1964-11-23 - Rumble in Harlem
Summary: Ghost Rider on his chopper and Wakanda forever!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
shuri reno tchalla robbie 

Is there a quiet evening in Harlem? The question might better be answered by the ones who live in the thriving community, as understated as that growth may be to the larger world. The rumble of the subways is persistent and up the steps walks a young woman. Upon reaching the last of the cement stairway, she pauses and looks back down. %R
"I do not think I'm as impressed as I should be with their system." She speaks with an easy familiarity that belies her serious expression to whomever it is a few strides back. "Their technology works, yes, but it could be vastly more effective." Her light-brown eyes scan their surroundings out of habit.

It's more open, the outlet of the descent down to the subway a square lit by an overhead street lamp. A breeze rustles loose leaves along the concrete. In the distance, someone's yelling with a window open and another chimes in with a sharp retort. A car horn honks, startling up a feral cat from an alleyway. It skitters off and Shuri squints at it.

"Do you think they — "

The cry of shock interrupts her sentence and she wheels, already crouched. It's a mugging, an effort involving at least four thugs to the one hapless bystander. Across the street, they converge and drag the man down. Feet fly, thumps proof of contact to the victim's torso. The leader's quick to grab up the man's shirt and lift him up, snarling something.

The rumble of the New York subway lines and the metallic squeal of the brakes does not inspire confidence for the average commuter. For T'Challa, it's akin to a miserable experience. None of this shows in his thousand-yard stare. Let the provincials think he is in awe of their tubes conveyed on zapping rails. "The condition of the platforms is concerning. I wonder what antiquated system of buttons and switches…" His thoughts trail off, before they turn unwanted heads and earn stares from proud, prickly railway engineers he could teach a thing or two. Another thing chalked up to learning.

He flicks an infinitesimally small fragment of string off his black lapel. The navy greatcoat is probably excessive for the somewhat mild temperatures. His hands remain in the pockets, avoiding the slurry of handprints left on the rails as he follows behind Shuri. "The city is beautiful, nevertheless."

Yes, he even says that catching the tremolo thump of a rising heart rate, the skitter of breath faster to allow for better aerobic activity. Where his sister is already wheeling, he takes a somewhat softer approach, gauging the situation for critical information: who, ethnicity, what weapons they carry, others coming to help, the immediate risk. Out come the gloved hands and he flexes his fingers.

Robbie comes down the street in his motorcycle, wearing his signature black leather jacket with the white inverted u decal on his front, a white hoodie underneath, coal black jeans, and combat boots. His motorcycle, a victory model with what sounds like the parts of a yamaha, purrs loudly as he comes down the street. Apparently already on the hunt for trouble, Robbie sits there a moment, as if daring the thugs if they -really- want to mug the poor fellow, or threaten his life.

Either way….if they continued, then they would be dealing with teh Ghost Rider. Though Robbie doesn't quite notice anyone else -but- those thugs and their would-be victim at the moment.

A cry in the air rose like lightening bearing down on gravel; a ca-caw heralding baleful omen. The large, black crow followed trailing in teh airand perched on lamp post. He fluffed wings out as if to maybe 'shoo'the asshole or wrn him: hey fuckwit, you chose the wrooooong neighbourhood. In truth it was 'Robbie' there's a dude, come help the dude, I have no thumbs!' Reno was really glad that really, no one really spoke 'bird' around here to know what a chicen the crow was. Still, he tried to get the guy help. He oculdn't be a hero, but he could facilitate the hell out of heroics!

Shuri wrinkles her nose as she glances over at her brother. Her words are in the fluent language of their homeland.

"They have no pride and no honor. We should deal with them. Let the American police come when called. They will be too slow and I will not let them land another blow." Swish, there she goes, darting across the street heedless of traffic — sliiiiiide across a taxi hood, fearless of the panicked honk of a horn — and the first thug looks up as her boots make a soft pat-pat upon landing.

"Uh, hey — " and he swats at the man next to him. He looks up from thumping the top of his sneakers into the victim's ribs and curses.

