Clever Girl

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abby6_icon.gif griffin_icon.gif

Scene Title Clever Girl
Synopsis A search for a lost boy in the city turns up robots. They're getting better.
Date February 6, 2011

Ruins of Midtown


The tunnels mostly turned up muck and meltwater, the walls marked with muddied chalk dust from when people journey through them without yet knowing exactly where to go and so mark their places accordingly. But no little boys, Terry Milburn having disappeared in the later hours after dinnertime, and for all that the tunnels and old gas pipes can be a winding labrynth of confusing, spooky, dripping corridors all slick with urban grime, rats, even the occasional stray dog trying to get the hell out of the cold weather—

It's better than the idea that he's outside.

With the hunt still going on underground, the skeleton staff of the Grand Central Terminal spread thin, it's Griffin Mihangle and Abigail Caliban that find themselves up above, equipped with flashlights and the staticy radio that connects them to Neil and a handful of others, Joseph Sumter and Kaylee Thatcher included. Recently emerged from an underground subway, finding evidence of the corrugated iron installed as cover shifted recently, they are seemingly alone. Snow lines thick on the road, crunching and squealching, sinking their boots into it, and coming down in ashy flakes that catch off what little light there is.

Even together and with the radio piece in their ears, it's difficult to not feel a little alone in a street of black and white, ruined buildings, the skeleton of cars and the abandonment that is the rotten heart of Midtown.

Last two times she had been out this late at night, a cop had been executed by Eileen and five people had hung from a tree and only one survived. It was the survivor that had driven abby back to the mainland on a personal errand. But she was derailed, distracted by the news that one of the milburn family was missing. Ordinarily, that's not a big deal, tunnel are plenty, you can easily get lost if you don't know where to go. But it wasn't the elder Milburns but the younger and his status as evolved and the knowledge that out here in the ruin something wicked lurked had her agreeing to accompany the telekine around in search.

bundled against cold and storm, backpack with medical supplies just in case and instant chemical heat packs - again, just in case - the brunette marches alongside Griffin, her flashlight splashing against the dark and dirty snow, moving away from where they had emerged from and looking up towards the hulking desiccated monoliths that that demarcated the ruins. "Would he have gone to the surface? If he was lost down there, he might have. Come up top to make his way back to a known entrance." odds of footprints? who knows, but she's looking, relying on what her dad taught her and her own experience at hunting to look for any obvious foot prints not erased by wind and snow. "Should we start heading that way, there's a few but, we can try for the first closest one"

The rumors of robots roaming around midtown is fresh in Griffin's head, racing through his thoughts. He's heard about them from more than a few sources— and saw one of them as it was being shipped out, when he and a few others ran the transport off of the icy roads. Abby was there, too. So it is that Mister Mihangle is a bit more twitchy than normal as they emerge from the underground network. His eyes glint faintly in the light, not unlike a pair of whitish animal eyes shining in the light, complimenting his flashlight.

He's bundled up nicely, equipped with a pair of guns from the stash he was left with concealed in his thick winter coat. His flashlight dances across the scenery as he listens to Abby, his head slanting to the side. "Yeah, that's probably a good place to start. Let's check out one of the main entrances. Keep close to the subway line, if he came up top he probably did the same."

"That's what I would do" It's logical. Go to something you know if you're lost, or stay put. There's no chatter over the radio with I found him, and there's nothing she can discern from the snow. Not in this light or easily. Abby's no bear gryllis. "Hopefully he's just hurt an ankle and is holed up somewhere, we'll find him. The Neil and his Dah can tan his hide" Please let it have been just a bum ankle. Hypothermia is a real possibility out here. "Where are we exactly?" She doesn't have her iphone anymore, there's no instant GPS to rely on.

Griffin's pupilless white eyes turn up toward the shadowy husks of buildings, squinting through the darkness for a moment, looking for landmarks. After a moment, he turns his eyes back down to the roving beam of his flashlight. "We're on 53rd and 3rd. There's another station around 51st and Lexington, two blocks down…maybe we should check around there. Hopefully, they'll get a buzz in their ears about the boy being found by the time that they get to the next station. "Here, this way." He begins to lead the way south.

