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| Scene Title | Gingerbread Men I |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The Ferry descend upon a convoy carrying Judah Demsky, but things are not always what they seem and there's surprises for everyone involved. |
| Date | April 2, 2011 |
Just outside Secaucus, New Jersey
The night is an all encompassing mistress.
It doesn't care whether you're partisan or patriot, who's side you fight for, who's side it is that you will die for. To the night it's only mistress is the moon who drifts his sliver of a visible self across her expanse but tonight is obscured by the thick clouds that blot out the stars from sight. It gives cover to anyone, regardless of race, gender, politics or even faith. It holds the nightmares of many, from young child, grown adult.
In New York proper, there's lights, it's never really dark in the big apple, shadows really only in the alley. But outside the city, outside of civilization there are still pockets of land and terrain untouched by. City parks, corporations that have tried to make their effort at preserving the natural land.
But even here, just leaving Secaucus in New jersey, having crossed the state line, the lights from the city are enough to make it easier to see from the shadows. The lights along the number 3 highway leave no hiding, cars maneuvering on teh road, free from the restrictions of curfew that NY city has imposed. It's little wonder that people go to Jersey to party and spend the night.
A small convoy though, is what's taken over the three this late late hour of the night, the first of the spring downpours that make roads slick and visibility poor for both sides. Military vehicles, four in succession, each one driven by a soldier and partner who have one purpose. Get Judah Demsky to the Delaware Correctional Facility. Which vehicle he's in, it's hard to tell, that informaiton never made it down the pipeline to the Ferry, but what they do know is that in one of the three vehicles is Colette's adopted father, the one up front clearing the way and being the buffer between the drab olive military vehicles.
In New Jersey, night fell five hours ago.
In Jersey, it gives succor to those who hide in the shadows and waits.
It fights against the light that man creates along the highway, an illusion of safety. But without fail, night always wins. Without fail, be it partisan or patriot who will be laying on the wet pavement bisected by yellow and white lines at the end of this all, blood, in the dark of night, will still spill black and thick as the night.
Headlights create light through the dark, cut like knives at opposed to the passive, vaguely orange halos emitting from streetlamps.
Flooding over endless highway, the first lights of the convoy will soon find the obstruction clogging the major road in a way that would had to have been recent if no one had even radio'd in that a potential terrible accident had occurred upon the number 3. The vehicle itself is difficult to make out immediately — multiple wheels and an old, outdated paintjob, a junkyard bus being the best money could by or otherwise steal and smuggled out into New Jersey a good day or so ahead of time. It's not on fire, despite the potential drama of such an appearance.
They don't want it to be seen just yet. Lynette and Nick huddled behind it in the torrential downpour of silver rain, and they can feel the vibrations of the convoy's slow approach and eventually will see the light of headlights knifing through grimy windows. Weighed down by whatever weaponry and armor they decided to bring with them, they use wheels and the massive metal bulk cutting width-wise across the road.
Up ahead, spikes painted black ensure that it won't matter if the convoy senses the trap.
The other strip lies in wait and with Liza and Francois hidden in long grass and ditch. Mud runs unpleasantly arond them and will make the four foot sprint up the incline beside the road a bit slippery, but it'll be the least of their worries. As soon as the last of the convoy is passed them, one must run to block off chance of turn around escape. The other must shoot. "Which one would you do?" Francois is asking meanwhile, not looking at her but instead sending a pensive glance to what he can see of the bus. All of this — the rain, the tactics — remind him of another time. The two side arms, the two extra clips, the kevlar do not. Which is fine by him. He's not a healer anymore.
The good news is, they've got more numbers than it seems initially, with three other Lynettes hidden in the dark off along the side of the road between the bus and Liza and Francois' position. Armed and ready.
She, for once, doesn't mind the rain, as her degree of dampness has nothing to do with how this ability will function, but she still looks grumpy. Perhaps because having many clones out is more taxing than she'd like, or maybe it's the headache brewing from watching the scene from far too many vantage points. But this one, hidden with Nick and waiting for the convoy, she looks ready to shoot something. Nerves, maybe.
