Summary:Betty and Steve deal with an aborted hit upon her by the clan of werewolves now branching out from the Disaster Zone in earnest. At least Steve ends up with a trail of blood to follow! Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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The chill of November has settled in earnestly now. October might have had warm days that teased at summer's end, but now winter is encroaching steadily with each morning of frost-bitten leaves and puffed breath clear to be seen. With nightfall, the number of shoppers have decreased around the small strip mall tucked along the borders of the boroughs Queens and Brooklyn. The NYPD's warnings to remain inside after dark remain present and regular on the radio waves. There haven't been any new attacks for a few days, but it means little. Predators are patient.
Like the one waiting in the deep shadows of the alleyway between shops. Hulking, fur deeply black as ink, it has one brethren behind it, a far slimmer and rangier werewolf in a dirty-blond. Both sniff the air, trying to suss out a particular perfume, given they'd recently visited the broken window of the apartment where one Steve Rogers once claimed asylum during his lycanthropic episode under the harvest moon.
And funnily enough, they too are being hunted. Maybe it was a good idea not telling Barnes — maybe it'll end up being a bad one — but a third werewolf is out on the streets tonight, patrolling the invisible border exposed as the latest push into his own borough.
Because nobody — NOBODY — attacks people on Steve's turf. He's walking with a purpose at least a block down in a loosely-fitted long-sleeved thermal shirt and baggy sweatpants, looking more the part of a college football player in his stocking cap than a patriotic symbol of freedom. But that walk? It's all predator. He's learned not to ignore the gut-feeling of his 'other kind' nearby.
For all her inner training and personal exploits, the Daily Bugle's Own, Elizabeth Brant, is blissfully unaware of the pending war lingering in the shadows. She had a few things on her mind, many in fact, and one such remedy of and overstuffed noggin was shopping. That's one stresser to get well and truly out of the way.
Dressed for the weather but casual to boot, the woman walks in a pair of ratty jeans of indigo, a jacket of faded crimson and a worn pair of loved sneakers. SNEAKERS! Betty meant business, it seems. Her dirty-blonde hair is up in a loose tail, woven in a mess of braids and beads. She'd bet her life that none of those beasts would even realize what those symbols actually meant - it didn't much matter anyway.
Humming to herself as she strides down a stretch of sidewalk, she carries a bundle of boxes, all prestine and wrapped in festive hues, tied off with glittery ribbons.
There — on the breeze, above the tang of vehicle exhaust and the corruptive scents of the city itself — that perfume. The smaller werewolf lifts its head abruptly; the black-furred werewolf does the opposite. It drops its head low and narrows its vision on the approaching young woman with the sparkly bundling of boxes. For all sakes and appearances, it's a classic ambush — Betty will get hit from her left flank out of the blue.
At least, it was a classic ambush.
Somewhere within the alley, there comes a sudden sharp BANG of a small projectile hitting the dumpster and leaving a godawful dent in it. It makes the two werewolves leave the ground in sheer shock! The smaller dirty-blond one stumbles over itself and out onto the deserted stretch of sidewalk, at least a dozen feet away from Betty.
Steve, hearing the sound and recognizing it as a bullet on metal, breaks into a brisk lope towards the area. Aleady his heart is thrumming joyously in his throat and a tingling itch is spreading beneath his skin with every breath.
Betty Brant jumps, nearly dropping all of her boxes in the process. A shot? Here? And Steve said Brooklyn was a nice place…Panting and quick to move, pressing her back against a building's face, she glances toward the alley in question where such a noise game from. Another swallow and she sets the boxes down, calming herself as best she can while digging for her phone and turning on its reverse camera. Angling it, she blinks as she squints at the screen - were those…? Couldn't be. What if?
Perhaps more keen to be kind to those of the Wolf form than skeptical, she nibbles at her lower lip and considers her options. Does she speak? Does she offer them help? Where did that shot come form anyway? Shaking her head, she sighs in a gruff sound, "This is going to bite you in the ass, Brant."
Glancing a the boxes, she tsks and looks above toward the buildings. What if they were wolfkin? What if they were lost? Steve was a wolf, what if they were like him? With another breath out, she turns and slinks into the darkness of the alley.
The dirty-blond werewolf is keeping track of the approaching footsteps now while the black-furred hulking pack-mate is sniffing at the heavily-dented dumpster, hackles risen from skull to tailbone — no tails on these specimens, not the species of werewolf for one. It lets out a churrling whine upon the entry of Betty into the alleywall and backs up rather than taking immediate offense. It's upon the larger werewolf to turn and immediately let out a low growl. The sound resonates in the rib cage as it pads up beside the smaller pack-mate, leveling a gleaming golden glare at Betty. Its teeth, on full display, shine with saliva. This is clearly NOT a welcoming party!
Steve, hearing the growl, increases his run. He covers the last two blocks at an amazing rate of speed and literally blows past the alleyway in his haste. Sneakers almost screech on the pavement as he spins to drop to something akin to a sprinter's start-gate pose in order to not tumble, his lips already lifted. Those shoes are kicked off and he plucks the thermal over his head before he feels the shift begin.
