ArchivedLogs:Sterner Stuff

Sterner Stuff
Dramatis Personae Nick, Shane, Steve, Taylor	2016-05-20 "They're just -- playing. With uh. You know. Some limbs coming off." (Warning: Graphic blood & violence)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. It's a crisp, sunny afternoon that sees Steve jogging back into the Commons from along the riverbank, dressed in a gray athletic t-shirt and black athletic pants, the shield slung across his back a bright spot of color. He's holding the leash of a huge brindled mutt wearing an EasyWalk harness and little yellow 'Adopt Me!' vest. As he slows down, the continues at pace and quickly goes to the end of her leash. "Easy, Zen," Steve says, "c'mere." The dog skids to a halt for a moment, then matches his pace with a prancing step, gazing up at him with her mouth hanging open, tongue hanging out as she pants. He, on the other hand, does not seem the least winded as he comes to a halt and digs a treat from his pocket for the dog. Lounging along the water's edge is one droopy mass of So Much Limb looking like some kind of Lovecraftian horror emerging from the East River. Taylor is shirtless, jeans rolled up above his knees, long limbs draped down off the rock he's sprawled on to vanish into the water. There are earbuds in his ears, turned up loud enough to hear (somewhat faintly) the music that is currently blasting (Angel Haze's "Battle Cry") and his eyes are closed, though neither of these things stops the telepath from noticing Steve (and Zenobia's!) approach, head turning in their direction though his eyes don't open. "Good run?" Shane is lounging face-down /in/ the water rather than beside it. His backpack and clothing are dumped in a pile near Taylor's rock, and he is mostly-though-not-quite-entirely submerged a short distance from shore (though still near enough to /look/ semi-tangled in Taylor's exorbitant mass of LIMB.) He just twitches when there are approaching creatures. There is a muffled and entirely indecipherable noise. He does not move from his floating position. Nick is sitting on the riverbank near Taylor, though higher up, only a little damp where he'd waded in up to his knees at some point earlier. He wears lightweight quick-dry gray athletic shorts and a black t-shirt that reads 'Of Monsters and Men' beneath overlapping colorful lineart graphics of various nameless beasts. He's reading a trade paperback whose cover is dominated by the towering letters 'U.S.' above an old man (beaten, bruised, his tailcoat and red-white striped pants shabby) fallen on the sidewalk and reaching out toward the viewer while passers-by ignore him. His ears perk up long before Steve speaks, before Taylor speaks, but when Shane stirs he finally tears his eyes from his comic and snuffles at the approaching man and dog. "Oh man, are you fostering her now?" Steve leads Zenobia down toward where the teens are sprawled in various degrees of submersion. "It's a good day for a run." << Good day for a dip, too. >> Though his eyes linger on Shane with a less clearly formed worry that has little to do with his floating face-down in the water. "Zen might be a little worn out, and yes, she'll be living here for the next month or so, unless she gets adopted." His hand settles on the dog's head, gives her an affectionate scritch behind the ears, then unhitches a plastic water bottle from his belt. It has an unusual sheath that deploys into a make-shift dog bowl, which he fills to let Zenobia drink. "Are you all on break, now?" Though Taylor still hasn't -- actually opened his /eyes/, a smile spreads across his face. "Oh, man, she's so /big/. She's so /good/. That's like a /you/-size dog." The smile soon vanishes, though. "Not us, yet. Two whole more /weeks/. Can stick a fork in /this/ lucky fucking bastard, though, /he/ survived." One of Taylor's many-arms rolls Shane over in the water. Then rolls him /back/ over face-down again. "... more or less. We're still -- surviv/ing/." << More or less, >> is the echo that runs through Shane's mind here, wryly. Aloud, though, nothing. Just lets himself be manhandled, kind of limp as he is rolled-and-rolled-again. "Yeah, folks at New Leash have been trying to get Steve to take her home for/ever/." << Oh man, I wonder if he's read his own comics... >> Nick stretches languidly, puts his comic book aside and goes to pet Zenobia, taloned fingers scruffing under her chin. "Hey, you