Nick crouches besides Lynette, slanting a glance her way when he sees the lights. He'd been quieter than even his usual taciturn self, almost self conscious and only speaking when necessary during the planning and the journey; though he got a bit chattier in the time that he and the temporary-replicator have had alone in the dark behind the junkyard barricade.
A tuque on his head, the young man's face is scratched and bruised, and one arm is in a black fiberglass cast, though it doesn't seem to bother him as he holds a rifle at the ready, a sidearm stowed as well. Like Francois, he wears kevlar — he still bears the bruising of the last time he put on such a vest, just a week before, and he still moves a bit gingerly, thanks to the souvenir of his weekend trip with Deckard, Raith and Ethan.
"Ready to rock and roll?" he asks to Lynette with a crooked smirk that doesn't quite touch his eyes. His weight shifts from the back of his heels to the balls of his feet as he waits for their cue.
"I'm a decent shot, but I'm faster on my feet," Liza points out. There are advantages to being short. Kevlar is sported, just in case, sturdy boots worn so there wouldn't be much in the way of a loss in traction when she sprinted. They'd grip well enough. A hand reaches to touch the sidearm at her side, making sure everything's safe as secure as she peeks up towards the convoys. Really, this makes her think back to the Company, and somehow, that makes her feel good. "I'm ready whenever you are," the blonde says with a grin.
The downpour works in favour of the Ferry in this instance, obscuring the view. On a clear night they might have seen this sooner, been able to turn off an alternate road, have diverted and avoided what is quite likely a trap.
As it is, when the driver in the first vehicle spots the bus, a narrowing of his eyes, he has a split moment to decide what to do, a glance to his passenger before shaking his head. Better safe than sorry right?
The dark haired soldier is reaching for the radio to call it in with a nod of his own head in agreement even as the driver is turning the wheel in preperation of attempting a u-turn.
The huddled Ferry though are rewarded with what they wanted to hear though, as black thick tires run right over the matte spikes laid across the road, the pops and truck veering off course as brakes are applied. The first vehicle is down, immobile and the other three are far back enough that they can react. The had instructions for if this happened and they're executing it with almost military precision.
They start to u-turn, even as the first vehicle seems to wobble and then flip onto it's side, their speed doing them in. The other three though, headlights cut through the rain, and the passengers sitting beside the drivers in all three vehicles are getting weapons out, ready to fire.
Liz and Francois won't have much time to do this, but they'll have enough. IF they move fast enough.
"I believe you," Francois says, and in the dark, Liza can only slightly make out the ivory smile cut her way. "I shall cover." Heart hammering in his chest. The knowledge that this could be a trap made only better by the fact that they do have an escape route, and the timing thus far is being as precise as they need it to be. He breathes in at the sound of the trucks rattling past them — one, two, three, four — before he's picking up automatic rifle nestled between them while Liza has the end of the strip to snake out beneath her.
They don't even have to wait for the boom of blown tires. As soon as the vehicles are passed them, it's time to hussle. "Run," he urges, coming to kneel at the very edge of the incline and point rifle for the convoy as they begin to make their way back. By the time he can see the windshield facing the direction of where Liza must be bolting, he lets loose a fast report of gunfire, the muzzle flash giving away his position. It's a quick assault, followed by sliding down for cover of his own.
"I always liked jazz better," Lynette retorts with a hint of amusement in that general annoyance, "But for this occasion, I'll bend a little." She waits there before the satisfying pop of the tires. It isn't the one huddled down that moves, though, at the audible clue, but the trio hidden along the road.
Much like Francois, they each fire, only Lynette isn't that great a shot. But what she lacks in accuracy, she makes up for in enthusiasm. Several shots are fired from each of them before they scatter a bit, moving positions to try not to catch return fire. The one behind the bus, though, has her own gun ready, just waiting for one of the men in the convoy to make a move.
Lynette's quip earns another half smile from the Brit at her side. "You can pick the soundtrack on the drive 'ome, then," he tosses back.
