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Lambert has arrived.
*
There have been rumours peddled around the low corners of Chinatown and Hell's Kitchen. Stories about certain shipments being under especially heavy armed guard. The priceless cargo? Every other tale speculates it's a treasure beyond even tiger and rhino parts.
A dealer in a bar in M-Town is supposed to be offering hard cash and quick healing if someone wants to pony up a kidney for a buyer who asks no questions. It's a sick service but you figure, desperate times, desperate measures. $750 is a lot of money…
An party house in Harlem supposedly sees a lot of people going in and no one coming out. The girls are loose, the booze is cheap, the guys are sauced. Funny, there's a Vietnamase guy always watching the place — or Thai or Laotian or Chinese, who can tell the difference?
*
Chinatown, a grey morning. The wind is blowing a bit too hard, flapping awnings and scattering garbage. It's the hour when all the goods for the day come in. Service alleys teem with activity in form of dented trucks and old white transport vans. They weave through the main marketplace, and turn off into the drives. Sometimes they're all from the port or a given warehouse. This fleet is weird for being white, and manned by far more labourers in black than anyone needs. A few of the early risers stop sweeping or wiping down their doors to hasten inside. They know trouble when they see it.
*
It was an offhand comment on the part of Charles Xavier. That Scott was perhaps no the best suited to investigative work. He meant that the glasses can draw notice, of course. But what Scott heard was that the professor thought there was something he wasn't good enough at. So of course he had to go and prove otherwise.
To be fair, the professor wasn't wrong.
Scott's neatly-pressed chinos and button-down shirt don't quite blend in here, and neither do the ruby-quartz glasses he wears. He has his visor in his pocket in case of trouble, but he's at least trying not to stand out. He can pass for a tourist. Maybe.
*
Lambert is by a small grey van, the back open and fresh fish straight from the ocean going small ships on a small raft of ice inside. He is there a little before some of his competitors, and as a result is in a position to bribe the fishmonger to save the best of the salmon and tuna for himself. He has a woollen sweater on instead of his varsity jacket, and is handing over a couple of simple bills as he negotiates cheating out the diner down the road. However, as the fleet swings in, his salesman suddenly shuts up shop, closing the van and heading off. Lambert is left scratching his fleece, frowning. Hey. His bribe! He, at least, just looks like the average occidental restauranteur.
*
Eshu has been practicing pretending to be Abeo Layeni, to fit in better with the mortals: but that doesn't mean he's any good at it. It doesn't help that he doesn't actually have access to any of his horse's thoughts or memories, and though he's passingly aware of what life on earth is like, its imperfect, colored through years and years of responding to the calls of his people. He's decided he rather likes Chinese food, so he wanders the streets of New York watching people, teaching people, and looking for the best noodles he can find. That, this morning, finds him here. He's tall and athletic without being huge, and is dressed in simple jeans and a simple black t-shirt: that makes the beautiful, intricately carved staff of wood gilded in engraved metal rather stand out. Its a museum piece, some piece of far away culture that stands out: but he carries with it idly, tapping it along hte ground as he walks. Eshu knows it ruins his ability to blend in as Abeo, but with his brother gods looking for him? He is never far from the staff.
But there are trucks, and there is something curious about them. Is he not the god of curiosity? Not especially, but why not. He idly approaches the trucks with their black-dressed men, tapping his staff as he walks, his expression one of calm confidence. "What is this?" he murmurs to the staff's snake head.
*
Nyx is just shadowing the place. Bad pun. The girl is stalking through the umbral corners and darker places among the building soverlooking this section of the docks, letting the shadows cloak her from the view of most people. A man could be right on top of Nyx and most would never even notice how close they had gotten to her. She's wearing a dark gray hoodie, black jeans, black gloves, arms crossed over her chest while she observes what is going on. She notes each visible person in range, then turns her attention to determining what might be inside of the van. Sometimes Nyx walks, moving from hiding spot to hiding spot, but still sticking to the shadows as much as possible. They stick to her as well.
*
Sophie has arrived.
