ArchivedLogs:Genetic Superiority
| Genetic Superiority | |
|---|---|
cn: violence, racial slurs | |
| Dramatis Personae | 2017-10-13 "{Dang, yo, they got the short fucking end of the X-gene stick.}" |
| Location
<NYC> Hellhound Bikes - Brooklyn | |
Located not far from Jamaica Bay in a predominantly Latinx sector of East New York, this garage doesn't look like much from the outside. A low-slung squat dingy brick building with a hand-painted sign over front proclaiming it to be HELLHOUND CUSTOM CYCLES, this garage has a small office area with its own pedestrian entrance from the street at the front, containing a minifridge usually full of beer and beaten down old desk with a ledger and an antique cash register that no one ever seems to use. The rest of the space is roughly L-shaped, its walls lined with racks of tools and heavy workbenches with built-in steel drawers full of hardware and spare parts. There's a raised platform in the wider leg of the space for working on one motorcycle, and there's space in the narrower leg for parking at least three more. It's a mild and cloudy mid-morning, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, but just the right time, it seems, for breaking and entering. There are two motorcycles, heavily tricked out, parked /sort/ of surreptitiously in the alley behind Hellhound Bikes. Their riders have just breached the back door's locks and stepped inside. They are both white and liberally tattooed with white power symbols (leaning slightly towards Norse mythology), both have clean-shaven heads, and both wear 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. One of them is so tall and built that the other, at a measly 6 foot even, looks small beside him. There's a Harley roadster up in the center of the room, in the process of some kind of repair. The side dock has a Ducati Scrambler gleaming shiny and new (or newly refit, at least) and waiting to be picked up, but aside from the bikes the skinheads are alone. For a minute, anyway. Before long there is a quiet crackle, a small pop. More figures appearing over by the front office wall. Ion does not look like he has come dressed for trouble -- no more than he ever is, really: empty-handed, in jeans and boots and an old grey tee, a very toned-down denim cut with only a small Mongrels insignia on its breast. "{Shiiiit,}" more drawled than alarmed as he leans back against the wall, tips his head slightly back to look up and across the room to the pair of large aspirational Vikings, "{I think that one really /did/ drink his fucking milk.}" Appearing with Ion, Scramble blinks rapidly and shakes her head clear of the journey. She's not even wearing a cut, just a black camisole under a cropped red canvas jacket, tight, well-worn blue jeans, and ancient Doc Martens. She leans an elbow on Ion's shoulder. Narrows her eyes at the uninvited guests, not visibly impressed by either. "{Well,}" this is languid, almost bored, "{you know that lactose tolerance is a sign of their genetic superiority.}" The huge skinhead has been admiring the Harley, while his smaller companion heads for the door to the office. He stops short when the Mongrels arrive, but doesn't seem frightened or abashed in the least. "This so-called 'club' ain't even got enough /regular/ spics and niggers, they gotta bring their bitches along to wipe their ass." he says. The huge skinhead's expression is equal parts lewd and contemptuous as he looks Scramble over. "Or maybe she's for us to play with." The small one shrugs. "Too bad we ain't here to play." He lifts up one hand and gestures at one of the workbenches. Fire erupts from his fingertips and engulfs the tools, highlighting his grin to fiendish effect. "{Genetic superiority? Dang, yo, they got the short fucking end of the X-gene stick.}" Ion's head rolls forward, his smile a quick and bright-hard thing. "Ey, whiteboy, you want /regular/ spics you come to the wrong fucking garage." His accent has thickened, here, very deliberately exaggerated. His eyes cut briefly to Scramble after this; he's already straightening, shoulders rolling almost lazily. "You ain't here to --" However this was going to end, though, it cuts off sharply at the first blast of flame. His smile has frozen in place, dark eyes fixed for a moment on the pyrokinetic's illuminated grin. There's a staticky crackling through the air, a sudden bright white jagged streak arcing from Ion's abruptly clenched fist out toward the firebender as he pulls away from the wall, arm outstretched and smile thinning, sharper. Scramble raises her eyebrows. "Boy, if I was playing with you, you'd /know./" She has straightened to her full height, her stare remaining level even as her lips draw back into a manic smile. "You wanna play with this? I'd like to see you try." Saunters toward the larger of the skinheads, tendrils of her mind questing for his, wrenching and twisting it into a state of incapacitating dissociation. The smaller skinhead's fireworks stop her cold, momentarily. Glances at Ion. Lips press together. "Well, you done stepped in it /now/, Cracker." The pyrokinetic /cackles/ aloud when Ion attacks him, sweeping the cone of his flames back toward the Mongrel as if he expects the fire to /interfere/ with the electricity somehow. It does not. Ion's lightning finds its mark, making the man's laughter stutter obscenely as his body spasms. The wooden portions of the workbench has already caught fire, though, and smoke is beginning to rise. The larger skinhead does not seem in the least concerned at Scramble's approach. He leers at her even as he picks up a large wrench and hurls it across the room at Ion. "Forget about your sparkly wetback boy over there. We can show you a --" Here his eyes go wide-wide. "Oh. Oh no..." He clutches at his face, shakes his head. "Oh God no!"
