Participants:
| Scene Title | Dead Man's Switch |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An attempt at intelligence extraction turns into a firefight. |
| Date | June 5, 2011 |
The sky is taking on the approximate colour of creeping rust by the time a meeting is due to commence, the later dusk hour beginning to soak up degrees of warmth and make jackets necessary. Long shadows throw themselves across abandoned streets, and the only sound of traffic comes from a wolf's howl distance where the south portion of Staten Island crawls with military trucks and cars. Weeds reach out from the cracks in the pavement. Low maintenance means that this patch of industrial suburb-city never fully recovered from the snows of the massive winter that had plagued this city now so long ago, with buildings in swift decay and roads broken. There are, however, recent signs of activity — on drying concrete, wet track marks of a car coming by make paths on the road just outside the low, expansive warehouse long ago abandoned, looted, used for refugees to squat in, and now—
Now it acts as meeting place, bearing the marks of its past lives and letting in the last of the sunlight through high, grimy windows.
The doors are laid wide, wide open, a gigantic rectangle in corrugated iron. The roof is tall by building standards, but the structure squat and sprawling for a warehouse, with a scuffed cement floor. Metal staircases zigzag up the far distance to a balcony, leading into an office with spiderweb-broken windows, one completely missing of all its glass, and darkness behind them. But the space it overlooks is plenty room for a meeting.
Graffiti paints the walls, and there are metal drums blackened on the inside, one of which tipped onto its side in long ago neglect. It's not an intentional signal to his presence, when Valentin boredly sets a shoe against the side and sets it rolling off into the far wall in lazy clang and clatter, but he doesn't seem to mind the cacophony either. His boots are black and shiny, his jeans scuffed and worn, and he hasn't gone to fantastic lengths to conceal the kevlar beneath a corduroy jacket, its hem finishing above his knees. He doesn't show any evidence of prior injury — no canes as a result of bad healing, no irreparable damage.
Valentin isn't the only one who brought Kevlar, though Melissa's made an effort to hide it beneath her clothes. Which is easy enough since she always wears black. And even though she always has her ability, she's come armed too, just in case there's negation of some sort.
She arrives before Devon, along with Remi, to find a nice spot for them to hide, where they can observe, and hopefully be close enough for Remi's ability to work. she doesn't look happy about the whole thing, but she follows the plan, settling behind cover, her brow furrowed. She glances at Remi, to check on her, before nodding once, reassuringly.
He's on foot, shoes crunching against the the uneven pavement, making no attempt to hide himself. One could almost label Devon as self assured when he comes into view of the dilapidated warehouse, the cool exterior of confidence keeping the stomach twisting nerves hidden internally. He didn't dress up for the meeting, choosing to come as he is, a teenager. And thusly as a teenager, he's clad in a dark gray t-shirt that layers over a lighter gray long sleeve thermal and a pair of blue jeans that have been well loved. He has no armor on him, nor has he come armed with anything more than his cell phone. A cell phone that's set to record the conversation.
Hands ride in his pockets, Devon's eyes regarding the structure and the man waiting within. Of his shadows he gives no sign of knowing they're around. Nor does he give any satisfaction to looking for the unknown beyond the casual flick of his gaze this way or that. The boy could be doing nothing more than making sure he won't stumble or run into any environmental thing. He stops once he reaches the doorway, standing in silent silhouette. against the setting sun while his eyes adjust to the darkened interior.
Sticking close to Melissa is rather easy. Remi's never had to wear Kevlar before. The willowy woman with dark red hair has made her own attempts to hide the armor beneath her clothing, most of which was stolen from Magnes when she snuck out of his care. Today, the jacket she snatched from him is coming in handy, wrapped arond her and zipped up. It does a good job of hiding the extra bulk against her slender frame.
It also does well to hide that little handgun in her pocket. She's not likely to shoot anyone, but it's soothing to have it. She's never been the violent type.
Quietly, she settles into the hiding spot, nodding to Melissa to indicate that they are indeed close enough. Her mind searches the area, not finding anyone within her range, save for Valentin's mind; she focuses on that, though she doesn't fully block out other minds in the area, leaving her open to the surface thoughts of her companions, as well. Quietly, she speaks into Melissa and Devon's minds. I can hear him, loud and clear.
"Mister Clendaniel!"