*
Fairly, any Caucasian, African or Native American sticks out like a red lantern. This early not many of the innovative artists or very poor artists, sometimes the same, wander down. Peking duck and century eggs, noodle dishes and cheap textiles appeal to the loads of Asians. A corner pastry shop should be doing a roaring business, but the procession brings one of the bakers out to pull down the corrugated metal rolling gate down halfway. He hides in the corner. Upstairs in windows, silhouettes pull shut bamboo blinds and dark curtains. Hot smells of crispy barbecue and intense spices mix with rotting meat and sickly sweetness. It doesn't smell right around the marketplace that has flowers and early vegetables, fish on slabs of ice and all kinds of butchered animals, few entirely known to western eyes. No one really sells, averting their gazes from the six white trucks headed deep. Minding their own business by pretending to be plants and such. Definitely not paying attention, nope.
*
Scott wasn't the only one who heard what the Professor had to say about what might be happening down here. Unlike him, though, Sophie "Mistral" Rousseau doesn't particularly stand out here — mainly because she's currently essentially invisible, her "ghostly" form gone colorless and blending in with the air around her as she hovers overhead, watching for events to unfold. As a not-/quite/-graduated high school student at the Institute, she might not exactly have permission to be here, and might get herself in some degree of trouble for tagging along. But she wants to prove herself, and this seemed like as good an opportunity as she might get…
*
Scott came looking for information about whatever happened at the rally not long ago. But this…looks like it could use a little attention. Except the man with the staff looks unusual as well. And the truth is, stealth just really isnt' Scott's forte. Coming up short on any other ideas, he moves toward one of the tables with the fish, keeping an eye on the vans as he does. At least the glasses hide where he's looking. "Hi, uh. I was wondering…what kind of fish is this?"
*
If Lambert was right on top of Nyx…she might notice that. Lambert has a very friendly grin, and he _is_ extremely fit…but he also has a rather friendly pudginess to him. Lambert likes his food, his wine, and his dru…never mind that one. No one needs to know. He may stand out but then again, he does come every so often for cheap cabbages and vine leaves. What he _wants_ is his fish. The chef puts his hands on his hips and mutters under his breath in Ancient Greek. Though as Scott speaks, he says in his friendly voice "Red Snapper," behind him.
*
Nyx
*
Nyx finally breaks from 'cover', though she darts from the shadow of a building to that of the van beside Lambert. She's quite stealthy even without her shadows guarding her, and soon takes upher casual stance with her back to the vehicle. If someone does see her they might figure she was jsut standing here. For… Some reason. Lambert gets a glance and that information is filed away. Shortly thereafter Nyx turns her gaze toward the sky overhead, finally bothering to sigh. She listens to the conversations in the market, trying to pick out anything that might be helpful. She continues moving from shadow to shadow for now, eavesdopping. Just in case.
*
Eshu leans against the wall, not very far away from where Scott is investigating some fish, but his dark eyes are only for the strange trucks. The look of rapt curiosity on his features is easy to read, and he doesn't really even try to hide his interest. With his mind, the god reaches out and lays his hand on the scales of chance, pressing down as he stares at the truck. There's nothing very overt about the curse, just a gesture with his staff as he leans. It might not even do anything, but the trickster's interest has been piqued. That never goes well for everyone.
*
"And sea bass," says the younger of two workers at the fish counter, totally not looking at Scott. Nope, not looking, eyeing up his knives while his father fiddles with the tape on a box. "Very good. Best fish, fresh today." Probably the truth in general terms. Two people who know fish, this is a promising thing.
The trucks rumble ahead, and the teen won't breathe easy until they are gone. It's like a reef going quiet because a shark went past.
Sunshine is filtering through the clouds overhead. A few beams lance off the windscreen of the middle truck. The driver throws his arm up and predictably shouts at someone beside him, which careens his truck right into a brick facade. The chain reaction for trucks four and five means trying to negotiate a narrow alleyway. Four bumps into three, five skids around the corner, and the last truck smashes into the wall. Its roll-up door latch gives way with a crunch as the vehicle rocks on its axles, brakes smoking. Up goes the door revealing four men armed with very real pistols being thrown about over a collection of crates on ice marked with the Cantonese symbols for 'Fish' and 'Fresh Fish' and 'Sea Bass.' One of them goes teetering over the edge when the truck finally stops. Nails pop out. And out goes ice and bloody organic bits, be those fish viscera or something substantially larger in a gush.
Mischief 1, subtlety -105 and a 20 yard penalty.