"Hey," Betty greets softly. She lifts her hands, palms up and open, most notiably, empty. The woman smiles, her teeth not so much shown in anger, but in attempted calming kindness. "Easy, easy…it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you. I heard the shot and I have friends that, well, are like you." Her voice is tender, empathetic and low. She seems to not want to pull more attention this way, either.
Remembering what Steve had done in such a form, the woman then starts moving her hands in a smooth motion. Now when she speaks, her motions speak, too. "My name's Betty. If you feel like you're in danger, I can help you."
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d10 for: 7
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d10 for: 10
Against impossible odds, it appears that Betty's initial approach is either enough to reach the human being lingering deep beneath the pelt and snarling or to confuse the hell out of the two werewolves. Both are more accustomed to hairless human beings bolting or screeching instead of approaching them with sign language.
The larger darkly-furred werewolf watches warily while the dirty-blond one skulks slightly behind its brethren, its own lips peeled back farther yet. To it, her hands moving aren't a thing to be trusted.
Then, around the corner comes a big and wheat-blond werewolf, bright of true-blue eye and with his own lips raised. His rumbling precedes him. About his waist, a pair of stressed sweatpants in black. His arrow-point ears fold back hard as he stalks past Betty with either recognition or hyper-focus on the other weres. The stranger-shifters have gone defensive now, crouching lower to the ground and backing up a step or two.
"Wait, hey, it's ok…" Betty attempts again, only then to realize that the massive figure looming behind her, then around her, is one she knows. Her eyes grow, doe like, as she watches the beast stalk and slip forward. "Steve?" She questions gently, her hands lowering as she glances toward the pair down the passage. Something still felt wrong about the whole ordeal. She, sadly, didn't understand the entire story.
A step forward, a few perhaps, she tries to move her way between the pending scrap. A hand out in both directions, palms open. "Stop. What if they need help, too?" Valid question, perhaps. More likely a very stupid one.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d10 for: 2
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d10 for: 6
In direct counter to Betty's steps forwards, the Captain takes a few striding steps to place himself before her again. An arm reaching out to cross-bar at level with her chest along with a side-glance, close-lipped, silently commands her to stay put.
The other two werewolves are devolving in terms of controlling their flight or fight instincts. Smaller, the one now snarling up a storm, hunched nearly flat to the ground. The larger black-furred one, nearly Steve's size, has bared all its teeth and growls less loudly but no less warningly.
«They hunt you,» Steve signs quickly and clumsily, his eyes still locked on the stranger-shifters rather than on Betty. «I need to make them retreat.»
High above and at an appreciable distance, unbeknownst to all, the aim of a rifle adjusts by a minute number of degrees. Letting out a silent sigh slowly, the shooter mutters to himself in Russian about general idiocy.
Betty Brant frowns at that news. Closing her eyes, briefly, she sighs and takes one step back. "I was hoping you didn't say that. Benefit of the doubt…" She tried, at least she could say she tried. He needed to make them retreat and they were hunting her? Roger that. A slip of her hand and before long, the woman now stands leveling a handcanon at the beasts. Eyes set, chilling for her naturally warm and friendly demeanor, Brant watches attentively.
It had been ages since something actually threatened her and she wasn't about to start letting it happen now. "Get out of here, Steve. No sense in you getting hurt over me." Practiced, patient, she squeezes the trigger and barks off two shots in rapid succession.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 18
Thank god for Betty's forewarning. If she'd fired and not spoken of him leaving, the wheat-blond werewolf wouldn't have looked over to see the firearm aimed. Imagine the result of pulling the trigger without such!
BLAM BLAM.
Both enemy werewolves flinch and begin to scramble. The large darkly-furred specimen seems to have taken what amounts to as a kidney shot and curls upon itself even as it roars threat, mouth agape wide enough to showcase the corrugated end of palate. The smaller dirty-blond werewolf took the shot in the ribs and is in full panicked retreat at this point, leaving splatters of blood along the way.
Steve, with one ear ringing near-deaf, falls to all fours and returns the near-leonine roar with his hackles lit from skull to end of spine. It echoes and rises out of the alleyway in primal rage. His advance is enough to make the darkly-furred werewolf cringe and take a shuffling step back, looking quickly between the raised gun and the blue-eyed were-Captain still advancing at a similar speed to its retreat.
This wasn't like Zsasz. They weren't holding a knife to her throat - did she kill them? Here? Now? One was retreating and the other was considering it. Both were hurt and no in fun ways. Tensing her jaw, the woman steps forward with a few slow, steady steps. The closer she gets, the closer the barrel gets. The closer the barrel, the less chance she had to miss anything.
