2012 02 03 Good Samaritans

Log Title:
Good Samaritans

Morbius, Phantasm, Misty Knight

IC Date:
02/03/2012 late night


Brief log summary::
Morbius stops a mugging. Misty tries to stop Morbius. Mike is a good samaritan to the mugging victims.


There is no TS in this log::

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Chelsea isn't a bad neighborhood…exactly. Less gentrified, but hardly Hell's Kitchen. And yet, sometimes, bad things happen. Such is the case for an unlucky couple of hipsters on their way back from an evening out.

At the moment, the young man lies sprawled against an alley wall fronting a warehouse, bleeding from where he was pistol-whipped in the head. His young lady-friend has backed up near him, her denim bag lying on the street where she dropped in.

No fewer than three youngish men stand, blocking any egress, all with guns, cheap little Saturday Night Specials. One holds a wallet, the other two close on the young woman…the young man struggles a bit, barely conscious…as…





BLOOD! The scent hits him like a sledgehammer, a dark shape glides silently overhead…a vague shadow alights atop the warehouse roof, crimson eyes glittering as the scent compels him.

Misty is sitting up on a damn freezing rooftop, in her go suit which, while it makes her visible, doesn't do as much as she'd like against the slice of the New York wind.

"Ninjas, he says," she mutters under her breath. "Haven't seen a damn ninja yet." She's about to give it up for a lost cause for the night, when something flits across her field of vision, shadowy and quick.

"Aww, sookie-sookie now," she smiles, lips pulling back from her teeth in a predatory grin. "Finally, a little action." And she's on her feet, moving with nimbleness to leap rooftop to rooftop toward the warehouse where she thinks she saw the shadow. How does she do that in platforms? Trade secret. But her steps are sure.

With the release date finally hitting, one would think things might have let up with the publicity bookings today. But alas, that is not so. Returning from one such instance, wiped clean of makeup, dressed in normal street clothes, and his trademark hair tucked away in a ball cap. Surprisingly, the color attire is not all black as they blend a bit of blue and greys in there. But with it being the evening, fashion choices are kind of lost for the moment.

Nursing yet another cup of hot coffee, the musician seems a bit tired, with the lack of a smile on his face, one could argue that he seems rather irritable to boot. This could make for either a good or bad thing for him to be in as he eventually wanders to a position where he sees something in his periphiral vision. He turns his head, the distance not quite granting him a view of the pistols, but he does see a couple very much out numbered. "OYE! What the FUCK are you guys doing?!"

Yes. Definitely irritable.

As Mike calls out, one of the men turns, pistol swinging halfway around at the interloper. "What-" he begins, distracted, while his other two companions keep their focus, obviously a little professional.

Distracted, that is one thing the figure above is -not-. Focused, the scent of blood almost overwhelming him, crowding out the cheap body-spray, the gun oil, the grungy clothing, all other details pushed aside by the sweet, coppery scent. Morbius, the Living Vampire, slips quietly but swiftly over the side of the wall in a flutter of violet fabric.

After a moment, Mike can see a black and white shape crash into the man who was turning his way with a terrible, inhuman snarl…the mind of Michael Morbius shifts focus away from his prey, the sound not only instinctive, but to draw attention…beneath the hunger still lies a desire to ensure -he- is the target…not only to protect the innocent, but partially…deep down…to be punished by the pain and injury.

Misty thought for a minute she'd lost the shape in the shadows. But then a voice cries out, an there's a sound. A sound like something rabid and ravenous. Nothing human makes a sound like that. "Damn sure ain't a ninja," she mutters to herself darkly, knowing full well an escaped tiger or other major predator is going to be pushing her to her limits. She swings down from the fire escape, landing beside the couple. She spares the terrified pair a quick glance. But the perps are between them and the mouth of the alley. As is — "Ohhhhhhhh /shit/." Misty's tone is resigned, but still contains a faint hope of 'please don't let that be who I think it is'. She's connected enough to hear the rumors when Morbius blows an ill wind in her part of town.