As soon as Devon is spied, this is the greeting he gets — its warmth echoes up to the rafters, Valentin's hands up and open in gesture to match. His accent kind of breaks down each syllable, stitched back together clunky, and the only other thing that belies a genuine welcome is the way his blue eyes flick a look up and down Devon's frame, passed the silhouette he makes in the doorway, calculating and inquisitive, and the whisper of thoughts that Remi can dial into, an ambiguous switch between Slovak and English, begs the question— What was Knutson so afraid of?
"Right on time, very kind of you. You did not bring your fat puppeteer friend?" he asks. A shame.
While Devon looks confident, Melissa isn't. The lack of windows at a good level has her grimacing, and she glances around, hunting for an alternative. "Shit," she whispers. Then she looks at Remi, still frowning, but thinking loudly at the telepath. <Let me know if Devon needs help. There is no good vantage point.>
There's no response in Devon's mind, and his thoughts are focused on the here and now. But no response or recognition should be expected if they're to play the game right. As far as he's concerned, and as much as he'll let on unless and until things change, is he's alone.
"Evening, Mister Valentin." Devon's own voice doesn't share the warmth, feigned or otherwise. Rather it's the usual. Quiet tones that remain neutral if not exactly cold. "So good of you to meet with me. As for my fat puppeteer friend—" He trails off to offer a one-shouldered shrug. He hasn't seen Doyle since the day the Dome ended. His feet carry him further into the warehouse but only by a couple of steps while he regards the older man in return.
The former ballerina glances once toward Melissa, nodding once. Remi doesn't actually say anything. Silent communication is much more advantageous in a situation such as this. She leans up against the wall, eyes hooding slightly as she tunes in on Valentin's thoughts, sending another message the way of her companions. I'll be listening for anything out of the norm. Devon, let me know if anything is happening. Just think it, and help will come. In the form of a world of pain for Valentin. Which is likely to happen anyhow, as far as she knows.
She can't say she won't be interested in seeing what happens.
Hands tucking into his pockets, Valentin hunches his shoulders up in a shrug, and wanders a little closer as his smile wans. Not too close. Devon has a good four inches on him, and eye contact can be maintained and even when there is a little distance. That, and there is security for the yawning amounts of space that surround him, penned by the tall walls and their windows raised aloft. "You did not give me much of a choice, Clendaniel. I would likely not have met you otherwise, if we are to be honest with each other. But I assume you will leave Odessa along once you have gotten what you came for.
"What did you come for?"
Melissa nods to Remi, then she remains close to the wall, trying to move a little bit closer to the doorway, just in case. And though she tries to listen in on the conversation, she's counting on Remi to let her know if she needs to bring the pain.
Stay out of my head or you'll give us away. Devon's thought comes harsh, but the suggestive impulse Remi nudged into his mind some months ago follows with a quick apology. None of this is relayed in his expression, of course, happening in an instant while Valentin talks. A brow arches at the implications that he's bothering Odessa. "With all due respect, sir, she didn't have to meet with me. Likewise, she could have just answered my question and let me done the work to find you if it were such a problem."
His shoulder shrugs again, hands coming free of his pockets to gesture vaguely. "Just to talk, for an explanation I think I'm entitled to. —Why'd you do it?" The Dome, he means.
"Entitled?"
Valentin repeats this word as if unsure, exactly, what it's supposed to mean, a smile growing crooked on his sharp features. "You think so?" There's a beat, as if rethinking something, but Remi will understand it better than Devon will, and certainly Melissa, as his thoughts sharply pull out of the usual surface sussurus of abstract pondering to something more direct— They're behind the door? Without further digging, she won't be able to tell them why Valentin knows this to be true — just that he is concretely certain of this fact, with all the suddenness of a news flash.
In the same moment as synapses fire and transmit this signal, he brings out a pistol from beneath his coat, casually taking off the safety before swinging it to aim lazy nearish Devon's legs. "But you seemed so keen to shoot first and ask questions later at the time."
Well, shit. That sucks some big booty. Remi blinks a few times, turning her gaze inward toward where she knows Valentin to be. He knows we're here. Melissa, your cue now, oui? Not really feeling like being the helpless one who gets stabbed through the leg, Remi reaches into her pocket, pulling out the gun that she obtained. She was taught how to use it, if briefly, and she ensures that the safety is on. For now, at least…
Remi's message has Melissa grimacing. This isn't good. She moves closer to the door, though really, she doesn't need to look inside to do what she's going to do. The movement is in case she needs to use her gun, which she draws while focusing on the murmur of voices. Mentally she protects Devon from being hit, before blasting pain towards the inside of the warehouse.
