Endgame - Conflagration


brian_icon.gif elias_icon.gif elvis_icon.gif felix_icon.gif hans_icon.gif kazimir3_icon.gif odessa_icon.gif

Scene Title Endgame — Conflagration
Synopsis Phoenix comes to assault Eagle Electric, while Kazimir is beset on at all sides by treachery.
Date January 28, 2009

Eagle Electric

The most notable business collapse in Queens was that of Eagle Electric, a major manufacturer based out of Long Island City for decades, comprised of acres of warehouses and manufacturing plants designed to produce electronic components to suit all sorts of needs. The western warehouse of the Eagle Electric lot is an enormous and foreboding red-painted building made entirely from sheets of ridged steel. Amidst the grass growing up through the cracks in the pavement and the burned out cars in the parking lot, it seems just as uninhabited as the rest of the area. A large and ruined sign at the top of the office and manufacturing building prominently reads, "Eagle Electric—Perfection Is Not An Accident."

In myth, it is on the day of Ragnarok — the twilight of the gods — when the world will be brought to ruin by conflict between the Gods and the Giants.

Snow buries New York, mother nature has no schedule, and she does not wait for the apocalypse. The rough and urban landscape of Long Island City looks like something out of a macabre fairy tale; cold and lifeless gray buildings with darkenes windows, rusting chain link fences and burned-out shells of automobiles, all decked with glittering snow and sparkling ice. There is something both haunting and beautiful about this scenery, a minagerie of otherworldly charm and urban decay.

At Ragnarok, it is said that the All-Father Odin would perish, devoured by the uncontrolable wolf Fenrir.

The blizzard that has come does great things to hide those within it, the driving snow and freezing wind reducing visibility enough that the approach of outsiders to this crumbling place goes largely unnoticed, both by the dispassionate and impoverished residents of this declining neighborhood, and by those who have sunk their claws into the decaying flesh of an industrial watseland.

But in his passing, the great All-Father would be succeeded by his son, his power and glory passed down to the mighty Thor to survive the end of the world. To think I once found amusement in the coincidence of this story, to think that I once felt myself so invulnerable that I would model myself after the All-Father himself, and my flock to his own.

At the worst of the neighborhood, in the heart of abandoned factories and crumbling warehouses, Eagle Electric rises as the king of the underworld, a dark and foreboding structure crowned with ice and snow. A weathered and old sign, visible even through the driving snow, proclaims with such irony the motto of the company that once ran its halls. "Perfection is not an accident."

Fate's fickle hand sought to impart humility where there was once hubris, and all too late do I realize the mistakes that have been made. All too late do I realize the fatal flaw in my judgement that was made — failing to realize that when backed into a corner, even the most terrified and weak of creatures will bare its fangs, and lash out for the sake of their own life.

The high chain-link fences that surround the compound of three large buildings does little to keep out intruders, with the splits in the fence and open gates, as if an invitation to come within the snow-laden halls of some forgotten kingdom. From the street, it is this empty and cold place that seems so devoid of life and light, as if no one at all resides here, and it is but a broken memory of what this city once was.

But there is always time for a second chance; another throw at destiny. Cornered or not, fangs or none, there is a future that this world is marching towards…

The back lot of Eagle Electic, however, is far from the seemingly quiet facade presented from the street. Across the empty and ice-crusted back lot, seperated by the damaged fence, activity and life are all too easily seen. Soldiers — dozens of them — dressed in urban camouflage with black tactical vests and winter facemasks, patrol the parking lot surrounding the warehouse. Through the lenses of his binoculars, Brian Fulk can spot four snipers on the warehouse roof, and two more in the windows of the connected administrative building.

…and I am the one pounding the drum, to which this world marches…

A man in black moves thorugh the crowd of soldiers; his long, black wool jacket flaring out in the cold wind, snow sticking to the shoulders. He pauses, looking to one of the men that raises a gloved hand in salute, dark brows furrowing at the gesture before he opens the door to the warehouse, stepping inside and out of sight, barely visible through the driving snow.

…all the way to its grave.

"«Four snipers.»" Brian intones to the rest of his team over his radio. "«And a lot more on the ground." Giving a little frown, he glances at his team members. A girl, an FBI agent, and a replicate of himself. Both of him are equipped with assault rifles.

Though some consider him having leadership qualities, Brian certainly has never been trained to lead a black ops team. And so,
rather than bark out orders. "«Felix. Could you stay low, and take out the snipers, while we draw cover for you? We'll draw them out here behind heavy cover. Sneak in around them.»" Brian says, shouldering his rifle, and glancing over to Elvis. "«Sound good? Let's move.»"

"Shut the fuck up asshole, I've got a fucking silenced Mac-11. I cant draw cover for anyone."Comes her call, already furious she was going to have to take orders from Brian. Out of everyone in all of Phoenix, the fucking fucker she didnt even want along. Jesus christ, Brian and a fucking Federal fucking agent. She makes sure her RC-51 is parked out of the way, and moves silently to meet up with the rest of her little squad.

"Why dont you use your fucking head asshole" not that she actually wanted to give Brian time to retort. She produced the sidecock Mac-11 from her bag, and unfolded its stock before throwing in a thirty two round stick mag full of three hundred eighty calibers of subsonic fuckemup. "Just cover me, and I'll get nice and tight on the fuckers."


A high-pitched whirring noise slowly winds down, as six glass tubes spinning in a centrifuge begin to slow, fading from a blur of clear glass to more clear images of test-tubes filled with transparent fluid. A computer terminal nearby to the machine lets out an audible beep, followed by a message printed on the screen, Complete. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker and sputter, and the distant sound of marching footsteps grows closer and closer. Through a pair of double doors, the quiet report of EKG's monitor the status of several men and women bound to gurneys, sedated.

The entrance to the lab unlocks as the sound of booted feet come too close. Doors swing open, and soldiers in urban camouflage with black tactical vests march in, faces covered by black winter masks to keep out the cold. Two in front raise assault rifles, moving to stand by the door, firearms trained on the scientist who work in the lab — Doctor Odessa Knutson. Behind them, another man strides in, broad-shouldered and fair-haired, blue eyes scanning the lab. "Piotr, Vickers, Weyland," He waves one hand towards the doors where the test subjects are being kept, "Bring them out." The three soldiers who were called by name step forward and nod, each of them picking two more soldiers to aid them in transporting the test subjects out through the freight elevator in their containment room.

"Doctor Knutson." Hans Kazakova, one of Kazimir's lieutenants, "…where is…" Blue eyes track down to the vials in the centrifuge, then up to Odessa. "Where is Doctor Suresh?" One hand slowly reaches down to his sidearm on his hip. "Step away from the — "

"That will be enough, Hans." From the entrance to the lab, a quiet and familiar voice calls out, followed by the click of dress shoes on tile floor. His appearance has faded some, over the days since Sylar was possessed by Kazimir Volken. No longer does the dark-haired man have a lively color to his skin, all replaced by the pale and sallow look of a corpse. Dark circles beneath his eyes show fatigue from lack of sleep, a fatigue his parasitic rider does not feel. "They have done exactly as I asked, where Doctor Suresh is now is inconsequential. Go outside, make certain that the men load the truck properly." Kazimir's dark eyes — Sylar's eyes — sweep over to Hans, waving a dismissive hand to the soldier.