*
The look of surprise on Sophie's face is thankfully as invisible as she thought herself to be. Did that girl just /look at her/? Or was she simply gazing at the sky? A little bit spooked, the airy mutant is drifting toward a spot more or less overhead of where Scott is standing… when suddenly all Hell breaks loose in the form of the trucks' assorted mishaps. Worry about having been somehow spotted is left behind as Mistral readies herself for doing… something…?
*
"So, is this one of those markets where you're supposed to bart-" Scott's sociology experiment is going to have to wait, because there's one heck of a traffic accident going on here. And while he's not great at pretending, he is good at being a good samaritan or an interested bystander. "Sorry," he says to the fish seller. "Excuse me."
He turns from the stall, starting to jog over toward the site of the accident. "Hey!" he calls over, waving a hand. "Are you guys all right? That looked bad."
*
Lambert does not bother to say 'excuse me'. He watches blood and guts bounce around the place, and mooks with guns being tossed through it all. His eyebrows climb, And then he rubs the back of his neck, and steps on over with a sort of curious agility. He should back off. But. Well. He can use that guy in front of him as a human shield, right?
*
ROLL: Hope +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 10
*
Eshu can't help but pause. He is so rarely surprised, but the effectiveness of a bit of ill luck cascaded into something far more involved then he intended. Then again, that does happen sometimes: he is a god of chance, but chance can not be predicted. Eshu remains where he is, leaning and watching.
And then, another Eshu steps out from behind a street light near to where the box broke open, and he steps up to the viscera, crouching down staff in hand and regarding it curiously. He wanted to see what's inside, and so now he takes advantage, nudging ice and gore with the tip of his staff. "What have we here?" He pays the men with guns no mind at all.
*
The click of two safeties disengaged is hard to capture. Now, four tossed about thugs deciding then and there to boil out of the damaged truck. Two jump down and take up position, guns raised. The other two go hurrying to get the precious crate. A barrage of answers are shouted probably at one another, maybe the other truck that's limping down the alley with some fresh paint scraped off the hood. Someone speaks English.
"You! No for sale, go away!" It gets to the point. Scott and Lambert are not welcome. They have no reason to worry about a spill of wind that pretends to be a woman or the other way around. The driver tries to force the door open. No dice.
Out the passenger's side then, and his partner shouts at Eshu. "Away!" Yep, fancy fish. Fancy kidney-colored fish.
*
"…!" Nyx is forced to dive out of the hsadows of oen of the stalls as fish guts and viscera spill everywhere in asea of red behind her. She scrablbles a bit on the stone and is suddenly very visible, staring at the raw carnage unfolding forntof her. it maeks no sens,e of course. It takes her a moment to compose herself… WHich, really, is only to be She's just a tiny white girl. Excessively pale skin and very blue eyes, but unarmed and less than five feet tall. No one is going to take her seriously when the guns are being waved about. She approaches the truck from which the men were thrown so that she can check the cab, standing among the visceral chaos rained down upon the people in the market. Really. Nyx might even pass them without being looked at. She seems to have stopped caring, however. "I think the bigger mystery iswhy no one got crushed," the blonde muses as she gets clsoe.
*
Guns. Dangerous-looking guys with guns. That's what's gotten Sophie's attention at the moment, unsurprisingly enough. She's not quite sure how to read the situation, and even less sure if she should act, or how. For the moment, she's choosing to wait and follow Scott's lead, trusting in the experienced X-Man's judgement.
*
"Uh, yeah," Scott says, looking between the thugs as he gets a little closer to the trucks. "Wasn't looking to buy anything, just wanted to make sure there wasn't anyone hurt here."
While he plays the concerned bystander, though, he's taking in the tactical aspects of the situation. It's like the closer he gets to actual action, the more clearly he can focus and make decisions. All the background noise fades away. Four men with guns. The angle of the trucks across the alley. Bystanders. Walls.
"No need for guns, gentlemen," he says, holding out one hand as the other moves toward his glasses.
*
The chef begins to look suspicious, and taking a left at dubious, charges straight into body horror "Hey, hey…that's from a human! Those are human organs!" And totally ruined for any purpose other than being used as a pinata, as well. He peers out from around Scott, well aware that his face and head are the places of his body most immune to damage "What the hey!" Big swears for the otherwise placid Lambert. As Nyx speaks, he cannot help but say "Well, they weren't crushed _here_, eh…maybe they have some sort of maceration device where this came from." Lambert…no. Lambert does not do 'tactics'. He does souvlakis.