Instinctively, Devon's hands come up. He's had enough guns pulled on him in recent days that the first and only thought to go through his mind is to show himself unarmed. But unlike those times, his heart thunders in his chest. Something about meeting the man he'd tried to kill now looking to repay the attempt by putting holes in him make sit difficult to keep the fear entirely out of his expression. It shows in a shadowed crease across his brow. He saves face enough to not retreat, to hold his ground.
And right about now the teenager is also wishing he'd come armed.
"You're right," Devon admits, voice as quiet as ever. It's an effort to keep his tone even. "But you have to agree, you'd have done the same if the situation was reversed. Why'd you do it? Who gave you the assignment to destroy some small community that wasn't doing anything but existing peacefully?"
"If I told you it was all me, what would you do?"
Slithery Slovak mutters beneath the undercurrent of Valentin's thoughts, and it's not far enough a cry from Russian that Remi can't understand the resentful, snipey words of— they would take the credit for my work, no one blames the foot soldiers— "Would it conclude this meeting? Because— and I don't know what you might have heard— but I am not a very patient man— " And the next step carries him within the strain of psychic influence reaching invisible passed Devon, piercing intangibly through Valentin's skull like a migraine. His voice over the wire beneath his coat collar blanks and flattens over the line as he lets out a startled howl. Pure professionalism isn't enough to stop him from squeezing the trigger.
It goes off with a sound that briefly fills the warehouse, and the bullet whizzes just passed Devon to scour the road through the door, and passed the huddled women outside.
"Merde!"
Remi lets out a soft cry, muffled only by her desire to stay quiet; it doesn't stop her from throwing herself to the ground, however, covering her head for a moment. Then, she lifts her head once the sound of gunfire is gone, blinking owlishly. There's nothing but sentiments of great pain coming through from Valentin's side. She lifts her eyes to the horizon, searching…before she turns toward Melissa. I think there is someone else here. I need to get //closer. I can only hear his thoughts right now. I need to touch him.//
The pain from the Slovak doesn't stop her from army-crawling her way toward the door, however, gun clenched tightly in her hands. Safety is still on; no need to shoot herself or a friend while she's crawling around in the dirt like a child.
When Remi speaks Melissa considers, not yet letting up on the pain. But after a moment, she expands it. No longer just hurting Valentin, she tries to hurt everyone within the warehouse other than Devon. At least everyone who happens to be within range. It's a long shot, but if she can hurt them, maybe she can feel their pain and pick out where they are.
There's no amount of calm, dispassionate reasoning that can keep Devon from reacting to the sound of gunfire. He's too slow to have avoided the bullet, if not for Melissa's ability he might have ended up worse off. A new tear in his jeans is far better than in his flesh.
"Holy… Fuck!" Devon yells in response to the echoing report, twisting himself out of the gun's trajectory. "Quit shooting at me!" His hands lower, a tremble running through as adrenalin grasps hold. Then, without giving it full consideration and no thought for the consequences if he fails, he moves toward Valentin, hands going to wrestle the gun away from the older man.
Sssszzzzzzzzzz-clk.
A zip line sizzles hot under clipped contact, black wire trembling taut somewhere out've sight. Quiet at first. Louder close to when it cuts out and the harness is released with a snap and a jerk, combat boots crunched soft to shattered concrete and gravel.
So enters a new mind from behind: reptilian cold and slippery smooth at the surface to accompany the regular, military pace of bootfalls on the approach. It enters Remi's range before it dawdles on the edge of Melissa's, silty grey eyes narrowed. Calculating. Approach reconsidered.
He's at 7 o'clock, on the ground between neighboring storage buildings, visible as a compact, military-buzzed and blacked-out through the coarse fit of his BDUs. With an assault rifle raised to his shoulder. Emile Danko.
He'll kick you apart, he'll kick you apart.
ooo.
For now, he toggles a switch and pulls the trigger that sends a canister rocketing clinkity-tonk against the last span of exterior wall where Remi and Melissa are crawling around or whatever.
"Evening, ladies." Yellow gas begins to belch out around them immediate-like. "Either of you happen to have ID?"
Crippling pain means that Valentin is not too much to handle — indeed, he has stopped shooting at Devon, but his hand remains rigid around his pistol, and he goes from pliable to tense in the time it takes for him to obey Devon's yank and swipe the weapon, gripped by both of them though it is, across the young man's chin in abrupt, clocking knock.
