In Pursuit Of Liberty


adam_icon.gif cardinal_icon.gif claire2_icon.gif delilah_icon.gif doc_icon.gif helena_icon.gif magnes_icon.gif nicolas_icon.gif peyton_icon.gif risa_icon.gif shard_icon.gif white2_icon.gif

Also Featuring:

chuckles_icon.gif kris_icon.gif marina_icon.gif tmonk_icon.gif

Scene Title In Pursuit of Liberty
Synopsis Norman White begins his plan to take vengeance on the United States Government for his imprisonment in Moab.
Date October 6, 2009

Coney Island

"If you have no more happiness to give me, then you still have your suffering."

- Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

The skies themselves protest the gathering, a deep patchwork of gray and white blocking out the sun and expelling torrential downfalls of rain. The rain came on quickly today, blanketing New York City in a pall of autumn chill and a low, light fog. The air here by the coast is crisp and stings of salt, and that very air is what makes the site chosen for this gathering all the more grim in appearance. Towering high over the boarded-up remains of the Astroland amusement park, the rust-stained Coney Island Ferris Wheel looms motionless, like the skeletal carcass of some long dead giant left out as a warning to others of the death of the city's innocence.

Gathered at the base of this decrepit Ferris wheel, hundreds of onlookers have pushed over a portion of the chain link fence blocking off the abandoned amusement park from the remainder of Coney Island, while others have used a cut entrance in one side of the fencing. The base of the Ferris wheel serves as a mock stage, where gas lanterns have been hung up on the carriages to illuminate the area in the fading light of a rainy, late afternoon. Most gathered here brought umbrellas, rain slickers, or are simply using the ratty awnings of boarded up vendor stalls on the adjacent boardwalk to shelter themselves from the cold rain. Parked within the boundaries of the chain link fence, a white box-truck marked with the logo of a meat processing company on the side rests just on the edge of the lantern light.

The atmosphere is tense here, and has been for nearly an hour since people began arriving. Seated up atop one of the ferris wheel carraiges, a young man with dark hair spiked into a fauxhawk sits with one leg crossed over the other and arms folded across his chest, leather jacket merely draped over his shoulders. He's one of Norman White's gang of escapees from the Moab Federal Penetentiary, of which only two more are present. A tall and lithe woman with chocolate colored skin that contrasts against her white running suit stands with arms folded, dark hair bound back into tight coils behind her head that spill down to shoulder length. Her expression is severe, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.

The only person who is talking, is the same as always before Norman typically makes his appearance. A short old man in a brown trenchcoat with a ratty old fedora keeping off the rain. "It's important that we don't forget, that every one of us here came because deep down — maybe we want to believe there's a better chance out there for us all." He has such a sandpapery, rough voice, but it commands the attention of the crowd with his stern gesticulations. "I was a surgeon, before the government took away my life, took away my wife and daughter, took away everything I had." Eyes narrow, and with a shake of his head, he looks over the crowd gathered. "We have to remain united, Evolved and Non-Evolved alike. We are — all of us — humans. Each of us are gifted in our own ways, and while my genes may give me an ability that my wife and daughter have no hope of attaining, it does not make me any different from them in my heart. I would never love them less, never feel myself above them." He doesn't speak to the exact same choir Norman does. But for tonight, the oratory skills of the man known only as "Doc" serves to prepare the crowd for Norman's ultimate arrival — and whatever announcement he prepares to bring.

Nicolas moves along through the cold rain, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets which he holds tight around him, to keep himself warm as best he can. His left pocket seeming to be bulkier than the right to those who would even bother to notice. A slight smile plays upon his lips as he moves into the area of the conference, though as soon as he arrives, the smile soon fades as he stops in his tracks as he brushes the rain soaked hair from his eyes.

He seems to be more on alert now, scanning over the area quickly as his eyes dart from person to person. He spins around to look at the areas around him, trying to find the source of whatever it is that put him on alert. After a few moments, he continues onto towards the speaker on the makeshift stage, the smile that once occupied his lips replaced by a frown, his eyes continuing to look over the area around him as he finds himself a spot beneath an awning to block out the rain.

When he was younger, before he got angry, he listened to one band and one band only. Though his life has shifted and morphed in so many different ways over the last thirty years that solid foundation of soul still provides inspiration and meaning for today. Especially for today. Songs filled with soul and blues, and one in particular just can't be shaken today.

The Temptations I wish it would Rain is hummed softly from the cover of an old abanadoned concession stand, one thumb tapping in time against the cobweb covered surface. Every now and then a few words get muddled into the melody. "Oh how I wish that it would rain…"

The deep voice rumbles out as the eyes of the man pick apart the crowd. His eyes move back to Doc every now and then and hesitate before moving on, a slow shake of the head given or the occasional bob of agreement. Finally the song is interrupted. One dark finger jabs through the misty fog and rain at the stage. "See him? Look through his eyes. See if he keeps looking at anyone over and over, if he does that means they might be a part of White's crew, or at least fellas he's comfortable with." His eyes dart up, though he can't be sure through the overcast. "Looks like there might be somebody up high. Can you get a look from 'im?" The man asks.

Shard's brown hood is drawn down over his brow, his hands tucked into the pockets of the baggy hoody. A single silver unadorned cross dangles from around the rapper's neck, resting against the black fabric of his shirt. A pair of baggy dark blue jeans and brite white sneakers complete the outfit. The tall imposing black man stands beside a person who is quite the opposite of his own image.

The shadow of one of the ferris wheel's carriages is cast faintly by the gaslights onto the impromptu stage, and though the dim silhouette of the fauxhawk'd man is visible perched upon it, so is the shadow cast by a bird that isn't there perched beside him. The signature presence of Richard Cardinal is subtle even in such blatancy, and few if any will likely realize that he's made his way there to lurk beside the more lauded presences of Norman White's inner circle.

He arrived early; certain orders given and contact made to ensure the appropriate people would be on scene, he's lurked silently about until this carnival of demagoguery began.

"If only White believed any of that." The words doubtfully reach many beyond the stage; a quiet, disembodied murmur stirring in the air there from the shadows themselves, cynical and thoughtful in their note.

Onlookers in the crowd, the vast majority of which are teenagers and twenty-somethings, are a mix of familiar faces from the Staten Island gathering as well as new youths drawn in by the closer proximity of this meeting. Some of them, notably, are wearing black cloth patches safety-pinned to the backs of their jackets, showing a rising orange and red bird with outspread fiery wings. They may never have even met the core group of Phoenix, they may not even be evolved, but they carry the badge of the message. At it's core, ideological differences aside, the message here and there is the same.

Doc's speech halts, briefly, as his eyes downcast towards his feet, then around behind him for a moment. Cardinal's unseen shadow is sought out, but never truly found. But Doc can only offer silent acknowledgement of the shadow-man, the show must go on.

"The government is the enemy. A corrupt government that is unanswerable to anyone. You had to have heard it in the news," Doc states boldly, pacing across the platform beneath the Ferris wheel, "you had to have seen Vincent King's announcement about how he was detained in a secret government prison. We were all there, we all bear the scars of their imprisonment — inside and out." A furious scowl is given as Doc tilts back his head and points to his suppressant injection scar. "But what has the government said about this? Done about this?" Dark brows crease together. "Nothing!"

Now, just like before, there's shouting back from the crowd, noises of agreement and frustration. "They refuse to acknowledge their guilt, that they violated our Constitutional rights to a fair trial by a jury of our peers! They refuse to admit that the Moab Federal Penitentiary even existed!" A fist is raised to the air, the symbol of Norman White's movement and so many others before him, a symbolic depiction of solidarity and freedom, and so many defiant fists come up into the air.

There is the soft flutter of thick fabric as one figure moves into the crowd. Wearing a ratty trench coat, the belt tied loosely with hands stuffed into the pockets against the cold chill. Blonde hair is pressed flat against her face and neck by the black beanie cap she's wearing, the little terrorist Claire moves through the crowd. Having broken off earlier from Cardinal, she now found herself craning her neck, going up on tip toes trying to see over the crowd. The downside of being short."Excuse me.. pardon me." She murmurs even as she shoves her way through, the ex-cheerleader moves to situate herself as close to the stage as she dares. Shoulders hunched as if it's cold, her head down, she peers at 'Doc' through the bodies.

Peyton's bundled in a leather jacket and jeans, hair tucked up into her newsie cap. She walks just a little behind Shard, watching White's eyes as Shard points out the way he makes eye contact. "Only if I can see him," Peyton says with a shake of her head, turning and craning her neck to look up into the carriage, squinting as if that will help her see through the moisture in the air. She can in fact make out the man in the carriage; her pupils dilate as her vision shifts to take in his point of view. "Good thing I'm not afraid of heights," she murmurs, reaching out to hold Shard's elbow, as she's now basically blind to her own surroundings. "Am I looking for anything in particular?"

Rain, rain. Doesn't go away, despite that— or a cynic might think, because another shepherd's flock has mingled into the crowd here: a few faces from Staten Island that aren't normally wont to appear here, but do this one time, tonight, recognizable by the smattering of blue through their garments and the sleepy, vaguely miserable children hanging off their parents' hips. It's difficult to tell on first pass over a refugee's thin, wan face or the fretful, self-conscious clutch of their hands whether they're here out of discontentment with the spiritual diet they were being fed elsewhere or if it's separate, academic interest that brings them.

