blinking, blinking, from green to red LED light. There's a noise, like the whirling of a hot computer monitor, first in the base of those units, then the remaining Guardian shoving Leo down and pulling his arm still , then the more and more distant Guardians. It's like science fiction, as the red LEDs flicker on in waves. There are sixteen bots that stop their activity and turn their focus to Steve. "Identified: Steve Rogers. Immediate threat to OsCorp property." The one holding Leo drops the mutant's arm and goes to wrest Steve to the ground.

Leo's previously immaculate coat has gained grimy-damp splotches from where the Guardians have been wrangling him to the ground, bits of gravel and ice sticking to his cheek. He starts to wipe these off -- or try to -- with a palm that's equally gritty when he rises, but this effort is forgotten in short order when more and more of the bots turn to Steve. He looks down at his hands, something queasy passing over his expression. Opens his mouth a few times, though now no sound comes out. He swallows, and finally reaches back out with that same imperceptible ''something'', pushing this time a little harder then before at the bots.

"Ah ''fuck.''" Steve's voice here is harsh with Brooklyn color only faintly softened by a Connacht brogue. "Soldier, I'd get ready to rue this day forever if I was you." He settles his weight low, hefts his shield higher, and puts his back to the wall, taking in the sheer number of Guardians now turning to him. "Leo, ''run!'' Call Hive, and --" His words falter, and there is real fear in his wide blue eyes when he shoots a glance back at Leo. "God be with you." When he launches himself it's lightning fast, but not ''at'' any of the bots, though it might be an effort to draw them along. He dives into a roll to clear the nearest of them and comes to his feet at a dead run, hitting his top speed in a desperate scramble to skid ''underneath'' the truck.

There are sixteen bots with red lights in their display eyes. Sixteen bots moving fast onto Steve's position. Sixteen bots, half of which are opening fire on Steve as he runs. "Protect OsCorp property. Eliminate threat." The side of the truck takes part of the spray, the handler suddenly moving ''very'' fast to get out of the way. "What did you freaks ''do''?" he yells, pressing a button on his belt over and over again in a vain attempt to get control again. 

Two of the bots stutter in their approach, pausing for just a moment and anchoring themselves to the ground with violent stomping cracks into the pavement. Their eyes flash blue, then two more flash blue as well and take to the sky.

"Maybe," Leo replies, stiffly, backing up once more against the side of the cafe, "you should have called them off to begin with." He's not running. He's ''definitely'' not calling Hive. His fists have balled up tight when the bots open fire on Steve. He doesn't look any ''less'' queasy, but when the bots root themselves to the ground his stance eases just slightly. He reaches for the same feeling as before, latches onto it ''in'' the anchored bots, taking hold of whatever he shoved into them and dominoing it outward toward the still-moving Guardians.

If Steve feels at all vindicated by the bot handler's panicking retreat, he doesn't have time to indulge much less express it under a hail of gunfire. Dozens of bullets whiz past him near or far and skip off of the great convex face of his shield. Not ''all'' of them, though. The ones that graze his left shoulder and more than graze his right flank barely slow him down, but the one that catches him in the calf a split second later staggers him, bad. He doesn't even try to recover but pivots to control his fall, still at some 50+ miles per hour, bracing his shield beneath him just in time to slide beneath the truck.

As soon as he's cleared the other side, he rolls off of his shield  and in the same motion as he rights himself he grips the edge of the truck's undercarriage. And lifts it up as he stands. And ''keeps'' lifting until the vehicle tips. "Stand clear!" he shouts before giving it one last shove and rolling it over toward the bulk of the (hopefully now immobilized) Guardians.

''CRNKT''. All at once, twelve bots snap to attention, turning as one to lock their attention on the truck. For just one moment, it looks like they're all about to engage in a flash-dance. Just in time... for the truck to roll right toward them.

''CRRSSSSH!'' All twelve robots' eyes are now flashing blue. The windows of the truck pop like balloons, sending a shower of glass outward; the windshield cracks and splinters. Metal crumples like an aluminum can -- six of the robots ''lunge'' backwards, springing out of the truck's way; two more of the robots ''LURCH'' into the sky with a sudden ''fwoom''. The four remaining robots ''slam'' down in place, asphalt cracking beneath them, as if to stand their ground... only for the truck to mow them over. Along with the ''first'' two who dug in.

''CRSSH!'' More shattering glass! One of the six that sprang back is buckling through the window of a nearby antique bookstore, proceeding to utterly ''devastate'' a very handsome display of old, leathery books. The other five wobble, before regaining some degree of composure -- lurching toward the sideflung truck. At least they're not spraying gunfire, right now... but they seem very intent on the truck, and Steve.

