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maskormenacelogs2016-07-11 02:28 pm
bosewicht) wrote in maskormenacelogs2016-07-11 02:28 pm
closed.
WHO: Caitlin Snow; Cindy Moon; Joseph Kavinsky; Sylar; Rosita Espinosa.
WHERE: A beachside restaurant in Cape Canaveral.
WHEN: On a day in mid-July.
WHAT: Some criminals interrupt the daytime drinking of others and some heroes, probably, retaliate.
WARNINGS: Violence! And guns. Will add more if necessary.
[ Beach-facing and luxurious, The Fishbowl sees patronage at all hours of the day, from a buffet breakfast to midnight cocktails. Right now, it's at an easy afternoon with a long summer's drawl, sky bright and hot. The dresscode teeters between upscale and swimwear, sandals tracking beach sand into the foyer, but imPorts tend to get away with whatever they want to wear, so long as what they're wearing is a glowing nanite tattoo. Their first drink is on the house, between the hours of four and eight.
The bar is the restaurant's centrepiece, round and glowing with a wide cylindrical fishtank reaching up for the ceiling, and the floor is dotted with tall stand-up tables and sparse seating. The lighting has a natural feel, with broad glass windows letting in the summer.
Sitting alone and close to the front would be Gabriel Gray. He's traded in his usual wintry villainous black for light linens and a short-sleeved shirt, sunglasses folded and hung at his collar, and he is drinking a Bloody Mary, because he's that asshole. It's more meal than cocktail, loaded with celery and shrimp and string beans, although he's barely imbibed. He uses a straw to fidget with it and mix in its spices and salt as he people-watches instead. People-listens, too, sensitive hearing soaking up a diverse amount of conversation, filtering through it, both inside the restaurant and beyond.
There is a moment where he tenses, imperceptibly, and then relaxes. He thinks about it, and ducks his head and drinks his vodka-dense tomato juice through a straw. Waiting.
Barely a minute later--
A shriek heralds chaos near the entrance. The maître d' at her station is the first victim, grabbed by the arm and held at gunpoint, as three figures suddenly crash through into the restaurant with all the tact and confidence of a herd of buffalo. They are all in black but they aren't uniformed, save for that they all have their faces covered with bandannas, noses and mouths, and sunglasses reflect light and make shadows of their eyes. There's a fourth -- he's in the back, and his presence is only heard from the floor by the echoed sound of a gunshot from the kitchens. ]
WHERE: A beachside restaurant in Cape Canaveral.
WHEN: On a day in mid-July.
WHAT: Some criminals interrupt the daytime drinking of others and some heroes, probably, retaliate.
WARNINGS: Violence! And guns. Will add more if necessary.
[ Beach-facing and luxurious, The Fishbowl sees patronage at all hours of the day, from a buffet breakfast to midnight cocktails. Right now, it's at an easy afternoon with a long summer's drawl, sky bright and hot. The dresscode teeters between upscale and swimwear, sandals tracking beach sand into the foyer, but imPorts tend to get away with whatever they want to wear, so long as what they're wearing is a glowing nanite tattoo. Their first drink is on the house, between the hours of four and eight.
The bar is the restaurant's centrepiece, round and glowing with a wide cylindrical fishtank reaching up for the ceiling, and the floor is dotted with tall stand-up tables and sparse seating. The lighting has a natural feel, with broad glass windows letting in the summer.
Sitting alone and close to the front would be Gabriel Gray. He's traded in his usual wintry villainous black for light linens and a short-sleeved shirt, sunglasses folded and hung at his collar, and he is drinking a Bloody Mary, because he's that asshole. It's more meal than cocktail, loaded with celery and shrimp and string beans, although he's barely imbibed. He uses a straw to fidget with it and mix in its spices and salt as he people-watches instead. People-listens, too, sensitive hearing soaking up a diverse amount of conversation, filtering through it, both inside the restaurant and beyond.
There is a moment where he tenses, imperceptibly, and then relaxes. He thinks about it, and ducks his head and drinks his vodka-dense tomato juice through a straw. Waiting.
