5973/Bad Influence

Bad Influence
Date of Scene:	18 April 2021
Location:	Battery Park City
Synopsis:	Cars are hotwired. Hoodlums are stomped. Uncle Lucas is back in town.
Cast of Characters:	Roxanne Spaulding, Lucas Trent

---

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
BATTERY PARK - PARKING LOT OUTSIDE OF CLUB 'BITCHSLAP'
SOME BOY'S SHITTY BUICK
0232 SUNDAY MORNING
CLEAR // LOW TRAFFIC

"Aw -shit-," whines our heroine - she's in the driver's seat of this puke-on-cream jalopy, furiously attempting to get the car to start without the relevant keys. Next to her, a boy in his early twenties is CLEARLY UNCONSCIOUS and SMELLS LIKE FIREBALL AND BAD DECISIONS. She has no idea how to hotwire a car. There are supposed to be wires, somewhere - Roxanne can't find them. She is getting a -little- nervous.

How's she supposed to get this idiot home?

THE OUTFIT: Oh, she's out clubbin'. The dress she's wearing is the size of a gum wrapper when it's not stretched out over her slinky frame. Fingerpaint smears of glitter draw everybody's eyes to her ~sexy cheekbones~ and she is wearing a ~baseball cap~ to the ~side~ befitting her current (exactly now) ~rap lifestyle~. Her eyes have the overseasoned look of somebody ~on drugs~.

Why doesn't she have the keys to this car? Why is she panicking despite the relative calm of the situation?

EARLIER

imagine a screaming fit that is causing nearby traffic to slow down

"WELL GARRET MAYBE GIRLS DON'T LIKE BEING CALLED A SIDE PIECE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FRIENDS"
"YEAH WELL ROX MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T TALK ABOUT IT LIKE IT'S SOMETHING YOU LIKE"
"OMG THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID I SAID IT WAS 'LIKE' I WAS LIKE THAT"
"THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I SAID"
"WELL F*** YOU AND F*** YOUR CAR KEYS"

That was before she threw the car keys into the harbor. Garret took an ANGRY NAP that turned into BLACKING OUT. Roxanne can hear sirens in the distance.

It's just a dumb situation.

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter isn't keeping tabs on anybody. Grown ass people (or nearly grown ass people) can take care of themselves just fine. Midnighter had been in the middle of wrapping a length of iron rebar around the neck of a scumbag named Dirty Dawg Canseco (or DDC for short). This bald-pated bag of suet with tattoos had a habit of putting girls on the street and beating the shit out of them. Midnighter had just been letting him know how it feels. Had it involved shoving a full can of Shasta into a very small aperture? Yes, yes it had.

But he hears Roxie's yowl and he shoves the greasy strangler to the ground, "I see any bruises on your girls ever again, I'm gonna pop the top on that can and refill it with what's in your spleen," he mutters.

Traditional vigilante parkour carries Midnighter across the rooftop until he leaps off the last ledge and lands with a rattling, echoing thud on the hood of the thing. Lucky he didn't pop the tires.

"Hello, Roxie. Picked another winner, I see."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
The tires super almost pop, though. The entire car sounds like a geriatric box-spring and has about the same shock absorption - Roxanne shrieks and prairie-dogs up out of the driver's seat all red-rimmed and freaked-out. IN FACT, the entire car lifts off of the ground in one too-late, reflexive flex of gravity-related superpowers. It falls back to the ground with yet another bedspring squeal, which sends Roxanne careening into the door before she simply sort of leans against the steering wheel and does what she should've done in the beginning.

You know. Look.

"Oh! Ohmigod THANK YOU FOR NOT BEING THE COPS." Roxanne gestures uselessly to Uncle Lucas, then more uselessly to Garret who is STILL ASLEEP.

"His name's Garret and he's a SUPER ASSHOLE and I can't get his car to work without keys." Roxanne leans forward to teddy-bear on the top of the steering wheel - folded forearms, cheek resting atop. She could sleep here.

"How've you been?"

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter shakes his head, "Can't believe nobody's taught you how to hotwire a car. What're those dads of yours for, in the first place? I know some of 'em are deadbeats anyway, but fuck..." he mutters. He gestures in a general sense that she should let him get in behind the wheel, flopping down in the seat and looking over at Garret.

"I hope the sex is good, 'cause I'm looking at this kid and my combat engine tells me he's an unathletic shithead with a blood alcohol level that would shame a wino," he snorts. He casually reaches down, popping the casing beneath the wheel.

