Participants:
| Scene Title | Fire Power |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The Roosevelt Island denizens break through to Queens, but not without cost. Who pays may surprise you. Or not. |
| Date | February 12, 2011 |
The Dome: Queens, 21st Street Queensbridge
It will be as long a night as the tunnel veining from Roosevelt Island to Queens, underground, probably seemed to be. In the dark, in the water, ice cold and filthy and as high as their knees, with darting flashlights spanning illumination over the churning shadows, hidden train tracks to trip their feet. The power has long since gone neglected and so by the time they've reached 21st Street Queenbridge station, the light that's coming in is from the beginnings of dawn as Roosevelt Island trickles out of it some thousand people. Empty of trains— and blessedly, train crashes— the platform has become a spontaneous resting place and half-hearted triage centre.
Out from where presumably river water shimmers a foot deep in the tracks, people are helped out and onto the brown-brick platform as they filter out of the tunnels. The underground is spacious but narrow, and Dome denizens huddle both in groups and solo, injuries tended to as best they might be able, others simply unwilling to go outside, at least not until the sun has risen properly in the sky and they can consider what on earth to do next.
Which isn't the case for everyone. And it's those who make it to the stairwell to find that the barred gate has been pulled over the mouth of the exit up and out, and reinforced with hardway chains and padlocks.
Outside paints a different, less claustraphobic image. The air has become just a little warmer than the sunrise chill expected of winter, and across the East River, the smoke rising from Roosevelt Island is still doing so and making the air taste as black as it looks up above. A couple of cars are parked haphazard on the street directly across from the entrance of the subway, and youths— as well as older denizens, but all of them male— share cigarettes as they watch on. That some are holding assault rifles is cause enough for worry.
Helping others is something that a few people just can't help but doing. Which is why the trio of Melissa, Perry and Devon have been doing just that for a little while. Melissa's had to work to block out pain, just so she can function enough to help the others, doing what first aid she can, though it isn't really much, which frustrates the hell out of her.
The sight of the assault rifles though, has her glancing cautiously at the men, then to Perry and Devon, her brow furrowing. Bombings earlier were bad enough. That some of the good guys had to kill is bad enough. How much worse is it going to get?
"Christ." Doyle peeks over the edge of one of the cars parked a bit away from the whole mess, hands resting on the edge and a grimace curving to his lips, "This is bad, Bishop. This is… really bad. Those guys're gonna be trying to mow down anyone escaping Roosevelt, I bet." Yes, he's a pessimist. He slants a look to her, keeping his voice hushed, "You want to go wave your tits at them and ask what's going on?"
Having tended to his injuries as much as possible, his jacket working to hold one arm in place while the other directs people this way and that, Devon's doing what he can to help. He remains near to Perry and Melissa, glancing toward the pair on occasion to see where they've moved to. As he guides someone with a bruised knot on his head onto the landing, his eyes for an uncounted time go upward, following the ladder to the gate that inevitably leads out of the tunnels.
Perry spent some time peering through the wire-glass, assessing the number and combined firepower of the group outside. With chains and padlocks between them and the Roosevelt refugees, they don't feel like an immediate concern, but those rifles look like tempting prizes. Risk/cost analysis doesn't yield any especially good prospects, though. Not yet at least.
"We- we'll want to keep as quiet as we can for now," Perry advises once he's back with Melissa and Devon, though he speaks generally, for anyone to hear who will, "they- uh- they haven't reacted to us if- uh if they know we're here. Best- uh- best to keep it that way until we have to deal with them." It bespeaks his outlook that he says 'until' instead of 'if'.
"I- uh- I have an impressive opening move, though," Perry adds, removing the frag grenade he relieved an enemy combatant of from his pocket and displaying it in his palm, "when time comes to- uh- knock on the door."
The arduous journey had been particularly difficult for some of the Island's residents. Lydia hadn't the heart to continue quickly while so many struggled through the cold, dank, hollowness of the tunnels. Her long blond-hued tresses had been tied back into a loose ponytail upon entry, and her lightweight skirt had found weight among the water. Her generally weighty steps became heavier laden, particularly with the elderly women she guided on each arm, essentially holding each up in turn. With her own personal struggles against the hostile environment, her empathy— her driven compassion— compelled her to take whatever risks she might to assist those she encountered along the way.
Currently, her less refined skills are put to use. A corner of fabric is ripped from the bottom of her skirt as she tends to a cut on a young girl's arm. "Apply even pressure as best you can," she instructs levelly, wile managing the smallest edgings of a smile— a silent reassurance in its own right.