And then Nick is moving from his crouch into a standing position, keeping his head low. Resting his casted arm against the rusted metal of the vehicle, most of his body shielded, he peers through the scope to aim and shoot, finger pulsing on the trigger to pepper the windshield of the front vehicle with bullets.
Her signal given, Liza's boots find traction on the mud, managing the sprint up the side and onto the road with surprising power and speed. Wasn't like she practiced for nothing, especially training to get her speed back up after her injury. So when the blonde crests the top of the road, she darts across it, the strip pulled behind her as she flits across the wet road. A microsecond gives Liza calculations on if she should attempt to run back immediately or take refuge on the other side, and another microsecond takes in the positions of the vehicles before she darts for the grass on the other side of the road to take cover once more.
The rain really works to Liza's advantage, slick road means that while footsteps may have trouble finding study purchase on the asphalt, it makes her a harder target to see as she darts across the road, unfurling the trap in her wake, finishing up phase one of the Ferry plan.
Within the remaining mobile vehicles, the passenger can be seen barely through the water, yelling at the driver, starting to hang the nose of a weapon out of his side of the vehicle, try to fire off return fire into the rough area of where Francois's own weapons spits out rounds and their result blossoms along the side of the drab vehicle, little holes and yelling from inside. A handful of the soldier's own bullets make narrow misses on the Frenchman, but so far, no more holes in him than god intended.
"Keep going! Keep going! Keep going" Yelled over the barking of weaponsfire and the driver does just such a thing, pressing pedal down to metal and picking up speed as much as he can before they too run afoul of the very thing that felled the first truck. They fishtail as four wheels blow, threatening to tip, the driver aiming for the ditch in the hopes of a soft landing.
Liza better move, because that soft landing seems to potentially be on top of her. Or at least through her.
Back at the bus, as Lynette plural unleashes, peppering the vehicles with their own holes even as the two trucks apply breaks and stop. Return fire is made from the passenger side, one shot winging Lynette number three, most of the shooters seeming to go for random spray of gunfire.
In the first downed vehicle though, Nicks aimed shot is rewarded with a hole in the glass and the ricochet of a head against the back of the cab then tilting to the side, the soldier dead from the shot and the other one ducking down, hiding out of sight. Round one, goes to the Ferry it seems. If this was indeed a trap, it's not a very good one.
"Look out!" rings out— almost inaudible over the sound of screaming brakes and squealing tires, but from the other side of the road, there's nothing Francois can do for Liza save for trust that she's as quick on her feet as she mentioned she was. With the first truck covered by Nick and Lynette, the fourth trying to squash Liza by way of gravity, it leads the two middling trucks to the devices of Francois and the two remaining clones until such a time as Griffin can roar into the battle.
The convoy is stopped. That's the main thing. Rather than spray gunfire as easy as water, Francois tugs a flashbang off his vest, and sends it scuttling for where the nearest truck has stopped out of necessasity, hoping to catch those that flood from it full in the face with light and noise. It briefly paints the night in neon white, a lightning storm on the road.
Then he's up, and running — not too recklessly, he'll seek cover behind one of the halted vehicles before totally trusting the gunfire of his peers, but it pays to be swift. Nightmares of helicopters from the sky, of more backup than they can afford to wrestle with, motivate the Frenchman to move fast. A sidearm, this time, two shots towards movement in the cab.
The odd thing about this whole replication business is that while Lynette the Third gets tagged, the Lynette next to Nick hisses in shared pain, her hand moving to her arm, even though she is not the one that got shot. No doubt, all the Lynettes do similarly, although only one comes away with blood on her hand.
But there's a little growl before she tells Nick, "Cover me, won't you?" Thanks ever so much might have followed, by the tone she uses, at any other function, but this one calls for a little more gruffness. If only a very little. The idea here was that there she can afford to take risks. All the clones can. She's got herself safely stashed elsewhere in case all the doubles here go down. Nothing to lose. So she ducks out from behind the van, running toward the closed vehicle, kevlar over her chest and a rifle in hand. The idea being to shoot them before they can take aim at her head, even if that means getting close enough to yank the door open or, perhaps, come in view of the windshield. Passenger is aimed for first, and if she can manage it, the driver after.