"Eh, I've been fine. Crackin' skulls to pass the time, as usual. Ain't heard from Apollo in a damn age and I ain't gonna lose sleep about it. I'll get by with a bit of rough trade, I don't need no ball and chain."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
Roxanne has no problem getting into somebody's lap. This is the first and best way to get free things - she shimmies into Garret's stupid drunk-asleep lap while Midnighter slips into the car beside. Her expression when he pops the casing under the wheel is one of abject, hazy wonder - oh. That's where the wires live.

"The sex?" Roxanne answers in a manner befitting somebody who has never been laid.
"Oh, it's awesome. Just, uh. Way orgasmic." Y-e-s.

"Crackin' heads? So that's why you smell like, uh, Dr. Pepper doing a colonoscopy on Faygo?" Roxanne shifts around on Garret because it's uncomfortable sitting on an unconscious person. She peers outside - no cops yet.

"--Sorry about Apollo. People suck a -lot-." She's too altered to pick up -nuance- right now; clearly something's going on with her dear uncle and his beau.

Lucas Trent has posed:
If she's lying, he probably knows it. He can read somebody's fighting style from the calluses on their hands, it isn't that hard to tell of a girl is lying about getting the deep D. "I plead the fifth regarding the colonoscopy. We all have our hobbies."

He shrugs, "He's not a bad person. I'm a bad person. And he has a hard time with me being a bad person sometimes. I don't blame him. I'm NC-17, adult situations only, bad motherfucker. He's a little more...PG-13. Well, sometimes he's a real hard R and then it's...nice. He'll be back, but I ain't playin' waiting damsel in the meantime."

He pulls out a pair of wires, "Red, green and yellow, just like the lights. Strip the ends, twist 'em up like spaghetti, Caution on top of stop on top of go..."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
There's no way Midnighter doesn't pick up on Roxanne's body language - there's a diversion of the eyes, a shift of the hips; it's embarassing. She is a BADASS CLUBRAT FLY GIRL. She should be more experienced. Lips twist while the bloodied 'hero' does the technical thing with the wires - Roxanne's caught up in her own personal turmoil.

"NC-17 would be real nice, though. I keep gettin' these pretty boys who get waxed more often than -I- do. Why do boys have to be so pretty??" The girl's lavender eyes ratchet down towards Midnighter's work with the car - there's a spark of understanding there. Okay. She's paying attention.

"Yellow on red on green. Caution, stop, go. Uhh- I think I got it. That's for like, every car? All of 'em? Or just the shitty ones?"

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter shrugs, "I ain't tried the newest models, neighborhoods I go in, you don't see a lot of Lexuses and shit. It'll get most any hoopty from pre 2015 going, for sure, but you never know when Tony Stark's going to decide to shit out a new ignition system while he's on the crapper."

"I like pretty boys myself. Not girly ones, but I appreciation smooth. I'm usually the rough one and I don't really wanna fuck myself. Well," he considers for a second, "I'm a really good lay, so I probably would, but I ain't my first choice in the looks department," he shrugs. "Usually more important that they're, like, into it. They want you bad enough, they'll take the time. I figure you probably get some boys pantin' at you, you hang out your asscheeks enough."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
Oh- ew, no, ugh. Roxanne's face screws right the hell up when Midnighter starts talking about fucking himself - he's so hairy! And bulky. God. Grunge is probably just as rough-edged and--

"Urp." There goes her stomach. Roxy sort of clutches at her belly while Midnighter plays around with the car ignition. She rallies shortly enough - those slow 'about to puke' exhalations do much to let her find her center again.

OUTSIDE:

Hoodlums are approaching the car, mostly because Roxanne looks like a club tramp on top of a knocked-out guy, and Midnighter is bent under the wheel.

INSIDE:

"Total barf, Uncle Lucas. I don't wanna think about your, uh." She bites her cheek, enjoys a grossout-shiver, and squeaks when an Uncouth Guy leans down to knock on the window.

"Hey, chica. Get outta the car."

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter shrugs, "So don't. It's easy enough for me not to think about your teenage taco. I gotta teach you kids how to control your thoughts, too? You should be doin' that, you don't want some telepath shoving their sticky psychic fingers in your subconscious and digging up all your dirty laundry."