The radio sparks up, tinny in their ears. Milburn's voice, wrought in anxiety but honed into something more business-like and efficient: «Topside ruins cleared?»

«Yeah, Neil, we're not finding anything.»

«No sign on 50th and Bway. Central Park?»

«Nothing yet. We're heading back— »

«Keep looking. Please. Try the ice ri— » Static grinds and crinkles over the line. «— soon. Abby? Mihangle?»

There are no child steps sunk deep into the snow, or at least, nothing that Abby can see in the chewed up city-ground, all churned and eroded with nothing fresh. But a pattern emerges to hunter eyes, the trenching sink that makes a four legged kind of rhythm of narrow limbs that sink deep enough into the snow to be defined and not completely blown away by wind and falling snow. There is no telling exactly how new the strange marks are.

«Nothing. We found some sheet metal pushed to the side, it lead to topside, Mihangle says we're around 53rd and 3rd. we're going to backtrack to Lexington entrance and see if he might have gotten lost, came topside and headed back to a more familiar place. We'll keep you updated if we find anything>

Abby's voice is soft into the radio. «Don't loose hope» Then she's cutting it off, pausing in their movement through the deepening snow at the vague tracks that have sprung up slowly. Horse? Vehicles don't do well out here, but the police on horses, maybe. Possibly. Abigail nudges the telekine, gesturing to the tracks that she's managed to pick out, indicating each one to him so that he knows what to look for. "Four legs, at least. might be a horse, I can't tell from the snow, do you want to follow? He might have been smart and moved in tracks already present, so he couldn't be tracked"

Griffin tilts his head toward the side that the radio is in, brows raising as he skims the street, a frown on his face. He doesn't like being up here at night. His flashlight and his glowing eyes trailing over the street, letting Abby do the answering when it comes to the radio. He's never been much of a talker.

The tall man turns as he's nudged, shining his light down at the prints with raised brows. A horse? Out here? "Why would someone bring a horse out here…" He mutters this under his breath, then turns the light to determine what path the prints take with a grim expression on his face. "…Let's follow these, but be as quiet as you can." No sir, he doesn't like it.

A blast of wind suddenly beats across their backs, as if in an attempt to urge them forward, and the lighter top-most layer of snow comes up like glittering desert sand. The deep trenches of strange prints don't completely obscure, however, some more intact than others — the most of which looking like a pole was dug deep into the snow, a tapering, cylindrical kind of shape. In the occasional roars of wind and the distant traffic, Abby and Griffin barely make a noise as they follow the tracks in pursuit of the lost boy, their flashlights glancing over the silvery meltwater, the asphalt and the white ice that buffers the hard angles of curbs and street like padding.

Up ahead, in the deep, velvet shadows of the street, the filmy, vague spread of their flashlights can only show so much. Black shapes up ahead in the snowy landscape show themselves to be the angles of cars, or the broken shells of them at least. Rebar, rubbled buildings. But then something strange — collapsed on its side and unmoving, no light coming off its form, is an object.

One of immense proportions. The snaky neck that lies crippled, seemingly, on the ground is a good few feet long, head half obscured in snow. The ribcage-like side shards moonlight through the gaps. It resembles a dead animal in a savannah, picked clean by the sun and the vultures and the insects of rot and decay.

"Police patrols on horse. They use them all the time to get around New York Griffin. They can go places that the vehicles can't" It makes sense to her. 'They're in central park and everywhere. Mounted patrol"

But she quiets down, much as if she were hunting with her father, letting her light slip over the tracks, making sure that they're still there and trudging along. She points them out to Griffin, showing him how to identify them as well, passing along the wee bit of knowledge that she has from growing up in the wilds of louisiana and winter hunting.

It's when flashlights show the thing in the distance on it's side and the snow obscuring it that she pauses - no Raith or Avi military hand movements to accompany it - and goes still, looking around them. A trap? Maybe.. it's just a placement of refuse that has fallen the way that it has. "Griffin, can you prod it?" From afar of course.

What on earth is that? Griffin hardly hears the words that come out of Abigail's mouth, if only for virtue of the fact that he's staring at some kind of skeleton thing. His face scrunches in confusion, and as Abby stops, so does he— edging a little closer to Abby in the process with a protective air to his stance. He stares for a long while at it, frowning.