Speaking of which: The two robots from earlier that zoomed up to the sky are now descending, right ''behind'' Steve. One slams and ''cracks'', body buckling, crumpling to the ground; the other manages to diffuse its impact correctly, dropping into a crouch... only to ''spring'' forward to try and tackle Steve from behind.

The robot that smashed through the bookshop is sitting up to join its compatriots -- so, six coming at Steve over the truck, one tackling him from behind... one on the ground, six pulverized beneath the truck -- and two still hurtling into the sky.

The robot handler has escalated to running the hell away, fumbling with his phone, screaming for backup.

Leo is peeling himself away from the wall of the cafe, tentative, venturing several steps closer to the shattering glass and crumpling metal of the fray. He's still focused on the bots, a little more confident this time when he musters energy to ''shove'' that same invisible bomb of ''something'' into the still-mobile bots that are doggedly coming for Steve.

Steve turns as the bus crashes onto its side, scanning his side of the street now, already alert for surviving Guardians to mount another onslaught. He looks every direction but up, and up is where the danger comes from. The bot that survives the drop successfully tackles him, but does not successfully take him down. Steve does stagger a step, then another before he grasps the head of the Guardian to swing it up at the first of its compatriots to descend on him.

The bots appear to be having an array of problems. The robot he's seized by the back of its head proceeds to flail, struggling to make a rather awkward football tackle before it's flung over the bus -- clipping the edge of it with a loud ''CRNK'' before flipping and smashing into one of its compatriots, sending a shattered leg spiraling out of control.

Leo's code-assault short-circuits the robots again. Of the six robots crawling over the bus (crawling on arms and legs, the motions akin to a set of spiders), one is struck by Steve's makeshift missile, sending it back in a tangle of limbs -- two lurch up again, taking flight; one slams down into the bus, crumpling its side and causing the bus wall to cave down toward the street. The remaining two spring back, like cats suddenly confronted with water. They land in crouches, behind the bus. 

But -- as they land -- their heads swivel and suddenly focus on Leo -- as if 'connecting' something. Two sets of arms lift and point toward him: "Do not move. Do not attempt to resist arrest." 

The Guardian besides Steve -- the one that ''didn't'' survive the landing -- makes a grinding sound, like metal grinding against metal... and lifts its arm to take aim. It's an awkward angle, and the unit is highly damaged -- but it's only maybe ten feet away when it opens fire on Steve.

Leo does not move. His hands lift, palms out. His eyes are wide, darting from the robots to Steve and back. His breath is coming a little harder, a little faster, and there's something a little more panicked in the invisible grip that reaches out toward the robots -- less focused but fiercer than before in the savage twist of its touch, just reaching to ''damage'' whatever it can find.

Steve flips the shield up into his hand and hurls it with all his might at the raised arms of the two bots confronting Leo. He turns and drops just a bit too slow, the poorly aimed shot of the damaged Guardian clipping him deep along his ribs. Upon landing he flings a twisted hunk of metal debris from the bus at the crashed bot, gathering himself back up with a gasp of pain to tackle the two that noticed Leo, one into the other to the ground.

The debris slams into the fallen Guardian taking its last shot at Steve, rendering it nonfunctional. Meanwhile, the shield zips past like a whirling blade -- striking both sets of arms, sending both robots spinning -- just in time for Steve to tackle them in a crash. At least one robot ''crumples'' beneath the force of the hit; the other is still functional, flailing, though seriously damaged.

Somewhere around the location of the bus, two more robots that went up are now slamming down -- their attempts to land gracefully promptly ''obliterated'' by Leo's attack. ''Thwnk!'' -- they land with their faces, slamming down into the wreckage at high-speed. Their descending bodies shatter the Guardian that sank ''into'' the bus, obliterating the vehicle into a twisted, smoldering hulk.

That leaves... two more bots, still airborne -- both now rocketing down like missiles, their ability to land scrambled. One slams into asphalt about ten feet to Leo's left, crashing through one of the tables of the diner, rendered to a twisted heap -- the other clocks the side of a building on its way down, tumbling and smashing spine-first into a Tesla, slamming right through the front trunk. ''CRNKT''.

It's only now, somewhere amidst the chaos and destruction, that Leo does move. He bolts from where he's been standing, one arm held up above his head as a partial shield against falling debris from above, sprinting toward Steve. "I think," there's a bit of a frantic edge to his voice. He's eying the other man's injuries, offering an arm out to lean on, "we should be gone, please."

This time Steve is slow to rise, retrieving the shield as he does so. He gives no answer but takes Leo's shoulder gratefully, settling more of his considerable weight than he probably likes onto the smaller man. He wastes no time limping away, glancing back only once at the still-sparking, still-smoking disaster area. "Thank God for big favors, too."
}}