Hair Trigger Prospects


gin_icon.gif griffin_icon.gif

Scene Title Hair Trigger Prospects
Synopsis Tempers rise, attitudes surface and one teenage vagrant has a hair trigger temper, and finger.
Date October 24, 2010

Prospect Park

Prospect Park is a 585-acre public park sitting square in the heart of Brooklyn. While the borough around this verdant region of lush foliage, tall trees and rolling hills is prospering, Prospect Park has become something of a ghetto within the city's bowels. Brooklyn has grown steadily following the destruction of Midtown, but not everyone in New York City can afford to live in Brooklyn, and those that cant have resorted to vagrancy across the city. Some brave the southern edge of Central Park on Manhattan, but the lion's share of mainland New York's homeless are here in Prospect Park.

Where once was a blossoming park pulling itself up from a nadir of abandonment and disuse in the seventies, Prospect Park has sunken back down into a state of disrepair and squalor. Tracts of forested land are laden with blue tarp tents, fire pits and makeshift shanty towns. The park is no longer officially maintained by the state of New York due to budget constraints, so the park's once pristine boat house and other facilities have been made into a makeshift homeless community, such as they are.

The Prospect Park Zoo, which once featured over seven hundred animals, was closed shortly after the bomb and the facility rests in decay in the park behind rusting iron gates and sturdy fence.

It's been warmer today that it has been in a week or such, and so the need for jackets and sweaters has been lifted, the sun shining down on the tent city that Prospect Park has over time, been converted into. At least today there's no burning of dead people for heat, though there are a few barrel fires here and there, but that's mostly for the evening, to ward off the worst of the coolness that settles in.

But it's broad daylight, and much like the city, the atmosphere here is tense, tempers are on the rise in a small community of homeless that have called this place home. Where they are already territorial about the small things that they own, they're even more so these days. A soup truck parks at one end of the park, dishing out food to the line of individuals who aren't too prideful to turn their nose up at the church wagon or the Linderman food van that's parked there too and it's basic fare that comes from the goodness of their hearts.

In preparation for the cold weather that will be coming, another vehicle, a moving truck, is passing out blankets, scarves, mitts, hats, sweaters all being given to those who meander up, know their size. Here and there one can even see a few teenagers who have taken to living here, but don't look like they're there because they have no choice. Sometimes, it really is a lark to just live like a vagrant.

Not there to live and certainly not there to help out, Gin is, instead, simply passing through. Today the gruff woman has a pair of muddy, worn jeans on, and a flannel shirt over a t-shirt. And a cheap cigar in hand. For her, the homeless are just one of the groups she used to belong to, and now are ignored like just about everything else that doesn't directly affect her.

It is possible she's a little heartless.

Thank goodness for warmer weather. It makes things much less difficult for old injuries that tend to hurt when the weather cools down. Griffin's been staying here in Prospect Park on and off, inhabiting one of the little shanties in the neighborhood along with a few other homeless folk. He does a fairly good job of not looking homeless, having collected his fair share of suits from good will and the like. With things the way they are, Messiah being wanted and all, Griffin hasn't been staying at his place of work, and when he does go to work, he stays by windows. Much easier to escape that way.

That doesn't stop him from looking homeless today, however, with the scruffy facial hair that covers his face. He wears a pair of old, worn out jeans and a well-worn t-shirt with an image of buddha upon it. He's enjoying the weather, sitting back as he watches those who come and go to the truck; he's packing a blanket into his ever-present duffel bag, as well as a scarf, a hat, and a sweater. It may be hand-me-downs, but they'll still come in handy until he can find a good place that doesn't require registration to live in.

Griffin's not the only one in suits. Unsurprising is that there are people here who wear suits as well, attempting to hold down a job but unable to actually accord rent in the city much less a vehicle or transportation. A pit stop onto better things hopefully. Other people are there because there is just no other place for them, homeless is their only choice.

The odd individual seems to have technology too and not just a cellphone. THere's ipods and even a few iPads, small laptops, you name it. Animals abound here as well, dogs of all sizes who share the habitats with their human companions. The odd cat is seen and there's one woman walking around with one really big rat on her shoulder. Rumor has it, it was a city rat that took a liking to her and vice versa. It's questionable but possibly true.