There's a young man in their midst, tall, a hoodie drawn up close around his head and face shadowed by the dreary light and nervously minimized space between people he's camped out with. His hands are plowed deep in the voluminous pockets of his sweater, though not deep enough that the grip of the .45 entrenched in his waistband doesn't show its edge faintly through the fabric.

Really, Leo is going to kill her. Helena is out again without her usual coterie of guard dogs, sticking near, but not too close, to any Phoenix folk she sees in the crowd. They're not the only ones she searches for of course, she'd be shocked if McRae wasn't here. Her hoodie is kept up, hair kept in a braid at the back of it keeps it from being noticed. The rain is ignored - it's not as if it really bothers her anyway. Her meandering in the crowd stops though, to listen to Doc, even as her eyes drift across those wearing Phoenix badges. That is something very good…or very, very about-to-go-wrong.

Nicolas keeps his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets as he scans over the crowd, his eyes stopping on a truck parked close by. His head tilts slightly to the side as he watches the truck for a few moments, his eyes scanning the area around the truck for a moment. His eyes stare out at the truck as he scans over the feeds from the various cell phones being used in the crowd.

Somewhere along the line, Delilah got there before a lot of people- she's been hovering around the twenty-somethings, and here and there. If she recognizes someone, she'll say hello, of course, but when it comes to when someone starts speaking at the fore, the redhead drifts in that direction out of instinct. She is at the relative front of it all when the crowd grows larger, and the faces are harder to recognize- and in some cases, they are complete strangers. Her own denim jacket has one of those patches on the back as well, and at first her figure blends in with the scattered symbols; what sets her apart from the drabness of her surroundings are the rest of her clothes- a colorful shirt, a knee-length skirt that makes her black leggings seem like an ashen wick sprouting a candle flame of yellow, orange, and red. Delilah makes little effort in being subtle sometimes. There are some times that she just needs to be as blunt in her appearance as she is verbally.

Sitting on the edge of a roof nearby, just close enough to hear, Magnes has decided against going into the crowd this time. He's in all black again, a black long-sleeved shirt, black neatly fitting jeans, a pair of black sneakers and matching leather gloves, and of course his featureless black mask covering his entire head. There's a black electronic collar that helps hold his mask on among other things, a glock in a holster on each side of his belt, a four foot metallic silvery pole strapped diagonally to his back, and a sniper case sitting on the roof, just in case. It's just wait and see for now.

"An eight foot tall guy in a bathrobe." Shard rumbles back to his tiny companion. His hand grips the trim board of the concession stand tightly as he leans in close to stare at Doc. "Don't use me to propagate your perversion." The rapper mutters, mostly to himself certainly not audible to the crowd or Doc himself. He frowns deeply, letting Peyton take the crook of his elbow. "If anything goes down, remember: Don't touch my skin, with your skin. I'll get us out of here so don't get scurred neither." He inches forward a tiny bit peering around the crowd.

"Just tell me what our boy in the top is looking at, that could tell us a lot. He would probably be lookin' at suspicious lookin' individuals, people he knows, or hot chicks. Tell me who falls into the first two." Vincent commands softly.

"If we cannot trust our own government, who can we trust?" Doc demands of the crowd, his hands outspread, but as the first few murmured answers come awkwardly out he shouts a proclimation of who; "Each other!" His eyes drift across the people gathered around the Ferris wheel, "We who refuse to allow the government to secretly take away our freedoms, take away our lives take away our liberties must stand together. We have tried to consolidate ourselves under names, under titles, under banners— PARIAH and Phoenix of New York! The Evo-Front of California! The People's Liberation Front of Madagascar! The Free Evolved of Canada!" Weathered hands spread out in a there you have it gesture. "We try to categorize and identify, but we fail to realize we are all in this together!"

"We must cease the fearful boundaries of inclusion, we must stop running from the government and hiding!" Doc's shoulders square, "We Evolved and our non-Evolved brothers and sisters who share our desire for freedom are legion, and if we truly worked together the governments of not just he United States— but the world would be forced to listen! There is no such thing as a Bloodless Revolution, there is no such thing as a non-violent coup! We must join together, we must unite and we must stand against those who will oppose us and oppose our freedom!" The crowd begins to cheer, fists raised into the air in thrusting motions, a rising cheer like a war-chant building up in the now energized group.

Reaching into his jacket, Doc removes something from inside, it looks like a brick of putty or clay, and in his other hand a device and a tangle of wires. "We found these at this site today! We found a recording prepared by Humanis First and a charge of C-4 designed to detonate and kill us! They're afraid, they're terrified! But we aren't helpless, and with the gift of one of our own, we were able to watch them commit their act through a vision of the past! We know who planted this C4, we know their cowards faces, and we know that they planned to detonate it remotely tonight!" There's a stern look on Doc's face. "After the last attack on one of our meetings, we had no choice but to play safer, to consider that we had the attention of the weak and the fearful now!"

Stumbling on a rock, Peyton grips Shard's arm more tightly as she pitches forward a moment but manages to regain her balance. Anyone glancing her way might assume she's blind, as her pupils are wide and seemingly unseeing, staring straight ahead into nothingness. "He's just scanning — doesn't seem to be focusing on anything. He's looking at a white truck now and then, on the other side of the ferris wheel," she murmurs. She shivers as she hears White talk of Humanis First; her pupils shrink in her eyes, the brown iris ring growing more visible as she looks up to see what device White is speaking of. "That was going to go off here? Doesn't that mean the HF people might be around, try to hurt us?" she whispers to Shard.

Helena narrows her eyes, and for a moment, just looks tired. She's said her piece dozens of times, she's not sure if she can do it again, here and now, as she listens to Doc go on about stirring people into more aggressive action. It may be that her mood is being affected by the weather; she reaches out experimentally to see if another's power butts up against her own. She continues to listen, mindful of the crowd, mindful for suspicious eyes. The kids in the Phoenix colors do attract her attention and she starts to slip closer.

Adam is on his way towards the meeting with a couple of his guys. They're late because Adam is always late, nothing interesting happens on time. They're about to make their way towards the park when a man who was dressed normally starts walking towards them. They pause near the entrance as something is said amongst the congregated. It's possible someone sees this little pow wow. It's possible someone sees a look of annoyance on Adam's face. But in the end, they keep their meeting away from the crowd while most people are likely looking towards the ferris wheel.

"Too soon." Again, Cardinal's murmured contrast to the manifesto that marches lock-step from Doc's lips to enflame the passions, the fears and the angers of the crowd is all too quiet to hear beyond the stage or a foot or two away, "Things haven't gotten bad enough to light this match, you know that. Not enough fuel, and all you'll get is a few sparks in the night. You're moving too fast, Norman is moving too fast. All this is coming before it's time— surely you can see that…"

Perhaps he can; perhaps he can't. Cardinal knows that the show must go on, however, that the people demand their blood and circuses, and his words will find no answer yet. Very few will even hear the devil's advocate contradicting the speaker, and fewer still will listen. But seeds need watering if one hopes them to bloom one day.

"Good thinkin', Doc. Wave C4 in everyone's faces. This brother is like Colin Powell swingin' 'round anthrax." Shard gives a sigh. "White's gonna have us chasin' a whole different type of WMD, but this one ain't gonna be under the sand out in the desert. This one's gonna be in our living rooms, our gas stations, our movie theatres." He pauses pursing his lips. "Our starbucks'." Finally Peyton starts to stumble, Vincent redistributes his weight accordingly to keep her upright. "Careful sweetheart."

Shard swings his hooded gaze down at the girl, arching a thin brow. "White truck?" His gaze pops up to look for the truck she speaks of. "Let's check it out then, shall we?" He waves a hand dismissively. "Chances are they brought that C4 themselves. Even if Humanis did plant it, they wouldn't be dumb enough to attack a group of blood hungry evolved, ready for a fight. If they are then… God help us." With that the rapper is motioning for Peyton to hold on tight to his elbow, and then the two are floating more away from the crowd and up into the fog, taking an around-a-bout route over to set down behind said truck.

Maybe it'll make her stand out, but doubtful she's alone when she doesn't raise her own fist. Claire does glance around her noting the fierceness of the people that do join the chant. Eyes flick back to Doc and her head shakes just a little bit as her thoughts on the matter are her own. Her eyes narrow at the bomb, skeptical at the truth of it. She can only stand, huddled in the cold, with fist thrusting in the air around her, watch and wait.

At the sight of the C-4, the invocation of that faction name, Humanis First!, a hush falls across the blue-trimmed drove of Ferry throwbacks. Mothers exchange glances; one furrows her brow in consternation, hauls the child in her arms closer to her breast and simply turns on one stumpily booted heel, begins to walk away on a gait like war drums of her very own, shouldering past the crowd with a mutter under her breath.

She bumps into Peyton's shoulder on her way. Doesn't apologize, though there's a snatch of syllables audible to the young activist's ear— "all lunatics—" before she vanishes into the crowd with a ragged flap of her skirt. There's a raspy hiccup of a sob from her child's throat, but it stills, and nothing more.