When it doesn't move, Griffin reaches out with a vector. He almost doesn't want to touch it. What if, when he touches it, it wakes up? Naaah. Couldn't be. Probably just a dead horse, or something like that. Finally, after a moment of debate, a telekinetic hand gently knocks on the top if the carcass' head.

Tink.

That's not bone. Black metal sounds mostly solid against the kinetic force that touches it, but nothing moves, not at first. It takes several seconds for something else to move — snow packed atop the creature suddenly sloughs off steely flank, but nothing more dramatic than that. Or at least, not apparently, but there is a soft sizzle sound that edges into their hearing, and beneath the flare of flashlight, the sight of tiny flecks of water popping and flying off the metal as steam begins to rise.

"And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see." It's under her breath, said breath curling out in lingering steam that likely doesn't hold a lick to that which is starting to curl off of whatever it is that they just woke. She reaches over with her free hand, closing her fingers around his forearm.

"And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given to him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer." Her flashlight stays trained on the item in the snow. "I don't think that's him. Or a horse… Does that look like.." You know, that thing that they've warned any evolveds coming to the terminal about.

Oh. Oh shit. Something's happening— Griffin has no clue what, but it's pretty damn intimidating, and it's making him even more twitchy. Oh god, why does he always have to consent to being the stick everyone uses to poke big things that could be dangerous?! Things like this end up happening. Whatever this is. Griff frowns, suddenly flicking his flashlight off and doing the same to Abby's, whether she wants it to happen or not.

Then, he's wrapping an arm around the woman, and drawing her back— back back back, into a nook in the side of a building, hopefully in hiding from whatever it is that's awakening beyond. If he can help it, he'd rather not be noticed by whatever it is that is making the snow steam and pop— much better to figure out what it is from afar.

Even though he's pretty sure he already knows exactly what it is he just poked.

One step, two step, Abigail and Griffin merely a few feet away from the entrance of the alleyway in their swift retreat backwards when it happens. The ratatatatatat fire of a machine gun suddenly fills the air with noise, bullets puncturing into brick and steel as it sweeps towards them, dust and breakaway pieces peppering both search party members.

Not from the felled robot beast that's beginning to warm up, but from where a similar being was crouching hidden and huddled against the shell of an abandoned vehicle. They see it in the flash it takes to glance its way, two round lights of bright red flicked on, blood-red illimunation for the feline-like silver skull face.

Turrets extended, it sweeps relentless gunfire in their direction, muzzle flashes wicked bright against the night time setting, only halting when the creature surges forward to stand upon its four limbs. Steam hisses into the air in three-foot tall plumes of ghost white.

Abigail has no objection at all to griffin's manhandling of her, given that likely if he hadn't, she'd have been perforated a hundred times over by machine gun on the back of a second bot. Bullets whiz by and she's turning on her radio. «Robots. Two of them. They have machine guns on them» She's not exactly learned in things weaponized, can't tell the difference between a machine gun and a mounted turret. «One is active, other is activating.//» She looks to Griffin, see what his suggestion is.

Oh. Oh, two of them. Two. TWO ROBOTS. And they are firing at them. Oh. Oh shit. For a moment, Griffin can only stare, his eyes as wide as saucers. Fucking robots. Fucking terminator type shit. This is not his idea of a good trip out. «Shit.» That's all the Ferrymen are going to get from Griffin Mihangle, right now.

As the bullets smash into the concrete and bricks and steel, Griffin springs into action. His arms still around Abby, he does the one thing he's best at: he runs like hell. While still manhandling the flame woman. Vectors raise up into the roofs of the alley behind them, and suddenly, Abby and Griffin are yanked back and upwards away from those bullets as fast as his vectors can pull him.

Up up up they go, sailing up wildly into the air, before they begin to fall back down. Just before a painful impact seems iminent, they stop with a jerk, hovering in the air with three vectors holding them aloft, like a tripod, on the rooftop; those two guns he had float out of his pockets of their own accord, to hover over his shoulders as he gets his bearings, scanning their surroundings.

"So how exactly does your Flame On power work?" He glances to Abby, raising his brows.

