I'm Here to Protect You

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Scene Title	I'm Here To Protect You
Synopsis	Gillian decides to take a late night walk, two 'Company Agents' come to apprehend or possibly kill her. She is rescued by a man who calls himself Michael
Date	October 27th, 2008

Roy Wilkens Park

It's a late night, and the invisble clouds above are leering ominously, threatening to break open at any moment. A cold night indeed, a night where not too many are out on the streets. Except for Gillian. Gillian and the crew that has been stalking her all day. The wind whips loudly through the area, causing a chilling effect.
The night itself has a vicious overtone to it. Roy Wilkens park is all but abandoned. The wind and various critters and creepers roam freely, though very few humans. And what humans would be out on a night like this? Water starts to drop from the heavens above, slightly pattering against the ground below, then it starts to intensify. A perfect cover for the deeds of the night.

Walking alone in a dark park probably is not the smartest thing that Gillian has ever done in her life, especially not this part, where she encountered a scary guy who touched her hand and did something. But there she is, walking down one of the concrete walkways, bag slung over her shoulder and across her chest. From the way she's looking around, she may suspect her company, or perhaps she'd intended on meeting someone. Either way, no one seems to be here. Lifting her hand, she checks her repaired wristwatch, using light cast from a lamp nearby to see the placement of the hands. An iPod plays music into one of her ears, blurring out some of the background noise, though the other one dangles, leaving some chance she'll catch sounds approaching.

There was nothing for the woman to hear anyway. Literally, nothing: the buzz of electric light, the stirring pinions of dozing pigeons, even the distant drone of the wind blanked out, sudden and abnatural, the invisible arcs and curves of their wave frequencies strangled to a flatline by the strength of Wu-Long's will. A dead zone opening out behind her.

Standing at its edge, Wu-Long allows his gait to be careless as he steps across the brick, his strides long and lazy despite his balance perfectly centered and without sway as he nears. Somewhere in the ether, an instinct, some comic book reader or movie audience is screaming warnings at the girl alone in the park. Turn around. Turn around. There's a man behind you, and his eyes are the blackest thing you've ever seen unless you've seen him work before.

She might see a shadow pretzel around her feet the instant before her earphones fall conspicuously silent, an arm reaching to close around her throat.

A slight distance away, there's the sound of a slam, a car door closing almost at the same time Wu-Long makes his move. A man dressed conservatively in a suit and tie starts making his way towards the scene, leaving behind the parked car he'd been waiting in. Yancey tosses a glance around the place as he approaches at a brisk pace, a hand disappearing into his jacket to take the gun from its holster.

The sky completely gives way as the rain begins to pour down. The rain is heavier now, battering against the Earth below. The sound of a dog sounds out in the distance, barking savagely as if the dog were aware of the clandestine act happening in the park. There is no one in the area, just two dangerous looking men in nice suits and Gillian, all on her lonesome.

When the dead zone of sound hits her, the music of her iPod suddenly cuts off. Gillian frowns, reaching to check and see if it's still playing— but all the other voise has died out to. She opens her mouth, says something, but even that is drowned out. It was probably a curse of some kind, a swear, because all of a sudden she's pulling the earbud out and turning around—

Just in time to get her throat grabbed. She doesn't even see him. The rain she'd tried to ignore, starts to soak her hair more, though she can't hear it fall. A scream tries to leave her mouth, but even that doesn't make a sound. Panic starts to fill her eyes, as the rain begins to cause a slight running of her eye makeup, and she tries to kick out, flail her arms at something solid.

The girl's blows strike Wu-Long solidly, testament to fight-flight and Gillian's better than reasonable physical fitness. They don't do much to him, though, not braced and shifting the way he is; it's like hitting a manikin wrought of iron. Cold fingers slide into her hair, securing his grip; her throat is choked in the V-nook of his arm, her pulse beating like a butterfly caught in a net woven from steel yarn.

Suddenly, sound floods back into the area, an almost tangible pressure on Gillian's eardrums. Rain slashing at her face and clacking on the pavement, wind in a rustling ribbon down her face, her earphones shrilling, tinny, incessant, white wires fluttering hopelessly from his grip; the only thing silent, now, is /her/. The man holding her is wearing a suit and smells of cologne. "Don't move, and this will be over quickly," he tells her. He hauls her along the concrete, their footsteps erratic, staccato, and in a moment she'll see him: the other man, reaching into his jacket.

The rain is coming down, plastering his hair to his forehead, getting in his eyes, but Yancey doesn't seem to mind, not at all. Now in viewing range, the gun in his hand is a shining, sleek thing, and unmistakable. "You just behave, Ms. Childs," he says, lifting up the sidearm, making sure she can see it. The safety is flicked off and he tilts his head back to his car. "We're all going to take a little ride."

The rain continues to pour on the three, but there is still no one around. No one to come to her aid, no one to spot the vicious attack on her. No one to keep them from doing whatever they want to her. Unless she can defend herself, Gillian is apparently in for a world of trouble. There is a flash of lightning in the distance then a few moments later the roll of thunder comes over them..

