Picked the Wrong Night


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Scene Title Picked the Wrong Night
Synopsis Guard duty of some illegal goods could be less boring, if DL Hawkins had his druthers.
Date April 6, 2011

Port Ivory

While the US government has reclaimed a part of Staten Island and is pruning it into something they can keep easily under their thumb, much of Staten Island is still home to the criminal and the mercenary or the destitute and the hopeless with no better place to go. For the former of those two camps, the docks and warehouses abandoned by legitimate businesses years ago are now a place to do business and make a buck — often off the latter of the two camps.

It is here that D.L. Hawkins is working for the night, unloading one of the boats of black market supplies in unmarked crates. It could be anything from weapons to pharmaceuticals to exotic furs — but what it is for sure is illegal, avoiding taxes and tariffs. D.L. knows not to ask questions as he unloads the boat's cargo onto a forklift, crate upon crate atop a pallet before the small vehicle pulls away to make its run to the warehouse nearby. D.L. is left alone for a few moments with the rest of the cargo, a few more crates to keep guard over.

The night is cloudy; gray clouds cut vague silhouettes across a darker canvas of sky, and the chill in the air reminds anyone out this late that winter is not so very far behind as to be forgotten.

Draped in his classic attire, D.L. Hawkins has only added a black hoodie to his raggedy, but comfortable, ensemble. At the moment, he's taken to climbing down off the forklift. Though, with his height, it is more like a step and a hop down to the ground. He reaches down to zip his hoodie up halfway, before taking to pulling the hood up and over his head.

His arms cross over his chest and his feet cross at the ankles as he leans back against the forklift, which is still running. He doesn't do much else but watch as the other vehicle makes a trip to unload. During his silent glancing around the area, he makes it a point for those eyes of his to pass over the crates that he is currently in charge of. if anything goes wrong, it'll be his ass on the line, not anyone else's. Trusted enough to run this particular assignment, D.L. is keeping a sharp eye out for anything that may hinder his completion of this assignment.

The expression on his face is neutral, at best. At worst? Grim. The shadows from the worn hood only help to make him look darker. He is surely not one to be trifled with. Not now.

A slow and gradual thing, a fog begins to slide in from the water. It's almost imperceptible, felt more in the dampness that it carries with it than it is a visible thing. After several minutes, the rest of the docks seem a bit fainter, a bit harder to make out the boats or the warehouses. But such is the nature of life on a waterfront.

A few moments later, however, the creeping moisture makes it hard to see, and it's palpable, like wet velvet; the minerals of the vapor can almost be tasted when one takes a breath of air.

It's then that there's a barely audible sound of footfalls nearby.

Taking a moment to assess the crate situation has D.L. pausing as there is a new hinderance in the vision. This fog that starts to take over the entire area is not a good thing. His eyes narrow and his hands are already lifting up to peel back the hood. It's not that he's paranoid or anything of that nature. It's actually more that he's performing a very illegal act right now and his adrenaline is already pumping enough to have him on edge. Though, to look at him, one could not tell. He is simply looking around, peering into the foggy masses, with trained and hunting eyes.

His body shimmers just for a brief second, as if he was preparing himself for something. This only happens when he thinks he hears something. He has no idea what it is. But he doesn't move from his current position. Not while he's listening to see if he can pick up on whatever it was he just heard. Could be anything. Could be nothing. Either way it goes, he is physically prepared. And it has nothing to do with the fist that he has clenched at his side.

After that shimmer of his, D.L. seems to make less noise whenever his body does inevitably move.

Instincts are good. Just after that shimmer, there's a gunshot; D.L.'s power doesn't save him, as the shot would have been wide anyway. Whoever's doing the shooting can't see much better than he can, after all. The bullet whizzes by, a fleeting flare of heat that ends up simply slicing through the air. More footfalls sound on the docks.

Three silhouettes can be seen through the mist, dark gray figures that seem faceless and featureless thanks to the mist that obscures them. Further away from the wharf, more footfalls sound, and another gunshot rings out — this time, it is not D.L. who is shot at but instead one of the three men heading toward the boat.

"Fuck," hisses one of the three, ducking from the wide shot, "we got company!"

"Get the fuck down."

D.L. doesn't feel the need to raise his voice. Not when there are people coming at him and the others. He's not exactly sure where they are coming from, but as long as there is shooting going on, D.L. is going to stay in this phased state of positioning. This will keep him alive. And make it easier for him to traverse the foggy landscape.

His movements are trained and swift, but not exactly measured by any stretch of the imagination. It is still hard for him to see, but there's a saving grace in his being able to just phase his way through all of this horridness. He's leading himself by his ears, listening to where he believes the gunshots are coming from and stalking through the fog… towards that direction.

The 'company' heeds D.L.'s words of advice, the faint and lean figure ducking behind one of the crates on the dock.