Blue eyes sweep to Lynette when she hisses before he realizes it's merely referred pain from one of the clones — he winces as well, and gives a nod, narrowing his eyes back into the rifle's scope.
Once she's out and moving, while keeping his weapon trained and ready to shoot at anything still moving that doesn't look like a prisoner, he begins to move as well, creeping slowly along the length of the vehicle he's stowed behind to the side of it so he can get a better view and have a clearer shot of all the vehicles. Noting that Lynette has the passenger of the first vehicle in her sights, he aims his gun toward the drivers of the other two, firing more rounds before turning to check on the carnage in the ditch — hopefully Liza is not amongst it.
The truck won't make its soft landing onto Liza, not if the blonde can help it. The second she realizes the truck is coming for her hiding spot, she scrambling over, further away from the truck and the general vicinity of the envoy. This will not be her second bear trap! She claws her way through mud and dirt, barely making sure she's not in range of the truck, before she climbs the ditch to the road.
Blonde head peeking up from the ditch as she trudges up, her side arm is drawn just as soon as she no longer needs her hands for better balance. Feet planted securely on the road again, there's the hint of a grin in Nick's direction through the rain. She spares a quick glance back behind her, further down the road, just to make sure that there are no unexpected surprises. It felt too easy.
Here's the thing.
There's two vehicles on their sides now, Liza being smart and not becoming part of the roadkill on a grill restaurant menu. However, when she looks back…
Surprise.
The back doors are kicked open and from it four soldiers are spilling out, weapons blazing, automatic weapon fire kicking up dirt, grass and mud and headed all the way up the hill towards her. Run little rabbit run, lest there becomes another scar to go with that bear trap.
Francois, Lynette and Nick can see it though. Liza too in that look before she will likely run, seek cover. From out of the backs of the vehicles, three soldiers in all save one come spilling out, faitigues that are seen easily under the lights that riddle the side of the road.
And masks.
Each and every single one is wearing a gas mask, faces obscured - in turn their vision to a degree a well. Cannisters go flying as they come out to, hitting the asphalt with a metallic thud and spin, starting to spew out it's yellow greasy smoke that everyone here knows so well. Each soldier is firing off as well, littering the area with bullets, hoping that sheer coverage will catch someone.
Which it does.
All of the Lynette's can feel it. the pain that strikes above the right ear, exiting through the other side, but only one of them stops, jerks like a puppet with strings cut, a spray of blood, hair and grey matter before she goes down, weapon clattering to the ground.
It's that one vehicle, closest to Francois and Liza, that affords a glimpse of something they were looking for. The shiney white coffin, two soldiers that were protecting it mowed down courtesy of Lynette's untrained but lucky shots and the flashbang of Francois's that made them close thier eyes in surprise. Within that cab, two men als die, lives cut short in the name of a rescue.
With gunfire form many sources, bullets traded - Nick is almost hit - soldiers are starting to drop, some lethal, some non-lethal. Clearly, since Demsky wasn't evolved, they didn't put much trust that this would be an attacked convoy.
Francois is at a full tilt run for the back of the truck— and then a bullet slices sparks off the open door and causing him to veer off to the side and duck around the bulk instead with a hissed curse. Negation gas is blooming up in the centre of the chaos, gaining a glance but little more — he has no choice in it not concerning him, and the obscuring quality goes both ways. "«Third truck,»" crackles over radio, for all that they'd been keeping their silence until the thick of the battle made caution moot. "«ACTS container visible, but clear the others also.»"
He occupies himself with ducking into a crouch to peer around the cab that contains dead soldiers, watching where Liza is underfire down the incline. He levels his gun, provides suppressive fire, so that the soldiers may think again rather than crest the hill and join the battle.
It's one thing to die. It's quite another to feel yourself die while you're watching from three different angles. She could, were this film instead of memory, cut and splice together a most moving and shocking movie of that moment. For now, though, the remaining Lynettes halt their gunfire as they all struggle through the shock of that moment. Crouched on the ground or propped against a tree or just standing with a gun dropped at her feet, those that left clutch their heads and try not to scream at the pain. It wouldn't do to give away all her positions, but for the moment, that's the best she can do for the team.