He presses the wires together and gets a spark and the car fires up, "Just touch the wires to stop it and do it again to start it again. Don't do it too much, it'll start a fire. Ditch it ina bad neighborhood, let some punk steal it and take the heat."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
OUTSIDE:

HOODLUM is wondering why nobody in the car is paying attention to him. He sees now that a scary-looking man in bloodstained leather is clearly hotwiring the car. Roxanne sort of gives him a tired little smile, extends her middle finger his way, and *leans* against the window, chin in an upraised hand.

HOODLUM begins floating, which is EXTREMELY ALARMING to his HOODLUM FRIENDS. It is like the MACY'S DAY PARADE if the MACY'S DAY PARADE featured UNWASHED SHITHEADS instead of SNOOPY.

"Wait, how do you like defend against psychics!? Is that a thing you learned to do?" Roxanne turns to give her *full attention* to Midnighter. "Because the last time that happened, I felt, uh. It wasn't good? They knew EVERYTHING. It was like worse than that time I thought Twitter was Snapchat."

OUTSIDE:

HOODLUM slams into the ground face-first from a height of ten feet.

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter reaches into his longcoat and pulls out a cigar, clenching it in his teeth and cutting off the end before lighting up with a match. "I mean, it ain't fullproof, but you can at least make it harder for 'em. Some of the high ends, nothin' you can do much, but your average teenage mutant ninja fuckwad, you can keep 'em at least at arm's length, away from the juicy stuff. Discipline and meditation and shit."

And then there's a HOODLUM slamming into the ground and Midnighter raises an eyebrow under his cowl, "What the fuck?"

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
"Meditation? You -MEDITATE-? Somebody gets all MISS CLEO on you and the defense is Gandhi? That's so dumb." Roxanne remembers she has a carton of cigarettes somewhere. Garret or whatever his name is has them in a jacket pocket - Roxy's outfit doesn't have pockets, see.

She roots around in his jacket for a minute.

"Oh, some guys are trying to rob or rape me or something. They're total shitheads, it's fine. They don't even have guns or anything."

OUTSIDE:

Yes, a man just fell and shattered most of his facial bones, and YES, his bros are pulling some guns out from their jackets because OF COURSE they are. There's four of them.

INSIDE:

Roxy has found her cigarettes.

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter takes a long puff on his stogie, "Gandhi's a badass. Also kind of a creep, though, Google that shit. But it's the old fashioned way of controlling what you think and keeping a steady hand at the wheel of your brain. You don't have to go all granola about it. Just sit tight, I'll take care of these idiots."

He slides out of the car and rolls his neck, his vertebrae popping for a moment, flexing his gloved hands. He still has a cigar in his mouth.

"Hello, shitheads. I always give 'em a chance. Run away now and I won't turn your brains into tapioca."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
"Thanks, I've got a total headache from this shit we were smoking." Roxanne's mouth is a little full while she multitasks her lighter and cigarette. Afterwards, she occupies herself with finding something on the radio that isn't fucking terrible.

~OUTSIDE~
BGM: GANGSTA'S PARADISE ROXANNE FOUND THE 90s STATION

It was salvagable, maybe, before Roxanne pushed somebody's nose into their mouth via the ground. Midnighter's faced with a quartet of sublimely pissed-off gangers, a duet of pistols, a chain, and a baseball bat. The group exchanges cautious glances - who the fuck is this? We gonna run? Are we useless NPCs here to provide a demonstration? No idea, no, and -hell yes we are-.

Baseball Bat and Chain rush Midnighter while the pistols fire. They're all of them terrible.

Lucas Trent has posed:
He doesn't even flinch from the gunfire, his costume plenty armored up to take the heat of a street banger's car trunk shooter. His combat engine revs, reading their every movement, predicting every outcome, almost all of them catastrophic and even the good ones still on the bad side for them. It was just a question of how much splatter these punks would get.

Midnighter grabs the bat in mid-swing, stopping it dead and driving his head into the punk's nose, a sharp shatter that sends shards of bone back into his brain matter. Won't be doing any calculus anytime soon. Midnighter immediately rolls with it, snatching the weapon and colliding it with chain's jaw, breaking it loose at the hinges and putting him in wires and sipping through a straw for the next six months.

All of that happened in .5 seconds.