The fog begins to dissipate, at least near D.L.'s location and by the cargo he protects. It's still thicker farther up the creaking dock, where the men let it shroud their location as they search for his. As the fog rolls away, a strange retracting curl of gray mist that lets D.L. know for sure it was not an act of God or Mother Nature but of an Evolved ability, his figure is revealed to his foes and two shots are fired from within the center of the mist.

A third shot is fired from the figure crouched behind a crate, and down goes the largest of the three men, thanks to D.L.'s unseen ally — but it's only temporary as the man rolls and swears in pain at the grazed shoulder before coming back to his feet, to turn and fire three shots at the man behind the crate.

A moment later, a splash is heard — whether his unseen ally is dead or simply taking a swim, it's unclear.

The target that is D.L. is struck twice, both men's aims true. If only they weren't shooting at a phaser.

Bullets are passing through his body as he continues to stalk his way towards the gunmen that are spending time with the shooting at him as if he could be hurt. Phasing is a lot better than being bulletproof, as it makes him look like he's dead already. Only a ghost could be doing such things as not being harmed by a hail of bullets coming from those with ill intentions.

"You picked the wrong night." is all D.L. has to say as he makes it a point to get as close as possible… before disappearing out of sight. It is hard to figure out where he went, visually, but it soon becomes obvious as he comes up from the ground behind the men.

D.L.'s form looms as he rises from within the ground, as if he were some sort of ancient beast. He wastes no time in attempting to slam his fists into the back of these men's heads. Maybe he'll get lucky and get the drop on them.

The two men who get hit from behind stagger, losing their balance and comedically grabbing for one another to keep standing on the dock, but that is their undoing; they fall into the water. The danger's too rich for their blood it seems; the mist grows thicker around the two and the sound of the water being moved as they swim toward a neighboring dock can be heard. It creaks as they clamber up it, but the sound of wet boots running on wood can be heard — it's in the opposite direction.

The third man, bleeding, likewise is backing away, but not before shooting wildly in D.L.'s direction. Not covered by fog any more, the fingers of D.L.'s ally appear on the dock before a young man with tan skin and green eyes is pulling himself back up, grabbing the gun that he apparently had left on the dock's edge rather than allowing it to get wet.

"This time it won't be just a scratch," the young man says — this close, without the obscuring fog, D.L. may or may not recognize the boyish face of FRONTLINE's Jameson Jones, depending on how up Hawkins is on his current events.


D.L. has gotten pretty well versed at phasing when it comes to being in firefights. Without the fog, there is definitely going to be some serious danger lurking and he makes no qualms about staying phased as much as possible. His phased state has come back into play and he watches as the bullet passes through him. Not that he can see in slow motion or anything. But it is very cool to watch.

Unfortunately, D.L. has not been keeping up on current events at the moment, as he has been more focused on his own personal plans. There are very few things he wants in life and one of them is revenge. It tends to fuel the bulk of his thought processes. He does look over at his unknown ally at the moment and he raises an eyebrow. "This one's yours." is all he tells the FRONTLINER, though his eyes are looking back at that bleeding gunman, as if to say: 'if you move again, i will hurt you badly'.

The gunman's narrowed eyes dart from Jones to D.L. and back before he finally crouches to drop the gun on the dock. JJ moves forward to grab it, then wags it at the other man to move away. "Get the fuck out of here. People are coming. Keep your hands up and don't fucking look back."

The man begins to jog away, his hands on his head as he moves off the dock to dry land, glancing back despite JJ's words. A moment later, the forklift can be seen coming down the road from the nearby warehouse — apparently D.L.'s fellow workers didn't hear the gunshots.

Green eyes follow the man as he finally disappears, then glances back to the darker man on the dock. "You okay? You know who they were?" he says, not putting his gun away though he begins to move toward dry land himself, watching the forklift get closer.

"Fine." D.L. responds, though he doesn't seem to be looking at the man that he was unintentionally working with. Not really. He turns to face him, though he's unphased at this point. For the moment, anyway. He's still not sure who or what this guy is doing here anyway. "You should go. Now." are the next words that come from D.L. and head towards the direction of JJ. He gives a bit of a nod with his head towards the forklift that's headed in their direction. "They ain't exactly as forgiving about trespassers as I am." It's meant as a warning, before D.L. turns his back on the ally and starts to walk away. He's just assuming that this guy will listen!

"Right," JJ agrees, teeth chattering involuntarily just a touch from the chilly water — it's not cold enough likely to get hypothermia from, but he'll be only too happy to get to his truck parked somewhere on the road and turn on the heat.

He glances at D.L. for a moment, as if unsure of what to say, but he gives a short jerk of his chin in farewell, and breaks into a jog past the man and toward the road, away from the forklift.

"You're welcome," the younger man tosses over his shoulder, leaving D.L. once more to his post.

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