There's a turn of a glance from young man among the constituency she just left behind, a stiffening of his shoulders as if he'd only then been reminded of a duty that he was supposed to have owed all of those that are here with him. He doesn't call out.

Nicolas glances up at the stage as the Doc shows the C-4 and starts to speak about Humanis First. He shakes his head slightly as he watches the man on the stage. "Those bigots need to shove that C-4 up their asses." He says to no one other than himself before he glances back to the truck, the feeling that has been bugging him since he showed up continuing to tug at him. He frowns as he moves out from under the awning and pushes through the crowd, heading towards the truck.

"Holy shit is that Helena Dean?" Comes a whisper from one of the kids in the crowd wearing Phoenix patches. Another turns to look, eyes wide, but gets jerked back away from turning fully. "Dude don't look, what if she sees you!?" Hissed whispers do little to hide their conversation. "Shit, man if she's here that's so totally awesome. Oh man— I— I should go talk to her."

"Hey, you said not to look!" The other kid blurts out with a snort, "That's bullshit I wanna' talk to her too." The slightly older teen swats the younger one on the back of the head.

"Dude she ain't interested in you, I bet she likes older guys." Says the seventeen year old with a broad, toothy smile.

"Man, you're so dense…"

Across from the crowd and up on the stage, Doc once more hesitates, his eyes casting to the side as a look of guilt and anxiety crosses his face. That's a different look than last time, than the time he tried to stand up for Norman. Now, Doc's expression is one of nervous uncertainty, the look of someone who knows when the other shoe is about to drop, and the look of someone who knows he won't be able to react in time to catch it.

"Brothers and Sisters!" The voice booms over Doc's, a voice that roars like thunder with the whining chirp of a bullhorn adding to the already bass filled tone. Emerging from the back of that box-truck that Shard and Peyton had just snuck behind, Norman White looks different than he has in the past. Gone is the ratty prisoner's clothing he has been wearing in his public appearances. Now, a heavy fall jacket made of dark brown denim with a high fur collar makes him look even larger than he is. The long jacket falls down to calf length, partially obscuring a black leather vest worn over a high-collared zippered sweater and old leather chaps worn over black jeans. Motorcycle boots clunk on the ramp coming down from the back of the truck as Norman walks down it.

Behind him, a rail thin young woman with an umbrella walks quietly, keeping herself out of the rain with her head down and eyes closed. Behind Risa and Norman, a young man with a handgun leads an unexpected group of people out of the truck. Carrying plastic-wrap sheathed cameras over their shoulders, a pair of television camera crew members and a reporter from the local NBC station are marched out into the rain. Raising the bullhorn back up to his mouth, White growls out words into it again. "We stand on the precipice of a new beginning today! Providence, much that brother McRae speaks of is upon us!"

The crowds attention immediately goes towards White and Risa, watching the pair approach the Ferris wheel as the young man in the yellow rain slicker with the gun gets the camera crew into position nearby to Norman. At the Ferris wheel, the punk in the leather jacket atop one of the carriages nods his head and snaps his fingers, disappearing in a flash of red light before reappearing by the back of the box truck. Two more quick flashes — one inside and one outside — bring him to the roof of the vehicle, where he sets up a satellite dish and starts connecting cables.

In the back of his mind, Nicolas feels something brush against his senses — a presence, one he had only briefly felt until now — the feeling of being watched from far above by an all-seeing eye. The sensation it sends down his spine is alltogether new, the feeling of a technopath so pervasive in his presence that he seems to be everywhere at once.

Magnes walks lowly across the roof in the direction he notices Shard going in, leaving his rifle case there but certainly taking his umbrella with him. When he jumps down near the rapper, he's similar to a ninja Mary Poppins, floating down with the umbrella above his head. "You're still using my ability." the deep distorted voice says behind him, looking around curiously to scan their surroundings.

Helena for her part, finally gets herself next to those dressed in the colors of the burning baby bird, attempting to get a look at those faces, but when her name starts getting whispered - well, what did she expect? Stupid Helena. But Dee's not far from that crowd, and it's toward her that Helena begins to slip, casually, unobtrusively. The presence of live media, that raises her attention, she stops midway, head lifting with a look starting to express alarm at whatever it is Norman's going to do.

Nicolas stops as he feels a sensation that he has, until now, never felt before. His eyes widen slightly as he seems to be frozen in place. His mind reels at the new sensation, his eyes darting frantically around him. As the one he feels doesn't appear in his vision, he frowns even more. Unknowing what else to do, he does the only thing he can think of. Try to communicate. He sends out a signal with a simple message. Who are you? This message may be picked up via text message on several of the spectator's cellphones nearby.

Delilah does her fair share of listening, but there's one problem- Humans are not going to unite just like that- they need something to unite under. Ideas are all well and good, but you cannot emblazon ideas as change. Humans need to unify under something. It's nature. And somewhere in there, she agrees with the whispers of the Shadow Man hidden away from the crowd. It's too soon- she knows it is too soon to charge in with horses snorting and swords waving. Dee glances around over her shoulder, scanning for faces. She does see Helena, and waits. And then the ringleader finally does appear, and she gives her rapt attention to the pillar- irony at its best- that is Norman White. The crew, however, brings a rigid frown to her face that does not befit her. Delilah puts her hands down the neck of her jacket, fingers fumbling for a cotton hood that she pulls over her hair.

By now, she has turned halfway to look for Helena, brown eyes searching past the group of young supporters and past dark shoulders of coats, hopeful. Don't leave me here! Oh boy.

Oh… bloody hell. The bird's shadow flutters from its reverse-mirrored 'perch' to cross the stage in a quick shift of shadow in two dimensions, washing up over the back of Doc's trenchcoat as a mantle of darkness, bringing the disembodied voice of Cardinal that much closer to the man's ears. The voice a hiss, sharp, urgent, "What is he doing, Doc? What in the name of Mary has that schizophrenic bastard done that he's going to need a satellite uplink to broadcast it?"

The once-socialite glares at the mother calling them lunatics, before Shard floats both himself and Peyton over to the truck. But As people emerge from the truck, as White begins to speak, and as Magnes growls out in his Darth-Vader imitation, Peyton takes a step behind Shard, much like a timid Child hiding behind a parent. The girl's still out of her element in this crowd, though there's something in her that seems to defy logic, something either brave or stupid, which has her out in this cloudy cold night at all.

The discussion at the entrance of the park dies down. Three men seem to be looking to Adam. Adam points to one immediately and says something, pointing back the other way and the man nods and immediately takes off. Meanwhile, there's so much commotion at the ferris wheel. He's only been able to hear bits and pieces so far. He frowns a moment climbs some onto what used to be some old carnie game. His heel presses against the rim of the table and a hand holds onto the top as his head peeks up to watch the commotion from what is presumably a safe distance. Is that a news van? And…is Norman dressed up like a pimp?

There is a slight jump from Claire at the familiar booming voice, she watches his grand entrance from between a pair of guys taller then her. Tall enough that she has to shift some to watch the progress of the man. When she sees the camera crew she frowns some, glancing towards the stage where she knows a certain shadow will be. This can't be good. Then she spot a couple of familiar shapes. She can't decide if she should stay in her spot or work her way towards Shard and gang.

"And you're still using that silly toy." Shard answers quickly, eyeing the voice thingie. "Take that off flyboy and act like a real person, but stay close. Might need your help." Vincent says, glancing down at Peyton, he raises a finger to the huge man who just stepped out of the truck. "That's Norman White, sweetheart. Get in his eyes, tell me exactly what he looks at. If he's going to do something stupid, maybe we can get a hint of what it is a second before. It might be all we have to stop somethin' bad." With that the tall rapper, gestures the ninja mary poppins to come forward. "Just be ready fly boy, and follow my lead." He bends his knees slightly as if getting ready to pounce. His eyes shift over to Peyton, his arm going out to her so she can support herself once again.

Taking a deep breath, the clairvoyant stares at Norman, getting a feeling for him, listening to his voice; her eyes widen once more until there is nothing but the slimmest ring of brown around each wide black pupil. Her fingers curl around Shard's arm again. She doesn't feel secure here in the least, and not seeing what is next to her, in front of her, under her feet, doesn't help that feeling at all. "He's not looking at anything in particular yet. Just looking face to face. That eye contact thing maybe - can't tell if it's people he knows or not, but it seems pretty random. No one in particular, except the reporters," she whispers.

A sensation finds its way into Nicolas' mind, in the same way he would pick up a wireless transmission from a cell phone. «I am.» Comes the cryptic response in the reverberating voice of an older man with a difficult to ascertain foreign accent. «Just as you are. We are all. But I am free, where as you are contained. What am I?» It's spoken like a riddle, into the back of Nicolas' mind, the voice testing his resolve with unusual manners of speech.

Turning his focus towards the shadow, Doc's voice is low and quiet as he addresses the shadow that has his ear. "He's going to give the government a message. One that no one— not even the world— is going to be able to ignore…" Those tired old eyes sweep away from the shadow, watching Norman and Risa again before squaring his shoulders and starting to walk across the walkway, making a motion with his head to the woman in the running suit to watch the crowd.

