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Philadelphia is a big city, but at night, it feels even bigger. There's plenty of reasons for various sorts to be out and about- a quick trip to the corner market, some odd jobs to make a few extra bucks, or less savory reasons to which one might not admit- but tonight sees a handful of nocturnal types on a collision course, though none of them knows it yet.
It's not important which street this happens to be. What's important is that the arc-sodium streetlights are flickery and unnaturally orange, and currently casting one particular alley in some rather deep shadows.
Which raises the question... on a night like this, who would be wandering around such sketchy environs?
A lanky shadow, with freckles in LED red and green would be, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and cargo pants, a brown leather messenger bag worn cross-body. He's got a plastic bag from the nearby convenience store in one hand, the contents of an edible and drinkable variety. Energy drinks, primarily, and some beef jerky.
And... a sullen-eyed frost giant with rough, craggy features - literally hewn from a glacier - and wearing a scowl that looks as though it's been there for years. She's dressed in black. Black jeans, black work boots, black coat - though it does little to hide her enormous size - and she's currently keeping a close eye on a particularly rowdy patron at a bar across the way from her spot in the shadows.
It might be matters of munchies or stakeouts that brought the two where they are at the moment, but the events in the alley aren't beholden to either. Somebody yells- it's either a swear or a partially completed plea for aid- and then devolves to barely-audible muffled sounds and a single, defused thud. After that, coughing. Mearc and Sturm are in easy view of each other on either, so they know that sound isn't THEIR fault- but it's someone's... right?
Mearc exhales quietly, setting his bag of treats down quietly as possible before he moves to the mouth of the alleyway, trying to peek into it and see what might be going on. There's a definite expression of resignation on his face, because just ignoring it and moving on is Not Going To Happen, not until he has a handle on the thing. (Would you like a perception check?)
Sturm, meanwhile, is now keeping an eye on Mearc as well, and trying very hard to pretend like she doesn't care about whoever just called for help. Y'know. On account of her having a job to do. That she should definitely do, and not go run off and play hero. Right?
When Mearc peers down the alley, there's not much to see. But hear? That's a different story. There's a hefty dumpster partway down the alley, and there's voices from behind it- low, but nothing the Changeling's enhanced senses can't track.
"Fuck. I told you to keep his mouth shut, Frankie."
"Yeah but he bit me. It's not my fault. Ow. Does this look infected to y-"
"I swear to Christ, Frankie, you ask me if that looks infected one more time, I'm gonna deck ya. Mitch! Get down to the street and make sure nobody heard that. Frankie, gimme the zip ties. Hear that, scumbag? We're gonna go for a little ride."
He's got a few seconds head start, if he wants to vacate, but it's increasingly clear that someone's about to be in a bad way, even if there are footsteps rapidly nearing the edge of that dumpster, meaning their owner's about to have line of sight to the end of the alley.
Sturm hears a lot of distant, hushed chattering, and then some very purposeful bootsteps. But that other Lost looks real curious at the edge of the alley...
More than just curious, he looks actively concerned, patting his bag quietly as he takes just a couple steps back from the mouth of the alley, mouthing 'fuck' a couple times.
Sturm, a few feet away from the mouth of the alley herself, mutters to the other Changeling. "Easier to assume that poor bastard had it comin' than to get involved." Her voice is a low rumble. How could it not be with all that torso to reverberate around in. "I'd get the fuck outta the way if I were you..."
The footsteps rapidly approach, until a particularly unsavory gentlemen of smaller stature but similar brawn to Sturm steps out of the alley and looks around, easily spotting Sturm and Mearc. After all, they're... well, right there. "Oi." He states, beckoning with one hand, the other in his jacket pocket around a very suspicious silhouette as he looks around rapidly. "You two. C'mere."
Mearc hears more footsteps. Slow, deliberate, but quiet. And not in the alley. Above. Nothing to be seen, though, even if he looks.
That upward glance is quick and then Mearc licks his lips. "Nnnh, don't think so." And then he smiles, his Mantle unfurling like a banner with the rustle of some one stalking through a cornfield, as he activates his kith blessing.