The section where Griffin meanders around, that Gin is walking past, is the witness to a scuffle, one of those homeless by choice teenagers who's got an attitude today - Odds are he's been told to come home or his allowance is cut off - and rudely brushes past Gin, overtly bumps into Griffin and just keeps going with the scowl on his face and the little baby thug attitude.
Brand has left.

It is one way to get her attention, as Gin really dislikes things like touching and shoving. So when the teen passes her so very rudely, there's very little hesitation in twisting to give him a shove to his back as he starts to stomp his way along. "Watch where you're walkin'," she growls in a sloppy, somewhat southern accent.

As he's bumped into, Griffin lets out a small grunt, turning to glower at the teenager and shaking his head, pushing back against the kid as he zips up his duffel bag. "Watch it." He grumbles this out, using his ever-present cane to raise up onto his feet. No words are offered, the man slinging the bag onto his shoulder and scowling after the boy.

"Watch where you're walking, I"m bigger than you" Thinking that such a thing applies to more than vehicle or the anatomy of the male species. WHen Griffin issue his rebuke, the teenager sneers and as if to deliberately back up the swagger and spunk of the attitude that he tries to put on for everyone, he swipes a hand out, knock over a bowl of soup and hot coffee that the older man who shares Griffin's livingspace - it's foever rotating who lives where - and sends it all spilling to the ground. Some of it splashes against Gin's feet, the intent of the action clear, to offend as many people in one small area as much as possible.

It's true, Gin is a pretty tiny woman. But when she aims a slap to the kid's face, there's plenty of force behind it. He's lucky he's a kid, or it would have been a punch. "Funny, usually your gender's claimin' that size don't matter."

Griffin narrows his eyes dangerously, standing up at his full height as he stares down at the teenager. He does his best to look imposing— and it's not too difficult, when you're taller than most people around. A glance is cast toward Gin, then the man turns back to glare at the youth. "I think you should leave, boy. Go cause trouble somewhere else." He may not be close to the man he shares the living space with, but he doesn't like it when people mess with his bums, the man feeling like he should protect those who inhabit this place.

Gin's hand makes contact, open palm to the side of his face and with the force to leave a livid red mark on his face that is likely to stay there for a little bit more. He stumbles back, shocked that the woman dared to do that. Griffin's words launched in his direction when the older man who was beside him starts to shuffle back and away, cradling a palm that got splashed with the hot liquid, get away from the confrontation. Survival of the fittest and he's not the fittest and he knows an explosion when it's coming. He hasn't lived on the street as long as he has without having some modicum of sense and self preservation.

Gin didn't, and the end of Griffins rebuke is buried in a bang that is familiar to many who live in New York.

He pulled a gun, likely squired away in the back of his pants like some inexperienced guy and how a teenager even got one, is questionable. Investigations later will show that it was his parents that he had stolen when he left the house to have his fun on the streets. But what isn't questionable is the top of gin's shoulder and the pain that sears through it as the bullet cleaves flesh, in and out above the clavicle and missing any major vessels and coming out the other side with a bigger hole and embedding itself in the wooden post of a tent.

People scatter and the teenager turns his gun on griffin next. "Fucking lay off man or I'll put one in you!" All the false bravado of someone who probably did it more as reaction than intent. Pride is a fickle beast.

Gin stumbles back when that bullet hits her and her opposite hand comes up to cover the entrance wound. That's going to leave a scar. It'll match all the other ones she's got from her gunslinging days. "Fuck," is all but spat out, and she glares over at the teen. But give her a minute to recover from that shock of pain.

Griffin ducks back instinctively as he hears the gunfire, raising his hands up to indicate that he is very much unarmed. A brief glance is cast toward Gin, concern flooding his face, before he turns his gaze toward the teenager. "Calm down, I'm not your enemy." This is said in a soothing tone, the man crouching a bit despite his bad knee, making himself seem smaller. Submissive in the face of the one holding a gun.

It's all a show, really.

Griffin closes his eyes, a look of nervousness on his features. It's all done to hide the fact that his eyes are turning white, glowing faintly. All six vectors are summoned; this is a delicate job, and he'll need all the hands he can spare. When his eyes open, it's almost instantaneous. One vector goes to the gun to tip its muzzle upward, while another comes down on the boy's wrist in a chopping motion; potential broken wrist, there. Two more aim at the boy's chest in a punching motion, to knock him back.