"This is bad." Elle scowls out from her hiding place behind the car that she and Doyle are behind, glaring daggers at the guys with guns. She doesn't like the look of those guys. At Doyle's suggestion, she turns that scowl over to Doyle. "Oh yeah. I'm really going to go in front of those guys and ask what's going on. I'm not bulletproof." She scowls, blue eyes turning toward the scene ahead, waiting to see what on earth is going on.
A head pokes between the human microwave and the heavy set Puppetmaster, "I'm bettin' he's righ'." The speedster, though he has no idea who the duo behind the car are, has zipped up behind/between them figuring Hey, they're hiding, they can't be all bad. His facial features waver as he does a quick look from one to the other, perhaps a double take at the blond roots of the redhead.
In a blur of blue, black and cream, he's gone, only to return a second or two later with both hands sporting crowbars. They're held as hooked weapons and coupled with the steam of his breath, make a sort of imposing picture. Except for the shirt he's wearing, a woman's blouse with a dark floral pattern that was likely looted from a old woman's house here in Queens… and maybe the pants… polyester leisure style.
After the violence, explosions, and terrorist activities many are fleeing the island. The complete breakdown of social order and the lack of food might also contribute to the exodus. Brand is one of the fleeing. After the time and activity, he has precious little to haul. Some scavenged food and water, this and that - but the most valuable might be the rifles he's carrying, and the pistol in his pocket. Its a load, but Brand is a strong guy and his stores are well packed and padded under a bit of tarp and such.
His jittery nerves have him hidden under the comforting power of his Crypsis. He is anonymous in the crowd, unnoticed and unremarked. Lucky for him, as the men with rifles on the other side of the chained barrier look serious. He shy back from it, his eyes casting about for alternate routes to take.
There are two sedans and five men in total — not all of them are armed, either, one of them opting out of wielding unnecessarily powerful weaponry with his back slouched against the side of the his car, watching the wreckage of Roosevelt Island. The vehicle he leans against shudders as the oldest of the group— and he even happens to be wearing a kevlar vest, but not very well. It, like the weaponry, probably doesn't actually belong to him— puts his weight back on his feet and paces a little closer for the subway.
None of them look like they've been having a ball, here in the Dome. Mostly uninjured save for a bruise here and there, but mostly dirty, and a little hungry, and the last one is probably the more dangerous part. "You guys see anything?" is muttered out of range of the subway, but catching on the wind just enough for the three hidden nearby to hear.
"I can hear 'em," a friend says, before he and the kevlar-wearer start to move forward, guns pointed for the ground. The other three sort of stand to attention, looking nervous.
Down below, the murmur echo of the sparse crowd below bounces around the cement and brick walls, ceilings, floors of the subway. A woman with fabric wrapped tight around her leg sits against the wall, looking pale and sickly, and the journey— though she was carried for most of it— has made the fabric saturated with red. She turns her head to watch Lydia tend to the girl, gives them both a wan sort of smile with pinked teeth. The worst can bring out the best of people. It can also, you know. Bring out the worst.
The sight of the grenade has Melissa grimacing faintly, even though she knows it may be necessary. "Let's be careful though. If they are like the ones on Roosevelt, I want them gone, but I don't want more of these innocent people hurt," she murmurs to Perry, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one up.
Devon is looked to next, and concern shows on her face. "How you doing? Still hurting? We're going to get you out of this, you know that, right? Sure as hell not gonna let those bastards go shooting everyone anyway," she says, keeping her voice down still, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but she sure as hell doesn't want to draw attention to Devon.
"What? Worst comes to worst, they're not going to shoot you, they'll drag you off somewhere to rape you. Then you can make their heads explode. Whichever you prefer, I'm not really picky. And see? He agrees with— " Wait a minute. He who? Doyle stiffenes, twisting slightly, lips peeling back from his teeth as he hisses, "Who the hell are you supposed to be? Some sort of— superspeed transvestite?"
Devon looks up at Perry as he begins explaining the situation above, the man he'd just helped finding his own way to a relatively dry spot to sit. His brows furrow, eyes darting toward the stairway up then returning to the man as the grenade is brought out. With eyes lingering on the explosive, the teenager nods to Melissa's question.
"I'm alright," Devon replies quietly. Pulling his attention away from Perry and the grenade, he looks at the others who're gathered, mostly those who were rousted from their homes. "Just give me a gun and I'll help; we'll all get out."