"'Ey, man, we got eyes!" The hiss makes the ring-leader straighten from rifling through the sprawling man's coat and his eyes narrow.

"Step off'a our business, assholes." A point to both Shuri and Robbie, though it lingers on the motorcycle rider. "Or there's a bullet with your name on it." A crow is a crow is a crow and is ignored, since…well, it's a crow, at least to their knowledge. Unless T'Challa's done anything more dramatic than his sister, he's a relative unknown and not a focus of attention.

"So eager to reap the grain, you will end up with seeds stuck in your hair," T'Challa murmurs. His admonishment holds none of the force he could normally back up that sort of statement with, possibly because he likes the shape of his nose. No one casually bothers Shuri without paying the price. He eases open the coat to allow his full stride forth. She runs ahead and he follows through the disrupted trail, giving not a sound to speak of. Certain conveniences would be lovely to dispatch with right now.

Slim, murderously sharp metal claws adorn his gloves, finished to be nearly as black as the rest of his garments. He doesn't exactly hasten his pace, scanning for an opening where a run up the wall gives useful leverage. Any kind of rumbling motorcycle earns a look from the side, avoiding being blinded by the headlight. As for the crow… he sees you, crow.

Bad leader. He receives a lengthy look. This, in English, is clear, for all its accent. "You can decide. Run now or kneel. Yes?"

Robbie cracks his neck at the thugs when they threaten him. Threatening the present incarnation of vengeance is not a wise action by any means.

The wheels of Robbie's motorcycle catch on fire…hellfire, to be exact, and the motorcycle takes a more sinister appearance, looking coal colored and only slightly more…skeletony. He drives forward, regardless of the actions of Shuri and T'Challa. Those thugs really did pick the wrong neighborhood. A perfect hellfire flame trail follows his motorcycle as he drifts to a stop, dismounting his motorcycle. "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough. Kindly put the fellow down before you find my boot so far up your ass your gurgling on leather." he cracks his knuckles a moment, afterwards flicking his keys into his hand…one of his trademarks.

Reno neatly folded his wings beahind him leaning forward paying close attention. Lawn dart formation! He could, in theory try some brave shit like trying to bird-grapple that gun. While that would look cool it's also a great way to get people shot. "Ca-KRAAAW!" he crowed. Which was Corvid for: Jackhole, one guy alone has you surrounded and there's like two more dudes with my cousin there. Don't ask me how that work out mathematically, I'm a bird. Just run now, dipshit or this will go really bad! He was trying to be helpful!

Ah, and here's brother to back her up. What ferocity first showed in Shuri's expression melts and rehardens to something more lean and probably no less terrifying to behold. The power of family is never to be underestimated. She has no gloves with Vibranium claws, but…a few tricks up the sleeves of her coat may come into play if their push gains a shove back. She settles into a loosely-martial stance next to him.

The crackling of hellfire, however — that's enough to make her sidestep, nearly into T'Challa, and she stares, unable to help it. "Do you think he's an envoy of Sehkmet? I don't know him," she says quickly in English, trusting her sibling to keep a sharp eye on the thugs.

The thugs? Oh yeah, now they're nervous. There's no easy way to run, so they crowd closer together. The leader begins to reach back a hand behind his waist, probably to pull out a gun and begin shooting. Probably. The crow's loud cry is enough to make even him flinch now and he crosses himself with his free hand, even as his wrist disappears entirely under his jacket. The victim groans and curls in on himself like a salted slug.

Is it really necessary for the big brother to side-eye his sister to hurry her behind him? "No," he answers, his eyes shining onyx in the midnight glow of hellfire bursting alive. He knows that smell. The one of clean fire and flesh peeling, as well as he does gun oil or the wet, sweat-damp fibres clinging to armpits and chests. The signature of Robbie's presence once gained won't ever be forgotten by him, no matter how much he might like.

Having one's thunder stolen would matter if he were inclined to the showiest entrances, but no, he's not. T'Challa draws back a step and remains very much on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. One of them moves and he's already calculating to interpose himself in front of that damn bullet. Because nothing spells trouble like 'I shot the king, oops.'