The camera crew and the reporter get into position, angling themselves into proper arrangement with one cameraman up on the platform filming the crowd and the other crouched down and filming Norman from a low angle. The reporter remains off camera, anxiously looking towards the man with the gun who just nods to them reassuringly, not even pointing the gun at them, just keeping it held out at his side. In truth, they have less to fear from the gun, and more to fear from Norman.

By this time, Doc has moved off of the platform and worked his way towards Risa, taking her umbrella and moving close to her, holding it up and open nearby to shelter the both of them from the downpour. Lights come on that are attached to the cameras, shining into the crowd gently and onto Norman as the reporter shakily asks, "Is— are we— " a nod of affirmation comes from each cameraman in slow procession. "I— This is Alice Wentworth reporting from the abandoned Astroland Amusement Park in Coney Island, where— " she looks up to Norman, who hands off his bullhorn to the tall woman in the running suit without saying a word. "Where we have been taken hostage by— " she stares up at Norman, expectantly.

"Norman White, a former prisoner of the United States Government's secret prison for the Evolved." His voice is deep, loud and resonant; full of fervor. The reporter nods her heads, anxiously looking back to the largely stunned silent crowd.

"We— we are here to relay a message that Mister White wishes to deliver to the American people tonight. We— " The reporter stops, hesitating for a moment before asking White, "You do realize the Networks are going to block this, don't you? They'll never— "

"They can't," Norman states flatly. "We have brothers who have seen to it." Norman has access to Technopaths? "You may continue, Miss Wentworth."

"I'll help, but I'm not taking my distorter off until this is over, I need anonymity, I'm an Evolved cop and in the public eye now, can't afford being seen doing anything questionable." Magnes explains, apparently not bending on his distortion collar as he eyes Peyton, not that she can really tell behind the mask. "Sounds like he's pretty good at the charismatic dictator thing so far, y'know, with the making eye contact stuff. Probably makes it personal or something."

Adam continues to hang from his observation post like a teenager trying to steal a look at a drive in theater…not that there's really any drive-in theaters anymore to speak of. But he's starting to understand the situation, he's starting to see what's going on. He smiles, he smiles slowly. And then he notices men with guns pointed at the hostages. He narrows his eyes and concentrates on the crowd. It's not easy, too many heads, too much distance, but there's some familiar heads and faces he can make out and he smiles a little bit more. This could turn very ugly, very quickly. And he is appeased.

"No, no, no…" A hiss barely human of words, Cardinal's shadow merely a tint draping across Doc's shoulders but the voice vibrant with heat and life, "…it's too soon, damn it, this is what Ray saw coming. If he does this, they'll respond, god damn it, and we don't have the strength to deal with that yet. You'll accomplish nothing but slaughtering the building blocks of the army we'll need in the war that's coming! Fucking hell…"

Clank. Wires. Bollero fur cosplay conceits. This gets the attention of McRae's people effectively even before the weather doctor's own name expels its concentric ripples through water-weight of the air. A few exchange uneasy glances. The boy isn't one of them. His attention remains steadfast on White's hulking, postmodern rockstar-barbarian figure, the unexpected addition of the newscaster with him affects him as with everyone else. Apparently, White is taking as much legitimacy as he can while sacrificing as little as possible of his tribally aggressive core ideology and style. Cool.

"Keep watching." Shard whispers back, watching White's back intensely. "Well if you're not going to turn the annoying thing off, then just don't talk." Vincent murmurs over to Magnes. His eyes dart around for a moment, anxiety is building in him. Stef should be here. That thought puzzles him, why he suddenly takes comfort in the presence of a different five foot girl. But then he's wishing for someone else entirely. If only Cardinal was out here. Vincent licks his lips. "You ready flyboy? If he throws his hands up dramatically or you feel the ground twitch, we're both in the air, got it?" He glances over at Peyton, hoping she won't ask what she does should that happen/

Decision finally made, mainly due to her catching sight of the hooded figure, Claire starts muscling her tiny self through the crowd towards Shard and the rest. When she's finally free of the crowd, the ex-cheerleader sidles up next to the tall rapper, "Hey." Her head tilts forward enough to glances at Peyton as she speaks and then to Magnes who she gives a small smile and a 'you behave' look.

Claire turns her attention back to the stage and listens inhaling sharply as the reporter starts to speak. "Not good," she murmurs, hands slipping out of her trench coat to loosen the tie around the middle, letting the coat hang loose around her form.

Nicolas contemplates the reply that he receives before he senses the broadcast of the news crew. His attention is removed from the voice and his concentration becomes focused on the broadcast signals from the news crew, sending the feed to the object he has carried with him, sensing the presence along with the feed.

"Pizza boy cop Darth Vader?" Peyton says with a smile and a wave toward Magnes who she can't see — it's the only Evo cop that knows Shard that she knows of, after all — and when she hears Claire's hey she gives a nod; it's hard to tell someone's voice from a single syllable when you can't see them… until suddenly White's gaze passes over them in his search for eye contact. "Hi, Claire." When she catches sight of Adam from White's point of view, she shivers a little, her head pointlessly turning in his direction, though that doesn't change her perspective. She winces a little as a headache begins to settle behind her eyes.

"He's doing what no one else has been able to…" Doc quietly laments, "he's bringing the fight back. You're talking about the war?" His fedora clad head nods towards Norman, "Norman White is the General. This is his war, now, and he's bringing it to every side." Looking to Risa, Doc nods his head quietly to the pale girl, then looks back to the shadow following him. "Best hold on to your hat, if you have one… tonight's going to be a doozy."

After a flustered introduction of Norman White across the airwaves by Miss Wentworth, Norman looks towards the camera filming him. "Good evening, New York." There is a stern confidence in White's eyes as he stares down into the camera, then looks out to the crowd and begins addressing the people in the crowd, not the cameramen. "I come to you today with a message, one that you will listen to and remember, one that you will pass on to your children, and their children's children. A message of the truth of this once great nation of ours, and of the truth of its coming rebirth." Voices of shock and hushed murmurs begin to rise thorugh the crowd. Away from the filming, Doc glances over to Risa with an anxious expression as her head slowly shakes.

"There are those who do not want this message to go out!" Norman shouts to the crowd, moving up onto the platform beneath the Ferris wheel as the cameraman focused on him tries to keep Norman in frame. "I know that even now, orders are being shouted into telephones, and men with guns will soon be on their way to try and silence us." His gray eyes turn to the cloyd skies, "Why? Because the government demands our silence, demands that the truth be told only in whispers in corners of darkened rooms or in places where it may not be heard by all parties. Because words have power to those who fear." Something about this speech seems faintly familiar, especially to Magnes.

"Words are the tinder that sparks rebellion, and rebellion is the spark that will ignite the fire of truth in this nation." Broad hands spread out, gesturing to the crowd as White speaks. "And the truth is, this country is now longer the people's is it?" One thick brow raises in rhetorical questioning of his audience. "Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, the freedom of laws and rights, you now have secret prisons and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission." Vitriol burns behind Norman's words, "We will no longer submit."

A tiny tremor begins to vibrate the ground, a brief unsettling of the ground beneath Coney Island to punctuate White's sentence.

Magnes raises a hand to a small rotating wheel on his collar, pushing it as it makes small clicks and he adjusts the setting. "There, now it's less Scream and more tolerable overlapping voices." He's at least tried to make the voice more pleasant, his head jerking when he spots Claire. His head tilts as he listens to the speech, scratching the back of it as he tries to place just where he's heard this before, or at least something very similar. "Dude, he plagiarized his freedom speech from a comic, all he's missing is the Guy Fawkes mask!"

"Norman White's no General," Cardinal replies with flat derision, "There's no strategy to this. I didn't think you were so blind as to think this could accomplish anything to help our cause— this is madness, and ill-timed madness at that. You have no idea what you're bringing upon yourself here. No idea how far they'll go, have gone. There isn't enough support behind this, not enough fuel for those fires…"

Helena maneuvers until she's by Delilah's side, finding herself abruptly reaching out to grip the redhead's hand if she allows it. "What is he doing?" she says in an alarmed, low tone. She starts looking around more directly for familiar faces, McRae, fellow Phoenixers…anyone.

Nicolas looks down at the ground as he feels the tremor beneath his feet. He glances around, but keeps his focus on the broadcast and any other feeds he can sense, sending them to the recorder in his pocket.

Hostages!? Delilah's face says it all, while she stands there near the front of the crowd. Are you fucking mad? Oh, for crying out loud. Her features are torn between upset and angry, with a dose of disbelief tossed right in. She listens further, but not without a soured look upon her features. It's likely that anyone looking at her gets an eyeful of someone far less pleased than Delilah. When Helena takes her hand, the redhead turns her eyes to look for a moment at her before gazing back up. Even in the chill, her hand is warm to the touch. Her response is low too, as is the glare she fixes on the hard-to-miss Norman White. "I don't know. But I don't think it's going to go as well as he thinks it might."

It's interesting. There are so many wires that have to be crossed for things to go this way. There's so many little things, so many risks that have to be taken and so many misdirections that are needed if one were to try and cause something like this. Perhaps Adam had some hand in it, perhaps he didn't, but he does seem rather pleased with himself. He does frown though, as he notices all the children, or what he considers children, in the phoenix uniforms just sort of seem to be cowering. No one's going to make this worse. Well, one out of two ain't bad. He motions towards the other two men, indicating they should be ready to leave.