"We- uh- can't be sure if they're hostile," Perry admits, "they- uh- they may just be defending themselves but- uh- but that doesn't make them friendly." The grenade disappears into his pocket. "But- uh- but I don't like our odds in an- uh- open parlay. Not- uh- not when they have kevlar and we- uh- don't." The engineer gone terrorist gives Devon an owlish look, then pulls a pistol from his jacket - his other take from the grenadier. He turns it, offering its grip to Devon. "Aim carefully, quickly and without mercy," he says to Devon, sounding quite solemn, "and this," he adds, tapping the side of the gun, "is the safety."
Stoicism is a strength in circumstances such as these. Lydia's lips neutralize into a thin pink line as she ties the fabric tightly around the arm. It's not perfect, and if left could cause more problems in the long run, but stopping the bleeding is more important (theoretically). "Keep your fingers moving. If it feels too tight you need to let me know."
She takes several slow steps away from the girl and towards the woman who had been watching. Lydia's dark eyes track down to the wound and then back to the woman's face. Carefully, she squats, eyeing the reddened fabric. "How are you doing?" there's a gentleness in the question, a presumed answer already acknowledged within Lydia's very tone. A hand reaches out to squeeze the other woman's shoulder, some vague comfort provided through touch. Her hand reaches down to rip her skirt again (little will be left of it if the pattern continues). "What's your name?" distraction and sleight of hand are personal specialties.
The redhead, with her blonde roots showing through, turns and wrinkles her nose at Doyle. "You're a dickhead." She snorts. "And I can only burn them." That she knows. She turns, then, as edgar makes his appearance. Elle barely manages to suppress her squeak of surprise by clapping a hand over her mouth, turning to peer at Edgar.
"What the fuck? Who th'hell are you?" Elle scowls.
Looking down at himself, Edgar flits a glance to Doyle and then back down to the blouse. "Wha— Yeh don' like i'? I though'tet made me look nice 'n cheerful. See this flower 'ere's the same color as my ey— " The speedster pauses for a moment and gives the puppeteer an admonishing look. "Yer gettin' off topic, eh? Y'need me teh keep 'em busy while you do yer thing? Y'don' do anythin' useless like— Telepathy 'r nothin' do yeh? I 'ate telepaths— " A muttered line of cursing follows that but it quiets soon enough when his eyes find the gate again.
"'Righ' then, I can do either one… take 'em ou' while you ge' the bars, 'r ge' the bars while you ge' them." Glancing at the redhead, Edgar gives her a half smile that really shows nothing good at all. "Name's Smythe, 'n I run… to an' from the face'a danger. Bu' it'ain't my middle name… tha's some other bloke."
Brand skulks closer to the gate, well hidden by his Crypsis. He eyes the locks and chains closer, frowning darkly. He even nudges one of them, just to make sure they are real. Then he retreats back, deeper into the station. He left all the tools he had scavenged back across the tunnel, and he's not sure if he could use them anyway.
"Gemma," the woman says, with a slowness of speech that speaks of immense blood loss and near death, eyes focusing intermittently on Lydia's face. "They said there's a hospital over here, but I'm thinking that's a little optimistic. I got shot." She says this in a tone of disbelief, before she turns a look for where Perry stands with his cluster of people.
Despite Brand's proximity, he is an absence, one not even worth looking at as the two rifle-wielding men make their slow approach for the gates. They still stop some distance away, and remain unworried about any alternative exits and entrances — Stillwater and Redbird combined did their work in making sure they only had one exit to patrol, to constrict movement and keep things under control. But things haven't really been under control since last night.
Some might argue, since the Dome. Or the explosion of 2006.
Finally, the one in the kevlar speaks up: "How many of you are down there?" His voice echoes through the largely abandoned patch of street, manages to sink in through to the subway, turning heads towards the stairwell in twitchy, frightened animal movements, including the woman that Lydia kneels to tend to. There are no sounds of birds, in the sky. They're all dead, broken necked against the invisible walls.
When Devon's given the gun Melissa watches, expression hidden, but then she nods. "Don't point it at someone unless you're prepared to use it," she adds softly, before she glances upward, towards the men, calling out to them. "Well that all depends on why the hell you wanna know, doesn't it? There's enough of us, and we're going to be mightly upset if you guys use those guns to keep us down here. Don't suppose you're with the guys on Roosevelt who were trying to blow up buildings with people still inside, are you?" she asks, turning her body, to make herself less of a target, though she's not trying to hide that it's her talking, not one of the innocents.
Well. The man appears to be on their side, at least. Doyle regards the speedster with a suspicious glare for a moment, then says quietly, "Let's… wait and find out if they're even going to attack first, eh? If they do— get the bars. We'll take care've the guys with guns."