*
Undisturbed by gore, Eshu-by-the-box reaches out and picks up the roundish little red thing, lifting it up, … sniffing it … and blinking slowly, "This is not a fish." he remarks, rising and turning an inquisitive look at the fellows. He lifts the kidney up, "In fact, its a kidney. I'm fairly sure its a *human* kidney. Mmn. I think someone needs to learn a lesson."
Eshu smiles.
"I hope this doesn't belong to any of my people. That would be unfortunate." His smile widens, white teeth showing, "For you."
Eshu-by-the-wall remains watching, curiously, his eyes flicking around from person to person. Who will be most interesting?
*
Two Chinese guards hold their ground, and the other two are going to actually pull up the fallen crate. They can't do much for all its contents, but something can be said for trying.
"Fish," says the driver, resolute in his conviction. It's fully possible he hasn't any idea of what he transports. And the moon might be cheese. Ice and chipped chunks lie on the dirty ground, and with a little effort then maybe something could be salvaged.
Eshu doesn't get a response other than dark eyes and possibly the conclusion they really don't have half a clue of what he's saying. English is a foreign language in these parts.
*
ROLL: Hope +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 16
*
ROLL: Nyx +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 2
*
"Human… remains…?" Nyx had just been turning from the van to look at the fallen organs. She glances at her shoes, which are splashed with red. Then the girl covers her mouth, making a grimacing expression. Nyx owuld go pale if she could actually get any paler than she naturally is.. the girl turns slowly to look around, studying everythign with wide eyes.
THere's a shiver and the young woman shakes her head. Slowly. She retreats a couple of steps and then turns. She's staring at one of the guards right now and then the girl snarls and lunges. She's fast. She's also small. The girl dives at the leftmost guard and moves to punch him. He rebuffs the blow and she tries again. Now they're tangled into a rather vicious brawl. Part martial arts and part trying to kick him in the groin or stomp his toes if he slips up. It's like a bear being attacked by a rabid raccoon.
*
"Right," Scott says slowly. "Hey, you know, an accident like this, someone should probably call the cops, get an accident report put in. It looks like you might lose a lot of product here," he points out, gesturing toward the array of bits and pieces now littering the streets.
And like it's entirely normal, he moves toward one of the downed boxes himself to start gathering it up and straightening them out.
*
Confusion and uncertainty. That pretty much sums up Sophie's state of mind at the moment, Well, that and the wave of disgust at having heard the gentleman with the staff declare the spilled viscera to be /human/. It's good that she doesn't really /have/ internal organs while in her airy state. It makes it much easier to avoid retching, or vomiting all over one's teacher who is almost directly below.
But then there's the short blonde who's started a brawl with one of the gunmen, but Scott still isn't… Ah. Comprehension dawns. And perhaps it would be good to help ensure he gets to finish what he's up to without fists or bullets intruding. Choosing the thug on the left at more or less random, Sophie concentrates on her aim for a moment, then…
There's an uncanny sharp tearing sound as the hammer-blow of air pressure is streaking toward its target. From the side, there's a visible ripple effect as the density of the atmosphere in its path is increased for the briefest of instants. From the point of view of someone unfortunate enough to be in its way, however, there's very little to see…
*
Without weapons or extreme super powers, Lambert is left looking this way and that. There is the Attack of the Fifty Inch woman. And then Scott is picking up organs. And that guy with the staff is poking bits with the edge of it. A _hmm_. Lambert pauses, he puts his hands on his hips, and he shakes a finger at the Tongs "You better not hit a woman! You are being _very_ naughty!" Yeah, guys. Don't hit superpowered women. Very rude. Lambert folds his arms.
*
The man who insists on 'fish'? Eshu-by-the-box smiles at him. A second later he murmurs, "Oluwa o." and the staff is flung out towards the man. It's inches away from his fingers when painted wood and engraved metal become flesh, and what was a staff becomes a snake. A snake that grows longer twists even as it flies through the air towards the man. The now living snake? Intends on play-acting like a rope, slithering around and locking the fellow up in its tight embrace.