Or where he just was, anyway. The wrench clatters against the wall, clanging harmlessly to the ground. Ion has vanished, reappeared on the opposite side of the workspace, somewhat closer now to the larger of the pair. He's ignoring the bigger man, though, another sparking streak of electricity thrown out toward the pyrokinetic. Eyes locked on the smaller of the pair, he's striding forward through the curling smoke toward the spasming mutant. Scramble walks right up to the huge skinhead and knees him right in the groin, /hard./ Her mind continues to twist into his, instilling a much sharper, more pervasive existential dread. "You are not nearly as much fun as you probably think you are?" The pyrokinetic has just recovered from his electrocution and is now blinking without comprehension at the empty space where Ion was, and where he /should/ have just gotten brained by the wrench. He whips around and blasts another gout of flame at Ion. His bigger companion doesn't seem /oblivious/ to his plight, exactly, but he's busy whimpering and trembling and slowly slumping over in agony after Scramble's knee slams into his crotch.
Scramble seems paradoxically even calmer and more collected than she was at the beginning of this encounter, considering all the fire and smoke and lightning flying around the garage. She waits until the huge skinhead is bowed over nearly double, and smashes her knee up again, into his nose this time. Then elbows him in the back of the head and then just leaves him, grabbing a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall and putting out the workbench before the flames there have a chance to spread. The pyrokinetic gives a shrill bark of laughter as Ion walks right into his flame blast. Once he realizes the man had blinked out again, he whirls to look for him, though he guesses the wrong direction and ends up turning all the way around, spotting his opponent as the arm is winding back for the punch. This still /might/ have left him enough time to avoid the blow, but instead he stands his ground, lifting his hand in preparation for another blast. The lightning arcing out from Ion's fist, however, catches him before the punch does, and he loses control of the fire he was about to hurl. It bursts from his hand in a rolling, billowy ball of heat and light, then rises up to singe the ceiling. The man's hand is scorched and his sleeve very much on fire...and then, while still spasming from the electrical shock, he gets punched quite solidly in the face. Blood flies from his mouth as it flaps open and he falls sidelong against a rack of tools, knocking half of them to the ground as he goes down. The huge skinhead's downfall is somewhat less dramatic, though he is also bleeding now--quite profusely, from the nose. He gradually folds over and settles into a squat, clutching his head and sobbing pitifully, trembling. The flames engulfing the workbench sizzle and die under the blast of the fire extinguisher, though smoke continues to issue from it to join the rather unpleasant smell of scorched flesh filling the garage. Ion's lips are still peeled back, teeth bared and glinting in the skitter of sparks that dance against his skin. When the pyrokinetic goes down he follows, fist thwacking hard again -- and again -- against the man's face with a solid jolt on each connect.
Pinned down and repeatedly shocked, the electrokinetic isn't good for much more than grunting and twitching and getting punched. His face is bloody and getting bloodier with each blow. Ion pauses when Scramble addresses him, one hand planted on the pyrokinetic's shoulder and one drawn back for another strike. Drawn back and held, frozen, a long moment. There's a brightness in his eyes, gleaming wet, starting to gather though the few droplets sizzle away without a chance to fall. "Fuck." This is through his teeth, too. His fist falls to his side, his other hand clenching down hard into the other biker's bloodied cut. "{You be okay here? B, she's on the way. I'mm'a take these trash --}" His head shakes. "{Out.}" "{I'm okay here if you okay taking them.}" Scramble does reach out now. Claps a hand on Ion's shoulder, nevermind the shock. Squeezes hard. "{When you get back, we can go get drunk -- or whatever you want, Imma clear my schedule.}" | |