While meeting Perry's gaze, Devon takes the pistol with his good hand. His knuckles whiten briefly as it tightens around the grip, then loosens again. His index finger rests against the side, partially touching the slide as he tilts the firearm to manipulate and turn the safety off with his thumb. At Melissa's instructions, the teenager gives a nod.
His face blank of expression, though a little nervous, Devon turns his attention to the stairwell as the voice from above echoes down. Once again his hand tightens on that newly acquired gun, though the muzzle is kept well trained on the ground. "Think they're with the others," he asks quietly.
Well, no need to remain quiet, then. Save maybe to conceal just how many of them there are. Perry frowns in quick consideration as they are directly addressed by the gatekeepers (what with the gate they are currently keeping). Melissa's reply, strident and unconditional, has Perry thinking. She's taking the voice of threat. Not a bad idea. But while one hand takes away, it's often wise to save the other for giving.
"We-" Perry begins, lifting his voice to echo up the stairwell, though not stepping even near their line of sight, "we've come from Roosevelt. People- blowing up buildings, the government's completely lost control," a state, admittedly, that Perry wouldn't object to under different circumstances, "how large is your party? Perhaps we could- could exchange information. Discuss- uh- discuss our mutual benefit." That being defined by almost any interaction that doesn't lead to death on either side of the discussion.
"Gemma," Lydia repeats gently while her hand trails to stroke the other woman's hair soothingly. "I am Lydia." The notion of a bullet wound brings a small frown particularly as Lydia leans forward to put more pressure on the leg. It may be futile, but if anyone asks, even in its futility and the obvious draining of life from Gemma's face, Lydia did everything she could. "Who shot you?" she asks quietly as her teeth graze her bottom lip, whitening the skin under that little bit of pressure before her head turns towards the cluster of people.
Elle rolls her eyes up toward the sky. "You have the speedy thing going on. If they attack, you get the gate, mister woman shirt. Very flattering, by the way, goes with your eyes." He's gorgeous, with that accent of his, but she's in a bad mood, because she's been hanging out with Eric Doyle. After a moment, she pulls off the oversized sweatshirt she wears, leaving her looking rather underdressed for the weather, wearing a tank top covered by a button up shirt.
Not that it bothers her.
"If anything happens, I can run out and distract them." She turns to frown at Doyle. At least she's not glaring at him, as is usual for her. "You can do your thing while I'm being a distraction." Elle turns to scowl at the scene.
"Fock tha'" the Brit emits low, that's his answer to Doyle's hurry up and wait plan. Edgar's all about the hurry up, it's the wait he's got trouble with. "You can stay 'ere an' watch people trapped in tha' tunnel. My wife's down there, I go' a friend down there too… saved 'er life by acciden' las' nigh'. Be a waste teh watch'er die today. I'm goin'teh go ge' 'em out."
With that, the flowery speedster saunters into view of the sedan leaning loiterers with crowbars in hand. His blouse billows out at the back, making him appear a little puffy, sort of like Doyle, but his legs are well muscled under all that manmade fibre.
Knived tucked away in several different places, they're practically invisible to most people. Except for the two kukri behind his back, they're plenty visible.
The carnie ignores the men from the cars, going straight for the gate and levering one of the metal hooks into the loop of a lock. "Back away now folks, I'm goin'teh ge' you outta there." His dark blue eyes strain against the darkness to spot Melissa, he gives her a grim expression and an upward jerk of the chin as if to motion either hi there! 8D or get out of the way. Not seeing Lydia, he begins working at the lock, his manly muscled arms straining to break the metal. So what if he's wearing an old lady's blouse.
Skulking. Sneaking. Brand is good at that. Like sidling up toward the little bundle of Devon, Melissa and Perry. He speaks up, quietly. "Uh, hi. I hope they aren't with the terrorists. They blew up a truck and tried to murder all the Evolved at the Suresh Center." Its less like he suddenly became visible, and more like he was just not really worthy of notice until he spoke up. "I was over there. They have food you know."
He casts his slate eyes over Devon, and the gun he's gripping. "Is that all you got?" He says that a bit quieter, looking more closely at his age-peer. "Are you intending to use that on anyone?"
"What would benefit us," the other one chimes in, gripping his gun with tense hands, "is not opening the gate to a bunch of firebug fucksticks from Roosevelt Island, because we have enough shit— "
And then there's Edgar, doing what edgars do, and all five men's jaws sort of loosen in surprise that their authority might not so much be questioned, but completely ignored. "Hey, get away from there, jerkoff!" yells one of the ones by the two cars, taking some steps forward, but it's at the nod of the kevlar wearer that three of them break off and storm up on Edgar, two with weapons, the third without. At the very least, their immediate response is not to simply open fire and lay waste to everything giving them a hard time.
