It is afternoon, about 77F(25C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by grey clouds. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Washington/span

(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)

As Lykaia and Kai are walking down the alley, they come upon a small group of people, two men and one woman, the woman has the symbol of the Last Vigil on the back of het jacket. They’ve hemmed in and surrounded a frail, pallid young man and have him backed up against one of the walls of an adjacent buildings. Weapons are in hand, but not currently in use, and their body language is one of aggression as they speak to the pallid young man.

“That’s looking like some trouble Kai.” Lykaia/span mentions, making a nod over towards where they have someone cornered. “Probably cornering a supernat. Could intervene. Not seeing the symbol on their prey.” She points out from her first glance over them. “Less of a talker more of a shooter, but best to avoid what they called ‘thuggery’.”

nods to Lykaia and frowns a bit, “Ugh… great, more assholes today,” he says with a slight roll of his eyes, he glances sidelong to Lykaia, “What do you think the play is with this kind of situation?” he asks her softly and tucks his phone away to free up his hands, if necessary.

Eventually a frail, pallid young man stands up straighter and says something to the woman and one of the men on her flank swings the end of the baseball bat into his stomach, doubling the fellow over. The blow is hard enough to cause him to cough, apparently the wind has been knocked from him by the wheezes that come from him.

The woman grabs onto the man’s hair and yanks his face upward to look at her, “You know where she is. Tell us where and this stops.” the woman with a brown-faux hawk says to the man.

There is no emotion that draws into Lykaia’s/span eyes when the man gets batted down the stomach, nothing, not even much of recognition on that but a hand still reaches for the baton over her sternum holster, letting the collapsible baton swing out while her other hand takes hold of a smoke grenade, palming it, turning it backwards to not be immediately visible. And then begins to move on over. The baton is then left to dangle by a band from her wrist. “Madam, sir, what’s going on?” Her tone even, disinterested.

A woman with a brown faux-hawk turns her head at Lykaia’s words and her lips peel back in a sneer, “It’s none of your fucking concern, Handjob. Move along,“, the bulbous, blond-haired fellow with the baseball bat pins a frail, pallid young man up against the wall as he starts to say, “You have to sto-” in a frantic, panicky tone but the bat presses in on his adam’s apple and cuts of his speech, replacing it with a strangled cry instead.

“Jog on. Three against two,” the third, a tall, lanky man with wary eyes says and lifts his shirt to reveal a revolver tucked in his belt, his other hand already has a drawn hunting knife in it.

For his part, Kai follows Lykaia’s lead and a pair of knives appear in his hands as he withdraws them from his hoodie, his blood-shot eyes narrowed and ticking from face to face anxiously.

“Okay.” Lykaia/span says, taking several steps back, slowly walking backwards. “As they say, friend. Jog on.” She says, her tone even still and she begins to take the steps backwards and back, not looking away from them until they turn away from her.

All three of the Vigilants relax a bit when Lykaia begins to back off and Kai starts to do the same, there’s a quick glance to Lykaia, but no protest, he follows her lead, the knives stay out, however.

A bulbous, blond-haired fellow lowers the bat and slaps one chunky hand against a frail, pallid young man‘s cheek, “Ain’t nobody coming to save you,” he tells the man and clocks him in the left cheekbone with the base of the bat again, sending the man reeling and onto one knee, “Where is Mel? We know she drained that bum dry, she needs to answer for it,” the woman with the brown faux-hawk says after her companion has roughed him up a bit more. A tall, lanky man with wary eyes lowers his shirt, but unlike the other two, he keeps his eyes on both of the Hand members while his compatriots work.

Lykaia goes on and steps away, further along around the corner. Trying to aim for what would account for about a hundred and twenty-four in the range measurements New Haven uses, and then for cover that may or may not be there. Just to get out of sight. Whatever pain the pallid guy suffers in the meantime, does not look to be a priority and once, attempting to be out of sight for as much as she can be, she reaches around for her rifle, a suppressor and a bipod, which get attached onto the rifle itself. “Three people, Kai. Should be no trouble from a distance. Shoot them till they flee. Cover me and stay near. Once they’re in range, and coming, slice them. Should be simple.”

The young, sardonic-eyed man nods and steps out of the way, getting an angle on Lykaia without being near the dumpster Lykaia is able to set up behind. It’s at about the right range, should provide cover and it’s at such an angle from the group of Vigilants and their victim that they shouldn’t be able to see either of them.

“Answer me!” a woman with a brown faux-hawk almost roars down at the frail, pallid young man, who recoils and clenches his teeth in stoic unresponsiveness to the woman, defiance in his eyes. The woman nods to her large friend and a bulbous, blond-haired fellow swings his bat down, to the side of their victim’s knee. There’s a pop. Then there’s an agonized cry. Even from that distance, the sardonic youung man’s pupils dilate just a touch.

The wary-eyed, lanky fellow approaches their victim and steps on his hand for good measure, though no further cracks or pops can be heard, perhaps he isn’t putting more pressure down, “Someone’s gotta pay. You want it to be you?” he asks, his lower-class English accent thick.

Lykaia drops down onto the ground. Entirely uncaring on the cleanliness around the dumpster, and tries to get an angle on the group. A hand brushes along the side of the rifle. “Should customize it to be honest.” Her fingers push down the switch from its safety lock to going live. Her gaze draws along of the rifle’s sights. “War leaves nothing but bitter despair.” She aligns it, holds still, breathes out… and fires.
/span