"Y-Yes, Sir." Shown his place, Hans gives a slow bow of his head, followed by one last and lingering stare to the scientists before he follows his men out into the containment room, assisting in loading their gurneys onto the freight elevator. Once Hans has left, once the sound of his heartbeat and footfalls have grown distant enough, Kazimir holds out one hand in silent expectance.

"The antidotes." His voice has even begun to change, much of Sylar's smooth and rich tone replaced by something more scratchy. It is the sound of a dry and parched throat that cares not for the refreshment of water to soothe it. "If you would be so kind?" One dark brow rises slowly, and Kazimir lets his gaze settle to the vials in the centrifuge, looking back to Odessa.

This is the end.


Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. Just over sixty years ago, one Ivanov toted a battered rifle through the snow of a bitter winter to assist in the defeat of a monster who'd've destroyed entire races on the basis of their supposedly corrupt ancestry. And now, his grandson is doing the same thing, albeit across an ocean, and without a sergeant behind him who will shoot him in the head should he attempt to run. Fel's glasses are water-spotted with melting snowflakes. He's got an assault rifle, funnily enough one of Papa Kalashnikov's ninety million children.

"Yes," he says, simply. "Don't get killed. Let me get as close as I can before I turn on the speed. I'll deal with the guys in the office building first." This going to be bloody - high speed slaughter. Well, high speed to those watching. To Felix, it tends to take place at odd speeds, surrealy slow. Like something out of Max Payne, really.

Through the flurrying snow, the masked Vanguard soldiers move through the back lot amidst too many tire tracks in the fresh snow to be from the semi-truck alone, it looks like several vehicles have come and gone from the facility, recently. From across the street in the cover of snow and derelict cars, the Phoenix Operatives and Felix Ivanov can see some of the soldiers closing up the back of the semi truck, while those perched on the roof of the warehouse continue to sweep the nearby ground, watching with bare eyes, not the scopes of their rifles. From the relaxed look of the men here, it doesn't look like they're expecting a frontal assault.

Hopefully, they like surprises.

"«Don't be stupid Elvis. I know you think you're smart, but just listen to the people who have brains.»" Brian growls into the radio as the pair slip through a hole in the fence. Creeping in closer on the relaxing soldiers they stay low. "«Alright, let's start mowing them down, get Felix in as close as we can. Let's do this.»" And just like that, bullets are being unloaded. The pair of Brian's advancing quick in a crouch, and unleashing flurries of fire on the soldiers. Many of the Vanguard drop like flies at the approaching onslaught, though it is only a matter of short time until they will start firing back. The pair of Brian's are quickly going for cover.

Like a Mother fucking newbie. Elvis stays low, sidestepping slowly as she drops into a neat little crouch. Her Mac sweeps up, silencer now entirely useless. Wonderful, she spends two weeks learning how to build silencers and Brian has to go fuck that up for her. Anyway theres really no sound, no flash, no drama revealing she's anything but just a ghost. Her beloved mac isnt very accurate, but what it does have going is a cyclic rate nearly into two thousand rounds a minute. So she just dumps the first mag in what like two seconds and she sweeps into the next. Spilling a pair of commandos who had been sharing a smoke over backwards and silent.


"No!" Odessa cries as the doors open. "I'm not ready yet!" She turns to face the doors as the centrifuge whirls and beeps. In one sweeping gesture, it seems as though nothing has changed. But the smile that Doctor Knutson smiles at Kazakova even as he goes for his sidearm, dark and full of promise - not the type he'd likely benefit from - speaks to her readiness.

It's with mild disdain that the blonde woman watches her patients be taken from her care. She's done all she can for them. The rest is up to fate. Odessa turns her smile now to Kazimir, "I freed him, you know. Right out from under everybody's noses." A fact she takes a great deal of pride in. "I told you that I am so much more than you have ever given me credit for." The smile is gone in an instant, replaced with ice and hate. "I won't be giving you the antidotes. I won't be giving you a single thing." She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Should Kazimir or his men follow suit, they'll be greeted by a scent that wasn't prevalent before – alcohol.

"You've been drinking." Kazimir states chidingly, as if dealing with his daughter. He walks past one of the long tables, giving a shake of his head, "Doctor Suresh already supplied me with what is necessary." The intonation of the virus' delivery and completion is met with some pride, but bordering on fear and uncertainty, an unusual characteristic for Kazimir. "You should relax, Odessa. The end, it has come…" Dark eyes flick quietly towards her, "What do you have left to fight for, Nightingale?" His eyes close slightly, a lazy and sedate expression, "Everyone you have ever cared for is dead… or changed." His lips creep up into Sylar's smooth half-smirk. "Just give me what I need…"

The freight elevator lets out a groaning screech of old metal and older hydraulics, causing the lights inside to flicker and dim as the generators that offer power to the administrative building are taxed to their limits. Hans and his men load the test subject inside, sliding down the slatted door as Sylar watches them with a silent stare on their way down.

It has been a long time since Sylar has moved on his own. Barring the exception of a few short wasted minutes that sent him to hell immediately after. When Kazimir trains his eyes onto the familiar form of Odessa, Sylar's only reaction is to pay attention. These are the end days and it seems as though no one, including him, has been able to stop it.

He's seen the armies, the technology, the people that follow Kazimir's lead. He's heard and spoken the words of reassurance and commands, of the plans to unfold, and Sylar, in a way, is starting to believe it himself.

The end is really fucking nigh.

But Odessa's defiance is different, at least. Someone left alive, someone capable, willing even now to stand up to him. The distant scent of alcohol is strong enough for even Sylar to smell, making his consciousness bristle all the more. In darkness, there is really only one thing that can spring eternal. Hope. Perhaps that's why Sylar isn't a wailing disembodied voice in Kazimir's soul. He listens. He watches. He hopes.


Let them make the noise, draw the fire. Fel's gone - a blur that leaves snowflakes whirling after him. Off to the side, around the factory and for the admin building. If the door's locked, it's summarily blown off. There's no time to waste - he doesn't have an infinite amount of speed. The people he passes seem frozen in time, like statues, or move with ponderous slowness. There's something like the mother of all adrenaline highs pounding in his veins, lending that perilous conviction of invincibility. And he's up in the building before the roostertail of snow his movement's created can fall to the ground again, hunting down the halls for those watching the windows over the courtyard.

The sound of gunfire draws the Vanguard's attention, soldiers already having dropped to stain the falling snow red with their blood. They move quickly, like a well-oiled machine, assault rifles hugged close as they move to duck behind the semi-truck as cover, opening up short bursts to distract their targets while the men who had been gathered by loading bay doors at the warehouse quickly circle around the single-story building, disappearing out of sight.


"A little something to take the edge off," Odessa grins. She opens her deep blue eyes again and turns to watch the man she briefly called her leader. "I will ask you one last time, Kazimir… Will you relinquish your hold on Sylar?" She already knows the answer to her question, but she would be remiss not to give him one last fighting chance, wouldn't she? "I can promise you, you won't like the consequences of defying my wishes. I haven't survived this long operating under your oh-so-encompassing radar without knowing how to get exactly what I need."