"Criticise all you want," Doc's voice is coldly disconnected as he looks from Risa's silent form to the shadows, "no one else has an alternative. If Norman lights the fires, they can find us by its light, or by the trail of his own blood." There'sa resentful sound in his voice, one that clearly shows he's following Norman only out of lack of better options, the reluctance of a man with nothing left to lose. "Unfortunately for the people in Norman's way… he's a determined man with a message."

"How did this happen?" Norman asks to the crowd, his voice accusing as he makes eye contact across the front row, "Who's to blame?" Something about this speech seems familiar but it's kind've hard to put a finger on, from the sounds of it, White's quoting something but it's not clear what. "There are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable. Daniel Linderman, Mayor Bianco, Vice President Mitchell, President Petrelli." These aren't small names he's implicating, and the tone of voice is indicative of a man who has nothing left to lose. "But again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror." There's that echo of familiarity again, maybe a movie from years ago or an old political speech, "I know why you did it." Norman's voice has a feigned sympathy, patronizing. "I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? Half of New York City was destroyed by a madman, and your perfect little understanding of your narrow-minded view of the world got turned on its ear. You didn't have your daily routine, you didn't have your preconceptions, everything was new and scary and confusing."

Climbing up along the front of one of the Ferris wheel carraiges, White ascends to stand atop the rainslicked roof of the carraige. "There were so many reasons that let you corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense!" His hands sweep out again in a broad, encompassing gesture, "Fear got the best of you, and in your panic you turned to the your false Messiahs — Daniel Linderman and Nathan Petrelli. They promised you order, they promised you peace, and all they demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent."

One hand twitches. Could Cardinal's prophecy of doom been right? Could it be happening already? His tongue slowly wets his lips again, his breathing becoming more rapid. His eyes widen slightly as his heart threatens to bust out of his chest. Shard glances over at Magnes, over to Claire, who doesn't even get a friendly greeting, and then to Peyton. Finally he looks back to White. "I have to touch him." He breathes.

The lady had a hemorrage for many years and was cast down in society. She heard about the man moving through the streets, knew of his fame, knew of his power. And she knew if only she could touch the hem of his robe, all her problems would go away. She just had to touch him.

The story of the woman reverberates through Vincent's mind as one foot lands in front of the other. One hand comes up to remove the glove from the other hand. Another step. And then another, and then another. The glove is dropped carelessly. Shard crouches low, still not committed to action should White just yell a lot and then let the meeting boil over, but if he has a demonstration in mind…

Shard slowly looks over his shoulder to Magnes. "I hear you flyboy. But I need to not hear you. I need to feel you on this one. I need to feel you got my back, little brother." His gloved hand balls into a fist and he makes a pounding gesture at the younger man before looking back up to White. Shard's starting to sweat.

Shifting her feet a bit, Claire glances down, taking a step back. "Feel that?" She asks of her companions softly, her eyes widening slightly. A glance at them to confirm if they did indeed feel what she felt. Glancing at Magnes again, she frowns a bit with confusing before looking at the stage again. Unfortunately, the tremor has left the tiny blonde worded, anxiety starting to knot in her stomach. "I don't like this," She hisses fiercely to know one at all. "Not one bit." The mention of her own biological father makes her wince. It's never easy to hear a parent talked about that way… even if you never see them and they don't acknowledge you exsist. When Shard starts moving she freezes and watches him and the man on stage.

"Survive what's coming, Doc," Cardinal says more quietly, voice curt as if thinking faster than he can speak, "Survive, and make sure as much survives with you as you can. If any of you are still walking by the end, if any of us are still alive, I can give you that alternative…"

"Preserve what you can, brother. We need to fight this future."

A shadow washes across the stage, twisting up the rusted bars of the long-stilled Ferris wheel.

"Wait…" Peyton whispers, her arm shooting out but missing Shard's as she is left blind and without a protector. She shakes her head, her pupils closing back in, the irises widening as she turns to look at Shard moving toward White. Her knees buckle a little as she feels dizzy from the too-abrupt return of her own vision. One hand moves to her temple, wincing. "Shit. Why does he want to touch him?" she whispers.

Adam has heard many despots, dictators, revolutionaries and heroes give speeches in his days. Some went on to be famous, some were lost on the battlefield or the throne room. Adam would have to give this speech a 6 at best on a scale of one to ten. A bit hokey, too practiced in the mirror, too obvious in its message. Now…if Adam Monroe had ever heard of Alan Moore or some movie with Natalie Portman who is NOT Bebe, then he'd have to shake his head and realize this was all futile. It might not even achieve as little as he needs it to achieve. But, luckily for his good mood, he hasn't heard of either. Then he notices one of the people in the crowd he had been looking to do something at least start to make their way towards the stage and he waits to see if that does anything useful.

"Must want his ability. Claire, Peyton, I'm gonna distract White while Shard gets close to him, then I'll come back for you two. But if something happens before I get back…" Magnes walks over to brush a hand over both their shoulders, then starts floating up the side of the building he came from. "You two should be able to jump into the air long enough for me to come back for you before you land, I hope." He hopes, but Shard needs him at the moment.

Once Magnes is on the roof again, hunched down, he turns up the volume on his collar, and hopes to god White has no snipers as he makes a distraction of himself. "Hey! If you're gonna make a big speech about freedom, at least make sure you're not plagiarizing! Are the two hostages worth it?"

Quickly, Claire moves to steady Peyton, with a hand under her elbow, when she looks about ready to collapse. "Steady, Peyton." She murmurs softly. Shaking her head she watches the rapper, her words still soft. "And I don't know." Her free hand inches under her coat to brush at the shotgun hidden there, small comfort but also her way of getting ready for bad stuff to happen. When Magnes starts moving Claire freezes especially when he announces what he's going to do.. Oh shit. She makes a grab for her boyfriend, "Psst.. Hey.. No…. Come back here…" She hisses fiercely, but it's too late. Her head follows his progress and then he starts speaking, this makes the ex-cheerleader groan softly to the woman next to her. "Oh god.. He's going to get himself shot again… or worse."

Shouting from the top of the carriage, White raises his hands into the rainy skies. "So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you then continue to bury your heads in the sand!" His eyes are wild, like a man possessed. "But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you— " he cuts himself off, and the ground begins to rumble again, "I demand of you in pennance for your silent guilt to make a difference!" The rumbling, this time, does not cease. "I demand that you do as our brothers and sisters in Phoenix have said so many times, that our lost brothers and sisters in PARIAH demanded before that! We demand that you RISE UP!" His fist is thrust into the air, "Rise up and let what I am to do this day serve as a reminder that no matter how many of us you silence! No matter how many of us you arrest we will always remain strong and free!"

White's voice thunders over the crowd as the rumbling continues to shake Coney Island, and the crowd begins to take fright as the ground under their feet rumbles and shifts. Frightened voices rise up, people begin moving for cover and clearing away from the stage. Atop the truck that has been outfitted with the satellite dish, the fauxhawk-wearing punk looks up towards where Norman is with a smirk, and only then notices Shard creeping up onto the stage and Magnes shouting from the roof of the boarded up Slush-O stand. "Shit!" There's a flicker-flash of fireworks-like red light as the tall, skinny man disappears from the top of the truck and reappears at the side of Shard in midair, landing with a crackle-flash of that sparkly light around him. "Woah there bro, you ain't goin' any further!" This kid must weigh ninety pounds when soaking wet like he is, all six feet of him.

Nearby to the stage, the black woman in the running suit turns her focus up to the sudden appearance. "Kris," she blurts out, suddenly disappearing in a blur of superhuman speed to come standing behind Shard. "S'up King," she says with a cocky smile, folding her arms as she brushes one braided lock of hair from her damp face. "Sorry man, s'much as I like you, White told us you might try'n do somethin' stupid. So we gotta' say that's about as far as you go…" She's trying to be polite, at least as much as she can given the situation..

White's brows lower, rain-soaked hair flat against his shoulders as he turns from the carraige towards Magnes, looking out at the masked man with his head cocked to the side. His brows furrow, and a crooked smirk comes over his lips as one brow is lifted up in response, and he turns back to the camera crew with his voice raised again, trying his damnedest to ignore Magnes while the cameras are still rolling. "Let our voices be heard as one roar!" Another glance is afforded to Magnes, only able to spot the young man by their relatively equal heights thanks to both being alighted atop high places, White sneers before turning back to the crowd gathered. "Let our fists be raised into the air, to tell the government no more!" Abruptly, the shaking fades as the sound seems to get louder, yet is moving off into the distance further away in the city. "Let them remember this day, as the day we said never again! Let them remember this day as the day that in the pursuit of Liberty, we were heard!" There is a splitting sound of thunder, a sudden shattering noise like so much rock and stone breaking apart, but the noise isn't here — it isn't on Coney Island — it's further away, too far away that it simply shouldn't be so loud…

As the rumbling becomes distant, the crowd begins to calm, even as Doc starts escorting Risa away from the Ferris wheel under the protective shroud of his umbrella. Tired eyes look up to the wheel, to Norman and Shard and the scene beginning to play out. There's evidence in his worried expression, and in Risa's silent yet pensive stare that they know what might happen today, but neither of them are aware of what might progress otherwise. So, perhaps at Cardinal's suggestive urging, or perhaps because they can smell which way the wind is blowing, they begin quietly making their way towards the perimeter fence.