When the man turns and the gun becomes visible, Mike's general look of irritation flashes more into something more along the lines of a 'Well shit' expression. One foot shifting back, Mike's free hand is already drifting towards the lid of his coffee cup, but before he has time to even try to say something else of a delaying type, Pistol Pete is getting jumped by something that seems a bit more irritated than Mike was entering into this situation. Annnd by all means, he's going to let that new guy deal with the gun toter however he wants. He turns his head to look to the two assailents still focusing on their victims. "Um, I'd suggest you guys just RUN." He offers up as what is likely the only advice he'll give them while his fingers undo the lid of his drink.

The pallid figure bears the rearmost thug to the ground, none too gently. Violet fabric 'wings' settle down to either side as his black-maned head snaps downward. His lips part wide, too wide, as he simply tears the man's throat completely open with a snap of teeth. The victim can barely get any noise out, a horrible gurgle that ends rather quickly. The sight is a nightmare brought to life, so swift, so terribly primal. But…

The taste shocks his system, and for a moment Morbius is lost as his body begins processing the blood almost as soon as it hits his stomach. But with that, his "condition" stabilizes, and the red haze clears, just a touch.

His body shifts, and he rises, some reluctance evident in his movements, but this is not -just- about a meal…people are still in danger and…odd…someone new is here, nevertheless, he proceeds with his 'plan' such as it is.

His growling, sepulchral voice rings out, directed at the two men, who are now trying to keep both Mike and the monster in sight, but both guns point Morbius's way as he speaks, "WHICH ONE IS NEXT?"
If -that- doesn't make him a target…his eyes flit to the victims - dammit, his eyes linger on the spilled blood for a moment too long.

'Run'. Good advice, and Misty would just love to see the couple behind her take it, but the man on the ground is out like a light from the blow to his head. The woman beside him is little better, trying to sob quietly and trying also to find something, anything, in her coat to staunch the bleeding.

As for the perps — she doubts they have any idea what they're up against, and expects them to stand their ground like the macho idiots they are. The apparent Good Samaritan doesn't seem in any hurry to take his own advice either? "What the hell," she hisses angrily through her teeth. It's going to come to blows. And bloodshed.

Misty takes a deep breath, calling her chi, and starts forward. It is not going to be pretty getting between Morbius and his prey, even if they are criminal scum. But they're human and getting turned into drinkboxes for a psycho vampire is not something that Misty can permit even if they were working toward attempted murder, assault and theft only a minute earlier. She's silent on approach, only her footfalls making small sounds against the grimy alley floor.

Misty doesn't bother with the banter, the witty repartee; that's not likely to rattle the opponent she expects to face now. There's a flash of silvery metal and a tiny subharmonic whir as the bionic arm readies for fighting. But still — the rumors are that there's a man under that monster somewhere. And she owes it to the both of them to try to reach him. "Doctor," she says firmly. "Doctor Morbius. Listen to me…" And then he's torn out the first perp's throat. She lunges forward, seeking to snatch that black hair and let momentum and the strength of her arm carry his face into the wall.

When the guns are very much settled upon Morbius and clearly are not on Mike, he does move. Away from where Morbius is taking out the one perp and a bit over to where it'd be a bit hard for the two gun toters to be able to see him AND Morbius at the same time. Then he becomes still. Seemingly waiting for something.

Distracted, careless, reliant on his fearsome appearance and healing factor to carry things off as he foresaw, Morbius is about to be…disappointed. As the remaining two men quickly debate fleeing in their minds, and begin to edge to the side, Misty moves, her right hand clamping down with inhuman strength. The Living Vampire is somewhat lighter than he looks as well, and he is snatched off his victim, a thick pool of blood languidly ooozing around his completely savaged throat.

He emits a short, sharp grunt as his flattened nose is flattened further by contact with the wall of the warehouse. Pain…he is used to pain, but being taken by surprise? Pulled off of his meal (which moments ago he was willingly abandoning)? -That- he does not react well to. The thirst itself has subsided a bit with the quickly gulped mouthfuls of blood two severed carotids can provide, but his own anger -

"Who DARES?!" he shrieks as one hand lashes out at the arm which holds him. Those claws can carve steel, can score the Thing's rocky hide, but Misty's bionic arm is something special.

Misty grins grimly. "Yo, Sam!" Apparently this means the shadowy good Samaritan whose presence she can only hear and kinda see, "Help the vics and GO! Seriously! Do not stick around for any hero shit." She draws back to repeat the blow, meaning to piledriver Morbius' face against the wall as many times as it takes to knock him out.