"Get." She offers the single word to allow them to leave without more hot lead ripping through their flesh.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 17
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 16
Betty speaks and the darkly-furred werewolf arrows its long nose from the opposing shifter beside her to her and her alone. Golden eyes go pinpoint and narrow even as it crouches down with every line of its pain-wracked body filled with the intent to leap at her. Apparently, it's very certain another shot of hollow-point won't kill it even as blood drops to the alleyway's ground with every deep pant.
Steve, sensing this, makes a quick bluffing half-lunge towards the werewolf. Between this and the gleam of Betty's gun, it skitters backwards another half-dozen feet and snarls froth. The far smaller dirty-blond werewolf has vanished entirely, though god only knows to where.
As stiff as she wishes her upper lip could be in this situation, Betty is at a loss. She wasn't sure what to do, even if she felt like she had a good idea. It was up to the Star-Spangled Pup with a Plan now. "Do I kill him?" She asks softly to Steve, hoping her words would creep into his ears and passing by the pulse-pounding drumming. "I can, I just…need to know if I should."
It was a simple request, something to know, a go-ahead to do what she things she should be doing. Teeth baring, she lowers the gun to shift its angle, now squeezing off a shot and aiming for the beast's trunk like thigh.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 9
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 4
Words slink into his skull.
Steve rears back onto his hind legs and menaces now with bulk as well as claws on full, finger-curled display. He probably appears monstrously-sized to the cringing werewolf. It backs away another half-dozen feet and leaves more fresh-spattered crimson in its wake.
Daring to look away, the Captain quickly signs: «Blood can be followed to home nest, do not kill.»
This might be the only fool-proof chance for the wheat-gold werewolf to successfully track these interlopers back to the main pack, whenever they're holed up within the expanse of New York City.
Betty Brant simply nods. She understands and with that understanding, lowers her weapon. She now takes a step back and then another, watching after the massive form still skulking back deeper into the passage of the alley way. Her brows knit and slope, and with a frown, she shakes her head.
"Go." She tells the creature, a sliver of hope in her tone.
Intelligent true-blue eyes mark Betty's actions and the incline of his head means Steve too approves. There's a brief upsurge of a rumble from the darker werewolf, but not for long. Whatever it was considering by the retreat of the gun-wielding reporter is quickly diverted by another faux-lunge by Steve. His jaws slam together with the sound of an organic bear-trap before he bark-roars again, on all fours for a brief moment as if he'd set chase upon the wounded shifter.
It turns tail and scarpers with a frightening amount of speed despite the gut-wound. By the forwards lean and visible reining-in of the Captain's self-control upon instinctive hunting drives, it's something tempting to be avoided — following the blood-spatter will begin in the near future, but not now.
For now, Steve clears his nose with a sharp snort and then looks over at Betty. His eyes fall to her gun and rise to her face from where he crouches, sharply-pointed ears lifted forwards. «Good shot,» he signs.
"Thanks." She murmurs and looks at the weapon. She was counting bullets, shots, and after flicking on a safety, she slips the firearm away. "I didn't want to, though, but…" A shrug, she turns and faces WolfRogers. "Are you alright? I know what you said, but…you're, well, this again. You said you didn't need my help anymore."
Her brow quirks and she offers him a somewhat saddened expression.
Rotating his head to one side curiously, the Captain's eyes then narrow. His ears slide back not quite to the sides of his head. He then signs, «I suspected that the others would be near this area. There have been reports of sightings nearby. That you were in the area is unlucky, I think, but not connected. I saw your presents. You were not shopping for them.»
Yep, even when sporting extra poundage of muscle beneath a pelt and looking akin to some Transylvanian horror, Steve can still attempt dry humor.
«I have the answer, which is why I need to find the home nest. Den. Whatever it is called. I could not let you get hurt, however.» He pauses and bolts in front of Betty at the sound of a distant muffled crack followed by a YELP. With ears up and attention narrowed towards the sound, he quivers for a second in readiness to react.
«My husband did not believe my half-truth, apparently," the werewolf reluctantly signs, his entire body exuding chagrin.
"I wish you luck at finding it. What do you want me to do now?" She asks, giving a side-glance toward the mouth of the passage and wondering, idly, if those pretty boxes were still there. Blinking smoothly, she turns her face back to the wolf and nods. "If you need to go, get tracking while the trail is still hot." A soft hand up, she attempts to shoo him away.
"You and your hubby finish the job, yeah?" A smile, "Thanks for wanting to protect me. I'd hug your or something but I remember you not liking to be touched when you're like this."
«Thank you for remembering. Everything is too sensitive.» How he's able to process much of his surroundings is a mystery even for Steve himself, subject to the super-serum's warping of the lycanthropic boost to all senses. He sidles away from her by a few steps in order to drop his nose to the nearest fresh blood spatter. Inhaling deeply, he snorts and then repeats the pattern a few more times, scanning the immediate area and yet another little spotting of crimson.
One ear twitches back towards Betty before he then looks past his shoulder at her again. «It will take more than me and him to finish it, but thank you. And no one should fear them. Protecting you is something anyone should have done, though like I said: you have good aim. They will be afraid of you now,» he signs.