The screech of tires can be heard a good deal away, as the large black van squeals into sight. The designated escape driver / cavalry behind the will would be Griffin Mihangle, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. After accellerating a bit, the vehicle skids to a halt up nice and close to the action, but nice and far away from that noxious yellow smoke. No need to get too close.
The window rolls down, and…well, first of all, a handheld fan is put out the window, blowing the air out of the van. No need to let any of that nasty gas get too close. With the fan held before him by a vector, Griffin extends a rifle, aiming a few shots off at the soldiers, puffing away at his cigarette.
A smirk is worn on the man's face as he makes his rather grandoise enterance. There's someting satisfying about going in guns blazing.
The commotion coming from the truck spilling out soldiers draws Nick's attention and he sprays more bullets in that direction, ducking belatedly when a bullet almost hits him. One Lynette is noted and tugged to a place where she can at least be behind better cover while she deals with the surreal pain of feeling herself die and yet not die.
Francois' voice in his ear gets him moving toward the nearest of the vehicles to clear its back and see if it contains one of the coffins in its maw as well, though he holds off on opening the back doors for now, instead using the vehicle as cover to continue to shoot the men they already have to contend with.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Liza's no sooner out of the way of the truck and up to relative safety when there are soldiers hot on her heels. The peppy blonde surges forward out of instinct, eyes scanning her surroundings for the best point of cover. She moves for the opposite side of the road, the area she had originated from, figuring the best thing she could do is fling herself into the ditch where they wouldn't be able to find her and pick them off while they were out in the open. The yellow gas hardly gets the bat of an eye, her focus mostly on dodging bullets. With the screeching of the tires, Liza's hoping she can get to the ditch with Griffin's van as a nice distraction. She's crossing the road to damn well get to the other side.
Between Francois, Griffin and his timely arrival and Liza, the group that came out of the vehicle in the ditch are down, sprays of red and snicks of bone as bullets catch them where they are unprotected, rending them useless, prone on the ground and screaming up a storm. One is starting to hightail it, running away as fast as his uninjured legs can carry him before dropping down to the ground - presumably to keep himself from being shot, blending in with the grass and dregs of snow.
The Lynette that is tugged by Nick is too little too late, a well aimed shot by a soldier takes out that one too, another bullet through the eye, blossoming out the back and eliminating that one from Lyentte's collective conscious. THat soldier receives the same treatment, hit by Nick in his cover fire, maybe a handful of soldier in all left, and truth be told, they're hightailing it too. It's not worth it. Not worth the death that they are enduring and soon there's camouflaged backs seen heading for the fields.
The truck that Nick investigates, half the doors are open, from what he can see of it is empty, but realizes soon enough it isn't when the nose of a gun sticks out blindly, rapid fire, a bullet sinking into his thigh, deep, not coming out the back. But there's not ACTS container in there, no white coffin like there is where Francois is.
The sound of Griffin's arrival allows for a measure of relief. Francois has half a mind to ask if everyone is still alive, but that can wait. Head count comes after, and then the bandaging, and then the trek home. The cries of injured soldiers spurrs him to disappear inside the back of the third truck around when Nick is discovering the one he was searching is empty of Judah Demsky. But full of other things.
Holstering his pistol, Francois hesitates for a split second before he's laying his hands on the coffin. A lot of soldiers died for the reason within it, and there's no sense in worrying now, hesitating over what they came for. It takes a few seconds for his fingers to roam over strange equipment, until the catch is discovered, and experimentally, he pushes. There's a hiss, and weird white smog comes flooding out from the edges, dry ice that tingles his skin, and he hefts the lid back.
Everyone hears it, when it happens. The explosion going off that rocks the truck with a dangerous shudder.
At the same time, the Frenchman is flung back as easy as a ragdoll, landing hard on the road amongst spilled blood and shattered glass, unmoving.