Robbie sighs a moment. "Alright…." and it looks like a demonic fire dances in his brown eyes…those brown…soulless looking eyes. "Your choice. Time to pay for your sins."

and that's when it happens, the transformation. The skin on his head seems to burn away like embers under his skin, turning to that of ash as it disintegrates brutally in a cruel manner, layer by layer until a bare, dried skeletal skull remains, though it is engulfed in Hellfire, it's eyes looking like the windows to Hell itself.

The Ghost Rider greets the thugs with only a breath that would cause most who hear it to double over in terror, but the Rider isn't going for fear, it's going for vengeance. It read their souls in the process. it didn't like what it saw.

The shift in Ghost Rider's form is enough to make Shuri dance around to the other side of her brother, still staring. Never mind the thugs, this is the truly scary thing here at this point. She's dropped to silence and side-stepped behind her brother.

Between the demonic being and the noiseless threat of the siblings, it's enough to make the thug scatter. They split like a covey of quail, each going off in different directions. Never mind the gun! Bullets look like they won't solve any of the problems at hand here, especially when a dude with a flaming skull for a head is gunning for one instead.

T'Challa's choices dwindle greatly. Protect others or protect kin. Alas, the choice was made for him long before he reached this point. The claws flicker in the glow of a thousand etched moments of pain and grief. He doesn't quite have to lash out. The group running is satisfactory enough, but while Robbie has the task of looking terrifying as the Rider, he has another role.

He hurries over to the target of the beating and immediately performs a quick check, feeling for pulse, the pace of breathing.

Ghost Rider narrows it's skull eyes…if that's even possible..at the thugs who ran. Though it -slowly-…methodically turns to look then at Shuri, as if reading her or examining her, though only through her eyes. Though she soon finds herself safe from the Rider.

Though then the Rider turns to look at Black Panther, growling for just a moment as the Wakandan King checks the victim. Finding him innocent as well. Ghost Rider returns his attention to the crooks…quite a few of them murderers for casual pleasure. Ghost Rider no like. With a growl, The Rider seems to be approaching his motorcycle, walking past Shuri to get there.

With the would-be muggers scarpering as fast as their legs can carry them, it does leave the three would-be heroes behind to consider one another. Shuri, silent but deadly, continues to keep her front squarely upon the Ghost Rider. She trusts T'Challa; he's not envoy of Sehkmet, but another being entirely — an unknown to be doubted.

"Keep your distance." That's a soft warning from her towards Robbie.

The victim makes a soft sound of pain as he's carefully looked over. The breathing is steady if not catching at some points. A medic would recognize signs of a fractured rib. It's the possibility of internal bleeding that ranks as highest risk now, evidenced in how he remains curled over, unable to straighten without rusty cries of agony escaping his lips.

Master of science is T'Challa, and not better than common battlefield medicine, wrapping wounds on the hunt. A wildebeest kick to the ribs is no different than an impact with a vehicle. He can do only so much. "This man needs medical attention," he says simply to Shuri in their native language, a strain common to Bantu but not quite that. Bending to take the man in his arms, he has little trouble about picking up someone with a broken rib carefully. Forgive the damage and the worst pain, but at least he is ginger about it. The weight isn't the problem and the finesse is great. "I cannot leave him in this place. They may never come and our conscience will not be clear of the mischief done tonight."

It's a risk: the Rider is nothing of this world and he radiates his own divine mantle of a kind. Careful, slow movements take him closer to Shuri, closer to being out and about. Ghost Rider better not be grinning too meanly about that.

The Rider seems to almost ignore Shuri when she speaks to him. Which would be insulting if Ghost Rider just didn't have a severely placed one track mind. Though with that, T'challa is also ignored, though the victim gets a glance from the Rider…a single, nightmarish glance. "He'll live."

Those infernal words had a strange power to them, but it was the words that were spoken. But with that, the Rider mounts the Hellcycle, and drives away…

in the same direction those crooks ran off. The Ghost Rider hunts tonight.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License