Participants:
| Scene Title | Fire and Fury |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An ambush that succeeds, come hell and high water. And mops. |
| Date | November 6, 2008 |
Outside An Abandoned Building
Al tends to be where PHOENIX is….hanging about their safehouses, associating with them. But he's got a squat a few stories up in a mostly ruined apartment building on the edge of the blast zone - homeless have taken up part of the first story, what's still enclosed and stable, but with his power, Al can reach parts of the building normal humans can't. At the moment, though, he's walking home, hood on his hoodie down, hands in the capacious front pocket - he's otherwise clad in jeans and a t-shirt, knit watchcap hiding the bright hair. He's got that hoodlum swagger going, like he's some smalltime dealer on his way back from a long night out selling.
There's another anonymous figure on the streets, just across the road from the hollowed out building Alexander is moving to. Someone rather hard to make out, he almost sinks into the shadows around him. He's stationary, leaning against a lamppost, one that's long since stopped working and despite his camouflage, he, too, is covered in some way, a large hood over his head and hiding his eyes, head ducked. At the sounds of someone knew making their way down the road, he lifts his head slightly, enough to see. Not a moment later, he steps side… and seems to vanish even more. In the dark, only the very perceptive might see the glossy outline of someone mostly invisible, and Sylar presses himself against a wall, still.
Evening, Fido, his voice drifts through Alex's head, and Sylar extends out a hand, fingers like claws. With a screech of metal, the fire escape, half-ruined, starts to tear off its hinges not far from the freedom fighter, a piece of metal breaking off and hurtling in his direction.
Oh, you want a Sith fite? We can have a Sith fite. Al makes a brushing gesture with his left hand, almost contemptuous, and the piece of metal veers off in another direction. His right hand pulls a pistol - a Glock, quite obviously new. "What's shaking?" he says, voice casual, even as he scans the shadows to pinpoint the location of his foe, blue eyes narrowed.
It's taken, but only for an instant. It hovers there, gleaming, and then Al yanks it back. And once it's in his hand, he rattles off three shots. The dust and pebbles around him have begun to rise, though they don't head in any particular dirction. Once the triple report has died away, he sends a few battered trashcans at the now-visible Gabriel.
The first two bullets are deflected with a flash of white light - an arcing shield shape that seems to emit from his hand when he holds it up, and it lingers just those few seconds long enough to bat them away, giving Sylar room to move from the third, though it rips through the fabric of his sleeve. Perhaps it does damage, but who can tell? A trashcan is flung away, in Alex's direction, forcing it to veer through the air - but the next one clips his shoulder, sending Sylar staggering, nearly tripping over where formerly ruined road juts out and catches his ankle. His hands flare with nuclear light for a moment, one landing against the pavement and turning it to black, but it seems an involuntary response, flickering out again when he manages to stay on his feet. With a sneer, he holds it arms out, almost invitation, arms spread wide open - and Alex will find himself forced to mimic the pose and hopefully drop that weapon of his.
And it works. The Glock drops out of Al's suddenly limp hand. Hiw power, however, does not cease, and every bit of available debris on the street is hurled at Sylar, a barrage of trash and rubble, as fast and as hard as he can. Generally aimed for the killer's head. Al makes no threats, offers neither quarter nor surrender. He's silent - there's no one to call for help, after all.
And Sylar… ducks. No, it's not the most graceful of reactions, but it comes with a twist. Twist the first? Alex's position does not change, held like a scarecrow, standing still. Twist the second, something much like the dense shield occurs, but now, it wraps a twisting sphere around Sylar's form, visibly thinner and yet somehow more durable, flexible, shifting around him as if it were alive, pulsing and organic as the debris hits it, almost penetrates, but ultimately bounces off the malleable forcefield. It's what got him through New York's devastation - it can get him through one man's telekinetic attack. Poor Alex, Sylar voice comes again, louder, pounding through the other telekinetic's skull.
Where're your friends to come rescue you? Sheep need to stick together, after all. He's moving forward, now, the shining forcefield drifting along with him - and his hands start to glow a poisonous, icy blue, chilling the air around it. How about I send back pieces of you back to them? The forcefield flickers - just as a stream of pure subzero cold whips from Sylar's hand, sending tendrils of icy air towards Alex.
