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| Scene Title | Makes Civil Hands |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An escape turns into reclamation within hours of an unseen destruction. |
| Date | August 29, 2011 |
Massachusetts: A Motorway!
«How're we looking up there?»
A chopper is beating its way through the sky, the crackle of the radio heard in helmets and earpieces and receivers and also Noa Gitelman in probably better quality than any of them. It's a thread of dialogue she's been following for the past hour, now, in the small unit of Ferrymen's hunt for escapees, allies or not, and it's well into the night before they're able to engage. By then, nearly everyone has been rounded up or sent on transports to other corners of the state, or even other states. Nearly everyone.
«Last hostile sighting was ten minutes back but we lost 'em. Contact dropped with the scouts, we've called in for back up. We think she crossed the motorway, but we're confirming that on the CC TV.»
«Just get people out there.»
Huruma has more than with what she started. Boots, from a man freshly killed. A kevlar vest fitted over her hospital gown. An automatic rifle and one clip more of ammunition shoved into a strap. The sun has long since sunk and physically, she will be tired, even as her negation begins to cycle over in wearing off and liven up her senses in slow, sluggish realisation, and it's by the light of a bright moon that she is forced to traverse through the brushy bramble of neglected rural land just on the side of the motorway. It's not the wild jungle or the endless savannah that one can get lost in, just an unkempt bit of land that will end in city or suburbia by the time she's slithered through it. She can hear the helicopter in the sky, and the night is warm.
The best hope of those that pursue her for better reasons than a tranq dart would be that of following her other pursuers. Huddled by the motorway, the small team of Ferrymen and allies will see the oh so familiar black van made famous by this administration by disappearing people into it pull up on the asphalt. Police have cut off access while the manhunt continues, and so the normally busy highway— even at this hour— is all but abandoned save for the white suited Retrievers piling out of it. There are six in all, checking their weapons and waiting for each other, before they move to head into the sparse forest on the other side of the road.
To follow or to attack seem to be the two options. In the radio is Nora's waiting instruction, where she and Benji Ryans Jnr. hang back and ready in the vehicle that will save them from any more running.
Crouched low, Edgar nods toward the rest of the party. He's staying a little further away from the main huddle, his reasoning being his pokey bits and he has a lot of them. Knives carefully concealed around his thighs, back, and torso double as scale armor in the manner they are arranged. The rest of his outfit consists of the same old corduroys, black t-shirt, workboots, and a shoddy leather jacket liberated from someone at the Dispensary. Probably Ethan.
"I'll go out a'ead," he murmurs to Nick, assuming that he's a little more in charge than the speedster himself. What he doesn't mention is that he's staying clear of the van and white suits on purpose. He's not afraid, he's careful. "I can pro'bly find 'oo they're lookin' fer faster'n they can."
Tense, wary, and watchful, Nick's eyes narrow as he regards the Retrievers spill out of the van. Though he holds a rifle for range shooting — a bit awkwardly thanks to the cast on his wrist — most know he'd prefer the handgun tucked in his waistband. When Edgar speaks, he gives a slight nod of agreement, before adding his words of warning. They're neither profound nor helpful, as everyone here knows the dangers: "Don't get negated. S'all right with you, Ryans?"
The young man looks to the senior Ryans, one brow ticking up with the query as he regards the future grandfather of his own future child, both of whom he is taking direction from in this mission.
Ever the silent, brooding type, the telekinetic known as Griffin Mihangle isn't too far from Edgar, arranged off to the side a bit. He's been brooding quite a bit, lately, since he discovered that his pregnant wife, Nadira, is in E-ville. He is in armory mode once more: at his hips are his two handguns stolen from an ex friend of his wife, and several knives are hidden over his person, along with the kevlar vest to protect his vitals. The rest is complimented by dark pants, hiking boots, and dark pants.