The sound of Griffin's arrival allows for a measure of relief. Francois has half a mind to ask if everyone is still alive, but that can wait. Head count comes after, and then the bandaging, and then the trek home. The cries of injured soldiers spurrs him to disappear inside the back of the third truck around when Nick is discovering the one he was searching is empty of Judah Demsky. But full of other things.
Holstering his pistol, Francois hesitates for a split second before he's laying his hands on the coffin. A lot of soldiers died for the reason within it, and there's no sense in worrying now, hesitating over what they came for. It takes a few seconds for his fingers to roam over strange equipment, until the catch is discovered, and experimentally, he pushes. There's a hiss, and weird white smog comes flooding out from the edges, dry ice that tingles his skin, and he hefts the lid back.
Everyone hears it, when it happens. The explosion going off that rocks the truck with a dangerous shudder.
At the same time, the Frenchman is flung back as easy as a ragdoll, landing hard on the road amongst spilled blood and shattered glass, unmoving.
Lynette finds that dying is no easier the second time around. This time there is a scream, in stereo, from off in the darkness to the side of the road. And then, silence.
It's the explosion that gets her moving again, running on shaky legs off toward where Francois' been thrown. Her other ends up switching targets and running for Nick, when she notices he's been hit, too. For Nick, she tries to help support him in lieu of his wounded leg. Upsie Daisies.
She seems to have a leave no man behind mentality for Francois that certainly is missing for her own doubles. She drops to her knees in the glass and blood and debris, and then suddenly there's another — a naked one this time, but she'll have to apologize later for being underdressed — and the pair seem to be trying to find out if he can be moved, or if there's even a reason to be careful at this point.
The fan that was sticking out of the window of the truck is withdrawn and switched off, flung somewhere in the back seat. That little gadget is totally Griffin's new best friend. The back doors of the van slide open, while the driver's side door is flung open in equally quick measures. Once the van is left open and inviting for those who can make it to hop on in, Griffin is suddenly flinging himself out of the window, pausing in mid air before changing direction.
His path leads him straight to the site of that explosion. A concerned glance is cast toward Francois and The Naked Lynette going about aiding Francois— and a bit of a double take, for the record. Huh. That is an unexpected perk to taking this job. He'll omit that part when he tells Nadira.
For now, his attention is turned to the truck that Francois was flung from. Vectors reach out, testingly, in an attempt to pull the coffin from its resting place. Griffin is sure to remain a decent distance away, still puffing away at that cigarette.
When the second the gun that hits Nick goes off, Nick's hand sprays more rounds into the back of the van — his aim thrown off by the blow to his leg that throws him backwards. He hits the ground with a pained grunt, staring for a moment at his leg as blood blossoms around the entrance wound, turning dark jeans darker and warm.
He doesn't have long to be stunned, however, and the explosion has him ducking and swearing "Fuck!" Lynette grabs him but instead of using her as a crutch in whatever direction she tries to lead him, he breaks off, stumbling on the leg that won't work right, to move toward Francois's unmoving body on the ground. The leg won't hold for many steps however and he ends up losing his footing, falling to his knees a couple of feet away. One hand reaches and then drops and his lips press into a thin, grim line.
"Is he-" he gasps out to the naked woman at Francois' side. "We can't stay; we gotta move him." Whether he's all right or not — Nick isn't leaving him here.
As Liza ducks and covers down on the opposite side of the road once again, she's startled by the explosion. Blonde head peeking up over the road, she sees Francois's body and soon, Lynettes hurrying to help. Scrambling back onto the road, she looks towards the cluster there, heart racing. "Determine that in the van. We need to move!" She shouts.
Francois is alive. AS the plural Lynettes find out.
That much they can tell, and any glances inside the wreckage show a half turned, distorted coffin, partly turned - away, not toward. Dented metal.
Whatever other injuries, they can't see.
The coffin however, when Griffin brings it out, is empty, devoid of anything, and no evidence that there was anyone in it save for the remenants of what seems to have been - Based on francoisis aided flight out of the back end - some sort of bomb. Designed to go off when it was opened.
Francois is dead.