Blood in his mouth, jaw throbbing and hands caught up with the bridge-chord tension of Valentin's hands and the bulky pistol between them, Devon won't have much time to comprehend what the hell is going on outside — not before something inside him shifts, a clutch of adrenalised tension releasing, and he can kind of feel it on a more psychic level. A magnetism, a gravitational pull, a kinetic awareness that there is a degree of control he has over the older man, but before he can totally understand what it is—
It severs, with a thud of his heart and the spiking giddiness of the scuffle.
And Valentin goes flying back, pistol wrenched from Devon's hands and scattering off when Valentin's loosens from it too. He flies as if he's falling horizontal, passed and through a tin rubbish can that topples over until he lands on the ground, set to rolling until a hand flies out and steadies himself belly down upon the ground. The bad news is, being thrown through the air hurts, and there's a pained, voiceless grunt barely heard from the twenty or so feet set between them. The good news is— it hurts a lot less than Melissa's brand of justice, and even before negation gas can wreath itself on the pain manipilator's talents, he's well out of range.
Unsteady, Valentin gets his knees beneath him, hands planted on the ground, a stare swung towards Devon.
Negation. Fucking negation. This is turning bad, and fast. Coughing, Remi swings her weapon around, managing to remove the safety as she turns to face Emile Danko down. That voice. That voice. She knows that voice, though not from one of her own memories. Moreso, from Elisabeth's memories, which were conveniently downloaded into her head.
It almost feels like he's from her nightmares, right now.
She doesn't bother answering any questions, trying to keep herself from freezing in terror at the fact that she's probably facing down a voice in someone else's nightmare. No, this seems like a proper shoot first and ask questions later scenario. And Jaiden did a fairly good job of showing her how to shoot a firearm, still fresh in her mind from earlier today.
She aims for kneecaps, and hopes to god that her vest will work if he tries to shoot back at her.
It isn't a good time to be Melissa. She's kicking at the canister, though she knows it won't do much good, and she's trying very, very hard to hurt Valentin and Danko before the gas does its nasty job. It's a tossup which one she wants to hurt worse once she recognizes the latter. "YOU," she says, in a hate-filled voice. She ducks around the door, firing as she goes.
Though she's on the move, she does try to aim for parts of the body that aren't normally covered by kevlar. Head would be nice, but anywhere that causes injury is good. When she sees Remi just shooting, she shouts at the telepath. "Get inside, dammit, get the information! I'll deal with this bastard!"
The trouble with this particular Danko is that he started out in the mouth between two buildings, so it only takes him a couple of unhurried steps backwards to vanish out've sight again. And out of mind. Pain's lingering edge is soaked until it fades; bullets aimed inexpertly at 'knees' and 'random other body parts' fail to find a lick of purchase.
Yellow smog continues to roll watery quick across the warehouse's gawping entrance. Pieces of garbage flutter tatty and weak between patches of scrawny weed growth. There are a lot of buildings on this lot. A lot of cover, and a lot of blind corners.
Past a single, quiet inquiry in Russian, the one Emile vanished behind has gone awfully quiet.
The sound behind him is just that, background noise. Devon hears it but his response is tied up in trying to get that gun free, in keeping his mind focused through the jarring haze of blood and pain. In keeping his companions from being shot by the smaller man. In not getting shot himself.
That all shifts when, for a moment, Devon feels might have the upper hand. Something changes, shifts, distracting in the instant it's there and gone again. What was that? plays against Remi's mind as the teenager stumbles away from where the minute scuffle took place. Instinctively his eyes go to his hands, apprehensive, then lift accusingly to Valentin.
The shell shock vanishes when Devon meets Valentin's gaze, his own countenance turning cold. Like a runner off the blocks, he turns to retrieve that gun before the other man can claim it.
Devon will get the gun first. Valentin knows that much.
Bruised in places he didn't intend to be bruised in, the fifty-something terrorist is scrabbling to get to his feet, not distracted enough by the voice in his ear not to go diving for the second pistol on his person. Over the line, there's the sound of a mic rubbing against corduroy collar, but fails to blank out the muttered Russian slithered back towards him. Approximately: the hostile has powers. "Ah!" is command, vaguely paternal, as if Devon were a kid prone to planting small hands on hot plates, Valentin aiming rickety towards the young man, and it's around when Devon's fingers brush the pistol on the ground when—
The world splits apart in pain and red when a bullet puts a whine in Devon's ear while taking a small piece of it with him in relatively fortunate clip. The bullet itself clangs and pierces warehouse wall.