But beating the shit out of Edgar seems to be what's on their menu, the closest bringing the gun around to try and slam it into the speedster's ribs from behind, only really seeing and registering the knives strapped where they are in mid-swing.
The one remaining by the cars levels his gun upwards towards the gate, while the kevlar wielder mostly watches as tense as a wolf.
"They had guns," is sort of a stupid thing for Gemma to say, but she's dying. It's one of those things that people are entitled to. "They were coming down— I think they burned the chapel, and I just— " She groans as pressure is applied to her thigh, face moon white, eyes unfocused. "I just wanted to kill them. Quickly. So I killed them with the ground and then they shot me in the leg."
She tilts her head to watch as those more able begin to approach the stairwell with tentative curiousity. Who're they talking to? What's taking so long?
Oh yeah, that's enough to get Melissa worked up and pissed off. "Firebug fucksticks? It was non-evolved jackasses that set the explosions on Roosevelt! Probably Humanis First jackasses, which is what you assholes are sounding like." And oh hell no, they are not going after Edgar. Guns would be iffy with this many innocents, and, well, if you have a weapon, use it. The one who spoke? Yeah, he's the one she's looking at, and the one that she's determined to make suffer. Like tenth level of hell suffer.
Some of those fucksticks from Roosevelt are her friends, dammit.
Eric Doyle has absolutely no idea how to fire a gun accurately. None. They handed him one once, on an op, and he was too afraid that he'd shoot himself with it to particularly make any use of it. He's never been a man that really needs weapons… but he's been given the basic run down on how to use them. Aiming? He couldn't hit the far side of a barn.
But he knows where the safety is.
It's easier to use his ability to just grab hold of someone entirely at once, but he doesn't have to. He can, if he bothers, use a bit of finesse with puppetry. He's had enough years of practice. So as the men start getting edgy and arguing, he reaches out very carefully/ to the nearest one to try and guide his hand upwards. Just a flick of a finger over the safety. If he's careful, and the man is distracted enough by Edgar, he won't even notice. And then the next. Sweat beads on the puppeteer's brow as he tries to at least //delay an onslaught of bullets to give cooler heads a chance to prevail.
"It's what I've got right now," Devon answers Brand flatly. He sends a look to his fellow teenager, clearly implying that there's a chance he'll use it on the other for further remarks such as that one. He turns away from the other boy and moves toward Perry, his injured arm coming free enough to check the chamber and cycle up the first round. Lowering the gunhand again, he keeps his attention fixed on the stairwell, waiting for all hell to break loose. Or not.
No one can say that Perry didn't try to appeal to reason. That he didn't go about to avoid bloodshed from the beginning. He did his best, really, he's sure and now- now a human blur is upon them. There is literally only so much time in which to see events unfold, and with doubt as to what their final shape will resemble. Not a great fan of doubt, save in the abstract, radical sense, Perry steps back from the stairwell, casting a look over his shoulder at the huddled chased and wounded.
It may be unnecessary for him to warn, "stay- stay away from the doors," but Perry does it anyways. Making the situation as clear as can be. The wounded Gemma catches his eye, owlish face familiar. He clenches his jaw - even from a distance, it's much too obvious how badly she faring. Some part of him is moved by simple pity, basic compassion.
Another part thinks they could really use a fit and able terrakinetic right about now.
So it goes. "Be ready to fire on anyone who comes down without announcing themselves," Perry says, nodding to Devon, "wait for a clear shot, but no longer."
The groan brings a deeper frown to Lydia's lips. She slides around to the other woman's side, leaning against the wall to squeeze Gemma's shoulder again. No one should die alone; even if holding or watching someone die is an altogether traumatic experience. Like Gemma, Lydia's gaze moves to the door, the familiarity of a voice echoing over her.
Her eyebrows knit together tightly as she releases the pressure. The futility of her task recognized, she draws an arm around Gemma's shoulder, gently reminding herself that no one should die alone. And then she hears that voice again— that distinctly english accent reverberating. "Edgar?!" she calls from her position along the wall.
Oh no they did not just call Evos firebug fucksticks. If there's anything that pisses Elle off, it's intolerance. Certainly, it's a bit of a double standard, considering how intolerant she can be, but all the same. She resents that statement! Rolling up the sleeves of her shirt until it's as if she's wearing short sleeves, Elle raises up behind the car.