And the vikings were right about the afterlife.
Is.
A minnow dart of a thought in Francois' head— one that still works, if a little lamely at the moment— when eyes blearily squint unfocused by the time Lynette is coming to drag him to safety, and she gets neither compliment nor complaint. He's alive, that much she can see — and hear, too, a hitch of breathing at the back of his throat when he begins to be dragged, his hands loose, blood smearing red down the side of his face from inevitable head injury that comes with being thrown as far as he was.
Blood on his teeth. Stunned, and there are probably some broken bones in there, and probably half deaf for the time being — but there are worse fates in the world. He'll be feeling it tomorrow, but there is a tomorrow.
Lynette isn't really listening, at least, neither of the ones crouched by Francois. She looks worried, and that doesn't go away, even after she gets a pulse.
"He's alive," Lynette is quick to tell Nick as she comes after him and slides an arm around his waist to haul him back up. "We'll get him to the van," she promises, but in such a way that implies that we doesn't include him, because he is getting his ass dragged to the van, too.
So without wasting too much more time, she tugs Nick in the direction of the van while the other two Lynettes drag Francois along. They are trying to be gentle, because heaven forbid they make him any worse.
A hiss and a bare of teeth, and the mangled coffin is shoved off to one side. A trap. It was just a trap. They're having their heads played with, now. Griffin shakes his head slowly, turning around to frown at the scene. And peek at Lynette again. Then, invisible hands are gently lifting, so rather than being dragged, Francois is being carefully cradled by the vectors.
Griffin moves ahead of the rest, helping to ensure that the other injured are loaded into the van safely, even as he's moving toward the driver's seat in silence, a frown on his features.
The younger man's face is contorted with pain and worry as he stares at the Frenchman, but he allows himself to be moved away when he sees that Francois has two able-bodied women to help him. As he uses Lynette's shoulder as a crutch, he also wriggles out of his leather jacket. It takes the entire walk to the van to get it off, but once there he hands it to Lynette to hand to her naked self — it won't cover much but it's at least something.
He stumbles into the van, pulling off the shirt covering a Kevlar vest; the shirt gets wrapped around his leg to help staunch the bleeding. Nick's hands are shaking and his face has grown a bit pale. Blue eyes sweep to see that everyone's with them. "Go, there's gonna be back up coming, I guarantee it, mate," he mutters to Griffin.
WATCH> Vincent has connected.
With Francois aided by Lynettes and Griffin, and Nick aided by Lynette as well, Liza walks to the van on her own. Nothing left for them to find here, it was all just a matter of getting out. Gun shoved into the holster on her side, she moves silently and climbs into the van, sliding into a seat as she simply watches the other occupants, lips pressed in a thin line.
They're getting away, the coffin abandoned, tossed away and the small group realizing that what they came for, was not here. It was a trap and one of their own, many of their own here, are dead, or hurt.
But there are plans.
There are failsafes.
Out in the fields, none can see it, a lone soldier, one of the fleeing ones, head barely popped up above the long grass. No weapon aimed at the retreating Ferryman, but in his hand, something far worse. Flick a switch, press a button. That's all he had to do he was told. Just in case.
They all feel it, feel that change in pressure half a heartbeat before it comes. One of the copies is too close to the truck that bore the coffin that was rigged, Catches the brunt of it, snuffing out her life near instantly in the blossom of the explosion that center from underneath the vehicle. Sends bits of military truck flying. She's dead, another one marked down as a casualty to this little expedition.
The others are pushed by the shockwave that preceeds it, the immense heat that follows in it's wake, far enough away that they'll have only pink skin where it is exposed, forced to their feet, perhaps a tumble.
Liza can feel the van rock and in the rearview mirror, the van that they were beside not long before, is no longer, flipped up in the air, crashing back down as it obeys the laws of gravity and collides with a groan.
Contingency plans are a bitch.
Out in the field, the soldier ducks. His job done, if perhaps, not to someone elses satisfaction.