She hisses in pain. The claws don't do much against her bionic arm, but they do slash nicely on the downstroke through the midriff of her go-suit, cutting fabric and flesh. She's not going to be disemboweled, but now /she's/ bleeding too. "Great," she grates out through her teeth.

Mike's eyes flit close for a few moments, a twist of a shadow appearing further down the alley as well, but with the shriek, the shadow vanishes suddenly as Mike grimaces. Giving a shake of the head and noticing that the path got cleared of people with guns and Morbius and Misty have brought things to the side, Mike is already starting to move towards the couple as Misty barks out orders. Squatting down, he looks over to the woman, handing over his coffee, "Take this. Lid's undone, McDonald's type hot. Any of those assholes come back, toss it in the face." Greetings done with, he works to pick up the unconcious man.

Morbius's thoughts grow darker, the couple almost forgotten in his rage. He felt…metal? -Fine- then. More controlled, but still enraged, he reaches back to simply grip the metal arm holding his hair, sinking his clawtips into the metal with a bit of effort, even for him. A series of tiny *pops* sound as they pierce the surface, and the metallic hand jerks in a motion indistinguishable from that of a flesh-and-blood one.

He rises, twisting the arm about, maintaining his hold with his left hand, pushing out to hold whoever his assailant is at arm's length. He wants to see who has -dared- to…and the scent hits him again, so close, fresh blood. He pauses, who is this? He didn't mean to…

Misty winces. Though the arm is bionic, it's wired into her nervous system, and whatever those pops were — double plus ungood. There's a flash of pain so intense she can't help but gasp. The whirring of the powerhouse arm slows down, stops, and the arm drops away, taking with it any advantage she had against the vampire. But she's Misty Knight, and damned if she's going to let being one armed again stop her while people need protection.

"C'mon, then," she says, hard of voice even though the blood loss from the first pass is already ashening her skin, and the pain of holding up what is now easily twenty or thirty pounds of dead weight on her shoulder socket is making her list like a punctured catamaran.

"You want /them/, you gotta come through /me/." Tough talk for a woman so badly injured, but she's faced monsters befoe. She's keeping her feet, and her remaing left arm — her flesh and blood one — is up in a ready state. Her knees, though wobbly, are bent and loose as if she's preparing to make another strike — or defend from one. Sweat is beading on her brow, even as she forces her gaze to remain just to the right of those red eyes.

It just figures the time he doesn't wear overly dark clothing is the time Mike's carying a bloodied victim of a pistol whipping. He lives in NEW YORK for crying out loud, he should know better than that to wear clothes where blood will show up so easily. Grumbling, and a bit slowed down from having to basically talk the still concious member of the couple to come along. Ok, so maybe dragging the guy is also a contributing factor but, well…

He'd probably move a lot quicker without her. He turns his head to glance to the woman, nodding towards a nearby residential buildings. He's very much aware he shouldn't be moving the guy too much so a short trip to nearby shelter will have to do for now. They can work out the whole ambulance and cops thing later.

Scarlet-stained eyes flit from the claw-marks across Misty's midriff to her face, bionic arm? He damaged it, he knows who this is. It's been some time, but he has ever been aware of 'the community', even the fringes of it, and a name swims up into his mind, the arm thing -is- rather unique, after all.

Pale, spidery fingers release the prosthetic, allowing it to fall to Misty's side, "Why would you defend -them-?" he asks, almost automatically, "The couple would have been unharmed, I was only-" he hesitates then, his eyes going back to the wounds, not hungrily, but the wounds -he- inflicted in anger, "You're-" he won't say the word, and the guilt, like an old friend, is coming forth again, "I didn't mean-" God…he -promised-, no more of this! He cannot take a step back, against the wall as he is, but it is clear the fight has left him.
He stifles an urge to offer help, why in the world would she accept?

Misty knows what little time she has left to fight Morbius is ticking away. She's bleeding, and hurt, and now struggling with the dead weight of her arm. She's got only a couple of attacks left in her. Shock will set in quickly once she goes down. She can see the shadowy Samaritan in her peripheral vision, getting the feckless couple out of harm's way. Good. One less thing to worry about.