A blue-eyed glance is cast up to Melissa, before Remi offers a firm nod. More than happy to get out of the yellow smog, Remi quickly leaps up to her feet and promptly lopes into the warehouse itself, gun held out. She can't hear thoughts now, thanks to the gas, but…well, that doesn't really change much for her. She blinks a few times at what she sees, stunned; then, she's got her gun up, pointed in the direction of Valentin.
She takes much more careful aim this time, recalling the pointers that Jaiden gave her, aiming two shots toward Valentin's lower extremities. She's hoping to catch the man by surprise. It's in Russian that she barks out an order to the Slovak. "«Put the gun down! I'll kill you.»" It sounds so much better, so much more sincere in the harsh tongue of the Ruskis. And also, Valentin will likely understand her.
The gun is kept raised toward Valentin as she stalks closer, keeping close to the walls. All the while, she's chanting one word in her empty mind: Shit.
"Shit," is muttered when Danko escapes the bullets. She remains where she is, hiding just behind the door, where she can lean out and fire, or duck in and cover as needed. After that single mutter though, she falls silent. No reason to broadcast her location. She lets Devon and Remi worry about Valentin. Two to one are fair odds when you're trying to protect people, right?
She keeps her eyes open, keeping alert as she glances around, looking for signs of Danko. She moves into a crouch, lowering herself out of the expected height that might be fired upon. But the moment she catches a glimpse of the man, she opens fire, trying for a headshot. It's fair revenge for face-kicking, right?
One does not need to be seen to see. Every so often there's a smudge of movement oh-so-slight near the corner Danko last slipped around, grey on grey. Measuring. Distance, among other things.
After thirty seconds or so, he clears his throat, teeth shown lacquered dry to the wind. Should just kill them. Should've killed them already.
Velcro strips, something clicks. A button is depressed and close to Melissa's heels, planted flush at the warehouse entrance, a little red light on a little white pack of explosives begins to flash.
"Dead man's switch," he finally says aloud, voice raised to carry across the last dithery flags of yellow fog from his canister. "Means if I let go of this," he pushes his back off the wall, abruptly back in full sight with a detonator like a stick of dynamite in his hand, gloved thumb capped firm over the top, "we all die. So I suggest — " his eyes flash quicksilver grey to the entrance, the assault rifle in his left hand pointed in a kind of you should leave that way gesture, "you and the rest of the scooby doo gang pull out and get the hell out've my sight before I choose to misunderstand my orders." He hefts the gun again, big and black. "'Cause I can still shoot one-handed."
The force of the ballistic isn't enough to push Devon to the ground, but pain and deafening ringing scream loud enough that he tries to flee from it. By going to ground. Hands shaking, breaking coming in short, sharp gasps that remind him he's still alive, he takes barely a second to lay fingers near the tender tear through his ear. Fingertips come away wet and red, not unexpectedly however surprising the teen finds it.
Fingers tightening around the handle of the gun, Devon pulls himself across the ground, dragging in combat crawl style to get closer to the wall and behind an overturned barrel. Just as he's gained some semblance of cover, he turns on Valentin, aiming not to kill, but to blow out the rest of the older man's knee. He vaguely registers Remi moving in, and even if he could hear her he wouldn't understand what she was saying. But that doesn't stop him from squeezing the trigger just once.
Spectacularly—
Valentin is pinned. The young woman with the passable Russian is pointing a gun at him, and somewhere, there is Devon and his gun. Help outside is a kind of security, and though Valentin isn't keeping still, wheeling some distance back to get him closer to whatever point of exit he might rely upon, he doesn't open fire on negated telepath, giving her his attention while unable not to keep a check on Devon in a sliding glance leftwards and— oh damn son. No honour among terrorists.
The Slovak moves as gun goes off, piercing a red hot line of pain enough for ruby red spatters to dance wet on the concrete as Valentin launches off out of harms way, a jack rabbit dash for the shadowy recesses of the warehouse. There's a wild spray of automatic pistol fire flung back in Remi's direction, more to cover himself than murderous intent.
If it has anything to do with the flashing of potential detonation, it's only indicated in the harsh bark over the radio that he's clearing the skokoteny warehouse. Stand by.
Blue eyes flash oh-so-briefly toward Devon, but the woman with the dark red hair is focused on Valentin, more than anything. He's got information, and plans change. Like right now. What the hell are they supposed to do? And how the hell is she supposed to extract information when she's got an empty mind? The silence itself is enough to put her on edge.
