ArchivedLogs:Shoo

Shoo
Dramatis Personae Chokechain, Shelby	2013-01-22 Fashion will be the death of you.
Location <NYC> Clothescycle - Garment District
Selling clothing both new and used -- but mostly used -- this store often has something for those fashion-conscious but on a budget. There is a distinct alternative bent to many of the clothes (and many of the dyed-haired, pierced clientele that often show up) but for those willing to take the time to look through their racks and racks of clothing, there are gems to be found both in their newer and vintage sections. In their basement, for the adventurous, their dollar-a-pound section offers just what the name suggests: they sell clothing for a dollar per pound. The pickings are often unusual, to be sure, but for those handy with needle and thread, sometimes the heaps of fabric can be turned to creative use. It's alternative heaven in Clothescycle but the bitter drop in temperature has kept the casual shopper away. At the moment, there is a college-aged gentleman with aqua hair and what seems like more metal than actual face behind the counter. He's on his phone, briskly thumb-typing and paying very little attention to the lone patron wandering the racks. Shelby looks like a short sausage-shaped person in all of her many layers of clothing but her fingers are clever enough, teasing out hangers here and lifting sleeves there. A critical eye is being aimed at the garments on offer but so far nothing seems to have clicked yet--though whether that's due to appearance or price is difficult to tell at a glance. After a brief search though, she finds the tackiest of sequined gold tank tops and ventures towards the mirror near the counter to check herself out. "What do you think? Golden Girls or fucking amazing?" she inquires of the clerk. He glances up and gives girl and garment a weighty look. Then, judgment is pronounced: "Your tits are too small." "Well, fuck you too," Shelby grumbles and heads back towards the rack to try again. Chokechain introduces himself by throwing a man far his junior through the shop's window and to withing an inch of Shelby, scattering dummies. Their clothes, faces, and fists tell the story that this is the endgame of their battle: Chokechain's tailored suit is holding up much better than the young man's cheap black one. Somewhere along the way the man's gun has been lost, something he didn't give up easily. "Excuse me," Chokechain says to Shelby apologetically as he comes in through the window too. Hangers rattle against bars. Shelby is rummaging. She's also calling over her shoulder, without looking at the clerk, "Y'know, it stops being funny after the third time you say--" And then the world goes to hell. There is glass and thumping and racks tumbling over, and the girl who used to pride herself on her cool is left screaming like a...well, a girl as she tries to make sense of the sudden shift. From the counter comes a shrill, "Holy fuck!" and then the young man disappears behind it, leaving the teenager to stare at both men in shock. A white baby doll tee still dangles from her hand; there are shards of glass peppering the shoulders of her coat and in her hair. "...what?" "I'm FBI, call the --," the agent manages, before Chokechain hits him square in the face. He's old enough to be slowing down, but he has a lot of muscle. The agent grabs for Shelby to try and keep himself upright. "He's imagining things," Chokechain lies to her. "Shoo." Add blood to the mix as Shelby stumbles under the agent's weight, reflex bringing her arms around him. She sags, not nearly as strong as either man, and stares goggle-eyed at Chokechain. She does not shoo but she might be shaking from fear and adrenaline. "I'm not doing anything!" she shrills, shuffling backwards with victim (unfortunately) in tow. Her shoulder jostles a rack full of sweaters with hipster glasses-wearing kittens on their fronts. "Just get the hell out of here!" Chokechain looks at her quizzically. He keeps up with her given the load she's under, whatever anger in his face a moment ago turned to fatigue overlaid with amusement. "Not on your say so I'm afraid, my dear." With her holding the agent up it's a moment's work to lift his FBI badge from his jacket and pocket it. "Excellent." The theft is not interfered with--what could Shelby do, with her hands full as they are? It's all she can manage to maintain her own balance. But she -does- release the agent, rolling her shoulders to the side to tumble him off a little behind her, if he can't keep to his feet. "Fuck!" More wide-eyed panic as she realizes he's bled on her. "Oh fuck oh fuck!" she articulates. "You son of a bitch, the cops are gonna be all -over- me!" Chokechain takes her in properly as the agent goes down to the ground on the edge of consciousness. Something about the sneer he gives her screams 'just a human,' and he rolls a shoulder. "Acceptable losses, I'm afraid. Blame a mutant, it might work." He looks down, and tries to steel himself. "Fuck you, I -am- a mutant!" Shelby snaps and fight wins the day. All of that fear is channeled into sudden fury and the kittens that had been swaying innocently on their sweaters all turn their heads to narrow bespectacled cats' eyes