"Why should I, Nightingale?" He moves casually towards the centrifuge, fingers brushing over the steel as he looks down to the glass tubes, a faint smile drawn up on his lips. If there is anything time in Sylar's body has given him, it is an appreciation for emoting his responses, no longer the stoic and inexpressive old man. "Perhaps one day, you will forget who Sylar was, and you will realize that he existed only to propagate my existence into the future."

Looking up from the antidotes, Kazimir's eyes settle on the doctor, head tilting to one side. "If you survive what is to come, presuming you did not already inoculate yourself…" Dark brows raise, as if indicating did you think that far ahead? "…you may survive anyway, survive and be worthy of watching my ascension from Man to God." Lips hesitantly crook into a smile, "A new God for a new world."

"You still have need of me," the woman murmurs knowingly. The surface around the centrifuge is wet, clear liquid seeming to have been spilled there. Rags, similarly soaked, can be seen on a nearby work bench. The scent of alcohol is stronger. "Is it my ability you need? Or my knowledge? Or is my continued existence a means to quell the angry voice inside your mind?" She heard the way Santiago screamed in Texas. The poor man was aware throughout his entire imprisonment. She can only hope the same is true for Sylar. And knowing Sylar, he's fighting back. So she hopes. "Does it hurt to look at me?"

"Nothing hurts." Is Kazimir's only response, fingers dipping into the wet mess on the table, eyes narrowed. He turns to look up to Odessa again, "My use for you has finished," he says, picking the vials out of the centrifuge, one by one, not bothering to check them, assuming that this futile resistance is just that — futile — and that those tubes contain what he desires. "But you have not displeased me enough to order your demise, you have been belligerent, but you have been faithful." His lips downturn into a frown, "More than can be said for Eileen, Ethan, and Wu-Long."

That burns.

You and I have similar tactics at making and keeping friends, Sylar's voice barely whispers through Kazimir's head, almost silent, words which no longer have a true voice anymore. Kazimir has stolen it. He can gain it back, given time, given effort, but for now, he makes his lazy assessment from his seat at the sidelines. That is to say, we're both very bad at it.

Odessa narrows her eyes slowly. He'll find the vials he gathers will serve him little purpose. Inoculating oneself with water rarely does any good. But he won't make that discovery until it's far too late. She hopes. "You have brought to light a point I wanted to make to you, Kazimir." Slowly, Doctor Knutson steps toward the door, her black high heeled shoes, still stained with Wu-Long's blood, making wet clicking sounds on the floor. "You see, I have everything left to fight for. I simply have nothing left to lose." With a flippant wave of her hand that very much resembles a display of telekinesis, a nearby Bunsen burner has tipped over, the hint of her ability merely being that the movement isn't scene. One moment it's upright, the next moment it's on its side. "Everything burns." Except when your clever plan goes up in smoke - or rather doesn't - due to a safety feature of your lab equipment. Such as the flame snuffing itself out when the unit tips. "…Shit."

Maybe everything doesn't burn. Maybe not today, at least. But other things do happen, flames or no flames. It may only be appropriate that when Odessa's attempt to save the world fails, fate intervenes to save her. If, in fact, it could be called fate.

More accurately, it could be called, 'Elias de Luca,' although he makes his entrance with no heroic fanfare, proclamation or even gesture. He simply appears from thin air, out of Kazimir's view and obscured from Odessa's. No heroic fanfare, but instead, with a newly 'acquired' Louisville Slugger. Wound up and sights set for the outfield, he sends it flying in a perfect arc. Into the back of Kazimir Volken's skull.


Kazimir staggers forward, dropping the vials to the ground with a loud crash of shattering glass before crashing into a table with his hip, one hand slapping flat on the table to brace himself. Shakily, he turns his focus away from Odessa and towards Elias, eyes wide, "De Luca." His voice growls out — one stray rat unaccounted for, and it would have to be Loki that turns on Odin at the last possible minute, wouldn't it? One hand raises, a finger pointing towards the baseball bat as Kazimir's thumb drops like the hammer of a pistol, and the baseball bat explodes in a shower of wood splinters, then with a flick of two fingers, Elias is thrown off of his feet and towards a bank of computers and machinery.


Whirling through the administrative building, Felix can hear the shouts of an argument somewhere nearby. There's a clattering sound, a crash and a scream, followed by streams of blue-green light lancing through the wall, five fiery hot laser beams that nearly slice him into fleshy ribbons, were time not slowed down to allow him to dodge them, like some strange game of limbo.

Turning to the source of the lights, all Felix can see are burning holes in the walls where the lasers tore through, followed by a woman's scream and a smashing sound of glass, and men shouting. What the hell is going on here?

But Ivanov's attention is drawn by something else, out the window near where he stands in the hall of the Administrative Building, he can see snipers perched on the roof of the warehouse, which lies two floors below where he is. While the soldiers on the ground lay suppressive fire, he can see all four snipers moving in to position to take out the Brians and Elvis.

Somewhere in the administrative building, there's a concussive explosion, and the entire structure shakes like God himself just tapped on the roof. Someone else is already here and fighting.

The element of surprise takes out a good number of the enemy, but it can't last forever. Especially with the tactic that Brian has chosen. The two run and shoot together like a match made in Heaven. He may not have a lot of black ops experience, but he's one hell of a team player. Moving in for cover, the twins are already taking out a pair of grenades, and then, they are thrown. In opposite directions, but still where the clusters of soldiers are.

"«Got those snipers yet, Felix?»


Ooh. Told you, is Sylar's most unhelpful offer, voice taking on more clarity, enough to taunt. But the *CRACK!* of the wooden weapon to his skull is enough to shake him awake, Elias's unexpected appearance proving that hope does spring eternal. He goes silent as Kazimir, naturally, fights back - he's too busy concentrating to snark.

Doctor Knutson staggers back as the bat hits its mark. "Elias!" Odessa seems to blink in and out of existence as she scrambles about the lab in her own pocket of time, looking for something to fight back with. There's a sudden concussive ringing in Kazimir's ears. "Ha hah!" The blonde is suddenly perched on the table behind him, hefting a large microscope in her hands with a triumphant sort of fire in her eyes, poised to bring it down on his skull once more. She gasps and looks suddenly apologetic, even as she moves to strike the blow. "Sorry, Sylar!"

Elias experiences unpowered flight for the first time, but it's a short-lived experience. Although he is hefted by an invisible force, he flexes and twists just enough to change his position a bit, and blinks out of existence only to reappear again a moment later in a friendlier location, careening into the floor in an awkward tumble, having to scramble back onto his feet. He has managed, however, to avoid flying into solid objects, and no broken bones. For his first time being pushed out of the nest, that's pretty good, right?


Once more Kaizmir's vision blurs, and as he staggers forward, his eyes go narrow, and where Odessa has struck the side of his head with the microscope, blood seeps from the wound. But there's something forming around the broken bone and cut skin, a gray-brown scaling over his flesh, sliding out from thin incisions in his skin, like the armor plating of some large lizard. "Enough of this!" Raising a hand, Kazimir's fingertips glow with a bright blue-green light, and there is a hissing crack as lasers shoot forth from his hand, lancing through the air where Odessa — was. She's gone in the blink of an eye, lasers scoring up the walls in swirling patterns and sparking flames as he moves his hands.