"Hey, jackasses! Look over here! What gives you a right to do what you're doing?" She shouts this at the top of her lungs. All the while, her hands, concealed by the car, are starting to glow brightly. She's about to kick some ass. Which one to hit first?
When the swing connects to his back with a crack the speedster goes down on one knee. The people behind the gate might catch the pained but quite pleased look on his face just before he bursts into superspeed and out of their scope. Only streaks appear where Edgar was seen last, swift motions that has the crowbar in the lock ripping out of it, the man that hit him lands on the ground. His jaw smashed with the power of a stroke of metal whipping at him at a rate of at least 500mph.
It's the echo of Lydia's vioce that spurs him on, she is down there and he will help her get out no matter what the cost. "Lydia!! Stay back!!" The words are spoken almost as fast as he is going, resulting in a sharp yell that might not be understood, even misunderstood as a bellow of pain. The carnie circles low, sweeping one foot behind the legs of the other armed man and when he's fallen down both crowbars are smashed on his head.
It takes a real man to wear floral.
The playing field spins wildly out of balance in the face of Evolved reaction. Not a single bullet fires.
One man beaten to death in the blink of an eye, his companion belly down on the asphalt and stunned, a shattered jaw making a grossly mishapen impression beneath skin bloodied from where red clogs at the corner of his mouth. Another is fairly flattened with a lashing of pain that takes his breath away, rifle left to dangle on its strap and clatter on the ground when he falls to his knees, hands gripping his own head and letting out a howl of pain.
One remaining has a gun, and his hands and arms all coil with the tension of attempting to open fire on the blur that is Edgar, but when the safety catches, he hisses a curse, glancing down at his gun so that he can frantically slap it back into function—
And then there's a crazy glowing woman out of nowhere.
"Jesus," he hisses, pointing the rifle at her. "How about you back off and mind your own freaking business?! We're trying to protest the last fucking piece of land under this stupid thing!" The last of the five, the one without a weapon, breaks into a run for the one under Melissa's painful influence, scraping up the gun.
"Stop? Why should whoever it is stop? You pulled guns. You tried to attack a person. You were going to shoot us. All because we came from an island known to be the home to evolved people," Melissa says, her voice trembling slightly with the force of her anger. And the force of using her power her power. No reason not to keep them distracted while weapons are gathered up by the evolved fucksticks.
"You people are fucking pathetic, you know that? Do you hate us because we're different and you're scared of what you don't understand? Or are you all just jealous because you want what we have? Either way, get the fuck over it."
And of course all hell breaks loose, as people start dying— or at least they're bloody all over the place. Doyle grimaces, ducking back down and out of sight. "Shit. They might not have… well. This is a mess," he mutters, peeking through the car's windows and chewing on a knuckle.
Giving a nod to Perry, Devon edges closer to the stairwell. He keeps well to the sides, enough space given to see up to the surface but hopefully enough to be a smaller target. Likewise, he stays well out of Melissa's sight, no need to go messing up whatever she's caused. At the join between wall and stairway, the teenager slips his finger to rest alongside the trigger, not yet on it, and still pointed at the ground. His head turns just a little, one eye used to look up toward the gate.
From what little slice Perry can perceive - square of sight, reflected sound - it sounds like things aren't going so very well for the gatekeepers. Though it also sounds like there is some other force up there, the nature of which- well, there seem to be some connections. Lydia's cry and the reply indicate as much. That's enough for Perry, enough for now, and he nods to Devon before pointing up the stairs. "Cover me," he says, and then, keeping low, heads up the stairwell for a better look at what's happening… and who it's happening to.
From what little slice Perry can perceive - square of sight, reflected sound - it sounds like things aren't going so very well for the gatekeepers. Though it also sounds like there is some other force up there, the nature of which- well, there seem to be some connections. Lydia's cry and the reply indicate as much. That's enough for Perry, enough for now, and he nods to Devon before pointing up the stairs. "Cover me," he says, and then, keeping low, heads up the stairwell for a better look at what's happening… and who it's happening to.
The sound of Edgar's voice has Lydia releasing the other woman somewhat apologetically, but not moving; his instructions are heeded. She sniffs loudly. "Edgar!" she calls again. "I'm here! Just— " she can't bring herself to move away from Gemma, but that's likely just as well as it keeps her away from the entrance. Her arm tightens around the other woman again as the noise changes above them.
Elle is angry. Elle is in a bad mood. Elle hates racist jackasses. Especially when they point guns at her. "Oh, fuck you. It's my fucking business when people are doing things like pointin' a gun at people, and at me!" Her hand raises from behind the car, aiming a shot toward the fellow telling her to mind her own business. Right at his shoulder. No shooting things for you!