Oh, and then there's automatic pistol fire. Remi shrieks, cringing at the gunfire sprayed her way, even though she's unharmed. She freezes for a moment, turning to stare at Devon with a bit of a deer in the headlights look. Bravery is totally not her forte. This is insanity!
Still, she's carefully making her way after Valentin, hoping that Devon will be coming along with her. This is fucking terrifying.
Melissa glances downward and grimaces at the flashing light. "Just gonna blow up your buddy Val, huh?" she calls back to Danko. "See, this is why you can never trust dipshits like you!" But tilts her head slightly, to yell more towards the interior of the warehouse than towards Danko. "Explosives. Grab him and go!" The threat of an explosion right on top of her is enough to have her delaying any further shots, though.
"Might as well, if your waterhead pals inside keep on pulling the trigger." Eyes rolled skywards at a murmur through the radio inset at his ear, Emile grumbles something more or less intelligable back in Russian on his way to swaggering a few slow steps closer in. "Sooner or later they're gonna hit something that makes him less pretty."
A rough depression of his trigger finger sends led pummeling rat-a-tat-tat in an arch across Melissa's cover.
"I'm gonna count to three and if I don't see a couple've teenagers out here high-tailing it for the hills empty-handed I'm going to give this one another asshole to talk out of. …ONE."
When fire is returned, aimed at him or not, Devon half ducks behind his barrel while keeping a watchful eye on the other two within the warehouse. The sound of gunfire reaches his hearing, an underscore to the residual ringing, and voices are just starting to return. In the sort of sound traveling through water while a tea kettle whistles in one's ear. He doesn't stay hidden for long. A beat later sees him slipping around the discarded drum to take off running after Remi. Melissa's warning is heard, though he has to trust on urgency of tone more than words. If it is urgency he's hearing.
He doesn't take time to explain, likewise he doesn't announce himself before hand. But once Devon reaches the telepath, he swings around in front of her. One arm goes between her knees as he stoops, the other pulls her across his shoulders. In the same motion he stands, the stolen pistol flung aside and a grimace to the ache that crawls through his shoulders. Then the boy turns, away from Valentin and the bowels of the warehouse to run for the doorway, the wide open and fresh air.
Sometimes it might be better to run away, rather than tempt fate further.
It's into some back street that Valentin staggers out of, out of breath and a hand clutching bleeding laceration. There isn't much room for wasting time, moving off for the getaway car in which he simply tips himself into the truck bed with a thud, a hiss escaping between his teeth at the twinge of bruises and aching bones. There's a rumble of the engine, perhaps just audible to the three out the front, after Valentin hits the truck bed with a fist in indication that it should start driving away. Just in case.
Plucking his mic out from his collar and pressing hearing piece deeper into his ear, he says, in Russian, "«So did you want to catch dinner after the show?»" He's squirreling his cellphone out of his pocket, flipping it open, because he's a little behind the times. "«Heller is invited.»"
Remi is terrified enough that it is rather easy for Devon to scoop her over his shoulder, the only indication that she's not still frozen being a squeak of surprise, before she promptly relaxes for him— makes it easier for him to carry her, no less. At least she knows how to be carried, thanks to that ballet dancing skill of hers. She's used to being slung over shoulders. A strain of curse words, this time in French, is all that is uttered out of the woman's mouth at this time.
She'll just…let the strong teenager carry her away to safety. This is a satisfactory outcome, in Remi's eyes.
"And yet you people call us the ones who need to be destroyed," Melissa says with a sneer in Danko's direction. She waits for Devon and Remi to get a head start, before she moves back, away from the explosives, her gun still pointed towards Danko. It seems that Devon's safety is more important to her than revenge.
Hot gun barrel tipped to his brow in lazy farewell salute, Danko watches the meddling trio recede into gathering darkness as he takes a few more winding steps back of his own.
His, «As long as you're buying,» fails to sound excessively excited, rasped as it is flat across the line, «and he isn't picking the place.»
Devon's eyes slant toward Melissa and Danko in passing, but he neither slows nor gives time to think about the situation. He runs, bearing Remi's weight across his shoulders until a turn down the side of the building takes the two out of sight. There, he lowers the telepath to her own feet and bends at the middle, hands pressing into his knees while he pants. A second later and he sinks onto those knees, the rush of adrenalin leaving him and the pain and excitement of the evening begins sinking in.