From up here, they can see it clearly. The previously felled robot is getting its long, long limbs beneath it, rocking belly-down to lurch itself to standing, long neck dragging up with its eyes flicking on red as more ice and snow converts to steam within seconds. The sentrybot is different animal— as it were— to the thing that's only recently ceased fire, all equine proportions, and a head that has no lower jaw but instead spills tentacle-like sensors that seem to test the air.

By the time the machine gun firing has halted, the cattish hunterbot is on its feet, with a steel, jagged spine, scythe like angles on its forelimbs, and with a balanced kind of movement that is still a little robotic and herkyjerk in insectile starts and stops, it moves across the street, lifting its head to where it knows where the Evos lie.

"Drop me" Slender fingers dig around her ear, get the radio off of her person and dump it into a pocket.

Two simple words that at this height would kill a person or maim them horribly and with the greeting party that's below and likely possessing means to get up to them - Or you know, shooting them down into reach - would spell certain incarceration at the hands of evolved technology.

But when he does what she dictates, releases his hold on her and she starts to plummet towards earth in obeisance to gravity she's one minute Abigail and the next she's a Michael bay special effect. Clothing scatters outwards singed and burning, the straps of the backpack burnt plastic and any metal on her in contact with her dropping as she does what the Serum intended for her to do the moment it was introduced into her DNA.

She lands without a sound, hovering half a foot off the ground in her coronal form with it's flames licking out about and around her. Conscious choice means instant. No build up, not time lapse. Means too that the landscape changes, seething with blues of varying shades providing detail to her that would elude normal sight. She takes a few seconds for orientation, to find the cores of reds, oranges and yellows that she knows will mean the robots if the steam coming off them is any indication.

Griffin is reluctant, but if that's what she wants, he will oblige. And for a moment, he can only watch as Abby plummets, instinctively reaching for her with his vectors— that is, until she turns into fire-girl. That's actually quite nifty, really. Note to self: if you are ever in need of a fire, ask Abby. With her around, there's no need for matches.

But there's no time for lolly-gagging now. Not when Evolved hunting robots are after them.

Griffin turns his white-eyed gaze down toward the two creatures, his brow furrowed. The guns float down into his hands, which he aims carefully. In the meanwhile, he's attempting to pull a nice-sized chunk of brick and concrete from the rubble of the damaged building with his vectors. Once an adequate sized chunk that's not too heavy for him to throw is found, Griffin turns his gaze toward the robots, smiling faintly.

Then, he's unleashing gunshots down at the cat-type robot; the chunk of rubble is sent flying toward the sentinel as well as he can manage.

She sees them. In the world of snow and chilled concrete and ice— she sees them easily.

They are radiatingly hot, capable of instantly searing flesh should they ever get into contact, giving off baking waves of heat that melts the snow around them. The larger one, the sentry, stands resolute with nothing on the ground that it can attack, but the hunterbot is prowling forward as if it could scale the walls, and who knows — maybe it can. It stops, though, when fire suddenly blooms in front of them, throwing light across black and silver limbs and pieces.

The sentinel stands impassive under onslaught of rock, alhough when one larger piece of debris clips its head, skull sways off leftwards as if dazed. A klaxon suddenly pierces through the silence, drowning out any and all noise. It comes from the llama-like sentry bot in passive aggressive warning response, a continual wail that vibrates through the street it's collapsed upon, seems to even make the walls around them shiver. The noise sails up into the night sky, the same sort of call that's echoed through Midtown on many occasions.

The radio chatters in Griffin's ear, only audible due to its placement, and even then, hard to make out: «Don't draw them to us! Draw them away!»

«No, get somewhere safe, fuck! Underground!»

«No, go high!»

Bullets ping and clatter off the steel spine of the robot, but it seems not terrible affected by small arms fire as it evaluates the roaring furnace ahead of it. Its weight rocks back, as a bullet near misses a glowing red eye, before suddenly launching itself towards the flame mimic — whether it detects it as a threat or just responds to Evo presence is difficult to say.