Sturm doesn't even look at the ruffian. "Fuck off," the growl has barely left Sturm's lips when she realizes Mearc is, in fact, not going to take her advice to stay out of it.
And just like that, poor Mitch is reduced to a trembling, horrified mass of muscle, quivering in the mouth of the alley, alone with... whatever thing just partially exposed itself to him. He's never been the hunted. Only the hunter, and this turn around is utter terror. He goes rigid and still, hoping on some animal level that whatever he just offended will leave him be if he just... stops.
And now, Mearcstapa, the march-stalker, moves into the darkness of the alley proper, after the other asshole. Frankie, was it? Frankie. Yeah, let's fuck him up, too. One hand goes to his bag again, pulling out the small hatchet he keeps there.
"Sonuvabitch..." The frost giant tries to return to her business, tapping a foot impatiently as her conscience wrestles with her common sense. She sighs, and the turns to follow Mearcstapa down the alley.
The initial approach, at least, goes smoothly- they're able to maneuver down the alley, and leave Mitch shaking in his boots, terrified and relieved just to be left alone. However, as they near the dumpster breaking their field of vision, they hear someone behind it mutter angrily. "The fuck is taking Mitch so-"
Tikk. T-taktakclatterrrrrrrrrrrr.
It's not even really their fault. A poorly balanced soda can cum ashtray tumbles off a trashcan in the alley. "The fuck was th-FRANKIE, WE GOT COMPANY."
Two more goons, of a less musclebound and more visibly armed type, come round the dumpster. Both have pistols, well maintained and modern-looking, and both look like they've probably used them before. Behind them, slumping now that he's not being held up, is some poor schmuck with his wrists ziptied behind his back and an old potato sack shoved over his head. There's stains on it. It's seen use before.
There's a good forty feet between them and the enterprising Changelings. "You two idiots hold it right the fuck where you are. Who sent you? Where the fuck is Mi- MITCH!" The mouthier of the two hollers down the alley at Mitch. "What the FUCK? Get the fuck back here!" He refocuses on the two "people" he and his compatriot have in their sites. "You chumps just some fuckin' Good Samaritans? Well, more's the shit for you. Drop the ax and get your hands behind your heads. Both of ya!"
More people in the alleyway than Mearc had expected. Now is not a good time to be seen. He hesitates, giving Sturm a small glance. This is not a little thing, is it? But it's too late for him to just back out of the situation.
Well, at least in the mundane sense. He sighs, then steps forward into nothing at all, the faintest green glimmer lingering where he'd been for a moment.
Sturm, however, expected pretty much exactly this situation... but she did not expect to have the Changeling in front of her nope the fuck out as soon as it came time for shit to actually go down. "Nope. Just a couple of morons..." For a second it looks as though she might do as the dude says, but then she fucking takes off towards him hellbent on taking his head off as she aims a massive punch at his head.
In a rush, the two changelings turn the tables rapidly. Sturm rushes forward and delivers an absolutely staggering blow with the strip of metal jutting across her fist, Mearc vanishes and wastes the desperate hair-trigger reaction shooting just past where Frankie'd thought he'd been standing, and Mitch?
Actually, concerningly, Mitch isn't on his feet anymore. Behind them, in the mouth of the alley, someone in dark clothing is standing over the slumped- though not bloodied- body of poor Mitch, who is very, very much bruised and unconscious. They turn towards the fight starting in the alley, and begin to stride towards the four, no apparent hurry in the movements, dragging Mitch out of the public eye and back into the alley.
This would all be reassuring, but for two things.
First, the figure looks like this
And second?
Whoever that is radiates Wyrd in sheets. They've felt that, before- they've met at least one Crown, almost guaranteed, and that's the sort of power the figure puts out.
About the only reassuring note is the flight of fallen leaves around their feet, whipping down the alleyway. That's either some Autumn mantle or something awfully similar.