remember me, doncha?" Then, lifting his muzzle toward Steve. "She looks like she's doing better on leash." He sits back on his long, long heels, considering. << Can stick a fork in /me,/ too. >> "Whatever the calendar says, my /brain/ has pretty much declared the term over. Probably isn't gonna do my exam grades any favors, but." He shrugs and shows no inclination to finish the sentence. "She /is/ pretty much the biggest and the good...est," Steve agrees easily, sitting down on a boulder just down-slope from the dog so that she stands just a hair taller than him while she lavishes wet kisses on Nick's hands and face, he whip-like tail lashing the air furiously. "But yeah, still needs a bit of work in the not-yanking-arms-out-of-socket department. Fortunately, my arms are made of sterner stuff than most." He folds the water bottle back up and uses the normal spout to take a drink himself. << /Most,/ >> he thinks, considering Nick. Then Shane. << Strong enough, but so small. >> Then his eyes skid aside to Taylor's very numerous arms. << /He'd/ be fine, I'm sure. >> "Two more weeks?" His lips press together. "Good luck, then, on your exams and such." "Don't try me I got a fork right the hell here, bro." One of Taylor's dripping arms is pulling itself ponderously out of the water, rooting around lazily in his backpack. He comes out with a titanium spork rather than a fork but nevertheless he is /prodding/ it at Nick, poke-poke-POKE. Just as lazily, he props himself up, finally, on his elbows, finally cracking his eyes open to peer towards Steve. Kinda snorting. "Ffft, walk her, Shane could /ride/ that dog. Anyway, /these/ arms are made of pretty freaking stern stuff. Been too long since -- god/damn/, Shane, it's /Friday/." This sounds Very Much Like A Complaint. There's another burbling. Utterly indecipherable audibly with words spoken down into the water. << Fuck exams, >> it says, to those helpfully not relying on Ears at the moment. Shane's gills flutter faster than their steady breathing pace, and he turns himself over onto his back, hands folding against his chest. "{/Usually/ comes after Thursday.}" He answers this complaint in somewhat grumbly (and very much tired) Spanish. "Steve's arms are /pretty/ stern." Nick twists around and snaps at the spork's dubious attacks without making any real attempt to connect. "I've walked her and my arms are fine," this sounds only just a /touch/ defensive. Then he adds, sheepishly, "Though, I mean, my arms are /not/ as impressive as Steve's." His amber eyes remain fixedly on Zenobia, his mind determined to /not/ think too hard about Steve's arms. His ears perk up suddenly. "And /nobody's/ arms are impressive as Taylor's. {Friday's /good,/ Friday mean no fucking classes or tests tomorrow.}" His Spanish is far more halting than Shane's, though comprehensible. "I don't think Zenobia would mind being ridden, but I also don't think she would be very easy to steer from that position." His mind is already constructing the picture -- which contains both sharktwins perched on the massive dog's back. Steve grins, standing up and stretching. He might not be /intentionally/ flexing his arms in the process, but the timing is perfect. "I suspect I know plenty of people strong and stern enough to walk Zen safely, but I'm not going to rope people into doing that. It's another matter if they actually /want/ to." His brows knit slightly. "{It /is/ Friday.}" /Steve's/ Spanish has been improving steadily. "{Did you have some event to attend that you'd forgotten?}" "Your arms are differently impressive not everyone's arms can be /tree/ trunks." Taylor snorts, amused, even if it is only at the mental image in Steve's head. He sits up straighter, arms dripping still further as they pull more out of the water. "{Friday /used/ to mean throwing down. Friday /used/ to mean time to let out all the bullshit the week had piled on. /Now/ what the hell am I suppose to do with my Friday?}" Shane's eyes widen, his ridged brows lifting. Then pulling together. Then lifting again. "... oh." For a moment there's a fierce /pull/ in his mind -- it almost stacks up to longing, though it fades back away into his previous state of -- grey. It leaves behind traces of memory, though; noise and blood and sweat, thwacks of fists and the rake of claws in flesh, flashes of light and flashes of fire. "{Right. /That/. That. Isn't... happening.