"You …know…why…" she hisses, on ragged, shallow breaths. And she doesn't say anything else. There's not enough breath left in her for conversation and fighting again. She lowers her brows at Morbius as he tries to explain or apologize. Whichever, it's taking all Misty's got to keep her gaze unflinching, though her eyes are starting to take on the glassiness of shock. She has no shot — none whatsoever — at taking him in in this condition, but she's too stubborn to give up. "You…stayin'…to turn…yourself…in…" she gasps, "Or…we…g-gonna…keep…dancin'…" He's a doctor. He can see it coming. Blood loss and shock are going to take her down before she can take more than another couple steps toward him. Her left hand is already drooping from its battle stance to move by inch size increments to her wounded midriff.

Upon reaching the entrance of the residential building, Mike opens it up, peering in to find a man working a desk near the front. "Oh good." He murmurs, starting to tug Mr. Unconcious right on in as he pointedly talks to the man. "Call 9-1-1. Tell them a man's been beaten, some vampire guy may have killed one of his attackers, and a woman may be in shock from the whole deal." Setting the man down, he gives a sigh as he closes the door behind him, glancing to the woman as she just stares, holding his coffee. "…You can keep that."

"You should have -left- them to me." the pseudo-vampiric scientist states, but there is little conviction to his words, "They would have killed, or worse…"
He straightens up a bit, his tone shifting a touch, almost a gentle lecture, "You know you can't fight like this. I cannot allow myself to be taken into custody, but-" His claws retract, inasmuch as they are able, their ivory tips still showing over his fingers, "Let me help, stabilize you. Get you to a hospital at least." There's a tiny, desperate edge to his voice, almost pleading. It's clear that he -is- rational, so much as he gets, but this is -his- fault, and the realization is as clear as the harsh daylight.

Sensible English? Well, well, that knock on the cranium she managed before he took her arm must've knocked some sense into him. "Then —" she takes a step, raises the arm, and — that's it for Misty. Her body checks out regardless of her stubborn intent. The metal arm lands heavily on the concrete, and the rest of her follows it down, leaving her crumpled in a heap next to the dead would-be mugger. Her blood begins to pool under her, close enough that it soon mingles with the blood wasted from the throatless gunman.

Misty's breathing is steady but still shallow and ragged.

As Misty falls, Morbius moves like lightning to her side, "DAMN!" he cries out, "MY fault." he mutters, "God. Not again…" he reaches back to where his cape attaches to his left side and withdraws a small trauma kit. Pockets, huh, this new suit was well worth the expense, it seems.

The man is a genius, he is a miracle-worker, and his hands move surely and carefully, antiseptic treatment, pressure bandage, a small shot of epinephrine to keep her heart thumping along, he speaks softly as he works, "I. am. still. a. doctor. and. I. will. -not-. let. this. happen."

His enhanced senses and his medical knowledge tell him she is stable, and he cannot risk staying. He rises smoothly, eyes moving skyward, then pausing, looking back down to her, "I- I'm sorry, Ms. Knight. But that doesn't absolve me of this." He won't let this go, a nuisance like Spider-Man is one thing, but this woman was only trying to help someone else. "I'll see you again." he notes, quietly, before rising straight up into the night. Home, he must go home. He must administer his serum, become human again…in form at least, for inwardly, he will still feel a monster.

Misty's body reacts to his ministrations. It isn't enough to bring her back to her feet, but it is enough for her to make a brief call. Or attempt to. Her hand is shaking too much for her to complete whatever comlink she was trying to open. It's moments later, after Morbius is some distance gone over the rooftops, that she finally manages it with her last bit of sensibility. "Spider," she gasps into it, "Morbius." And her hand falls boneless back to the concrete. The paramedics rush into the alley, checking both her and the victim. The former is loaded into that black body bag, and the paramedics lift Misty onto a gurney.

"Holy crap," mutters one paramedic. "That's Misty Knight. She walked my roommate home for a week when her ex was stalking her!" At least that's an indication there will be no cellphone showboating, and no videos of her in her vulnerable condition on YouTube.

At Bellevue hospital, after the doctors have made sure that she is stable and out of immediate danger, Misty's arm is identified as Stark tech, and a doctor is sent to make a call to Stark Enterprises' offfices to let them know it's been damaged and that they had to remove it to stabilize Ms. Knight's condition.

Misty sleeps, anesthetized, straight through the night, so she is unable to answer any questions for the police who come to see her.

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