Growling, Kazimir struggles up to his feet, more scaled plating sliding out from beneath his skin, sheathing down the front of his forehead and over the backs of his hands, forming some strange leathery carapace over his body. The ground vibrates, tables skittering and rumbling to one side before small pieces of furniture begin to levitate up off of tabletops — old CRT monitors, keyboards, even computer towers rise up into the air and swirl around, smashing into the walls as the fluorescent lights overhead pop and shatter from the telekinetic temper tantrum. "I expected as much from you, Odessa," Dark eyes settle on Elias, "But you…"

It takes work. It takes belief. But it happens. Like the accidental visions of birds and feathers, it occurs like a dam breaking. It just works. Through the room, patches of air seem to grow inky with darkness as an ability goes wild, untamed, the room's shadows fluctuating, deepening. Even sound distorts and twists. All three might recognise it. Perhaps the ghost of Wu-Long has returned and has a temper.

In a way, that's true.

Then, the only shadow is one that snakes over Kazimir's eyes, throwing his vision into shadow and blindness. It's imperfect, flashes of vision managing to break through limited fog of attenuated light, but Sylar does his best. Two foes faster than light and one more within him stealing said light away from him. Perhaps, after all, there is a shot in hell. Sound around Kazimir's ears deafen a little as well, stealing away the superhuman listening capabilities in short bursts.


She's fought cops, fought bikers and now fought paramilitary real world cobra stormtrooper wannabes so she can smell a flank. She jerks free a mag from her pack, an especially long example holding not thirty but sixty four rounds of .380 +P+. She doesnt even bother removing the silencer, it'll make all the more shrapnel when the overpowered .380 blows the baffles out the front right? Elvis moves swiftly behind cover to take a knee, laying in counter ambush.

Yeah, about those snipers. Fel's taking careful aim at those up on the rooftops. It's mostly suppressing fire, lest they get time to get a bead on his comrades. And then he's running though back in normal time for a little, heading for the warehouse and the roof. «Working on it,» is his response, even as the bodies of those at the windows are still toppling. «It just got weird in here. Someone's got some sort ofbeam weapon. Don't enter the admin building.»


"Elias," Odessa cries as she blinks in again. She discards the microscope, sawn in two by Kazimir's lasers, and scrambls toward the teleporter, artfully dodging the items flying through the air. Rage is all encompassing now. Even through deadened hearing, she can be heard to roar, "ENOUGH!" The woman's arm sweep out to either side and every inanimate object in the room simply stops. "If you're going to do something," she mutters to Elias, "now's the fucking time." A display like this takes a great deal of concentration.

It's not Odessa that Elias first notices when he gets back to his feet, or even really the floating equipment. It's the sporadic cloud of darkness that surrounds Kazimir that he notices, taking him back in time to when Wu-Long was still around. It's enough to confirm, in his own mind, what happened to the Chinaman. But despite this, it's Odessa that snaps him back into the right mindset for doing what he needs to do. "I'll get him," he says, "Get yourself out of here or you're vapor." His piece spoken, he teleports, without Odessa, next to Kazimir's side, knowing what an incredibly dumb idea this is. He's not taking any chances.

Lashing out with his hands and groping for a handhold, he manages to grab his opponent by the shoulder, and once more, his location changes, bringing Kazimir along with him into the center of the warehouse proper. Into the range of every high explosive charge he'd planted when no one was watching. Just beneath the center of the rapidly expanding cloud of propane, escaping from the tanks he'd opened while Odessa had his ex-boss distracted. Into the center, at great risk to his own health, or what will hopefully be the biggest fireworks display that New York has seen since ought-six.

The brief sensation of falling that accompanies teleportation plays havoc with Kazimir as his mind reels from the jarring transition, between the flickering spots of blindness. He struggles, arms flailing as he shoves Elias aside with meager strength, catching glimpses of the warehouse, of wires and bombs and the scent of gas in the air. "Elias!" He turns, eyes narrowed, vision blurring, trying to rein it all in to control as his hearing cuts in and out, a horrible mix of sudden sharpness and absolute blackness.

Panic sets in, and Sylar can feel the bonds of his prison weakening as Kazimir's focus is lost, struggling to shuffle through his arsenal of powers to determine how to defend himself. Stop this, Sylar! Stop this or we're both dead! He howls out in his mind, panic and fear laden in his voice. He knows he can survive, move on, but to lose this host would be disastrous. "Elias!" Vision clears just long enough to focus, and one hand is thrown forward, launching a telekinetic thrust towards the teleporter, a brief and violent strike that knocks Elias off of his feet and into one of the stacks of cloth-shrouded crates nearby, sending him bouncing off of the wood and down to the floor.

The air becomes damp, moist and humid, followed by a terrible and bitter chill that sinks into bone. Humidity in the air is manipulated, deepening the levels of moisture in the cold air, and Sylar's cryokinesis draws that moisture into ice, freezing the ground as he walks, layering the explosives with thin sheets of frost — he has to buy himself time.


Whirling down the staircase of the administrative building, Felix rounds a corner and comes to a stop near a window that can access the roof of the warehouse, still open from where the soldiers had used it to climb out and down the fire escape. As Felix pauses to assess his surroundings, the building has gone eerile silent, an overall hush of the surroundings, that sound of conflict from earlier — at least inside — has abruptly ended. Something isn't right, and everything inside of Felix, all of his attenuated senses from his years of work as a federal agent are telling him to get out, to get far away. Something is wrong, very wrong.

Down in the snowy back lot of Eagle Electric, amid the hail of gunfire, Brian's grenades land beside Vanguard soldiers hiding at the front of the warehouse, ducking behind a rusted car half-buried in snow. The grenades explode, sending the two men sailing in opposite directions as it shakes the foundation of the structure. One of the snipers ducks away from the blast, while the one furthest from the explosion takes a shot, hitting one of the two Brians' in the shoulder. The round punches thorugh bone and meat, exiting out the other side after spinning him around, red spraying across the snow.

There's a sudden sound from the back of the warehouse, a click and a snap, and then a shrieking cry of a rocket in mid-flight. Elvis catches sight of it out of her periphery, watching for soldiers sneaking up on her amidst the chaos of a firefight. All she can see now, whirling through the air from the lot between the three buildings, is a rocket-propelled grenade on a direct course towards her position.

"«Why hello.»" Russian greets Felix Ivanov in his moment of pause by the window, followed by the sudden and sharp sensation of a knife embedded in his shoulderblade. He's wrenched around by the knife, thrown to the floor of the warehouse, gun sliding away across the floor as the sound of moving boots only now can be heard. Standing in the hall, filling the hall, is an enormous man with short-cropped blonde hair in a uniform that matches the other soldiers; urban camouflage, black tactical vest, but no ski-mask keeping his face warm. Only the rough and square jaw of a man with more body muscle than most bison. His knife, still wedged in Felix Ivanovb's back, is replaced with only a pair of clenched fists. "«I think I have found a stray.»" Hans Kazakova, most loyal of Kazimir Volken's flock, now has his sights set on the life of Felix Ivanov. But a momentary distraction from his radio catches his attention, «Hans, this is Ellinka.» Blue eyes quickly move to the shoulder-clipped walkie, one hand reaching up to press it as Felix is given a side-long stare. «The storm is hampering my visibility — We have additional feet on the ground at the primary site.» His lips downturn into a frown, «I will supply cover.»