He might get shot in the process…but at least he'll get the gun away from this idiot child.

The gun goes off, scoring across his arm in the process of tilting the gun up, and a screech coming from the teenager when Griffin's ability starts working on him. There's an audible snap as delicate wrist bones crack and he is jerked back from them with the telekinetic punches to his chest. The gun dropping to the ground and now harmless unless someone else chooses to pick it up. His screeching doens't end, yelling for help even though at the moment no one is doing so, save for a church member in the distance who is calling 911 to report gunfire.

It's probably a good thing, how Gin sort of misses what's going on as she peels off her outer layer to make herself a makeshift bandage for her shoulder. It takes some doing, given that she's only got one hand to use right now, but she's clearly used to patching herself up on the go. And plus, there's this other person who seems willing to put himself in harm's way. And the wounded Gin is on board with taking advantage of that for the purposes of wound-tending. She does glance to the gun when it hits the ground, but all she does is come over and put a heavy boot on it. The last thing this day needs is some crazy homeless people fighting over a gun.

Griffin lets out a shout as the bullet goes through the fleshy part of his arm, stumbling back and clutching at his arm as he glowers down at the teenager with glowing bluish-white eyes. The gun is pushed a bit further away from the boy with one of the vectors, while two of the telekinetic hands moves to put pressure on the wound. His eyes fade slightly, still bluish-white, but no longer glowing.

Another glance is cast toward Gin, and Griff moves to touch her uninjured shoulder gently. His voice sounds tight from the pain. "Will you be okay? You should get to the hospital…" He frowns, glancing in the direction of the woman calling the cops. At least his things were already packed. He'll have to leave soon, once he's sure Gin is alright.

Don't need to worry about the homeless taking the gun, the immediate area is devoid of anyone save for the old man who has scrambled into the dark depths of the little shanty and minding his own business now.

The teenager though, since Griffin has ceased to use his ability on him and all bravado has gone down the sink in a clockwise swirl is pushing himself up with a wheeze and his good hand, stumbling as he tries to get away from the evolved.

There's no attempt made to get his dad's gun back.

Gin instinctually pulls away from the touch to her shoulder, but she does at least try to seem kinder when she looks over at Griffin. "I'll be fine." Um. "Thanks." Hey, she remembered! "'cuse me a moment." She can't just let him crawl away and all. He shot her. So. With that good shoulder leading, Gin goes to tackle the teen to the ground. Because she's got a mind to make sure he's there when the cops get here. Him and the gun.

Griffin nods quietly to Gin, not trying to push with the touch; when she pulls away, he pulls his hand away. As she raises to her feet and goes to tackle the kid, the tall man offers a faint, pained smile. His eyes flare slightly, and he reaches out with two vectors to assist; he reaches for the boy's ankles, attempting to grab hold of them to keep him from escaping the woman.

Even so, Griff is slinging his bag over his good arm and getting ready to leave, still holding tight to his arms with two more vectors. This does wonders of stemming the bloodflow, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Nadira and Marjorie are going to be pissed at him for getting shot.

Down goes the teen, Gin's body connecting with his and he's screeching, not for help, but for her to get off of him. Others are inching forward now, bravery returning and more than a bit of anger that the teenaged twerp is bringing the cops into here and bringing trouble in on the park. He gets more than a few feet into his side, people careful of Gin, others even gently trying to pull gin away even as someone yells about citizens arrest and produces… fuzzy leopard print handcuffs…

Those cuffs will do, probably because they'll be nice and embarrassing. But once the kid is secure, Gin lets those hands pull her away from the boy. It's nice when a community can pull together like this. <.< But as she spots Griffin heading off, there's just a moment taken to give the man a hat-tipping gesture in appreciation. But otherwise, she understands the need to ride off into the sunset. Or walk.

A small nod is cast toward Gin, Griffin pulling on a black suit jacket. It looks slightly out of place with the worn jeans, but it will keep his arm from being seen until he can get to Abby. Then, once certain the boy is secure, Griffin slips off in the midst of the insanity, leaving well before the cops can arrive and start asking questions.

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