Out of the darkness, behind Sylar and across from Alexander comes a third man. Walking slowly, eyes wide the man is considering the two intently. A fight? Between Evolved? It looks like the one he would consider the /victim/ is having a tough time. So he does what every good brave passerby would do. He wanders closer to stare.
The man is dressed in a blue jumpsuit that resembles that of a janitor. This janitor theory is only confirmed by the mop held by two sets of white knuckles. Perhaps he works in the area and was just heading home? Perhaps not. Ethan is pulling off the look of scared civillian quite well. He steps forward, knees bent as if ready to spring. His teeth are clenched, and it looks like he's creeping towards Sylar as if to help Alexander. Without moving his lips the man hisses through his teeth. He can barely hear what is whispered. "Make it deep, but if you get me on bedrest, I'll break your fuckin' kneecaps. Make sure you don't brace yourself."
The 'janitor' breaks his cautious creep and sprints in a dead run at Sylar's back. Mop held high he lets out a feral cry as he swings down the 'weapon' hard at the serial killer's right shoulder.
"Run, you idiot," Al says, voice tight. He's still pinned to that invisible wall, and all of the debris that's gone winging towards Sylar is bouncing off that forcefield. "You can't hurt him. Run," Sylar gets a defiant snarl. He may be done, but he'll go down spitting in the eye of his killer, apparently. "Fuck you," he says, oh so eloquently.
Unfortunately, a forcefield must be dropped to do damage outwardly too, and it's flickered out of sight by the time ice is almost freezing the air, extending past Sylar's hands, painting frost over Alex's clothing, tickling his skin with iciness… And then, the handle of the mop comes cracking down onto his shoulder. Despite knowing it was there, hearing those footsteps, he remains admirably relaxed, allowing the injury. With a grunt, he staggers, and the disruption, the pain of it, cuts the metaphorical strings of the Alex marionette. Good to know. The ice in the air also vanishes, but Sylar's reaction is instant - the mop is telekinetically snatched out of Ethan's hands, broken clean in half in the air, and rockets straight towards the man's body. At the same time, the pointed, jagged end of the other half is sent in Alex's, even as Sylar starts to back up from the scene.
Sylar's position in Ethan's respect book fluctuates more than modern day gas prices. A steady rise, a steep fall, and then another steady rise. Currently it is on a rise. It is one thing to act like an incompetent janitor, it is another thing to see(or hear in Sylar's case) an attack coming, spot the opening… And not take it. Especially when one knows that the attack is going to do some substantial damage. The mop is jerked out of his hands. Then snap.. And contrary to his speed, ability, and training as a fighter the man takes it to the stomach.
A yelp is let out from the man as his eyes go wide. Reaching out the 'janitor' grasps at the wooden rod protuding from his gut. At the same time though the man is propelled to his back by the force of the mop. Immediately the blood starts to seep out from the wound. A loud yell emits from the downed man. As he yells in turn to Alexander, "Run!" Even in the one word one could tell his voice is heavily accented.
Al remains….furious. And impressed, but not, perhap, in a very good way. "Idiot," he says, again, flicking the bits of mop aside with that irritated, insect-brush-off gesture. And then the Glock comes back to his hand, in that Vader-at-Cloud-City manner, and he empties the magazine at Sylar.
The gunshots ring out, which is hell on the enhanced hearing, Sylar visibly wincing - which is nothing in comparison to the roar he gives when a bullet tears its way through his side, managing to stop the others with his telekinesis before they can penetrate too. They drop to the road. An arm clasps around his middle, and he furiously flings his other hand out, putting everything he has into sending the other man flying - should he resist it, it's at least a distraction. Because Sylar is choosing to hightail it at a loping sprint, back bent a little, and his form becoming less tangible as the colours of shadow and cement make him hard to see.
Grasping the broken mop handle, the man on the ground wheezes and heaves as writhes on the ground. Pain is manageable and Sylar didn't take the thing too deep. Nothing Ethan couldn't work with. But this man is not Ethan. The man curls up tightly at the sound of all the gunshots. Trying to protect himself from the bullets. Was that Sylar taking one? That's unfortunate. Though as Sylar lopes off the wounded man starts to 'relax' a bit. Though relax is an overstatement. The man has a mop handle protruding from his stomach.