"Now,…" He waves a hand, feeling the power of creation through the sacred conduit — Olofi — by which Heaven and the Earth are connected. He draws upon the sacred magic, and shapes it into a lesson. Eshu is a teacher, after all. The trick is cast out at the chinese men, and he smiles, "I believe the expression is 'when in rome…', though 'America' is more apt in context… How can you understand a people if you do not speak their language?"
*
ROLL: Hope +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 13
*
Six men total. It won't stay that way.
Scott covered in vomit would probably not be much of an improvement. His efforts to help carry a box are impeded by the sheer weight; ice is heavy. Especially as the two thugs have managed to get their prior cargo back to the truck when Sophie strikes after Nyx turns on another. The first victim isn't going down easily or slow, applying a rapid series of blocks to keep the shadowy woman from penetrating his guard. He makes it look so easy there's no way it can be anything but wing chun. The man blown off his feet blows a shot off too, the bullet ricocheting high into a brick building and leaving a puff of smoke and pulverized stone in its wake. But it gives some cover for the other two and the driver to fling his hands in a rude gesture. "What is wrong with you? Go! Get out of here, or Xi Lao will be infuriated." English. Yes, that. A growl of shock follows.
But it is what it is. The passenger bolts, and he backs up behind the truck. On the other hand, there is the little problem of the rest of the neighbourhood being full to the brim with Tong supporters, paid informants, and more. So two in battle, two fleeing, and two going to 'help' Scott by taking the last box. Because.
*
ROLL: Nyx +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 6
*
Well, it was worth a try at least. On the up side, when the men reach out to take the box from Scott, it frees up his hands. One slips into his pocket, and in a practiced move, he trades glasses for visor, firing a pair of blasts at the men before taking off for cover behind one of the vans. He knows the sound of those air blasts, searching the area for Sophie or the tell-tale signs of her presence.
*
Nyx is struggling with her opponent. By which it means she is going to lose. The angry, miniature blonde teenager is going blow to blow with a man whio is far mrore skilled than she is. She's lucky he doesn't want her dead; he might even find this test of skill amusing. She's been in fist fights but the Tong she has chosen is a true master of the art. The red flush is mroe vibrant on overly pale skin. This is going downhill for the girl quickly.
*
ROLL: Sophie +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 11
*
There's a slight shimmer in the air, as Sophie takes on visibility (though not solidity). "Perhaps I can be of some assistance," she says, speaking to Nyx, though she's not really expecting the blonde doing the badger impression to be fully cognizant of it, given how busy she is with her opponent. Her /taller/ opponent. Taller enough that the 'ghostly' mutant can loose another of her air bolts at the thug's head, with little risk of hitting the girl, instead. *SHRACK!*
*
Eshu-by-the-box lifts his hand, and beckons; the snake that was a staff slithers back over, rising up vertically in an impossible move for a snake, but as it does flesh becomes once more painted wood and engraved, gilded metal. His attention is drawn to Nyx and Sophie — but only for a moment, before he vanishes completely.
Eshu-by-the-wall continues watching, his expression thoughtful, his fingers tapping against the staff known as Sanctity of Deceit. To the staff's head he murmurs, "These are interesting mortals."
*
Hang on, was that a snake? Lambert is distracted, badly, by everything going on, and squints sideways, but there is no sign of the thing now. Hrm. He is turning around to Nyx, and though Sophie is handling matters, he cannot see the air moving, alas. So Lambert moves, surprisingly swift for someone with his general shape, head lowered, attempting to punt the Tong fighter in the head with his own. Just like a shorter player heading the ball in soccer.
*
One optic blast: one Tong guard blown off his feet. Multiply by two. Shake and serve with a mint garnish, and it's a Chinatown Spritzer. Think about it! Yummy.
The remaining fighters include one getting up after a heavy air bolt, and the second one knows exactly what he's doing to fend off the pale teenager. More like swatting her aside and not letting her hands go where she wants, his forearms pushing her punches or such wide. He simply sways and moves with a minimum of effort. Now that would all be very well and nice… except the elemental mutant isn't something he can swat away. Man is but a man even when slapped by the wind. Nor a pair of horns from a reinforced caprine skull that would do a very nice job of sending him flying further. Well, crap. Crappity crap crap for that fellow, who ends up in an unconscious heap. And thus the 'interesting mortals' are relatively successful.
The staff might just vibrate idly in agreement. Or hunger. What does Eshu feed his raggedy-ann viper?