}" There's a twinge in his mind, slightly guilty. Thinking of B. Of Flicker. "Fight Steve," he suggests. "Mine are impressively /hairy./" Nick sounds happy enough about this, though a subtler, quieter thread among his thoughts cycles through a litany of insecurities he does not give voice, not even inwardly. It remains a current beneath the surface of his thoughts, only barely perceptible to casual telepathic contact. He twists around to look at Taylor and Shane, one hand still rubbing behind Zenobia's ear. "{Throwing down,}" he echoes, not questioning. "{Oh I remember...way back I wanted to check that out, then I kinda forgot about it.}" << Zombies have that effect sometimes. >> "{Throwing down? This was a regularly scheduled occurrence?}" Steve /is/ repeating this in a questioning tone. "I'm certainly game for that -- I enjoy sparring, no matter the day of the week. I simply mind injury somewhat less when I know I'll have a couple of days to recover before returning to work." << And I would expect injury... >> "So. If you'd like to?" He lifts one eyebrow in Taylor's direction. "{Every Friday night,}" Taylor agrees. "We'd get together for fighting. I'ono from your /sparring/ that sounds like some weak tea. Joshua always there in case of anyone dying." For all this he sounds casual enough, though, as does the addition: "{It was friendly, though, you know. I miss it. Nowhere to blow off steam with /safe/ people anymore.} And I am /so/ down but --" For a moment he sounds eager but then his grey eyes are flicking with a good deal of uncertainty over Steve. "... you, you a human though." This sounds like a question. "Like how stern /are/ those arms really? Our club it was, you know, it was like --" He looks a little sheepish, one smaller tendril flicking towards Nick and Shane. "Like us. Like people who could take it." Nick's ears flick back and forth between Taylor and Steve, his tail swishing rhythmically. "{Safe here, though?}" The lift in tone is very slight. Steve rolls his shoulders. "Sparring has its place -- for training, for fun, for.../not/ killing each other when there isn't a healer handy." He allows a faint smile. "We didn't have those back in my day, and my friends were all humans, then. And yes, I am one, too -- but I've been modified." << Oh, no, I shouldn't -- >> But the memory wells up quite of its own accord: the blinding light, the searing heat, the agony of his body rending and restructuring within the confines of the metal capsule. "{Sorry,}" he murmurs. Then, quietly, without any pride, "I'm not...like you, no. But I can take it." << -- oh -- >> It's a small startled-pained voice, a rather involuntary cry in the others' minds as Taylor's eyes widen. Only to Steve, now: << {I'm sorry}, I didn't -- know it was -- >> His arms have pulled in tightly, coiling in around his body. He slides down off the rock, standing with a slow stretch of shoulders. "But if you can really take it. Friday /is/ for throwing down." Steve's pupils dilate and his breathing speeds up, but only fractionally. << It's alright. I'm /used/ to the memory -- it is /mine/, after all -- but I hadn't meant to inflict it on you. >> Then, aloud, with a smile. "I'm a lot tougher than the average human, I heal much faster, /and/ I know my limits. So." He hands Zenobia's leash and water bottle to Nick and steps up to the flatter part of the riverbank. Settles his weight a little lower and raises his fists into a guard stance. A sharp slant of a smile crosses his face. "Let's fight." << It's just -- most people mutate -- more slowly, I don't often think about what -- it's like when -- >> Taylor winces, glancing briefly towards Funhaus. << ... actually, Joshua could probably relate. A lot. >> He paces over to square off opposite Steve, every one of his myriad limbs flicking at once to shed a small shower of water from their tips; for a moment a glimmer of rainbow lingers in the glint of sunlight through the droplets. The smile that blossoms in his ink-black face is warm and bright and abruptly energized. "Aight, then. Come at me, bro." Shane drags himself up out of the water, seeming entirely unconcerned with his state of undress as he flops onto the riverbank against Nick. Props his chin against the other boy's chest so as to better watch the fight. "You really should have your shield for this," he calls, amused, to Steve. "You're going to want to sever the