Barely a minute later--
A shriek heralds chaos near the entrance. The maître d' at her station is the first victim, grabbed by the arm and held at gunpoint, as three figures suddenly crash through into the restaurant with all the tact and confidence of a herd of buffalo. They are all in black but they aren't uniformed, save for that they all have their faces covered with bandannas, noses and mouths, and sunglasses reflect light and make shadows of their eyes. There's a fourth -- he's in the back, and his presence is only heard from the floor by the echoed sound of a gunshot from the kitchens. ]
no subject
Her Silk sense had started shrieking, enough that she winced and nearly spilled her drink all over her (very nice!!) blouse. She's already out of her seat and heading towards the bathroom when the gunmen burst in. No time for a costume change, then. Feeling the gunmen's eyes on her, Cindy slowly puts her hands up, trying to catch the gaze of the maître d'. Inside, her mind is racing: how to get the hostage away safely, can she get into her costume without anyone noticing, maybe she can attribute some spider enhanced punches to hockey powers, she had really wanted some hash browns...]
no subject
or dad-d. as the case may be, when you are a rambunctiously disgusting seventeen-year-old.
but even in absence of normal human vulnerabilities, drinking a lot means peeing a lot. as such. when the robbers come bursting in, kavinsky is just stepping out of the men's room, lifting up his fingers to smell the residual perfume of the soap on his hands. his grimace, behind his splayed fingers, is as much for the scent as for the intruders. for a moment, he thinks that they might be russians-- and fear makes his perception blurry, when he looks for nullifying devices. ultimately, what grounds him is the sight of the dad he was trolling for for d.
not actually that old-- mid twenties, maybe, a postgrad with a surreptitious air about his day's pursuit, because of infidelity rather than homophobia. seated at the bar, the older boy is blanched with terror, staring at the doors, one hand closed around the watch on his wrist, trying -- surreptitiously also-- to remove it without anybody noticing. it's heavy and gold; a family heirloom.]
no subject
Her gaze flickers to try and gauge just how many plants they might have in this place, and her hands are raising, but slightly angled to conceal the dark brown thorns pressing through the skin of her hands and stretching into long claws. )
You've gotta be kidding me.
( Quiet, disgusted, irritated and it has very little to do with her slowly defrosting marguerita. She glances along the bar, taking in the other people here and wondering if this is really going to go down, or if anyone else is used to fighting. People and guns and losing and taking are things she is very familiar with. Letting someone do it? Not so much. )
Are you serious? ( Louder, that. She feels amped on the Sun, and these guys are assholes. ) Let her go.
( sounds like: moron. )
no subject
Caitlin has been trying different things to try and shake that feeling of homesickness. Today's attempt includes getting out of Heropa for a while, hoping that a change of scenery would do her some good. She isn't much for the beach, as fair-skinned as she is, but she can certainly enjoy it from the bar at the restaurant. In front of her is a half-finished vodka tonic, the lime garnish set on a napkin on the side.
Honestly, the place is nice, but it isn't doing much for her mood. She's about to settle her tab and leave, when that shriek pierces the air. Her instinct is to duck, and to reach for her phone to call Barry. But there isn't time for either, not when the three push into the room. She's caught half-on, half-off her barstool, her hand in her purse closed around her phone.
And it's a long moment where she tries to decide if she should let it go and put her hands up, or not. ]
no subject
The two others are now among the patrons, roaming like wolves. People on their feet are shoved to the ground, or wrenched out of their chairs. One of them speaks, his voice booming and not even faintly muffled by the thin cloth covering his mouth; ]
Everyone on the ground. Everyone on the ground, and no one gets hurt. Make this quick, we want your wallets, watches, jewellery, [ says the ringleader, a facetious kind of plodding tone to his list. ] And I bet some of you have your hand on your cellphones--
[ Concealing sunglasses make it hard to tell, but Caitlin can maybe sense when his gaze lands on her. If she cares to look, their emotions are all similar; riding high on adrenaline, predatory, anxious in the way cornered animals might be, despite their positions. He gestures with his gun, suggesting she comply. ]
--and you can drop them too.
[ Tomato juice and vodka stains the pristine white cloth of Sylar's table when he is among those grabbed and shoved. Rude. Around him, people are emptying their wallets, loose cash. He doesn't seem frightened when he finds himself on his knees, his fingers making fidgety work of his own silver watch, but the rolling stare he gives the shover is peculiarly sharkish, blankly assessing.
His attacker rounds on Rosita; ] Get the fuck down and shut your mouth.
[ The final fourth emerges from the kitchens, empty-handed, save for his gun. He's bigger than the rest, and, with the door to the mens' not positioned far from the back, he's in prime position to reach and grab Kavinsky by the scruff of his scrawny neck in an effort to drag him to his knees. ]
no subject
Time to bend the rules a little. Cindy makes as if to lower herself to the ground, but instead grabs a nearby serving tray and quickly hurls it at the gunman coming out of the kitchen hard enough to break bones. She then lunges at the man holding the maître d', moving almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Normal humans can jump that far, right? Must be an imPort thing.]