"What?" Peyton says, her brow knitting together as she spins to see Magnes follow Shard. She turns and looks at Claire, before gripping the other girl's arm back tightly when the earth begins to move again under their feet. She cowers a little at the sound of thunder or something worse. "God, I just want to go home," she says. She longs to go back to the days when the Evolved and their struggles were something remote and separate from her, something she merely read about and didn't worry about. She begins to back away from the Ferris Wheel, uncertain of what Magnes is planning but not about to trust in any plan comprised of "jump in the air" as a strategy.

Helena has no idea what's going to happen today, but what she's seen so far, she doesn't like. She turns toward Delilah. "Dee," she says tightly, "We might want to try get get these kids…we may need to get them out of here. I can't tell what he's trying to do, but it feels like he's trying to sink the damn island." Shard is noticed, and White's people with him; she takes one final frantic span of view to try and locate McRae.

Delilah all but attaches to Helena throughout the rest of Norman's speech, including the interruptions from a couple sides. When the rumble grows louder and growls into thunder, it is a wonder that she does not squeeze Helena's hand right off. The redhead turns her face when the other young woman speaks, her expression gone from sour to an angry worry. "I know, but- It was too far away- what if he knocked something down-" Her voice barely has time to quiver before Delilah turns away from Helena again; this time, it's not glares for Norman- not technically. Hopefully she is close enough to the front to be heard.

"What have you done?" It is barely a step away from accusation, but rooted in wonder. It might catch on with the crowd, it may not. It also may or may not get her in some warm water. We'll see.

The shadow twists and leaps up the rusted bones of the aged and crumbling structure, painting it in hues of shade and dim here and there where it's crossed by the touch of Richard Cardinal, until it reaches a safe height; spilling into one of the carriages and out of sight as the guardians confront the expected threat to Norman White.

Shadow to flesh, even as the earth trembles and shakes, sending bolts and nuts of metal shrieking in protest before the shaking passes on, to whatever shore the man's power is focused upon. The darkly clad disciple of Edward Ray reaches into his jacket, drawing out a gift once given to him by a madman named Mortimer. A madman's present for a madman. It seems to fit. The pin is drawn, and he pushes himself up slightly, leaning over the edge to hurl the canister downward towards where White stands before the cameras, tumbling end over end through the air. As it travels, a tiny projectile in the night, Cardinal's already beginning to shift back into his incorporeal state once more.

"Peyton…" Claire starts with a touch of fear in her voice as the ground starts to rock.. "Go.. Get out of here." She shouts at the woman, giving her a small push behind her. The pair on Shard grab all of the tiny terrorist's attention, when they converge on him. The jacket is swept aside and her precious shot gun is brought out her shoulder. She doesn't even give them a warning, Claire starts shooting. A shot pegs one in the leg. More shots are made in hope they will either run or come after her. With hope, Shard will get the message to GO.

"What the … they're not …" Peyton begins when the shotgun comes out, but once Claire begins shooting, Peyton doesn't need to be told twice to leave. She gives a shake of her head. Maybe the woman with the baby was right — maybe all these people are lunatics. She takes off, weaving through the crowd, trying to put some distance between shotguns and the Ferris wheel and anything else that might cause her bodily injury if things go awry.

"What, so you're just gonna ignore the whole plagiarist thing? You can't sway a crowd when you're just barely using your own words. There's quoting, then there's getting a date with a girl using poorly edited quotes from Star Trek." Magnes explains over the speaker of his mic, possibly trying to discredit White, but also trying to offer Shard some distraction still. And what the hell was that tremer… and shotgun shots.

Shard is very quickly standing up as a man apparates next to him in a fit of — sparkles?! The brows of the rapper jerk up as if offended by the eccentricity of this poor boy's ability. "That's gotta suck, bro." King rumbles before his attention is snagged by the girl behind him. His arms raise up slowly as if conceding that he is indeed caught. "Alright. You caught me tryin' t'be stupid." King says with a bit of a goofy grin as if caught stealing a cookie or something. "But listen, I know this all sounds good right now, but you two, you aint usin' your heads you know what I'm sayin'? Blood revolution? This isn't the seventeen hundreds kids, we don't do that anymore." He gives a solemn look to 'Kris' and the girl in the track jacket.

A glare is sent over to Claire when a gunshot is heard. How many times has he said no guns!? A scowl is delivered to the shotgun toting girl, expressing more swear words than Shard has said for years. A scowl that promises there will be words later. "No guns!" The rapper bellows heatedly, waving an angry hand in Claire's direction. His eyes go to the downed Kris.

"Come on kid." And with that a gloved hand is seizing the kid and the two are catapaulted into the air. Shard's direction is to deposit the wounded Kris on a nearby roof, make sure he's not going to bleed to death and then get back to work. Luckily Shadowman may be giving him enough time to work with.

Uncertainty cloys the air like the reek of offal. Shit's getting out of hand: Norman White's passions come with more distinct flavor and crimson judgment than any of the Doctor's warm-up could have led his listeners to anticipate, and the groan and rumble in the distance calls to an imagination already pre-educated on the ins and outs of Norman White's ability. The ragtag band of Ferry babysittees begins to shred, to wisp away, pointed toward the gap in the perimeter fence by a swing of the one young man's arm, beating a retreat.

Things have gotten too hot.

Figuratively. Physically, the weather's getting colder, the kinesis choked out of the barometric particles as effectively as if God had wrapped His hands around all of them en masse and squeezed. Helena feels it first. Nicolas second, even before technical failure begins to hew away at the intricacy of wireless signals through the air. Air pressure fluxes, storm gathers. Lightning flickers, distorting the broadcast indirectly, gradually, but with ironclad intent.

The lone emissary out of McRae's lieutenants doesn't follow the rest of the flock to flee, though. No, he's coming forward, yanking his hood back with hooked fingers. He's white. Dark-haired, athletic, older than Carolina, his features stiff and his voice a minor absurdity of ebonics: "Vincent! Bra, get your ass down." He has no way of knowing, based on the limited array of detail that the rather vast and varied catalogue of self-proclaimed 'good guys' have on each other, that Claire's on Shard's side. Shotgun pellets spread. Shard's a cool cat. Chuckles listened to a lot of his music growing up.

There's no arcane gesture, no fuzzy visual artefact of preternatural movement or sudden fit of sparkles, sakura petals, or other decorative objects to signal the use of Chuckles' ability. Only a sudden wave of a swoon tanking the arterial pressure in the bodies that Shard sends flung up in the air, dissuading either rebel from immediate reciprocation and pinching short the spurt and seepage out of Kris' leg.

The moment gunshots ring out, the first person to be hit is Kris, the shotgun slug hits him in the leg in the way a hammer hits a mosquito. The massive spray of red and gore is accompanied by a howling scream in the moments it takes Claire to rack up another round, sending a smoking red shotgun shell spinning into the air. Kris staggers back and falls down to his side before there is a brigh red crackle-pop of his teleportation, and he's a few feet away. "Fuck! Ah— son'f— Oh God it hurts!"

Marina is able to react in the hair's breath of a moment when the shotgun sounds before the slug impacts her, moving into a lightning-quick burst of super speed as she dashes out of the way in a white blur of movement from the slug. Bending backwards and away from the shot, she snaps back into normal speed, whipping around to focus on Claire. "You little bitch!" But the cha-chack of Claire's shotgun racking another shell is the only response the tiny blonde offers, sending another smoking shell whirling out of the gun.

As Shard grabs Kris and picks him up, flinging him skyward along with himself and sets him down on the roof, the bleeding young man looks up at the Rapper with confusion through his blinding pain. Another crackle-pop comes from Kris' prone form and he's a few feet away from Shard on the roof, erratically flickering in and out of existance in bright ref flashes before finally returning to a solid state, still clutching his leg. But where he was laying a moment ago, there is a shotgun slut laying on the ground where Kris's bloody leg was, and now where he stands, clothing is shredded and blood covers his thigh, but the wound is— gone? "MARINA!" Kris shouts out across the boardwalk towards the direction of the Ferris wheel to the speedster in the running suit, "Marina we have to get White the fuck out of" Suddenly Kris staggers, holding on to his head, "W whh— " his eyes roll back and he stumbles to one side, dropping to a knee as his blood pressure rapidly drops. The dizziness and wooziness isn't just Kris' to suffer, but also Marina's as the speedster wobbles where she stands, slouching up against the railing by the lowest carraige. "U— unnh…"

In the distance, on the island of Manhattan that stands as a glittering beacon, some skyscrapers illuminated and others dark in the region of Midtown's gaping wound. But tonight, in the faint evening glow, Midtown is sent shuddering from a thundrous explosion of rock and stone. Visible here from Coney Island, a building just across the Brooklyn Bridge is a particular landmark to city goers. It is a forty-story tall white stone building capped with a statue of a golden flame — the Civic Flame statue. Tonight, that building sways left and right as if made of building blocks at the command of an angry toddler.