Pressing the reciever button, Hans replies, leaving Felix prone on the ground. "Affirmative," His English is thick and accented, "we have some problems here at Eagle Electric, I'm doing — "

Now or never, Ivanov.


It's a lesser version of the horrific lightshow that occurred in Wu-Long's last moments. Unfortunately, Kazimir doesn't have a skull to break open to make it stop, only the intangible ghost haunting the vessel they share. The teleportation is disruption enough to relieve it, but it starts again - the patches of darkness and soundlessness, Sylar desperately scrabbling to tame an ability he has such a limited grasp on. Promise? Sylar asks, harshly, the patches of darkness deepening as he gains a little more control, his voice loud enough now to echo through Kazimir's head. He was always good at making people scared. Making Kazimir scared is positively thrilling. Let me take it back. Let me take control and we'll live. How? He tries to keep those cards to himself as skeins of flickering dark play through the air, across his eyes and away again.

Heels click sharply at a quick clip on hard floors. Odessa races into the warehouse proper, skidding on the icy damp. She pitches first forward, then back in an attempt to catch her balance before ultimately failing and landing on one hip with a sharp grunt. Sweat slicks her brow and chills her skin, paler now, rather than flushed with the thrill of the battle. She pulls herself to her knees, content with that much mobility for the moment, blinking to clear her vision. She gasps at the sight around her. Elias has been busy.

Elias is unwilling to suffer a potentially serious injury after crashing into the crates. It's bad enough that he was shoved with enough force to possibly inflict bruises, but when one is so unbalanced that it begins to fall, he reacts quickly by teleporting out of its way. And that was an even worse idea than putting himself at risk by moving Kazimir.

Disorientated by the lingering effects of the apparent haunting of Wu-Long, plus the further disorientation brought on by his rough treatment at Kazimir's hands, he misjudged his direction and distance just so. Most of him turned up with little difficulty, but the thinnest, tiniest sliver of his arm immediately became a live demonstration of an immutable law of physics; no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. The sudden, shooting pain in his arm incents him to shift his position again, to a space on the floor he knows it safe, near one of the open propane tanks. Blood seeps from the fresh cut in his arm at an unnatural rate. He hasn't been cut; that thinnest, tiniest sliver of his arm, along with the jacket and shirt that once covered it, simply aren't there anymore, having become a permanent part of some other object.

This ranks extremely high on the list of Very Bad Things, and he screams loud enough that everyone nearby is absolutely certain to know about his pain. The only good news is that, now, he's away from Kazimir, and that still doesn't brighten his day much.

Struggling with spotty blindness and deafness, Kazimir thrashes about like a wounded wild animal, I will not give you control! I will not! Kazimir voice bellows in his own mind, How are you doing this!? Your abilities are mine! You are mine!" One hand clutches at his head, and Kazimir struggles to focus through Sylar's one singular act of defiance, when he does not need it, when it could be the end of both of them. He wheels around, looking for where Elias should be in his patchy vision, but does not find him — not until he hears part of that scream through blotted out sound.

Turning, Kazimir's long coat flares out behind him, and his fingertips begin to glow a throbbing blue-green for a moment, before he reconsiders the bombs. The flickering fades, and Kazimir begins approaching Elias, growling in his stumbling, staggering motion, "I'm going to turn you into a heaping mound of liquid flesh." The old man growls out, one hand raised with fingers moving like a puppetmaster and his marionette, and Elias feels a jerking sensation, uneven as Kazimir's focus is broken by darkness and deafness, puppetry urging the man to his feet, even as he raises his other hand. "Come to me, Elias…" Sylar has rarely used this power, but here, now, Kazimir plans uses for it on Elias' flesh.



Letting out a cry, the Brian falls, his gun dropping to the snowy ground uselessly as he collapses on the ground. Blood spurting out of his shoulder rapidly. The other Brian though, is very quick to react, his hand shoots out for a bare part of the other Brian. Touching him, the shot Brian quickly just disappears, leaving only a puddle of blood, and his equipment behind. Throwing his gaze back to where the snipers are shooting from. Taking a clip from the downed Brian, he quickly replaces it. Rushing through the snow, the young man goes to slide behind the dumpster, letting out a small flurry of gunfire as he goes. "«Felix! The snipers!»" He urges. Then looks around quickly, franticly. Where is Elvis. "«Elvis, how you hangin'?»" Well aware his question will be a cluster of fucking fuck-fucks.

Theres no words at first, as Elvis goes wide eyed. She leans back, as her adrenaline system finally picks up the pace and gets her into this fight! She works by instict, and her heavily armored biking glove simply snatches the RPG from the air as it nears. Holding it by the rocket she rises, screaming not into her radio but at the commandos, "What the fuck did you just shoot at me you bastards, did you just fire a fucking rocket at me!" and then the wind up before she just pitches it right the fuck back.

"God damn mother fuckers, I'm gonna rape your mother you fucking assholes!" Just as boom the RPG-7 goes off and showers the courtyard with little Cobra Commando bits. Meanwhile, she's still juiced and the snipers are still there! So in a rush of her own she takes off after Felix. Oh yeah, radio. "Shut your face jackass!"

That's one of the little problems with Felix's power: Blood pressure.

It spikes when he uses it. And that's okay when Fel's whole, his body can take the strain. Not so much when wounded, however - he bleeds out that much faster than a normal human. Fel's still got his pistol, however, holstered at the back of one hip. And it's that he goes for, with that unnatural gunslinger's speed, rolling and coming up at once, leaving a scarlet trail painted behind him as he ends up on one knee, the mouth of the Sig wedged under Hans's sternum. «Say goodbye,» he says, even as he pulls the trigger twice. Then he's staggering for his rifle, and bracing it on the frame of the window to sight down on the snipers on the roof, unloading three round bursts into each of them - albeit without benefit of his speed. It'll have to be used even more charily now.

The crack of small arms fire in the hall and accompanying muzzle flash can be seen from the lot below, and while Elvis weaves and runs through a crowd of Vanguard soldiers towards the entrance of the administrative building — exactly where Felix had told her not to go, of course — she can see he's on the second floor, or presumes the gunfire up there might be him.

That gunfire strikes Hans, sending him staggering back as if the gunshots were punches. The low-caliber bullets flatten against his body armor; both the tactical vest and whatever heavy, bulky gear he's got on beneath his camouflage. There's a snarl, and the massive Russian charges Felix as he switches for his rifle, ducking to the side as Felix squeezes off a shot at close range, deafening Hans on one side as the bullet strikes the ceiling, obliterating a drop-ceiling tile.

Hans rushes forward, slamming Felix into the wall, causing the knife embedded in his shoulder to wrench to one side as the hilt hits plaster. With a forceful yank, Hans pulls the rifle away and hurls it down the hall, turning around to lay a strong closed-fist strike to Felix's jaw, sending him down to the floor again. The Russian steps in, swinging his hand like he was holding a hammer, slamming his fist down onto Ivanov's shoulder before reaching down and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, lifting him up with one hand, the other reeling back, balled into a fist, "«Goodbye, stray cat.»"