cw c-word
it almost hurts, but superpowers are as superpowers do-- the pain exists more in concept than reality, the understanding that he would be in pain were it not for whatever combination of nanites have granted him his invincibility. he spits a curse, something in bulgarian. if anything is wounded, it's his pride; he's only a scrawny seventeen-year-old kid, and COKE STRENGTH!! only gets you so far in the high-stakes game of we're being robbed at gunpoint by full-grown man goons.
but then a serving tray hits the man who's got him. wrang. kavinsky is close enough to his attacker to hear the grinding pop of bones breaking. his spiky head shoots up. he traces the metal back to its launch point, and sees a young girl??? ??? but there is no time to question his usual misogynistic attitudes. there is no time for anything. there is only time to lunge for the robber's gun. he snatches it out of the man's hands with very little care that it might go off and accidentally hurt someone. that someone certainly wouldn't be him.
click. kavinsky cocks the gun, leveling it at his captor's face. it does mean his back is terribly exposed to the rest of the room, but he's sidling around in a minute, and reckless anyways.]
Suck on cunt taffy, you fucking prick, [is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. not productive. but fortunately he thinks to add,] Which one's in charge?
no subject
In the moments between Big Man With A Gun Near Her Face yelling and Wow That Sure Was A Jump Girl and Colourful Language Boy pushing into action, Rosita's gaze drops to the guy near her - fiddling with his watch, but calm. Good. There was something grounding in someone else's calm even if she didn't need it.
And then things start happening fast, and there's a familiar twist in her gut and push of adrenaline in her system. Where Rosita comes from, you move fast, or you wind up dead, and you might not be lucky enough for that to be fast. Rosita twists, the long claws extending from her knuckles razor sharp and aiming to carve through guy's hand. If she can knock it away and kick it to Calm Guy, then she will.
Her other hand driving immediately towards his face. He's taller than her - not hard - and she's not sure if she'll just knick his cheek or slash across his eye. Either way, he'll find it hard to shoot, she hopes. She's seen people keep fighting through all kinds of crazy bullshit. )
no subject
It's hard not to sense when the man's gaze settles on her, especially when he gestures with his gun. There's a half-second thought given to refusing, but she isn't trying to get shot, or get someone else shot. Her hand drops the phone back in her purse, and she drops to her knees, keeping her stool between her body and the room.
Then everything just erupts.
Three others begin to engage the men, leaving just one loose. There's no way Caitlin could even attempt to take him — her power isn't suited for fighting, that she's learned yet, and physically, it would be laughable. No, she's counting on him being distracted and her having enough time to reach back into her purse for her phone. It isn't Barry she dials, though. She taps out '911' on the numberpad and sets the phone face down on the floor, the mic turned outward. ]
no subject
The biggest gunman who'd set Kavinsky on his knees only has time to look up when the tray from Cindy comes spinning for him, catching him at the elbow, splitting bone. It hits, he goes down, his gun is out of his hands, and he steers a wild eyed look up at the teenager pointing his gun at his face. His bandanna around his mouth billows damply with a huff, but he says nothing, watching Kavinsky with an expression that's gone dog-ugly behind striped material, his dark glasses.
Up front, there's a tangle of Cindy, gunman, and maître d'. She's moving faster than any human has a right to, but his finger is on the trigger. He squeezes it.
A bullet buries into the ground having carved a line along the maître d's neck as his aim is knocked out of alignment. The thunderously loud crack of gunfire sends a ripple of fear through the restaurant, first blood drawn, and she's on the ground and bleeding and white-faced, but released from playing hostage as Cindy's momentum slams the gunman to the ground. It's a struggle from there, attempting to nose the weapon into the imPort and shoot a second time. He squeezes the trigger again, and where the bullet goes is probably up to the girl on top of him.
Almost at the same time, perhaps a crucial second after, Rosita's thorns dig into hand flesh of the third man who had rounded on her. His gun drops, it goes kicked, slides across the ground.
Rosita's next swipe drags his glasses off his face and leaves a few fine red tracks across the brow. He is quick to react, cocking an arm to aim a rough bare-knuckled blow to her stomach with the kind of automatic brutality of someone who's done this before, whether to women specifically or otherwise. His other hand is splayed open, flesh cleaved to the bone and bleeding freely. Clumsily, he's backtracking out of that tangle and reaching for his jacket, and pulling out a folding knife. ]
Red, [ he manages, muffled, urgent. ]
[ 'Red' is a name, or a nickname, anyway. It belongs to the fourth man, the one who'd been speaking, his attention broken from Caitlin as all three of his men enjoy their own personalised crises. He grips his gun, considering the maître d' on the floor, the skinny kid towards the back, the fact that the man who called for him is missing his gun. They should be collecting their spoils, by now, not trying to control the crowd, and yet here we are.