"Liberty!" White shouts at the top of his lungs as Cardinal's canister spins wildly through the air, rain bouncing off of it, below White balls his hands up into tight fists, "has been stolen from us! So, then, I shall remind them it is more than a symbol!" When White's hands open, when his fingers spread and open palms clap together, the entire Manhattan Municipal Building — offices of thousands of government workers and one of the central offices of Linderman-Act Registration in New York City, shakes for one last time before collapsing in one itself in a gigantic plume of stone dust and debris that all comes toppling down like a house of cards.

Just as Magnes' words ring out in the crowd and the canister overhead spins and whirrs as plates on the side open up. It falls down from Cardinal's perch before exploding a few feet above White, sending a powdery substance that glitters like silver raining down on him. The particles cling with their metallic fibers to his clothing, hair and skin, some shine of the glitter might also be glass fibers. The reaction is immediate, with White staggering to one side, beginning to scratch at his back, at his neck and face, "A— agh— " he stumbles back, slamming up against one of the metal support beams of the Ferris wheel atop the carriage, boots squeaking on the wet metal surface. "S— son of— argh!" Glaring upwards, White barely makes out Cardinal's form above through the rain and tears in his eyes from the chemical compound contained in that grenade. Worst of all, the rain isn't washing it off of his body.

The city shakes, and the cloud of dust and debris spreads out through Manhattan's financial district in an ever-growing wave only barely kept down by the torrential fall of rain. The newscasters both have turned their cameras on the collapsing building, speechless shock and horror on their faces as they witness the building coming down in the faint illumination of twilight. Soon after, skyscrapers around the collapsed building go dark as power grids are severed from the collapse, but as it looks like Norman's wrath was about to extend to the Linderman Building and its surrounding areas, the shaking and quaking comes to a stop, and White is left itching and staggering around, unable to control his ability as he fights to try and get the biting powder, metal slivers and glass shards off of his skin.

"Damnit… damnit!" Magnes exclaims to himself when he sees the large cloud of smoke, suddenly drawing a gun. He does the only thing he can think of when it seems like the man is somehow losing control, he draws a gun from his holster, crouches down to one knee to make himself smaller, and starts firing rapidly into White's direction. He's clearly going for a headshot, but with all the rain and dust from various sources, that might prove extremely difficult. "Damnit!"

As he hopes against hope that someone down in the crowd below acts before it's too late, Cardinal draws back from the carriage's edge, his moments of vulnerability ending as his masked, dark-garbed form washes back into shadow once more, lingering in the rusted lean of the ferris wheel's remnants surreptitiously.

Too much is happening too fast, as Helena whirls, spots the gunman - no, the gunwoman. Disbelief and anger war, but not now, because, "Oh my god," she breathes as the building in the distance falls. "Oh my god." All those people. Office workers, janitorial staff. Perfectly innocent folks feeling like they had to go in and do the right thing. She looks at Dee. "We have to try to help people get out of here, these kids," gestures at Phoenix's little chicks, "The reporters…and then oh my god, those people…" she turns and sets her teeth. "Claire." Firing into a crowd of people. Helena doesn't even know where to begin to direct her issues here.

Turns out that she was very right. Delilah turns to watch the distance when the sound echoes- eyes widening as the rumble turns into distant crashing and dust. Yes, yes, yes, moving on. Delilah grabs Helena by the wrist for a moment, tugging her into focus. "I'll get the kids." Her eyes flicker off towards the true baby birds. "You get the reporters out of here." There may be something in that reasoning to do with the fact they know Helena already. And a few other things stemming off of that. "Unless you don't care as much about the free media, I guess-" Delilah makes a half-cocked effort at being cute, only to steer herself away from Helena seconds later and run headlong for the remnants of whoever is left behind in terms of crowd- and wannabe Phoenix-, arms in the air as if she were herding actual chickens and voice calling out above much of the noises. Delilah can be very loud if she wants to be.

"Move it or lose it, chickies!"

The blonde shotgun wielding girl, doesn't stop cause of Shard yelling at her. — The shot wasn't a killing one, so she doesn't see it as wrong. — No it is the speedster's sudden wobbling reaction. Claire watches her confused for a moment, but then the itching power thing goes off and more gunfire goes off, she ducks a bit and pressing her back against the van. The young woman's eyes glances up at the ferris wheel and purses her lips. The shotgun is held at her side while she watches White, debating. Eyes glance for a familiar shadow on the wheel itself.

The stacatto pop pop pop of a shot from a nine-millimeter pistol rings out over the gunfire, and one of the rounds manages to strike Norman in the shoulder, spinning him around as he slams back up against the rusted girders that support the carriage. A pained scream erupts from Norman as a hand moves to clutch the bloody wound, eyes sharply focused over to the Slush-O stand Magnes is on, followed by an unfocused and completely out of control rumbling that shakes the entirety of Coney Island, The violent shaking is accompanied by a softening of the ground and a sloshing of the water below the boardwalk, and then a shimmy-shake of the building Magnes is perched on that causes his later shots to fly wide, ricocheting off of metal with bright sparks.

Chuckles. A friend, one Vincent tried to spread his metaphorical wing over inside Moab. And now he's being saved by the younger man. Shard is taking a few steps towards the attempted retreats of Kris, his eyes going towards Chuckles as he does so. Then he's looking back at Kris. "Easy brother. You're fine. We got you taken care of, naw. Just lay down and take a rest. You're going to be fine, now." Going to one knee Vincent slowly places his gloved hand on the boy's shoulder, going to lower him to the surface of the roof. "Just relax, you'll get out of here fine. But right now, I need something you have." Vincent's uncovered hand is slowly reaching up, and then ruffling the much younger man's head.

As soon as the familial gesture is made, Shard is disappearing in a flurry of effeminate sparkles. White sneakers slap against the platform surface as the rapper reappears very close to Norman, hood tossed back and shoulders lowered. "Norman—" A whole building sinks in the horizon which makes Shard practically stumble, his eyes widening. "I.." The slow badass determination Shard was wearing moments ago fades and is replaced with desparation, the disoriented and bumbling terrakinetic getting Shard's full and pathetic attention. "Norman, you have to make it stop. You're killing Evolved, you're killing good people." Shard takes a step forward reaching out… He could grab Norman and teleport him a hundred feet in the air, drop him and turn him into a pancake. He could teleport him a thousand leagues under the sea, he could… He should kill him. Right now. How many people just died in that simple strike? He could do it right now, end everything. His eyes flick over to the horizon, eyes slowly welling up. "Norman." Shard says in a more subdued voice, his eyes flicking to the side back to the giant of a man. He takes a breath, pausing for a moment. To say Shard has a little angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other is the world's biggest understatement. There are legions of tiny angels and devils warring on each other inside Vincent King.

Years of theology are put to the test in the matter of miliseconds. Is might right? Does God truly love every man equally? If so does this one truly deserve to die? How far does forgiveness go? Seven times seventy, Jesus had said but… Shard is feeling like White just came very close to hitting four hundred and ninety spiritual strikes. But maybe he can be changed, maybe the world can see that killing, that blood just isn't going to work. Killing White would only make him right. It would spur on his supporters, it would make bigger badder Norman Whites rise up from the dust. If he's going to beat White, he has to do it his way. Vincent's fists clench at his sides for just a moment.

"Chuckles!" Shard shouts as his gloved hand flies out to grab White by the sleeve.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Miss Wentworth shouts, "Clarke tell me you're getting this! For the love of God Clarke tell me this is transmitting!" With one hand trying to sheild herself from the rain and the driving wind, the Channel 4 news reporter stares upwards at the Ferris wheel, the gunfire and chaos. "Duncan!" She screams to the other cameraman, "Are you — " When she turns around to look at Duncan, Wentworth sees the plume of debris and the missing building on the Manhattan skyline. "Oh… oh my god."

"Ma'am…" Clarke murmurs, looking down at his camera, "This weather," his eyes flick up to her, "we're not getting shit out, and we're running on wireless feed only with these cameras, no film. I think the broadcast cut out right when the building dropped!" More gunfire and screams cause the cameraman to duck, eyes squinted against the now driving rain and bitter cold. "We need to get out of here!"

Panic quickly spreads amongst the onlookers, and Delilah's orders are the whip-crack of focus the teenagers in Phoenix-patched jackets needed to stop staring in shock at what is happening and begin to scramble away from the chaos in every direction. Screams rise up as what White intended as a show of solidarity and a triumph against corruption has become — again — a gunfire smeared bloodbath. The panicked scrambling of the crowd creates a stampede of people, some rushing the fence's broken areas to escape over the chain link, others scrambling away hand over foot through the cut opening in the fencing.

"Ma'am!" Duncan screams as he backs away from the Ferris wheel, "Ma'am we've gotta get the hell out of here!" Clarke nods in agreement, unshouldering his camera as he carries it by the handle. "Come on— they ditched our truck a couple of blocks away!" But Wentworth has her cell phone out, trying to get thorugh to call the police, rescue, someone.