biggest tentacles first. If you don't hack them straight /off/ you have /zero/ fucking chance, dude. I guess even without the shield you're /probably/ strong enough to just tear them /out/? But there's two of them so that's a gamble /I/ wouldn't want to take." Nick takes both leash and water bottle, looping the former round his wrist and clipping the latter to his own belt. << Oh man, Cap is gonna get /owned/. But I mean he's gotta be used to that by now... >> His eyes are wide and bright, his ears pricked up and turned toward the combatants. He drapes an arm around Shane without evident concern for the sharkboy's nudity /or/ wetness. "They grow back," he adds, helpfully. The shudder of emotion through Steve when Taylor flicks the water from his limbs is not easy to pin down -- it's not quite fear, not quite revulsion, and not quite awe, but some intersection of all three. At the invitation, he was just /about/ to lunge, but Shane's recommendation stops him short, not in the least reassured by Nick's addition to it. "Wait -- wait, I'm not sure I would be comfortable hacking off anyone's limbs even /with/ a healer present, and without --" << 'Not sure'? Did you really just say that? Dear sweet Lord... >> His eyes flick from Taylor to Shane, then back. "-- you'd go into shock before could fetch someone." "They grow back. The tentacles. My bony arms don't, so if you amputate those Joshua's gonna have his work cut out for him." Taylor doesn't sound overly concerned, admittedly. "But you can hack at the rest all you like. I'll be fine, promise. The blood circulates different. Trust me, the pups have chewed them off dozens of times. During zombies I basically used them like bait." His grey eyes are watching Steve's almost-lunge -- alert, almost curious, his two longest arms half-wound back around himself though the tips of two of the others twitch. Just slightly. "You going to get the shield or should I hit you first?" "C'mon, I want to see a fight, not a slaughter." Shane folds his arms across Nick's chest, gills moving slow and relaxed as the other boy's arms drape over him. "Oh man." Nick's mouth curves in a wolfish smile. "Can you /throw/ the shield, I never seen you do that." Steve hesitates, studying the sinuous movement of Taylor's inhuman limbs with a kind of fascination. << He knows his limits, too. >> The smile doesn't /quite/ return to his face, but the tension eases from him and a calm focus descends over him. He nods, almost imperceptibly. Reaches back and tugs the shield from the harness on his back. Slips it onto his left forearm. "En garde," he says, half a second before leaping forward and grabbing for the end of the nearest of Taylor's arms, pulling hard in a bid to throw the boy off his feet. Taylor's grin sharpens. His largest two arms curl back behind him, two more pulling up overhead when he is yanked. He does not resist the pull, stumbling forward, two /more/ arms folding in to buffer the fall as he tumbles forward to the ground. The arms that have been overhead, though, whip inward, coiling in against Steve's arms. One /more/ snaking around towards his torso. Steve pivots tremendously fast, the shield on his left arm slicing in a upward arc, cutting at the arms that whip toward him from above while attempting to turn out of the spiral coil of the one curling around him. "I told him to go for the /biggest/ first," Shane murmurs, quietly amused, to Nick. "He's not listening --" "There /are/ a lot of them," Nick replies quietly. "Can be hard to tell them apart when they're all coming at you." Shane's teeth bare, /sharp/. "Bet he'll know which ones I meant soon enough." The twin to the arm snaking around Steve's torso is slipping lower, as Steve turns -- winding around a leg even as Steve escapes the grip that misses closing around his waist. There's a thick slick ooze of blue blood welling out of a deep gash opened on the nearer of the arms that had been descending from above -- a smaller gash on the farther of the two where the shield had only glanced more lightly. Taylor is getting his legs back beneath himself, not quite standing and just rolling up into a crouch. Steve's eyes go very, very wide when he sees the blue blood oozing from the wound he just opened on Taylor's arm. << Dear God -- >> But he continues turning -- away from Taylor -- shield swinging low now to cut at the arm wound around his leg, less in an attempt