He raises his gun, and shoots twice. (Sylar, where he's gone ahead and just fastened his watch back on his wrist, flinches as the knife-edge of that thunder pierces superpowered hearing. Unseen, he palms the gun, but doesn't put his finger on the trigger. A flare of irritation through that deep, dark calm.) ]
On the ground, now, [ bellows Red.
On his knees and gripping his broken arm, the man at Kavinsky's mercy gruffs out: ] He is, [ before, surprisingly swift, he reaches out one meaty hand to close around pistol and Kavinsky's grip both, looking to wrench it out of the boy's grasp without particular care for what happens to his fingers. It's not his preferred hand, his injured arm folded to his torso, but like he gives a fuck.
Red is moving for Caitlin, in that next moment. There's probably a threat hinged on the end of his first order. Or the nice lady gets it. But his attention is drawn, then, when the handgun that Sylar picked up innocently slides across the ground at a spin, coming to a halt on within reaching distance of-- well. Of both Red and Caitlin.
And the gunman is inclined to react first, too distracted by the prospect of a loaded gun falling into unknown hands to think about where it came from -- and isn't expecting it when a finger of lightning leaps from Sylar's hand and gets him on the thigh, the deadweight of his own electrified leg dragging him to the ground. ]
no subject
This is where she forgets herself. Attempting to incapacitate the gunman while also taking the loose handgun that was just thrown on the floor out of play, Cindy charges forward, silk threading out of her fingers to stick the gun to the floor even as she moves to bring a hard downward kick into the solar plexus of the leader. A couple more hard punches to the head should do it.
She looks up, catching the eye of the redhead near the gun briefly before moving to aid the guy tussling with the big guy only to realise that most people can't shoot webbing out of their fingers.]
Crap crap crap...
[Maybe no one noticed??? A litany of self recrimination runs through her head as she continues towards Kavinsky. It was only a little bit of webbing. Hardly anything! There's a lot going on! So much punching and shouting! Like the punch she's aiming towards the big bad guy's head!]
whilst while exhausted & w/o scrollback on plane, let me know if there are major misread issues
if he were a better person, he'd be insisting to his savior that her agony really isn't worth his electronics and jewelry. the phone is import standard, and while his earring is diamond, he can literally dream those out of thin air. instead, he's preoccupied first with the effort of playing keepaway from a man who can't actually hurt him. secondary to that, he's also distracted-- by gunshots, by screams, by the diminishing prospect of getting off with a cute frat boy tonight, and of course, by the spectacle of the leader "red" vs the finger-ejaculate. i will have you know that kavinsky is normally okay at handling stressful situations-- once upon a time, he pulled some fast and furious driving and whipped out a pistol to shoot a bonafide nightmare monster dead.
there's just a lot going on. later he will write to the editor about his lack of combat powers.]
Th'fuck? [he says, mostly to cindy, promptly losing hold of the handgun.
his spiky head whips around to glare at his attacker again. and perhaps it's because the sight of cindy's injury reminded him of his own gift, or because he's an ornery bitch anyways. but kavinsky thinks to pick up his feet and aim a hearty curbstomping the older man's crotch.] Hey— [he risks only the briefest glance up at cindy.] Hey!
no subject
She doesn't have time to think about the others, yet, not exactly, but habit has her keeping an awareness on what's going on around her.
Her first instinct is kill. That's the way it is, kill or be killed, destroy them before they can destroy you, never let that happen again. Never another Terminus, never the kinds of losses they've seen and felt so far over and over again, humanity tearing each other apart. Her left hand wraps about his throat, and the thorns growing her her right stretch longer, lingering over his eyes even as she stays her hand and few inches above his face.
This isn't home. He doesn't have to die. She inhales, exhales. He doesn't have to die.
Her hand tightens around his throat, and she glances between Phone Girl and Calm Guy, because the fuck is going on and also are they okay and what the hell just came out of that person's fingers?
It's as much of a nice job or stay alive as she can offer anyone right now, and the sentiment is lost in the bared teeth and knotted brow. )
after. closed to enid.
Sylar is neither injured, nor a ne'er-do-well. Not today, anyway.
Whether he was a hero is for the jury to decide, but he is at least a hero to precisely two exotic fish that are circling one another within a jug intended for water of a better class than the aquarium water he'd scooped them from. Having delivered his statements to the law, he is seated outside on concrete steps descending towards the board walk, jug and fish balanced between his knees and secured with his hands as he watches ocean darken as the sun sinks somewhere far behind him.
He turns his arm to glance at where his pending registration is marked on white skin, lost in thought. Not even really registering the fact his superhuman hearing is picking out an approach from the ongoing clamour of heartbeats, footfalls, and conversation polluting the air. ]