There is more things happening. Francois is getting dragged, by twins, and then a shockwave of an explosion turns the world back to tossed salad confusion again. It actually might well wake him up by the time he and Lynettes are bent like grass under a wind, a sharp cry— manly— emitting as broken whatever is jostled and heat prickles over his skin, blurred view of the world now filled with light impression dots dancing like fairies.
A hand grips harder where it's sought Lynette's arm, and a stream of French swearing slithers between grit teeth, a sidearm slipped from where he'd shove it loose into holster when he'd first gone to open the container. Did we win yet.
Lynette accepts that jacket when then get to the van, nodding her head in a bit of silent thanks. And as the pair dragging Francois come her way, she goes to meet them, dropping the jacket on the nudist's shoulders before she draws her gun and doubles back some to cover the others getting safely inside. Particularly that fellow that just survived an explosion. Her eyes scan the area, just waiting for some fool with a gun to pop up and try to make a ruckus.
Her expectations are a little off.
The others don't have to be watching to know her fate, because the remaining pair suddenly stumble in their walk, and then fall to the ground outside the van, unconscious. Unfortunately, they take Francois with them, leaving a heap of wound, passed out people to complicate the escape.
With a sneer, Griffin is suddenly snapping through the air, putting himself between Francois and the shockwave. He's thankfully wearing plenty of clothing, as he is wont to do in cooler weather, but that doesn't mean that he's not about to look like he's got a sunburn on the back of his neck. His vectors ensure that both he and Francois hold steady through the explosion.
Then, cursing under his breath, Griffin hastens his speed, helping to carry Francois back to the van, before leaping in himself. Time to go.
"Fuck," Nick says again, finishing knotting his overshirt around his thigh when that second blast rocks them. Using his hands and this good leg to shove himself toward the opening once more, to grab whoever still needs help getting in. Thankfully Griffin's gotten Francois so Nick doesn't have to try to haul the shellshocked Frenchman on his own.
Any delusions of grandeur of helping the unconscious clones slip away as he backs out of the way of Griffin, wincing as his leg gives out from under him, sending him back down into a seat. His lids fluttering as the exertion and pain well up, "If we gotta original of everyone, time to drive… someone see to the doctor?"
"I got it," Liza says, moving to make sure that Francois and Nick are both secure in the van. Her eyes flicker outside. "Lynette! Come on!" Her gaze goes to Griffin. "Bring the van around and we'll drag them in," she suggests before she leans over to try and see how bad off Francois is. She's no doctor, but she'll do well enough. She's got enough medical training to at least make sure he's not going to get any worse during the van ride. The second they get over close to the fallen Lynettes, Liza's dragging survivors into the van so they can all make an escape.
By the time that helicopters, more vehicles, cops and DHS arrive, the only trace of the Ferry having ever been here is the devestation wrought to the soldiers on the asphalt, in the fields and the burning carcass that was the van holding the supposed body of Judah Demsky and the remains of three Lynette's, two of which are intact.
The unconcious copies hauled up into the van so that when they wake, they can process what has happened. SOmeone will spare a coat for the one devoid of clothing. Becuase that's what gentlemen do.
The dead ones left behind in and of itself will present as an oddity given that she's known to possess an electrical based ability and no known siblings of the triplet variety.
The ferry will disappear off into the wilds of New Jersy, a holllow victory in their grasp. If Judah had been there, they'd be making off with him tucked into the back with the rest of their wounded.
But he's not, and it was a trap. But they knew that it was a pretty good possibility going in.
And somewhere, in the not so green wilds of New York proper, a phone rings in the pocket of Audrey Hanson. A map on a screen in the back of a van, currounded by other agents of her ilk, she looks away from the planning she's doing even as someone yells out from outside the vehicle that everything is in place.
Cooper will peer in with two cups of coffee in hand, when there's a shouted epithet from his partner and then back up to accommodate her slipping out of the vehicle.
"They didn't get them" Which isn't a big surprise really. "They dind't get them, and the truck wasn't rigged with gas Cooper." Her phone is shoved into a pocket, grabbing coffee and vest with Homeland printed across it.
"Head are going to roll" And hopefully…She'll be the one doing the rolling. "Lets get this done"