She's calculating which hunk of metal is the more pressing one. The one that's firing off weapons, that's likely to puncture holes in Griffin or the one that's wailing, the sound audible to her even if it's a fraction dampened. The lunging hunterbot seems to have decided for her and as it launches itself up into the air and towards her, the Mimic wills herself hotter. The flames that swathe her transition from the orange and red, shifting incrementally through the color spectrum to more yellow and nearer to white. It'll cut down how long she can stay as she is, but the creature is metal and she doesn't know it's composition or melting point.

something she'll need to study once she figures out just how hot she gets.

But she braces herself despite not needing to, feet spread and ready to stick with it the moment it lands, make sure that if anything at all, to melt whatever the innards are if she can't the outside.

Griffin remains up above while the flaming woman is distracting the two robotic creatures down below, sneering. Shit— shit. This is not going to be a happy day, is it. What does he do? Well, aside from slowly lowering himself to the rooftop with a vector to steady himself. Eyes. Aim for the eyes. It didn't like it when he shot at the eyes.

Griffin raises his guns toward the Klaxon-blaring robot, even as bits of smaller rubble lift into the air behind him. The eyes of the llamabot is where the bullets are aimed next, the man doing his best to aim as steady as he can. And the bits of rubble— well, those are aimed at the cat-bot's head, with the rocks used as more of a utility for a punch than anything else. Aim for the eyes.

He shouts for Abby to get away, to come closer so they can try to flee, but it's drowned out by the klaxons. She can't hear him, he can't hear anything but the sirens and the voices screaming advice in his ear. But this is not a good place to be.

One red eye goes out on the sentry bot, head rocking back. It begins to pump out oily yellow negation gas in thick clouds that whorl in the air, the snow that falls sizzling and evaporating within inches of its metal hide. It doesn't try to attack anything up above, just wails its sirens.

As for the hunterbot, there's no need to aim for the eyes, by the time Abby has hit the hunterbot — red-glowing glass immediately shatters, bursting out from metal sockets, the syringe of the needle also breaking with the sedation fluid inside evaporation. In the same moment, yellow clouds are billowing out from beneath the flames, but burning up nearly instantly, tendrilling wisps of yellow negation gas barely able to escape the roar of the fire. When the catbot lands, it doesn't move, its metal beginning to glow at its sharp, sharp edges, and the stink of burning, melting plastic wafts up towards Griffin in thick black smoke.

And then—

And then it keeps moving.

The stuff of nightmare fuel, the catbot is slower going but not breaking, a black skeletal beast wreathed in white, yellow and red flame. One leg in front of the other, it lurches for the building, creating a path of melted water in the snow as it goes. With deliberation, it leaps to land on a dumpster shoved up against the side of the crippled building that Griffin lords on. It rocks back on its haunches, the fire light of Abby's taking spilling up the side of the building and blackening brick, and then with a groan of metal unheard under the siren, it leaps.

There's a shatter of concrete, wood, drywall and glass as it smashes through the side of the building, snagging fire within its interior, blackening the ceiling. It heads for the staircase, with far too much intelligence for a simple A.I. programme.

Abigail is very much bound by gravity even in this form, and the cat moves faster than the former healer could even imagine moving in this form. Griffin will just have to outrun it, bring it back to her so she can work more on it. But it's no longer down here and there is one other. The klaxon's wailing with negation gas spilling around it, Abigail turns her attention quite literally to the sentry bot.

She moves over melting snow, snowflakes ceasing to exist if they even think of touching down on her. Gabriel once compared her to an angel when he held her aloft in these ruins some christmas's ago and if he could see her now he might think the very opposite with the way that she unerringly descends upon the tentacled miscreation of Hector Steel's. COncentrate further, try to push herself a little higher in temperature, go beyond the glowing that was created with the cat, try and engulf the creature like she had tried to engulf dreyfus not too long ago.

Griffin frowns at the scene. Oh— oh shit that thing figured out how to get up to him. As it leaps onto the dumpster, Griffin is already floating up into the air, away from any of that noxious yellow gas that comes from both the hunter bot and the sentry bot. He's not about to wait around until the beast makes its way up the stairs. First and foremost, he aims a nice five-fisted punch toward the nearest support beam on the wounded building.