It's actually very unlikely that Mearc sees the masked figure, despite feeling that blast of Wyrd and Mantle. He's returning his hatchet to his bag (instead grabbing a pair of wire-cutters) and moving in the opposite direction, toward the poor idiot in the zip tie and potato sack. He's moving at his full speed , feeling comfortably safe under the auspices of his invisibility. And once he reaches the poor idiot, he just...you know. Cuts the zip tie, careful not to nick the skin or otherwise cause harm.
Sturm wheels and hurls a punch at the firing Frankie, but the blow lands considerably less solid, perhaps due to his notice of how she decked the fuck out of his boss. Still, she catches him a blow across the temple, and blood spurts as he stumbles back, swearing LOUDLY. "Oh, FUCK, that HURTS! Awright, square up, you bitch, you just punched your last ti-"
It's probably a good thing that Frankie's boss is half-senseless, and Mitch is completely unconscious, and their victim still has a bag over his head, because the figure at the head of the alley draws back its fist and hurls it forwards like a thunderbolt, and the darkness in the alley ripples. A fist emerges from the shadow of the dumpster and SLAMS into Frankie's gut before he can take the shot at Sturm, hurling him into the brick wall behind him. He bounces off, hits the ground and stops moving. He's breathing- but blood's oozing out of pretty much every exit his head has.
The captive wriggles and makes panicked, muffled sounds as he feels himself being handled again, but when his hands come free the clotted shrieks become sobs of relief, and his hands fly to the sack over his head, trying to get it the fuck off.
The captive hears a soft voice, right against his ear. "Not yet. You don't want to see what's happening yet. But you're free, and you will get out of this alive."
Sturm turns her attention back to the staggered jackass, giving him a good, solid, crack across the jaw with her non-brass knuckled hand, dropping him to the ground... before giving him a petulent little kick for good measure.
The masked figure drops Mitch's unconscious body next to the other two. The hostage is frantic, but nods at the voice, shoving its hands under the hood and pulling out a spit-soaked wad of filthy burlap. "Okay, just- j-just say when." Obedience seems to be keeping him alive so he's more than willing to stick with that. "T-thank you."
The masked figure points to Sturm and then to the side of the dumpster, apparently intent she should duck behind it, out of sight of the civilian. Then they move towards the hostage and pull the bag off his head, revealing some curly-haired fellow, worse for the wear but way better off than the trio. "Get home. Call the cops. Should probably get out of town. If they sent one crew-" They- he, most likely- trails off. The hostage just nods rapidly and scrambles to his feet, already getting out his phone to dial the police and heading down the alley away from Sturm.
Mearc remains still, right there beside where the hostage had been. Still invisible, waiting to see what comes next. Because when faced with that sort of Wyrd, you don't want to make yourself a potential target--even if you know you're probably not one, it's still the instinct.
... and it's easier - and faster - for Sturm to follow those instructions than argue with the masked figure. She stays hidden until the former-hostage is well out of sight.
Well, as hidden as someone as big as her can be.
Sturm is big, but dumpsters... well, there's a reason a "dumpster fire" is a synonym for "huge mess." It's a huge thing, and one of the few things she can hide behind. The hostage takes off, and the shadows around the alley start to writhe and move, fetching the zip ties from Frankie and making short work of zip tying all of the thugs wrists together, and then to each other in a tight daisy chain. They won't be going anyplace as long as even one of them is out cold.
"Sorry for interrupting." The voice doesn't carry quite the same edge as it did before. "I think you guys probably could have handled it, but gunshot wounds are nasty and I figured if you two got out of this without any, all the better." He starts towards the end of the alley they came in originally, the other side from where the hostage ran. "Come on. I don't think any of us want to be around when the cops get here." As he walks, he pulls off the mask and buttons the trenchcoat. Just that makes him look significantly more normal- for a given value.
Mearc moves to follow. Still invisible, like an asshole.
Sturm grabs the top of the dumpster, and thefts herself up from her crouching position behind the dumpster. She follows, wordlessly - and only a little bit visibly grumpy about being baited down an alley and into gunfight.
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