He swings the bat again and swats a bullet out of the air, some of the wood of the bat splintering off. "I think that's a double. Now I'm going for a home run."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
~ OUTSIDE THE CAR ~

Midnighter's a total NC-17. This is extreme even for the edgiest version of Mortal Kombat. It's like somebody filled a snowglobe with sweat, blood, and spatter.

o/~ EVERYBODY'S RUNNIN', BUT HALF OF THEM AIN'T LOOKIN' o/~

Bat goes down like a sack of bones while Chain's mandible shifts three inches in a direction it isn't supposed to move. Gun #1 is beginning to panic (finally!) while Gun #2 thinks he's onto a good idea by shooting at Midnighter *again*.

~ INSIDE THE CAR ~

o/~ IT'S GOIN' ON IN THE KITCHEN, BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S COOKIN' o/~

How does Roxanne dance when she's post-club? Hands in the air, mouthing along to the song, body lurching along to a driving beat while she puff-puffs smoke from the side of her mouth? That is exactly how tweaking white girl dances. The sideways cap just gives her that much more cred. She isn't even paying attention to the blood and teeth bouncing off of the windshield, she is ~vibing so hard~.

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter takes the bat and brings it down over his knee, snapping it into a sharp, jagged point, "I ain't no fucking Batman," he grins. He lifts and throws, flinging the sharpened stake and hitting the still-firing gunman right in the chest, impaling him right beneath the solar plexus. If bitch had been a vampire, he'd be dusted right now.

The other guy turns and runs and that just makes Midnighter smile. "That's it, rabbit, lemme chase ya," he says. He moves faster than a human could run, churning forward like a freight train. The guy makes it halfway down the street, tossing his gun aside, booking it at full tilt and looking over his shoulder to shriek in terror as Midnighter grabs his belt and just yanks, not just stopping him dead but tossing him back over his shoulder to land on the asphalt.

"I gave you your chance to run. You took your shot. Now you pay. Fight, don't fight. Won't make no difference. I'm gonna stomp you out," he says and then does so literally, the man begging for mercy as Midnighter brings a treaded boot down on his chest and shatters one side of his ribcage.

Midnighter wipes his boot and heads back. "I remember the song that sampled," he says of Gangster's Paradise. "I beat some ass to that one, too."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
It's testament to Midnighter's strength and brutality that Roxanne is able to hear the *crunch* of bones shattering beneath bootheel despite the driving bass of Coolio's absolute greatest hit. She grimaces sympathetically - poor guy out there. I mean, yeah, it's attempted murder, but -wildly successful murder- is worse than that.

Anyway, the car's on so Roxanne rolls the window down while Midnighter strolls on back. She's a little more awake thanks to the cigarette, but with that heightened consciousness comes an awareness that she is in *no* condition to drive.

"I keep thinking it'd be like a good idea to bring some headphones the next time I do any like, hero stuff. Music really helps me find my groove sometimes," she enthuses. Her tone takes a turn for the whiny as Midnighter closes in on the car - Roxanne hasn't tried to get in the driver's seat yet. She won't. Bad idea.

"Uncle Lucassssss--" Puff, puff. Roxy pouts through sparkle-smeared eyelashes.

"I'm super *duper* not good to drive. Could you take me home? I'll like, wash your superhero outfit,"

THEN
LUX-O-MAT LANDROMAT is on FIRE. ROXANNE is FLEEING with a basket of HER CLOTHES. The basket is also on FIRE.

NOW
"and EVERYTHING. Totally on the house, since you're like, a complete lifesaver. What song did Coolio sample anyway? I thought this was totes the orig."

Lucas Trent has posed:
Midnighter takes a moment to open the passenger door, peeling Garret out with one hand and dragging him over to lay him on the sidewalk. "Let him explain the mess to the cops," he says.

He shoos Roxie into the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel, laying a hand on it. "Pastime Paradise. Stevie Wonder, 1975. A smooth groove with attitude," he says, blowing a thick plume of smoke out of the side window as he puts the car in gear.

"Looks like I need to keep a closer eye on you girls, keep you out of trouble. Somebody's gotta."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
"You super -do-," agrees Roxanne as she appropriates Garret's jacket to cover her legs because A) it is cold and B) omg modesty. By the time the car's pulling out of the turn-out and leaving all that -wreckage- behind, Roxanne's fallen asleep against Midnighter's shoulder.

Next morning, she will scream when she wakes up on her couch with a bloodstained cheek. It will be the worst possible version of The Hangover.

Lucas Trent has posed:
Except, this time, the tiger in the room is a big hairy gay man in black leather. Even more dangerous and equally musky.