at Chokechain. Little pink mouths open, little white teeth are bared and the teenage girl stands over the agent, aiming a shove at the much larger man while he's distracted. Behind the counter, Adam the clerk is putting his phone to good use, a frantic stream of whispers aimed into the mouthpiece. Chokechain stumbles back over glass and a latticework of plastic arms that've come free from the dummies. It's a moment before he can talk. He doesn't look at her, but for something to work as a serviceable weapon as he says, "But ... well, then, I did you a favour wouldn't you say? Sooner or later they'll come, and I have given you the gift of sooner." While he's looking away, Shelby lunges forward again, palms out and elbows locked. This is what losing control looks like. "You goddamned bully! You're a fucking bully!" Expecting sensible replies might be a little much to ask of her at the moment. Chokechain, who a minute ago was trading blows quite happily, goes back again, unwilling to strike. Storms gather in his face as he glares at her, and they look like fury, and they look like tears about to break. "I'm a realist!" he roars as he comes back towards he. He grabs a wooden rod from a rack, and snaps it into a makeshift spear like it was kindling. "You don't want to see this," he bellows into her face. Shelby is unwilling or unable to shove around someone who is actively advancing on her. She screams out again and scrambles backwards, stumbling over the downed agent's feet. When she slips and falls butt-first into broken glass and spilled clothing and an unconscious man's legs, she throws an arm up over her head. And that's when the kittens slip free of their sweaters and charge Chokechain. There's a herd of them, small and flat, checkered with the imprint of knit and purl. They rush for him silently, flowing over other clothes and the floor and then up his legs, decorating that expensive grey suit with bright, unnatural color--it is not unlike having ants in the pants, that feeling, just without the biting. Chokechain's eyes widen as the kittens come for him, and he's reaching for a real animal nearby, any animal, when they hit. He braces himself for pain, and it doesn't come. There's a long moment, and then he takes a knee beside her. "It's good that you still believe," he says bitterly. "In these things," and pokes the agent with his spear. "Just let him go, though." "Fuck off." It's a weak retort, barely a yelp. Shelby cringes as he gets closer--nevermind that the spear poking is aimed at someone other than herself. Her posture means that she's laying back against the man on the ground and though she kicks weakly, it isn't enough to shift her off of him. "The cops are coming, you better run." Chokechain demurs: "I have not yet begun to fight, I believe you Americans say." He puts a big paw of a hand on her shoulder, trying to be calming. "He would have put needles in me and pushed until my brain ran out my ears. Me now, you in a few years. I'm doing this for you." Shelby flinches again when touched, her resolve wavering. She was built to run, not tolerate this sort of prolonged conflict. Her face twists in pain--some of that glass has turned its edge on her, cutting palms, and the back of her legs. She shoves his hand away and pushes harder with her feet, twisting away onto ground without the carpet of a body. "And now they'll lock me up because of -you-! Fucking -stupid-" But the agent is clear--though sirens can be heard rising in the distance. The top of Adam's head rises over the counter, the clerk peering out at them. Chokechain says, "Hey, now. Come on." He offer a hand to lift her up. He seems glad of the chance to put off stabbing the agent a little longer. "You were never here." His power has found something: a mouse. It grows suddenly, impossibly, tearing a hole in the wall as it does so and its face contorting in a silent scream of agony. It puts its nose into Adam's ear. "I'm right, aren't I?" This time it's Adam who lets out a shriek--no one ever really expects the sudden intrusion of a wet, twitching nose into their ear, nor the sort of face his looks into when he jerks his head to the side. He is too frozen to run, toppling instead with a crash. Shelby doesn't accept the offer but she's able to get to her own feet, painfully--only to freeze when she spies the... "What the hell is that?" she breathes out. The sirens are ignored in favor of staring. Chokechain says, "It's a mouse." And it clearly is, apart from the scale, abruptly the size of a small bear. The shock of so much growth is rippling through its body, and if it weren't so tightly controlled it would be howling. Instead, it pants. He says again, quieter, kinder, softer than the first time: "Shoo." This time, Shelby takes his advice. The mouse receives a shell-shocked gaze, then that look swings to Chokechain. And then? Then the teen bolts for the door, out into the bitter cold where the noise of sirens is growing and growing. Chokechain hangs his head as she goes, and then it's a quick jab down with the spear. "Damn. May flights of angels, I suppose." He takes a moment of silence for the agent, and then he's out the back. It's a brief span before the mouse shrinks again and flees.