Al's got the fire and the fury at his command, as the lines of the old song go. At least for now, when terror and rage combined have half the street sweeping back with him - Sylar's blow sent him staggering back, knocked him down, but he's popped back up like a jack in the box. And since a bullet, wonder of wodners, has done damage, he's dashing after the fleeing serial killer, slapping another magazine into the Glock as he runs.
Al's got the fire and the fury at his command, as the lines of the old song go. At least for now, when terror and rage combined have half the street sweeping back with him - Sylar's blow sent him staggering back, knocked him down, but he's popped back up like a jack in the box. And since a bullet, wonder of wodners, has done damage, he's dashing after the fleeing serial killer, slapping another magazine into the Glock as he runs. He's also reaching out with his power, trying to snatch the other man and stop him in his tracks, maybe even lift him, if he can.
It's amazing what one can endure when you have a one-track mind. Sylar fled from cops with worse than this, and although it hurts like a bitch, he's running at full tilt, feet pounding against pavement. It's when he hears the sound of Alex running after him that he swears. Just once. He doesn't slow down, just flings out a hand once more, and out of an alley, a scream of metal against pavement as a dumpster suddenly comes roaring out, almost off the ground but not quite, one dragging edge sending sparks flying into the night as he uses it to put something in between him and the aptly named Fido.
As Alexander trots by Ethan, the man on the ground gets a look of exasperation. He almost even throws his hands up in a 'what the hell' gesture. Though he stops himself, the man could turn around at any time. He returns his features to the deep grimace of pain. Grasping at the mop handle weakly, he rolls to his side and lets out deep coughs of pain.
Fido's a good name. Because Al isn't letting it go. He meets the dumpster, and goes scrambling up and over it without missing a beat, boosted by his power. With only the magazine loaded left, he's a little more chary with his shots. He sends an empty newspaper machine at Sylar's feet, trying to knock him down.
Okay. Now we're making Sylar mad. The bullets don't find purchase, if only thanks to the camouflage ability with which the killer has coated himself in, but they get near enough that he slows in an effort to make sure his ankles don't get blown to pieces. He can feel his own pulse racing, and a distinct heat in his hands, the same killing move he'd held back on not a few minutes before. He doesn't quite feel like holding onto it now, as the heat surges up his arms, into his chest. But he keeps running, veering here and there, letting things he encounters - trashcans, previously chained bicycles, and other debris - tumble behind him with telekinetic knocks. There was an objective to this mission and he's going to stick to it until his patience is no more. Tick, tock.
Brows narrow. Ethan did not reckon the terrorist would do.. this. Grasping the handle, the Wolf pulls the mop handle cleanly out of his stomach without a wince. Before he was being the barely brave enough janitor. But Alexander's actions have awakened the Wolf. He has ruined the plan. There is still hope for it, but Ethan needs to be ready to improvise. The man is on his feet and he's walking swiftly behind the running pair. As he walks he stoops for a moment to produce a knife strapped around his ankle. Knife in one hand, mop handle in the other the man is power walking behind the two. Though he's completely ready to start limping on a dime should Alexander decide to give up on his pursuit.
Al is running, still with that fanatic gleam in his eyes. The debris that comes towards him is sent hurtling back towards Sylar. They picked the wrong terrorist to do the Count of Monte Cristo on, apparently. This isnt' the one that heals, the one that makes flowers grow. Al's done his share of violence, and clearly intends to do a bit more, to the benefit of one Gabriel Gray. Once he's emptied the magazine, however, he slows, seeing if Sylar turns to rejoin the fight, or continues on.
If those brows could bend through the skin and touch each other, they would be doing it right now. As Alexander pauses so does Ethan. He seems to be stopping. Going down to one knee the man replaces the knife around his ankle, quickly and deftly. Standing back up the Wolf grasps desperately at the wound on his stomach. Holding the rod in his other hand he falls to one knee not far behind Alexander. Leaning on it heavily the man lets out a loud groan, though until Alexander turns around, his eyes are practically rolling.