Behave? From the way she continues to kick, hand reaching up to grab at the arm that's trapping her, Gillian doesn't seem to want to go quietly. Of course she's still quiet, because no matter how she tries to make sound, nothing comes out. She can try to dig darkly panted fingernails from one hand into the man's arm, but they break too easily, and the most they might leave are scratches. More kicking in her platform shoes, more trying to grope for freedom. More attempts to yell and scream and protest. She may not be able to make much noise, but she's certainly not behaving. It's her other hand that might be able to do something, trying to reach into her bag, as if to find something. But while her iPod slips deeper into her bag, she must not be able to get her fingers around whatever she's grasping for, because nothing is pulled out. World of trouble? Meet Gillian.

When kidnapping little girls, always prepare your duct tape beforehand. It's the first thing they teach you when you join the Company. Thus presented: two long, silvery strips smoothed down the back of the driver's seat. From around and behind Gillian's head, Wu-Long gives Yancey a quizzical look, eyebrows up, bemused that she continues to thrash and fight. She really isn't impressed by that Glock, is she? Kids these days. His wrists are being clawed to pieces, he notices; it's war-time rape all over again. Without a word, he shoves her down and into the open back seat of the car, releasing her throat and slipping into the seat beside her in a single fluid motion.

For one bright and peculiar moment, she's free; to move, to scream.

The next, she'll realize there's a knife in her ribs. Not held against her skin, an even-handed threat. No, it's pressed /in/, the threads of her shirt slid into halves on either side of the blade and blood beginning to smear on the steel. "If you don't stop, I will push it up," Wu-Long tells her, simply. His accent is faint, his eyes cold with sincerity. They say there's always a choice.

Yancey is rounding the car, opening up the opposite door now that Wu-Long has her where he wants her in the back seat. "And believe me, honey," he says, taking down on of the strips of duct tape, holding it up where she can see. "You don't want to see my friend here get fast and loose with a knife that sharp." Her wrists are grabbed for, now, with the intent to wrap them in duct tape, leaning over her enough so that rain water from his hair drips down onto her face.

And finally help arrives. Work boots clap against the pavement as they kick up the water as they move hastily. The rain tries to deter him as it smatters against him, but he will not be slowed. The man is of athletic build, balding with a bit of a stubble on his chin. The man wears a black leather jacket, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Fairly common. Though what is uncommon is that he is here at this time of the night in the rain, the other unusual thing about the man is the glock he holds in his hand.
Holding up the gun, Ethan points it steadily at Yancey as he comes up behind the man. Staring coldly at his back, Ethan steadies his pistol before pulling down on the trigger. Then again, and again, and again, and again. The shots rip through the other sounds of the night as Ethan blows his load on the man in the suit.

It's the being kidnapped that got to her. But as soon as she's shoved down in the car, she does try to scream again, muffled as it may be— but all that cuts off as soon as the knife draws blood. Gillian's eyes widen, makeup running down her soaked cheeks, but not due to tears. That might change in a moment, as she finally relents in her fighting, leaning back against the car seat, shaking from more than the rain soaking her. She looks at then wide eyed, wanting to ask a question, something, but no words come out. And then she hears a loud sound, gunfire and tries to duck her head, jerk away, even if the knife slashes a little more deeply when she does. Instinct. A gun being fired is scarier than a knife.

Yancey's head suddenly collides with car roof as his body jerks all of a sudden, repeatedly at each gunfire. His effort to grapple with the surrendering Gillian is stopped, hands coming up to his own chest, and when they come away again, his damp but previously impeccable white shirt is suddenly flooded with red. There's a blank look on his face as he breathes in once, raggedly, before collapsing further into the car, almost landing on Gillian before he slides to the felted car floor, legs still hanging out the door.

Clearly, she's never seen what Wu-Long can do with a knife. Then again, if anybody's gunplay is going to hold decent rivalry to that, it would be that hail of bullets that implodes Yancey's torso, Swisses his viscera, leaves him in a bedraggled lump across her lap, and Ethan appearing behind, a knight in shining leathers. Wu-Long's lips writhe back, exposing teeth, a snarl that would be almost feral if it weren't for the hauteur livid within its lines. Abruptly, he yanks the knife back from Gillian and disappears.

Almost. He transforms, his long, muscled body flickering into a wraith-like swathe of blackness. He whirls out of the car like a gasp of smoke, reaching open air the instant before he abruptly winks back into tangibility, renewed gravity and sprinting velocity conspiring to slam him into Ethan with a crack of bone and muscle meeting concrete. The knife traces a vicious parabola of light through the air. Blood filters into the gathered rainwater an instant before she glimpses the blade, raised, red.