Edgar wheels around to face the man in kevlar, his eyes narrowed as he pauses for a split second, almost as though he's debating which face to mess up next. With arms that can't be seen by a mere mortal, a blur wizzes past their leader's shoulder, turning red hot before melting a spiderweb pattern of molten metal against the car beside him. On his other side an explosion of glass signals the arrival of the other crowbar.
Then the speedster goes missing from his thinking spot only to reappear directly in front of the man in kevlar. It's a homoerotic picture that's painted for the average viewer, a carnie dressed in a floral blouse pressed up against a gun toting militant, assault rifle pressed between them. The two knives scissored at the gunman's throat can either add to or subtract from that image. Either way, the metal is hot.
Leaning into Lydia, as if attracted to the prospect of warmth, Gemma is very quiet, and very still, slipping into the kind of unconsciousness where she probably won't wake up unless provided with the best medical care America can give.
"What— " The man who scooped up the rifle squints towards the dark gate of the subway station. He yells hoarsely, voice breaking over bafflement and anger both: "What the fuck are you talking about, lady? I don't give a shit if you're Evo, non-Evo, gay, straight, fuckin' purple with polkerdots, we don't want what happened over there to happen here!"
fire·bug (frbg) n. Informal. An arsonist; a pyromaniac.
fuck·stick— isnt actually in the dictionary.
To be fair.
Hands shaking, the one left standing and bleating towards the subway slings his rifle back around on his shoulders, digging in his pockets for the little hardware store keys that go with the hardware store locks and flinging them onto the asphalt. "Have a fucking party, this side's a shithole too anyway," he spits at— the general world, with someone crying out about being burned, that bitch burned him, what the fuck— hey, our cars!
And etc. The rifle is dropped with a clatter, the one who had scooped it up having not had one of his own to begin with, possibly by choice. It's dropped next to the keys. The kevlar wearer is silent, his eyes saucer wide and spittal gathered at the corners of his mouth as he breathes and simply waits to maybe die or understand what might be wanted of him not to die.
Oops.
Well that does make Melissa lessen the amount of pain she's delivering, though she doesn't cut it completely. She's still got something to say. "Are you fucking blind? We're the victims from over there, not the ones who caused it. I bet you're the type who'd kill a baby to save your own life, aren't you?" she calls out, sneering.
"Yeah, this is just getting better and better," Doyle mumbles against the side of his hand as he watches the scenario unfold, "And people tell me we can come out of this all peacefully. Right." A cynical shake of his head, "That's really going to happen."
Covering is exactly what Devon does. Once Perry has moved into the stairwell, he follows. He keeps to the opposite side of the hall, back grazing over the stonework as he climbs just a step behind Perry. The teenager, eyes narrowing slightly as he draws closer to the doorway, peers silently beyond the gate, taking in the scene in the streets beyond.
Elle is slipping out from behind that car then, casting a scowl back at Doyle. "Coward." She snorts, making her way over toward those keys that were dropped, along with the rifle, which she scoops off of the ground. Her pretty shiny toy! Nobody is allowed to take this from her. Not until it's empty, if that even happens. The petite redhead with blonde roots stalks her way over to the gate, then, frowning as she peeks within.
Then, she's waving a hand at the folks within, making her way to the locks, fumbling with the keys that she just retrieved. Quickly, she unlocks the locks that are keeping the people in, tugging the chains off of the gate. "Sorry for the holdup! Had some douchebags to deal with."
When Gemma's turns limp, Lydia slowly releases her, gently bringing the other woman to a laying position. Her hand gently strokes the other woman's cheek and she brings herself to a stand. "Sleep sweet," she murmurs quietly before rising to her feet, straightening and gliding towards that entrance. "Edgar!" she calls again as she nears the entrance.
The voice calling his name in the midst of all the yelling is what garner's the speedster's attention. His eye twitches a few times as he glares into the face of the man he has pinned against the car. "You're goin'teh tell yer boy teh drop 'is gun, an' escor' the pretteh red'ead teh open the gate." The orders are made in a voice that's eerily calm. "Then… you're all goin'teh go find a nice corner teh 'ide in 'til this wall comes down. 'Cause if I see you or any o' yours again, I'm goin'teh kill you before sayin' as pretty a hello as this'un. Got'et?"
The knives are pinched together just enough to allow the man to talk but pressed tight enough against his skin that the action causes little red rivulets to dribble down his neck. Though shorter than the other man, the speedster imposes a rather impressive figure comparitively. "An' take off the armor, give i' teh the bookish man on the inside." The Messiah leader is somewhat bookish, yes? He has glasses.