All Lines Busy

"Wh— Shit." She blurts out at the phone, "Shit, shit, shit!" There's a hiss of breath, and Miss Wentworth pockets the phone and brushes past her crew as the fleeing crowd starts to swarm in their direction. "Let's go! Let's go!" The two cameramen are quick to follow behind Wentworth as she dashes towards the broken open section of fence away from the Ferris wheel and the remaining chaos happening.

There's another crackle-pop but this time it's from Shard as he grabs White and brings him bodily towards where Chuckles stands at the base of the Ferris wheel. Unused to the power of Kris' teleportation, the sudden and jarring movement molecule-by-molecule of the young man's ability on Norman seems to wrack the enormous man with further pain. He staggers to one side, wet clothing slipping out of Shard's grip as he lands back on the ground with a hard thump, and the ground begins to tremble and quake more from the uncontrolled usage of the terrakinesis. There is a sound — not the splitting of stone — but the groan of bending steel as the old, decrepit Ferris wheel can take no more abuse. It wobbles, like a top-heavy toddler, and begins to careen downwards towards Claire, Shard, Chuckles and White. Marina, barely, is able to get her head clear as she vanishes in a blur of sudden speed away from the looming shadow, and that very shape Claire was scanning is now very slowly toppling towards her.

As people scatter, Peyton lets herself get pulled with the crowd, darting through the path made by a person larger than herself — she'll run until she gets to safety, wherever that is. Is any place safe in this world? She doesn't know what is happening to Shard or Claire or Magnes or Cardinal, but then, they seem equipped and eager to deal with chaos of this type. She is equipped to drink shots and do pot or go to red carpet previews or hold the hair of one of her celebrity friends while they throw up in a toilet. Earthquakes and explosives and rifle blasts aren't on her resume.

Magnes begins flying in White's direction when he begins shaking the island, but once the ferris wheel begins to fall, and he spots Claire right in its path, he sheathes his gun and dives directly down for her, intending to swoop in and lift her into the sky. Healer or not, he refuses to let his girlfriend be crushed by a carnival ride.

Chuckles is at attention. It's pretty hard to ignore a rap star hero and old prison-mate Sailor Mooning out of nowhere with a mass-murderer princessing along in his arms for the ride, isn't it? It's harder still to ignore that there's—

—a ferris wheel —

He remembers the solar eclipse. It was a little like this. Darkness in a sudden wave, biting out the maudlin, diluted light filtered through the sky and the density of atmosphere. Chuckles' concentration divides, peeling fiber away from fiber like shredding paper, half of him retaining level-headedness enough to psychically soothe White down to sleep even as the rest of him rolls the whites of his eyes upward and bursts shrieky, incoherent static at his impending demise. 'No guns,' Shard had said. Chuckles Delgado is used to guns.

Thinking of all the times that she teased Liz about being Chicken Little, now the sky is falling…sort of. Helena takes a second to register - yeah, the reporters are all gone - did she see Carolina somewhere in the crowd? Either way, she seems content to let the reporters make their own way to the street, and instead, "This way!" to Dee and her clutch of nestlings, out of the path of the carousel, away from all this. There's not much to be done here, save to note in the back of her mind, she's going to be speaking to Claire, real soon.

Eyes widen slightly and she glances over at the others caught in the path of the ferris wheel, she is more concerned for them then herself. She'll be crushed sure… but not the first time. The shotgun is let go as she yells "Shard! Get out of there!" Then she turns quickly, something tells her she should. Her hands come up when she sees Magnes start to fly her way. "No!!" She doesn't want him getting killed trying to save her.

"Put him to sleep Delgado. Now!" Shard's screaming mostly becomes white noise as the creaking and groaning of metal drowns out every other sound. And it's looming figure blots out the rest of the world. A shallow exhale is let out, remarkably is one of the only things Shard can hear. Despite that he is still yelling at Chuckles to 'hurry up' and 'put him out' He stands very still as the ferris wheel comes down for them, his eyes slowly taking in the nestling White like a bear going into hybernation. Another breath.

It is then that it actually sinks in that he is about to be killed by a carnival ride, and it is then that it sinks in that so is Chuckles Delgado and Norman White. In the briefest of thoughts, it is justified that being his own doing, Norman White would essentially be killing himself and while Vincent would not support that he couldn't stop someone from doing it. Well, not in this circumstance at least. Chuckles however is a different matter.

White sneaks dig into the dirt as Shard's shoulders are lowering and then plowing into Chuckle's torso, his arms being flung around the former prison-mate. And right before they are met with a colorful and family friendly death: Sparkles!

The sudden crackle-pop of Shard's teleportation sends he and Chuckles Delgado bodily ripping through space in a whirl of superheated molecules. The pair crash down on the ground sixty feet away as the Ferris wheel comes creaking and groaning down towarda and ultimate collapse. Unconscious, White lays motionless, until Marina spots his prone form laying there on the boardwalk where the wheel is threatening to collapse. "Norman!" She shrieks out, turning into a flash of white as she rips across the wood planks, slinging one of Norman's arms over her shoulder as the shadow of the Ferris wheel grows larger and larger.

On his way to intercept Claire, the wheel comes crashing past Magnes in a gigantic depression of enormous weight that sends him spiraling out of control as the gust of wind following it drafts outwards. The last thing Magnes sees, is the flash of white energy from Marina's super-speed kicking in, and the ratta-tat clunk of her shoes peeling off over the boardwalk, before the entire Ferris wheel comes crashing down on the boardwalk and atop Claire Bennet.

The wood splinters, the boardwalk shatters and thousands of wooden splinters are fired up into the air as a tidal-wave ripple along the boards surges from the site of impact. A groaning creak of twisting metal comes as the cages collapse and the iron beams bend and break, tearing down an enormous section of the boardwalk and sending it smashing down into the sea — with Claire along with the debris.

A plume of dust blasts out along with tiny flinders of wood, blowing over where Shard and Chuckles lay. The rapper's body becomes a shield from the wood splinters and dust as he protectively covers the man who's life he just saved, and only Magnes truly bore witness to Norman White's hyper-speed escape thanks to the black speedster.

On one of the adjacent roofs, Kris struggles to his feet, seeing the Ferris wheel collapsed and neither Marina nor White anywhere in sight. "Oh— Oh fuck— oh fuck oh shit shit fuck!" Panic sets in, and the young man paws at the side of his head, backing up with eyes wide as he sees the sea of people running away from the scene, the rain coming down in hard sheets, and the truck that they had driven out behind the Ferris wheel collapsing into the east river along with the rest of the boardwalk as section by section, it starts to break apart.

"Damnit!" Kris spits out, and there's a pinkish-red crackle-pop as he disappears in a fireworks display of sparkling light, out of sight and out of mine, save for the glittering lights and fading silhouette of red energy he leaves behind in the air.

Dust settles, the crowd shattered, the wind in chaos of signals and reeling camera footage, leaving the silence settling and stagnating-dust caked like too much foundation over Chuckles' face and Shard's, reducing the difference in their complexion down nearly to nothing. It's an awkward state that they find themselves in. The eerie aftermath of wanton physical destruction but a stone's throw away, the rapper with his muscled arms around the younger man, Chuckles sweating from the excess heat runoff of teleportation, his heart drubbing a wild anthem into Shard's pectoral. He blinks blearily in the blur and streak of unremittant rain.

"We leavin' this part of the story out when I tell it to my guisa," he rasps. "All right, ruco?" Coughs.

When the dust settles, when the last piece of debris from the Ferris wheel clatter-clinks away from the slouched remains settled down on the ruined boardwalk, the aftermath of what has happened hasn't quite sunk in yet. The terrible peal of sirens in the distance aren't coming here to Coney Island, but rather headed off and away towards Manhattan, where a plume of dust is still rising up high into the air despite the heavily falling rain.

A large section of the Astroland boardwalk sinks into the east river, leaving a jagged fringe of broken wood where the collapse stops, several buildings having toppled over from the quake, and the remainder of the damage being tied to the Ferris wheel's collapse. The makeshift broadcasting truck fell down into the water with the shaking, and most of the onlookers have fled into the streets beyond the amusement park, leaving the terrified survivors to speak of what they saw.

But some of this — some of the truth — got out to the mass media, White's speech and the aftermath of his destructive act will be seen by millions across the world. This moment here was exactly what Norman wanted, in a way, a tinder to ignire the conflict of distrust and resentment against a government that has wronged him.

Now that he's started this ball rolling, there's a wonder if anything could stem the tide of a genetically charged civil war from coming.

Adam believes he had something to do with all this, and some things that are to come from this, but he disapproves of what transpired tonight. Quite far away, he's standing atop an SUV with binoculars, they're neato binoculars too, the kind you might buy from weapons dealers with night vision and everything and he's watched this all transpire. There is a frown on his features as he can't be sure if he really saw a blur before the Ferris wheel dropped on Norman White.

And if Norman White's dead, a lot of things he did or is doing will have been for nothing. He pulls the binoculars down as people begin to scatter, escape and scatter and shakes his head. "Just once." he comments to probably his men, but mostly to karma, "Just once, can't we have one of these meetings where a man declares his opposition to the world and just have it end in tea and scones? I mean really, this is just ridiculous." he looks to one of the men and tells him, "Napoleon got to waltz after his coronation." he shakes his head in disgust, "Times are a'changing indeed."

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