But then, he's moving, playing keep away from the scary hunter robot that wants to kill him or put him in jail or something to that effect. The guns are kept out, though he's not firing them right now— mostly, he's actively avoiding the negation gas, while trying to circle around and position himself well enough that he can lead the mechanical creature back down to the ground— to Abby's waiting flames.

Immediately, the sentrybot too begins to fire machine gun blasts as Abby leaps to enwrap it in flames, but sensors seem more or less confused by the presence of an Evolved all around them that the most Griffin has to worry about, for now, is staying out of the general way. It eats destruction into the crippled building being furtherly crippled by two things — Griffin's telekinetic attack on its supports, and the robot that weighs perhaps a tonne slinking through it, superheated and intent in its aim.

The ground shudders when things begin to give, and with a thunderous crack, the building begins to collapse inside of itself. Crumbling, the entire front face begins to rain brick and wood and glass onto the street below, and dust begins to rise for the night sky. There's another crack from within, and then thunderous slams as something heavy goes spilling down within the building, bricking down brick and concrete and rebar down with it. Inside, when the hunterbot lands, it makes the ground tremble, a cacophonous boom.

The siren has shut down since Abby consumed the sentrybot, gunfire shutting off and eyes blind once the glass has splintered out from shadowy sockets. It seems to go into a still sort of defensiveness, withstanding the flames that evaporate the negation gas into so much steam in the air. Rock and debris of the collapse building scuttles out across the street, rolling amongst its four feet that seem like giant knives themselves, the same ones that gouged those tracks.

Dust hazes the air, as does smoke, and as the collapsed building settles with the thing inside of it, the only thing to be heard is the crackle and snap of flames.

And then something unseen shifting in the debris, a slide of metal, the scatter of rubble.

Maybe hector should have made it as a opossum with mandible tentacles instead of a llama. But then, the DoEA it seems, didn't want to waste time creating something new when they had something that already worked.

Abigail remains where she is, standing beside and around the sentry, fifteen minutes as she is, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. It all depends.

Like, you know, the spot of warmth beneath the rubble and snow, brick and beams that shifts, moves just enough, the play of yellows, reds and oranges withina dn beneath the varying shades of blue. She's unable to tell griffin to move it, to high tail it, get out of there. She wants to. To tell him to get a headstart and maybe it'll run out of range and be unable to detect griffin. But she can't. Can't warn him how far down it is even.

Griffin is doing his damn best, staying out of the way in general. For once, he feels helpless, and all that he can truly do is fling himself out of the way of negation gas and bullets. He circles around to a building across the street as the sentrybot goes into its still defensiveness, as the building collapses over the hunterbot, coming to a halt in mid-air to survey the scene, Abby burning the sentrybot and the dust coming off of the collapsed ruins that was once a building.

He balks at the sounds of the sounds of something shifting. One hand lifts up to the earpiece. «Abby is down there! She can't hear me, I don't think…I can't tell her to run for it. They can climb.» The man slowly floats backward above the building, reaching out for a nearby building with a few vectors…

He wants to run like hell, but he can't leave Abby behind. Who knows how long she can keep this up?

The llamabot remains where it is too, standing as impassive as a grazing animal while fire roars off its body. But slowly does it, something else on its radar begins to blip, and though it's more or less blind, it turns its head towards where Griffin stands. With lurching, mechanical deliberately, all strength and brutality and weaponry what it lacks in grace, it begins to turn to him, it's knife-like limbs hot enough to glow. It takes a step forward, sharp, pointed foot scratching along the asphalt.

«We're sending a car for 53rd. Run east, as far as you can, the Park crew will collect you, and for fuck's sake, make sure Caliban is with you.» Which is a little unfair. It's hard to negotiate with a flying bonfire.

There's a whine of steel, the hunterbot lifting its head to fling sheet metal off it as it struggles out of the debris, something caught in its make and forcing it to struggle if it wants to be free. But another screeching tear of metal — likely nothing of its own body — indicates that it probably won't be long. Yellow gas lifts up out from the rubble pieces, and the grind of metal is audible.

"Abby! We need to leave!" He shouts down to the woman, even as the sentrybot turns its attention toward him. Fuck. He begins to slingshot about in an erattic pattern, now, as fast as he can, around Abby and the llamabot, careful to stay away from any steam or smoke or yellow gas that may arise. Oh god, oh god, what on earth is he going to do?!