There's only so much light and dark can do, in the end. Wu-Long's ability had relied on movement to be effective, and Sylar has none, nor the control to keep Kazimir imprisoned in a cloud of sightless, soundless fog, as much as he tries. As determination blankets over Kazimir's panic, Sylar's grasp on control slips a little further. A growl of impotent rage shimmers audibly through his and Kazimir's shared mindscape, and the distortion of light and sound begins to ebb away. Because you don't control me. Not like the others. Because I'm special, Sylar sneers, in a mixture of belief of his own words and disdain that he had put so much trust in them. So much trust in Kazimir. What little he can do, is becoming even less, as Elias is forced closer.

"NO!" Odessa winks out and then suddenly barrels into Kazimir from behind, groping at his arms in an attempt to break his puppeteering hold on Elias and prevent him from turning the teleporter into so much goo. "Move," she screams to her ally. "I can mend your arm later. Just move!" Now she blinks in and out of existence, appearing only long enough for Kazimir to hear - or see, depending upon the angle - Odessa's fist flying toward him. She's no fighter, and it shows in the way she throws her punches. Her knuckles split against hardened skin, sending trails of blood down her arms. She relents only when there's a sickening crack! followed by a shrill shriek and the doctor stumbles back before blinking out of sight. Though keen Hearing will prove she's only hidden herself behind a crate, hissing in breaths between clenched teeth as she cradles her broken hand against her chest.


Damnit. Felix won't talk to him, and Elvis is just as likely to pull apart her own team than do what she's told. No sign of the virus. And he's all alone. The thermite is still on him, he still has a job to do. Peeking his head up over the dumpster, another, his last, grenade is popped up and thrown powerfully at where he guesses the snipers would be.

No point trying to talk to them, he'll have to find it himself. Rushing out after the dumpster after throwing the grenade Brian charges towards the building letting out rounds of fire to pop any guard should they stand in his way. He has a virus to catch.

Elvis just sort've lets her Mac-11 swing lazily behind her, spraying her mac at the soldiers she plows through as she passes before simply dumping the mac and shrugging out of her little LBV. She slips her hands up, pushing her leather jacket up just a touch to withdraw a pair of Karambits as she explodes into the hallway. "FUCKER!" comes her call as she sees what she's been wanting all night long. A worthy opponent! She hurtles down the hallway, dropping a shoulder low to plow it into Han's hip and drive him off Felix and into the corner of a doorway with a resounding crash of splintering wood. She all but hops back, lifting her bepointied fists."Fed, go do your job this fucker is all me."

That shot will rank up there on the list of epic fuckups in Felix Ivanov's life. Up there with charging into an apartment full of drug dealers, all of them heavily armed. The sort of bungle that ends up as a story told over beer. By you, if you're lucky. By your comrades, in tones of mingled exasperation, affection, and awe, if you don't. At the moment, things are weighted far towards the latter outcome. Fel weighs a fraction of what this man mountain does, and is stunned enough to momentarily dangle limp in his grip. He makes a horrible strangled noise in lieu of a scream as the blade tears muscle and scrapes against bone. He's nose to nose with the man. His rifle is way off down the hall. His pistol has been dropped. The only weapon in reach is the knife he's -wearing-, and so that's what he uses - reaching back to yank it from where it's lodged between spine and shoulderblade, and doing his best to slam it into Hans' throat. Right before Elvis hits like the Wabash Cannonball jumped the track.

Felix's motion and effort is not wasted, as a thin slice tracks across Hans' throat, not enough to cut deep and cause him to bleed out, but enough to scar the man for life. Certainly not the desired effect — but better than no blood drawn by the Ivanov line at all. Hans crashes into the wall when Elvis' small but surprisingly strong form plows into him, caught off guard by the foul-mouthed girl's sudden appearance. Bracing himself, she can suddenly feel the immense musculature beneath his clothing, and hardened plates of thick and movement-restructing body armor worn beneath his camouflage.

"«Little bitch!»" He spits out in Russian, grabbing the girl's wrist as he sees a flicker of steel from one of the wickedly curved knives she carries, struggling with shock against the ferocious strength she seems possessed with. When Elvis lunges for a seperation in the plates for the knife to hook into, Hans lets her arm go and sidesteps the motion, bringing one hand to the side of her head in a strong hammering motion, the force strong enough to cause her head to bounce off of the plater wall, leaving a cracked indent. He brings his hands back up, and she swings again, vision blurred from the hit, her speed is impossible.

He dives back, but not far enough, a gash left open across his face that scars bone and sprays blood down along his cheeks, splitting his nose open. The pain, the wound, the sight of blood turns Hans' fight into a frenzied rage. His hand grasps her arm, and he swings a closed fist into Elvis' midsection, lifting her off of her feet from the blow before swinging her by the arm to throw down the hall. One of her knives lands on the floor with a clatter, and Hans kicks it up, grabbing it in one hand before licking his own blood off of the edge, beckoning her to come at him with his free hand.

Focused solely on Elvis now, Hans has left Felix alone, and within arms reach of his discarded rifle. Out the window, he can see the sniper's taking position again, as Brian drops more of the Vanguard outside with his approach. In the yard, Brian spots what he's searching for, three soldiers crouched down in the northeast corner of the Eagle Electric lot, on the east-face of the Factory, loading a metal canister into a mortar launcher. As he begins to set to move towards it, one of the snipers fires, popping a bullet into the ground in front of him when he moves out from behind cover.


Letting out a yell Brian literally hops, over where the snow is disturbed from its rest by the bullet. Brian lets out a spray of his own fire at where he thinks the sniper fire is coming from. But he can't go back to cover, he has to stop that virus. The assault rifle is dropped, he's faster that way.

Running in a semi zig zag pattern, trying to do anything he can to avoid the sniper fire, Brian sprints towards the men loading the virus. His hand going for his sidearm. "«I could really use someone's help for those fucking snipers!»"

Its an artful rotation, like a cat thrown from a bullet train into a minefield. She sort've bends and twists until its boots that hit first, and she skids to a stop. She's hurting, she's hurting bad but she aint feeling it just yet. She arches her shoulders back, in the form of a classic bit of jeet-kun-do. Then thinking better she rolls her shoulders foreward again, her disarmed hand tracing back to produce zipper. Zipper started life as the engine block of a 44' war time Harley, before she'd milled and carved it into a wickedly gnarly karambit with a small guthook on the back."God damnit, I love it when you talk dirty to me." Why did the hot ones always have to be evil?

She takes another moment, turning to spit blood onto the floor before setting off. She lets Hans take a swing with her knife, before she steps in. She sinks a knee into his ribs just below his armpit then swings her free leg up and over his head. One hand holding onto his fist, as she works to unzip Han's wrist and sever the tendons there. Meanwhile she's curling foreward, using momentum and violence to roll Hans off his feet and swing him through the air above her before slamming him down -HARD- with his arm still in an armbar!"Go on hot stuff, keep talkin dirty!"