The man lays dead before him, Ethan tries to duck into the car to get eye contact with Gillian. As he does the magazine of the gun drops out to the ground, his hand going inside his pocket where another clip appears and he brings it to put it in the gun. His mouth opens as he looks at her with concern, "Are you alright?" An accent easily placed as British, cockney if the girl knows much about England. His eyes roam around as if in search of the other agent. "Did he run?" He asks genuinely before..
Crack. Ethan is collided into and he is knocked off balance. Crying out, the man seems to be taken by surprise. Moving backward violently, the man's head thwacks against the open car door, sending him to an even quicker fall to the ground. A slow groan is let out from the man as he tries to get his bearings. Then looking up he notes that the gun he held has clattered and skittered away onto the wet and rainy street feet away from them. With a feral shout, the man swings his arm at his assailant's legs, intending to bring them out from under him.

Pushing against the "body" that practically landed on her, Gillian can't help but let out a few sounds of fear, mostly labored breaths, confused sounds, and then a glance at the concerned voice— the man who came to her rescue? "I…" is all she really gets out before he gets cracked. She screams fully now, backing up against the car door opposite and fumbling with the lock, the handle. To no avail. It doesn't budge. She slams up against it a few times, before she looks through the other door, to the fight going on out there, hoping for the outcome to be in her favor.

This close, Ethan can tell: Wu-Long's abilities are going erratic, fluxing in and out of his body in stuttering, short-lived waves that the man did not intend. The rattle of rain, the rumble of thunder, the girl's shrieks, the sounds seem to fade out for scattered instants, and darkness seems to touch his glaring face where none would have been tactically useful. Gillian's power at work. Fortunate that he's an old hand at his powers, or this could go worse by far.

Worse than a stabbing, and then the mule kick, which sends him down with a grunt and into an agilely-executed breakfall. Wu-Long leaps back up onto his feet with a jack-knife flex of his torso, stance spread. Despite the water spattered in his face, his glare shows piano-key stark, irises on eyewhite. "This is Company business," he snarls at the man. "Who do you think you are?"

Ethan gives a glance up to man in concern though, no time to figure out why he's going weird, the Wolf has a job to do. While Wu-Long falls to the ground then springs back up, Ethan takes the opportunity to clamber quickly away from the man and towards the gun that is left wide open in the street.
Then the man speaks, his back to the Chinese man, he slides along the road. Then in an instant Ethan rolls from his stomach to his back the reloaded glock in hand. The water drops in his face, and the man spits blood out of his mouth. To answer his question, Ethan lets off three gun shots at the Agent. Then he slowly climbs to his feet, the gun stays pointed at Wu-Long at all times though should he somehow survive that. "Gillian Childs.." The man calls out. As if in answer to Wu Long's question before, Ethan says: "My name is Michael. I'm here to protect you." And with that he looses balance, flinging his arm out at the open door, catching himself before he collapses completely. Blood leaks from his side as well as his face.

Because the open door is the only way she can go, short of crawling over the driver's seat, Gillian inchs closer, looking cautious and finally getting her hand around something in her bag and pulling it out. It's not a gun, or a knife, or even a handy taser— instead if looks like some kind of portable horn. Probably makes a loud noise when depressed, a party favor most likely, but a good defense to attract attention. "How do you know my name? Who— what is going on?" she asks, looking between the two men, then the one in the car that she's practically climbing over. When she can, her feet slide out, landing on the pavement, and she looks over at the one who claims to be helping her. "I'm not— there's nothing…" It would be more believable if it weren't for the fact that the closer she gets to the obvious Evolved— the Agent, the more she feels him drawing on her energy. "I haven't done anything." Always proclaim innocence.

Wu-Long had begun to draw as well. The .9 shoved into his suit jacket, the butt of it showing from the open-flipped panel of fabric.

Ethan cut him down before he could so much as close his fingers. He falls into a heap, crumpled, the line of his neck dangling off the sidewalk under the weight of gravity. Crimson spreads beneath him, the tips of his hair float slightly in the gutter. He's very still; if not dead, then to all appearances dying.

"We make it our business to know names." Ethan claims as he staggers away from the door. He clasps a hand at his side, blood dripping up over his hand. His eyes latch on to Gillian. "More of them will be coming, Gillian. I need you to trust me." He says, "These people are capable of very horrible things." Ethan's gun is still trained on Wu-Long as if the man could rise up at any moment. He unclasps his side and stretches his hand out to Gillian. "I will answer all your questions in time. But I need to get you some place safe." His hand stays open to her, waiting for her to accept or decline.

As with most hands offered to her lately, Gillian seems to hesitate. The energy she feels pulling out of her continues to draw out— telling her that the man laying on the ground is still capable of something, even if by all appearances he's dying. Dying doesn't mean dead— There's a quick inhale, she reaches out to take the offered hand. There's no following spike of energy, her hand doesn't glow. She grimaces as she fully stands up out of the car, the cut on her ribs aching, bleeding through her black shirt. "Where are we going?" she says, though she still looks warily at the car, at the men, even the one whose hand she took.

The hand is gentle, soft. When he moves his arm it is not a pull, but more of a subtle suggestion for her to come nearer. Ethan starts to back away from the two bodies his gun remaining pointed at the apparently dead man. "They'll be here soon." He says softly as he leads her along towards a back alley. "I'm taking you some place safe. They won't find you there." With that the two back away from the scene, to make their escape.