«She's currently on fire, or I would already be out of here!» He frowns, keeping moving. No need to be spotted— no need to make himself into an easy target while he tries to figure out what the hell to do.

Yelling, that's what you do Griffin. She can hear, that much is obvious as the face on the nymph composed of fire and the surface of the sun turns towards the flying telekine as he glides through the air like spiderman on his way to a crime scene. Only, he didn't tell her where to go. But she hears and that's the main point.

So she goes, flames dying out even as she moves, guttering in patches on her skin till there's a lily-white woman streaking as fast as she can through the snow and the ruins. She knows she's not any type of speedy in the other shape and frostbite is preferrable to death at any rate. Leftover clothing that survived transforming or the backpack is buried beneath rubble that the hunter bot is trying to make it's way out of and she's not sticking around for the llama-hentai bot to even think about her. At least, thank god griffin, she's going back the way they came, sticking to the path they made. Francois if he could see or even Teo would be laughing at her condition.

It could be worse. This could have been last year. Much colder.

Sentrybot in pursuit, it begins to chase, a slow moving kind of unstoppable lurch of something that doesn't outrun them, but could probably outlast them in the same fashion it stood resolute against the flames. The impact of its feet hitting the ground is audible in metallic clangs and thuds against the concrete. There's a clamour of metal and concrete behind it, and then all at once the hunterbot is on the action as well, a fluidity to its insectile motions at it begins to pick up speed. 5 mph. 10 mph. 15 mph. It races past the lurching sentry, the needle extending between its fangs like a silver promise.

A growl of an engine is blessedly not too far away. A pickup truck suddenly swerves around the corner of Park Avenue, its wheels sliding on ice as it wings right around in a nearly full circle, juddering to a halt. The Ferryman behind the wheel blinks out the window at the sight of the two metallic, near glowing beasts bearing down on Griffin's erratic flight and Abby's naked sprint.

"Wow," he says, as he cranks the window down, so that he can better yell, "GET IN HERE!"

As the truck swings to a halt, Griffin is swooping down; Abby will feel a pair of telekinetic hands wrap around her knees and shoulders, swooping her off of the ground as gently as a mother would pick up her child— and promptly thrusting every naked bit of her into the back of the truck, gently depositing her. Moments later, the truck's back shocks bounce as Griffin lands in the bed, promptly gripping on with both hands as he crouches down.

Then, turning back to the threat of the beasts that is looming up on them, he does the best thing he can think of. All six vectors are sent flying at the metallic beast, attempting to grip it tightly by the legs and by the ribcage. Kinetic energy can't get burnt by the searing-hot metal that evaporates the snow.

His intent is quite clear; lift the beast, if he can, and push it right into the approaching sentrybot. Distract the llamabot and catbot while they make their getaway.

For a moment, she's sure it's the robot that's got her, expecting to find herself on her back and red hot metal ripping through her. But when the cold bed of the truck is what her back meets thanks to Griffin's ability, she's back up against the back of the cab, knee's up, legs crossed and making herself as small a target as possible should the beasts catch up with them, and covering the more sensitive parts of her body. You know, the parts that should never be exposed to this much cold.

"DRIVE!" She yells, hoping the driver can hear, even as she shivers. When it's safe, she can actually get in the cab.

The catbot leaps. Soars through the air, its wicked hooks on its legs threatening to imbed into the bed of the truck and be dragged along with it, devour whole the vehicle in its climb with them. But vectors snatch onto forelimbs and powerful, cage-like torso, tipping it sideways where it goes rolling under its own momentum back into the llamabot, where its own careful legs stagger-stumble blind over the felled hunterbot.

But Abby and Griffin can both see it. The way they detangle from another another. The way they balance themselves, and cast hollowed out stares back towards the truck.

But the truck is driving, a clattering rumble that churns up snow and ice as it roars down 53rd, and the last seen of the robots is the shape of the two of them both simultaneously stopping their pursuit once some range has been hit, their frozen statuesque figures diminishing from view as they bump around a corner.

Safe. For now.


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