Like Emma Peel had a child with the Tasmanian devil, Felix will pause to be amazed later — If there's a later. But he turns his attention to those snipers, and retrieves the rifle. He's shaking like a leaf, but he forces his hands to steadiness as he takes aim at the snipers. And again, there's the rattle of rifle fire from the admin building. His back is soaked in blood, now, and he's correspondingly pale, as he sights carefully down at them, one after the other. His lips are moving numbly, in what might be a prayer.


It wasn't a very good plan on Odessa's part, but woke Elias up enough from his dazed stupor to realize that something very, very bad was about to happen to him. He knows he's in trouble; blood is pumping out of him steadily, even if the overall volume is small. He's starting to feel light-headed. He's going to really be in trouble if he passes out. It's time to stop playing games.

Despite his last mishap, Elias teleports again, this time to one of the explosives. Kazimir will not have much trouble finding him, or much trouble seeing that he had a back-up plan. He just needs a little time to get himself and Odessa out; that will be served just as well by the reserve detonators in the explosives, operating not on an instantaneous radio detonation, but on a timer that makes itself known. 'Listen to me,' it happily exclaims with each beep, 'I'm going to kill you.' Seconds, minutes, hours? How long before they go off, Kazimir?

Elias, unfortunately, doesn't have much time to think about it, losing his balance in his haze and falling out of sight instead of teleporting like he was planning. This is not good for him.

With his hold on Elias broken, Kazimir's attention can only turn towards the beep, beep, beep of the armed detonators. His expression turns horrified, eyes growing wide as he reaches out one hand towards Elias, "No!" He howls, and for a moment there is a hint of other tones of voices joining his. The stacked crates begin to rumble and shift, sending crates toppling in the direction he heard the detonator armed from, crashing stacks of wood splintering open as they collide with the floor. Old and broken pieces of machinery designed at Eagle Electric in the past come toppling out, and Kazimir lurches and staggers towards the bay doors, towards a sound that only now he can hear through the haze of his hearing being cut off and returned.



Slamming down to the dirty floor of the administrative building, Hans lets out a choking exhalation of breath as his arm nearly snaps from the pressure of the armbar. He lets out a groan of pain, struggling to find some measure of freedom from Elvis' strangling grasp of his extremities. His free arm flails wildly, grasping at anything he can, tugging at cloth, his other arm pinned between Elvis' legs, wrenched in the complicated maneuver. Finally he reaches down for the small of his back with his free arm, grabbing a black length of metal before flicking it out and extending the telescoping baton.

There's a rough motion of his shoulder, and Hans rolls onto his side, lashing to baton against Elvis' midsection where he had struck her before, the quick snapping pain of the flexible bludgeon causing the otherwise immobile woman to release Hans' arm. The Russian climbs up onto his knees, looming over the woman as he growls out loudly, raising one hand to grab at her hair, the other jamming the baton against her throat, pushing up with the metal hilt beneath her chin as he forces her back against the wall.

Forgetting the knife she has in her hand.

Out the window, Felix's shots are quick, and despite the pain, despite the shake of adrenaline, he has enough bullets to make it not matter. Shot in the back, shoulder, leg, head, neck, the snipers drop with successive rounds being emptied into them, until Felix drains his entire cartridge on them. His blood runs down his back, spattering on the floor even while Elvis wrestles with Hans for her life. He can see Brian running, running amidst other Vanguard gunfire, running for his life.

Running for everyone's life.

He gets to the mortar with Felix having dispatched the snipers, one of the Vanguard soldiers popping up from the launcher with a pistol, firing three rounds just over his shoulder. He can hear the bullets whip past his head. He has the thermite grenade in hand, and it's then when he feels a sharp pain in his leg, white hot, he's been shot. The bullet rips thorugh his thigh, legs go to jelly, and he hits the snow, skidding across it before coming to land right at the feet of both of the Vanguard soldiers and the loaded mortar launcher.

Somewhere underneath 1.8mil kangaroo leather, kevlar and CE certified impact armor a rib or two or three already cracked just break with an audible snap. Theres a flush of pain, but that only makes shit all the worse for Hans. She tightens up, swinging across with one hand to parry the baton away from her throat. Its tough to tell whats going on as she all but tangles up against Hans, before finally she she scoots away and rises. "God damnit, Fed you ok!" Comes her call, as the adrenaline already begins to ebb away from her.

Hans didnt see Zipper either, but as he rises he can certainly feel it. Its a strange sensation, the pain comes afterward as intenstines simply begin to slide from his stomach. Zipper had cut a clean tract from kidney to kidney, and now the majority of his intestinges begin to simply uncoil and slide down his legs. Kidneys are neatly torn and sliced in halves, sufficient to bleed Hans out in short order and drain the life from him almost as fast as he can stand up. Elvis only glances back long enough to snag her knife.

Brian's footing is semi lost for just a moment. His hand coming out into the icy ground below, he shoves himself back into his low run as another bullet just skims by. A glance is sent to where more sniper shots should be coming, but none do. His gun is out, clips being unleashed from it. A feral cry is let out from the ex-Mormon as he charges professional soldiers. Whilst running, his aim is off. Two of the soldiers go down with multiple shots to the shoulders and chest. But one remains.

The pain barely affects him this time as his pistol flies out of his hand and he crashes against the icy ground. Sliding at the mortar and the Vanguardian soldier. The thermite is on his belt, gun gone. His hand flies out at the feet of the soldier, ripping them out from under him.

The fate of the world will be decided by a wrestling match.

"No," Felix says, but his voice is utterly calm. Really. He's so high on adrenaline and endorphins the pain is a distant thought. Though the amount of blood on him is dismaying, and one arm dangles limply at his side. "I'm hurt pretty bad. Can get a little farther." «Brian, what's your status? Where's the launcher?» he wonders over the link, once he's found the radio. Hans' death doesn't seem to register. Not now. He'll have nightmares about it later. It was never like this. Well, not often. Forall that New York's supposed to be one of the meanest cities in the world, wholesale slaughter is rare. And Fel's dealt more than enough death for tonight. He's casting around for another enemy.


"Hans." Kazimir hisses under his breath, making his way to the door as the beeping of the detonators gets closer and closer together, I will not lose. His voice echoes to Sylar in his mind, skin finishing its sheathing with organic armor, plating his flesh with gray-brown scales of living armor. Kazimir's body then crackles, sizzling with a field of telekinetic force rippling up and down — it barely saved Sylar from the destruction of midtown, he must survive this.

One hand moves quickly to the side, slinging the bay doors open towards the round of roaring engines, shouting and gunfire in the lot near the facility, "Useless… worthless…" He stumbles over his own two feet as his vision fades, then returns, his hearing now taken. I will not go quietly… into this night… Stepping out into the whirling snow, the beeping from the detonators reaches a beeping crescendo, louder and closer together now.

And they run. Sylar can feel his own heart hammering in his chest with Kazimir's surge of adrenaline, the stiffness that the biological armor affords them and so faint it may as well be mist to him, the snow beats down against skin both protected or not. Only distantly aware of the crescendo climbing behind them as Kazimir forces them at a run away from the warehouse, Sylar allows the darkness, the silence to withdraw, because he can, and whispers through Kazimir's head, savagely: Neither will I.