to damage it than to get free. << I /really/ underestimated his reach. >> Taylor's teeth clench, a sharper breath hissing out of him as the shield slices at his arm. The arm had been tightening, clamping in around Steve's leg to yank -- away from him, off along the ground -- but the slice to his flesh loosens the grip. For all the good that it does -- as that limb starts to release, the two club-ended tentacles /now/ are whipping, /slamming/, fast and hard in from either side. More or /less/ aimed to /start/ coiling in against Steve's ribs though at their length it is somewhat of an irrelevancy; either one on its own has well more than enough length to fully /cocoon/ even a man of Steve's size. The suckers that they are lined with have splayed wide and open, wickedly sharp hooks within each one swiveling their points outward. << Really did. >> Though there's an undercurrent of pain in Taylor's mental voice, its predominant tone is one of fierce amusement. Steve's eyes go even wider, and though he isn't afraid now he's certainly more than a little /startled/ by the reach of the two long-long limb. << If I get outside his reach, and that's a big 'if', I'd /have/ to throw the shield, and... >> Though the rest of this thought does not manifest in words, the sick twist of fear is apparent enough. He turns again abruptly -- in the /other/ direction, toward Taylor, heedless of the hooks that tears into and then /through/ skin and muscle along his sides. Reaching with his right hand, he grab one of the tentacles, shield cutting down toward the other one as it begins to wind around him. Once again there is an upwelling of thick blue, streaking along the edge of Steve's shield, dripping in a spattering of droplets down towards the muddy ground. Once again Taylor's breath sucks in sharply, harshly. The arm coils tighter, hooks biting in against flesh as his limb clamps vicelike around Steve. Then yanks back, slamming harder to thud the other man back against the ground -- there's /another/ arm (it had been the very first to coil around him in this fight!) snaking back in, looking almost /small/ below the enormous toothed tentacles though it's a good fifteen feet in itself -- sliding in along the ground aiming for Steve's ankles. Through all the labyrinthine mess, Taylor is still -- crouched. Hands braced tight against the ground, mind trained keenly on Steve, the posture of his body tense and oddly still for all the writhing chaos of his arms. Steve grits his teeth, but does not cry out when the hooks sink well and deeply into his flesh. Blood pours out from the wounds they'd first left, staining his torn shirt a red that looks especially shocking beside the blue of Taylor's blood already smeared on both of them. The ground knocks the air from his lungs. Inside he's calm, still, his mind churning wordless but intense in its focus, studying and cataloging his opponent's movements with startling speed. He braces his right hand on the shield to put more power behind it as he drives it down, finally -- much too late -- aiming to sever the hook-clawed tentacle holding him captive. "/Ssss/." This hiss from Taylor is quiet, though echoed far more clearly in a mental reverberation, acute and pained that spikes through the others' minds. The thick rope of muscle corded around Steve pulses, spasming in pain as Steve hacks at it. The smaller arm coils tight around Steve's ankles, Taylor's fingers clenching down into the mud as his breath catches. The enormous tentacle squeezes -- tightens -- then goes limp, its huge constrictor-esque coils going lax around Steve as it is finally severed from his body with a thick raw flow of dark blue. Its partner, meanwhile, swings up and in, twining toward Steve's shield-bearing arm. The pressure of the tentacle had temporarily staunched the flow of blood from the wounds it had carved in Steve's sides, and as it goes limp and begins to fall away he begins bleeding quite profusely. Red blood mixes with blue blood mixes with dirt and mud from the riverbank. Taylor's tentacle grips Steve's left arm, and he seizes it in his right hand, jaw clenching with pain as he yanks on the long, long limb and lifts up -- and up, and up in a bid to bodily throw the boy like a weight at the end of a line. Zenobia -- though remarkably calm /considering/ -- has been growing steadily more agitated as the match goes on. She's seen a lot of