He can hear Ethan's steady foot steps, and he lashes out angrily with a slightly too loud telepathic voice. I'm going to kill him, Wolf, is his warning, bullets whipping through the air, runs that would surely hit if it wasn't for a certain talent for blending in, although one clips just past his ear, spattering a small amount of blood onto his face. Debris sent his way makes him stumble, and he's so close to turning around and expending all that gathered radioactive heat in one huge street-consuming fireball… when he hears Alex start to slow down. Which. Which means he can keep running. Wonderful. Run, Sylar, run. With a growl, he endures, and continues, disappearing around a corner
Al is….remarkably unsympathetic. "And just what the fuck did you think you were gonna accomplish there?" he wonders, as he comes trotting back to Ethan, already removing his hoodie to be used as bandaging. "You see two comicbook motherfuckers having the mother of all Sith fights, and you gonna wade in with your broom. Who do you think you are, Musashi?" His tone is utterly disgusted, as he orders, "Sit the fuck down, I'll help you. But I ain't got no cellphone. I hope you do, or you are shit outta luck."
The man looks up at Alexander, his expressions a mask of pain and confusion. His mouth opens and a deeply accented Russian voice is emitted. "I help you." He struggles out. Between the accent and the sentence, it seems the man does not speak a whole lot of English. He looks up at Al desperately, grasping the broken mop handle.
"Cellphone?" Al repeats, miming holding a phone to his ear. Even as he drops to his knees, still restlessly scanning the street lest Gray reappear. "You didn't help shit, idiot. Just nearly got yourself killed, is all," His drawl is molasses thick, as he bats away Ethan's hand to examine the wound.
"CellularPhone." Ethan says with recognition, a smile flashing on his face through the pain. "No have." The man manages as he allows his hands to be knocked away for Alex to inspect it. The wound is very bloody, still wooden splinters stuck in it. "I help you." He repeats, looking quite pathetic at the moment. One hand hangs near his leg apparently limply. Though his arm is very ready, should Alexander complicate their plans any more.. The Wolf would be quite ready. He groans loudly in pain as the telekinetic examines him.
"Lie still," Al orders, peremptorily. He never was a full medic, but he seems to have some training, as he examines the wounded man. He hands him the hoodie. "Put this on the wound, press as hard as you can. I'm gonna have to find a payphone, get you some help, this is beyond what I can do."
Crying out, Ethan shakes his head. "Ambu-lance no." The man pleads desperately. Taking the hoodie he looks up to the man confused. After a moment of confusion he wraps the thing around his would, and pulls it tight. He peers over to Alexander. "Deport." A deep frown goes on his lips. Ethan is doing his best. But his extensive amount of patience is starting to wear thin.
"Buddy, they gonna be sending your ass home in a box if I don't get someone," Al says, scowling. "You lie there." He heaves himself up from his knees, and starts looking around. Not much is promising. But there's what looks like a payphone that might even -work- in the distance, and he heads there at a run.
More confusion. "I help you. You help me." Comes the thick Russian accent in a pleading tone. Ethan would be fine if he treated himself. He's suffered far worse wounds than this. Though Alexander seems to be completely ungrateful of his attempt to save his life. A puzzlement, Ethan figured these pro rights terrorist would be all lovey dovey, I owe you my life types. But apparently not. Any way you slice it, Ethan has to improvise. And slicing it may be the way he goes about it.
"Do I look like a fuckin' doctor to you? I'm a homeless guy, genius," Al says, throwing up his hands in despair. "I live in an abandoned building." And then he's punching numbers into a payphone, having dropped in a couple of quarters.
The Russian Ethan is pretending to be is having a very difficult time understanding Alexander. Ethan on the other hand is practically raging on the inside. A fire blazing two hundred feet. Though on the outside he remains perfectly calm. As calm as a janitor with a stomach would could be. "No Ambu-lance!" Ethan calls out desperately, leaning on the mop handle he is able to stand up weakly. He reaches out with his hand towards the man in the phone booth. "No ambu-lance!!"
"Okay, okay," Al says. "Listen. Come with me, I might be able to help you. You have to understand, I'm not taking you to a real doctor?" He motions for the man to follow him. "I'm gonna take you to my place, get someone who might be able to really help you," He moves back to offer Ethan support, one of those one-armed over the shoulder Army carries.
Keepin the broken mop handle with him, Ethan looks at the man in confusion still. "Doctor? Hospeetull. No." He makes it very clear he wants nothing to do with the good people who work for the government in any capacity. He allows Alexander to come beside him as he moves his arm around the man. Using the stick as well for help the Wolf goes along with the terrorist.
 November 6th: An Unwelcome Revelation |
 November 6th: A Small World |