"Elias!" Odessa scrambles out from falling crates, always one step ahead thanks to her ability. She hurries to the fallen man. Time stops. Pulling off her lab coat to tear one sleeve off, she ties it tightly around Elias' injured arm to stop the bleeding. She's done too much too quickly, and the pain in her fingers saps away her concentration. Time resumes and Odessa pants heavily, slapping at Elias' face with her good hand. "Elias, wake up! Elias! Wake up!" Panic settles in, in the form of a frightened scream and heaving sobs. "We can't die here," she cries. She watches Kazimir throw open the doors. He's going to escape.

An odd sort of serenity washes over Odessa as the beeping of the detonators come closer and closer together. She closes her eyes. "It's okay," she whispers to someone who isn't there. "We'll be—"


A few gugrling, wet breaths escape Hans as his hand paws at Elvis' face. He struggles, hands scooping at his stomach to try and hold everything in, knees slipping on the ground before his face strikes the tile with a wet slap. "Hrnnhh…." His last words, a slurred groan of confusion and pain. Now alone in the administrative building, the silence over Brian's comm and the lack of gunfire outside is disconcerting. From the window, Felix can't even see any more Vanguard officers, but then, there's a sound, a revving engine.

Eyes tracking across the snow, someone has gotten into the semi-truck, and it turns out of the lot, pulling away quickly from the warehouse, tires spinning in the snow as it plows through the chain link fence out onto the street, weaving across the road as if making an escape. A brief glance available through the window when the truck reveals the man driving the vehicle away — Kazimir Volken.

Brian can hear the truck, he can barely make out someone in black getting inside. But Brian is too busy wrestling with the last standing Vanguard soldier. The trained fighter struggles for only a moment before reaching for the combat knife on his belt, taking a punch Brian swings at his face as the young man climbs up on top of him, wrestling to try and get to the launcher. The knife slides up, driving between two of Brian's ribs, sliding to the side as it shreds his lung, filling it with the choking sensation of drowning, and the sharp pain he has begun to become accustomed to.

The soldier flips Brian on to his side, knocking the mortar launcher over, sending the canister rolling out, a red and black biohazard seal on the metal cylinder. "For Kazimir Volken!" The soldier shouts, raising his knife into the air again, leaving a drooling trail of blood in its wake.

Brian clutches the thermite grenade in his hand.


Finally, Brian cries out in pain. A knife into his ribs, something he's felt before. But it's never a pleasant experience. He struggles against the other man. But the other man is bigger, and stronger, and trained better. Brian can't replicate anymore, it's too late for that. The soldier will kill him then set off the virus. And all the other missions will be for nothing. Just because he couldn't get his shit together. A lifetime of flaws and mistakes, accidents, and blunders has a way of catching up to you in those split seconds before the knife goes into your throat. The world's gonna end and it's going to be all his fault.

"Habadabaja!" Is the only war cry he can manage, a silencing shout to all the mistakes of his past. His free hand and feet press himself up powerfully, his arms going up and around the man. Brian embraces the knife, into his neck. His eyes rolling back as his life slowly leaves him.

But the lifeless body wrapped around the soldier drags the two of them down and on top of the canister containing the virus. For an instant, the soldier smiles triumphantly. He did it, the threat is gone. The Work can be completed. Pushing the body up off of him, the man starts to turn to get the cannister to reload it.

He didn't notice that Brian pulled the clip off the thermite grenade. His screams don't last very long as the thermite burns through the man and then into the lifeless body of Brian Fulk.

Elvis hears the truck, and thats a very poor sign. "Fe."she pauses, swollowing dryly "Felix, I'm going after the truck. Dont look for me, just get the fuck out of here. You have my number if, if you need me to patch you up."and then she's off! She kicks through a window to start racing down the fire escape, now very aware of the broken ribs and even moreso with every breath. She doesnt look back to Felix, she doesnt go looking for Brian(as if). She's got all her attention focused on that truck!

She seeps outside, panting hard with a little cry. She sweeps down the street, plucks her helmet from a footpeg and swings over. This is it, but theres no rush here. No adrenaline, Elvis is at home. That RC-51 turns over with a -WICKED- snarl and an almost gasping scream of a hard tuned race motor and titanium exhaust. Immediately she picks the RPMs and drops the clutch, that broad nearly smooth race tire churning up snow until it finds pavement and makes smoke. She'll wait for the truck to launch before taking off, she needed the time to warm up the RC anyway.

Thermite burns white hot. And Fel is confined to merely mortal speed as he stumps along for the stairs down, trying to put the building between him and the remaining men of the Vanguard. It's sort of a moot point - he's not got much distance left in him. He's even dropped the rifle in favor of the pistol. Christ, what good've I done in this? There's the little pocket inferno outside, as he heads for the door and the gate out, trying to keep to what cover there is, even as he checks to make sure Brian's accomplished what they set out to do.


It isn't clear to Odessa, and it wouldn't be clear to anyone in her position if Elias is actually listening to anything she says. If he's listening to anything other than the incessant beeping of the mass of detonators echoing throughout the warehouse. As they count down, zero hour approaching, the teleporter receives one more moment of clarity, just long enough to explain, verbally, what his fate shall be:



My plans are too great to be ruined by the likes of mere men, mere flesh and blood. I have become so much more than that in all these years, I was blind to that fact for so long.

As Felix rounds the corner ad gets out of the building, watching Elvis peel out in the snow and go whipping out of the Eagle Electric lot on her bike, he can see the burning white flames of thermite, blood everywhere, Brian Fulk's body. His eyes go wide, mouth hanging slack, the world spins and Felix can sense the vertigo of blood-loss tugging at his mind. They won, but then everything changes.

I thought, once, that the Evolved were a plague upon the world that needed to be wiped out, that humanity needed me to save it. I was wrong, it was not humanity that needed me at all…

Felix feels a tug, a suction, as air from the outside suddenly rushes in an instant towards the Eagle Electric warehouse as a fiery orange glow builds inside of the structure. The Semtex detonates first, releasing enormous amounts of energy all at once. The propane ignites almost immediately in a conflagration that becomes, almost instantly an explosion, drawing in massive amounts of air from the outside in an effort to feed itself. The sudden fluctuations in atmospheric pressure, combined with the explosions and the heat and everything else put together mean that there can be only one result. The rapidly expanding compression wave, screaming out from the epicenter of the blast at over 1,000 meters per second, has no more effect on the warehouse other than reducing it, literally, to millions upon millions of splinters, accelerated through the air faster than the speed of sound, along with anything else within 100 feet that isn't bolted down in someway.

The world needed me, to expunge all of humanity — Evolved and not — from its surface, so that the world may be reborn again anew. I was not cursed, that old priest in Russia was right.

Structures surrounding the warehouse in the lot shake violently and threaten to collapse themselves. All over Long Island City, windows groan and rattle under the enormous pressure. Those closest to the blast crack and shatter inward as if they'd been right next to the bombs. Even away from the blast, the sonic boom carries weight and power; on the other side of New York City, and even beyond its limits, the explosion is heard.

The world appointed me its executioner. I am death itself…

Just like Elias was hoping, the biggest, brightest and loudest fireworks display the city has seen since November, 2006.

…behold my wrath.

January 28th: Endgame - To Die At Sea
January 28th: Endgame - ...And All That Could Have Been
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