"What?" is really all the one man left unscathed can reply with, at Melissa's assertion, but the keys are given away, and he is unarmed. He moves for where the one with the broken jaw is still curled up on the ground, which is roughly in Elle's path and thus a sort of escorting, and takes a little initiative on behalf of the people they clashed with and removes his companion's rifle, letting that clatter aside. Like he told his pack, these things were more trouble than they were worth.
"Everyone back up!" sqeaks the kevlar-wearer is forced to bark once the knives let up, smeary red left behind on blade edges. "And drop the fucking rifles!" The last one still holding weapons complies, noisily and a little gladly.
The rattle and squeak of chains and hinges echoes through the subway, and a little like cattle, those on their feet sort of listlessly start making their way up the stairwell. Up against the car, the man mistakenly identified as HF awkwardly sets about unstrapping the vest he wears and, once let up, heads for the mouth of the subway. Palms blood off his throat, and finds the most bookish man he can see, as fast as he can.
Unceremoniously, the kevlar is shoved into Perry's hands.
When the man starts moving towards Perry, Melissa eyes him very, very closely, easing towards said bookish man. Just in case. Nor does she relax when he just gives the kevlar over, and she won't until he moves away. "Now see, isn't that much better? We're all just victims here. So play nice and we can all save the bad stuff for the ones who are causing explosions and shooting people," she says, glancing at Devon, giving him a slight nod and a faint smile.
"Coward?" A roll of Eric's eyes, and he grimaces, pushing himself up again now that he's sure there won't be any bullets flying. One hand pulls off his cap, rubbing against the side of his head as a sigh whispers past his lips, "If only you knew, Bishop… if only you knew." Of course, she's gone already, not listening, and he just leans against the car and waits for things to be clear.
It could have been worse, at least.
Also wary, Devon half raises the pistol toward the kevlar-man as he approaches Perry, only to lower it again as the vest is handed off. There's still a tension, lingering even after the exchange, he'll shoot if things suddenly go south. But once the man is even further moved away from the gate, the teenager heads up the stairs and onto the street, giving quick appraisal to the excitement that had happened up top, and tucking the firearm away. His eyes catch on one of the discarded rifles during his survey and, without asking permission, picks the nearest up for himself.
Bookish? Okay, fine. If the shoe fits. Or in this case the vest. Perry dips his head in something that approaches apology - he suffered for the sins of someone else, and that's unfortunate but yes, he'll be taking this, good day. He glances to Melissa, then holds the vest out to her. "I- uh- I think you should take this," he states, simply. His brown eyes slide over to Devon as the young man takes the fallen weapons. "D- Devon. Get one for me as well." His eyes return to Melissa. "Please. I'll- I'll think more clearly, be safer, if I know you're safer."
Once the gates are unlocked, Elle quietly returns over to her spot by the car, leaning up against it and scowling over in the general direction of where the asshole men are. Her hands are still steaming in the cold from the discharge of her ability. "If we wanna tell them about the Brick House, now would be the time, right?" She peers over her shoulder at Doyle, raising a brow. She'll let him do the talking.
Once the instructions are followed, Edgar's stern glare finds Melissa and he gives a jerk of a nod. "'M goin'teh find my wife," the low tone is as tired as the polyester and rayon combo he's wearing, outdated. "Sure you an' yours 'ave this well in 'and, eh?" His eyes drift over to Devon for a moment before flitting back between Perry and the pain manipulator. "Yeh shouldn' ge'tem tha' young, 'e'll mess up an' end up dead." Like so many of their members.
The speedster's boots make a clomp clomp sound down the stairs where he finally meets the gypsy woman. She's greeted with an apologetic smile and the bloodied knives are tucked back where they belong before he approaches her. Once there, he picks her up in a princess carry and gives her a big kiss.
With one of his friends lying dead on the ground, it's probably difficult to especially sypathise with being made victim, and one of them, in a sense, and so once the kevlar is passed off, he says nothing. The former leader of the pack peers past Melissa and co., towards what they couldn't easily see from where they smoked their fags on the cars — the milling wreckages of people suffering, and the eerie sight of river water slowly filling the train tracks.
Well, fuck. Shouldering passed Perry and Melissa both, he moves to help the masses. If you can't beat 'em—
If beating had been the intention, anyway. The others that are able are quick to disperse, one car retracted from the scene and the other, with its splintered windshield. For most, as the morning scans brighter across the landscape, it'll be a time to find a place to sleep as yet another Dome day begins.