violence before, and hasn't read the body language of the combatants as threatening. Though somewhat unclearly, she has classed it as play. Play that's gotten more and more worrying. Her paws shift restlessly, her ears press back, and a low whine rises in her throat. When the long tentacle is severed, though, and blood comes pouring out of both Taylor /and/ Steve, she stands up and surges to the end of her leash, letting out a deep, bellowing bark. Shane's eyes widen as Zenobia dashes forward, startling upwards from where he's been resting on Nick's chest. "Wo-o-oah easy girl --" He gets to his knees, moving to her side to pet absently against her side. "They're just -- playing. With uh. You know. Some limbs coming off. {You're okay. They're okay.}" Nick grabs Zenobia's leash with both hands to keep hold of her, though even so she ends up dragging him forward by a few inches over the rocky streambank. "Whoa, girl! S'alright." He winds the leash around his arm a few times and scoots up to wrap his other arm around her neck while he makes soothing noises at the dog. 'Okay' may be somewhat of a stretch. Taylor's arm coils hard around Steve's, the serrated suckers clamping against skin as his grip tightens. For all the massive reach of his storm of limbs the other man's strength easily outclasses his, though; he is yanked up from the ground, sent hurtling through the air and slamming hard into the ground. His eyes open wide, air whooshing out of his lungs with a sudden heavy cough. His lower arm releases Steve's legs through this so as not to yank /itself/ too painfully -- though the longer one keeps its grip, dragging at Steve along with him as he's thrown. Steve's arm tears open beneath the tentacle as it yanks him along. Blood pours out, and more pain joins the cacophony of it already singing through him, but it doesn't seem to slow him at all. He throws himself into a forward roll and comes up onto one knee, not very steadily -- the blood loss making him dizzy. He pulls the shield from his left arm and uses it to hack at the remaining long tentacle. Worry flickers through him. Though his hand does not hesitate, his eyes flick to Taylor's face, appraising. He's preparing to tap if the boy doesn't, now. The telepath's gritted teeth bare further in a fierce sort of grin, though his breath wheezes strained through it. One more toothy arm -- kind of bloody -- and one un-toothy one, whole and strong, worm up to start to snake around Steve's arms as the strength in his half-severed tentacle starts to ebb. His head is thudding back against the ground, though, chest still heaving. Zenobia wiggles between the shark pup and the wolf boy, whining piteously and still straining to reach Steve. Steve pulls free of the non-toothed arm, but the toothy one grips fast, digging into his skin. He twists his arm, grimacing at the pain, and tries again to pull free again -- managing only to drag Taylor several feet over the ground. << I'm getting sloppy, this is going to get dangerous. >> The hand holding the shield is free, but he drop it and, sinking to one knee, slaps the ground, hard. Shane whistles, low, head shaking as his gaze skips between the others on the ground. "/Damn/, y'all. That was excellent. /I'm/ getting Joshua." He drag himself to his feet, absently scritching -- both Zenobia and Nick on their heads as he gets up. He plucks up Steve's shield in passing -- using it to hack off a chunk of one of the severed ends of the amputated tentacles lying on the ground. Snagging it to take /with/ him as he walks off, though he leaves the shield behind. "Yeah." Taylor still sounds out of breath, wheezy, strained. The moment Steve's hand slaps against the ground all of his arms go slack, falling away to pile limp and bloody on the ground, "... yeah. Holy... sh..." His eyes close. "{Thanks.} You are not fucking joking about those arms. Stern as hell. God/damn/." Nick leans into Shane's claws as the other boy rises, and a moment later he also gets up, though he thinks better of letting Zenobia drag him over to Steve. "Whoa. That was /intense/, if Fight Club was like this, I sure hope it starts up again." Steve slumps to the ground amidst the limp mass of Taylor's bloodied limbs. "You -- you've got some stern limbs, yourself." His voice is growing weak, eyes slide shut, thoughts becoming just a touch muddled with blood loss, though he remains conscious. "Merci."