A glance is cast toward Edgar, then Nick. "I'll hold the front, after Edgar." This is grunted out just loud enough for the others to hear, white eyes focused on what lies ahead with a cold look to them. If necessary, he will be quite happy to tear some of those people apart. Perhaps with a smile on his face.
The temperature-controlled atmosphere that Huruma has been living in- like some caged creature, no less- does not wholly prepare her for the world of fresh air and the feel of her skin cooling in the late August night. It is warm, and only so. The nothing in her head left over from her keepers is only now beginning to fade, and she would not hesitate to attribute it to adrenaline, and active limbs. No challenge to take advantage of the chaos, and flee; however, she found out soon enough that there would be no-one outside the facility to intercept her as she'd hoped. It may be too foolish to have hoped so.
The boots protect her feet, and the vest and gown her torso- there is nothing to prevent cuts and scratches from appearing on her arms and legs, as she moves through the thickest part of the makeshift grove. The fluttering in her head is coming back, much to her relief, but having nothing to test its mettle proves a distraction. Well- nothing- for that moment where it comes to mind. Her ears catch the warbling of radios before her flinching ability catches onto them, and when she hears this and sees the shift of LED lights, the tall woman crouches down in the dark with the rest of the brush. The same rules apply here as any other bit of wood, she surmises.
With one hand to hold onto the rifle, Huruma uses her other as a guide to pry a path through the tangle, keeping wide as best she can. It proves difficult- there is not a load of space to begin with. At the very least, she is able to reach them with the further points of her ability. While she cannot and dares not try to use something forceful just yet, she is able to plant seeds of doubt, and of wariness, before finding herself pinned behind a thick mess of a berry bush, prickly and webbed with cocoons. Huruma won't fire in such close quarters- not when she is not at her best. Best to be cautious, even though her lungs are burning and she struggles to keep from fidgeting.
Though he doesn't know the speedster well, Benjamin can only take Nicks word on the man. "That's fine." Is rumbled from a spot near Nick, where he peers out cautiously. A rifle held for the assault, he watches the scene grimly. Of course, he does that a lot. Watch grimly that is.
He only takes those blue eyes off the scene long enough to nod a go ahead to Edgar, as if the words are not enough. "Just be careful." He sighs heavily and glances out into the woods where the retrievers may be going. "Rest of you, take out what you can as quickly as you can before the gas gets too thick." Cause there is bound to be some. Lucky for him and Nick… Yellow gas doesn't apply.
There is no attention given to the plotting and scheming going on on the other side of empty motorway. The Retrievers are hauling over the waist-tall metal railings, too practiced and athletic to be completely hindered by their all over uniform, breathing aparatus and various weaponry, and they trickle into the night-time forest without particular requirement for flashlights that would give away their position, goggles plastered onto their faces and set to view the world in highlit green and shifting shadows. For now, the only concern the Ferry has is too many too quickly getting under cover of the forest before they can move.
It is the police that are Huruma's immediate concern, crunching closer, if blessedly ignorant of her actual position — but their eyes are thorough and dutiful, their voices ebbing into the span of her hearing. "…mental patients, apparently. I read an article about that, that being Evolved can, you know, mess up your brain chemicals."
"You get that off the Internet?"
"Well, may— hey, hold up."
And they fall silent, but it's impossible for Huruma to tell, from her vantage point, exactly what they spotted — only that they keep moving, slower, and have all but silenced themselves.
"You'll only slow me down," the speedster says to Griffin, assuming the telekinetic is wanting to play follow the leader. Almost instantaneously after Ryans' nod, Edgar is gone.
He cuts the long way around the freeway, giving wide berth to the van and its former occupants. Before the smell of fear, there's an overwhelming anger that only three people in the forest can feel. The first is Huruma, of course. The second is the police officer that is currently being exposed to the worst of it through knife play. The third being the emotional creature himself.
Not fond of the law in any capacity and especially not fond of those doing any hunting, the carnie stops in front of the first officer.. the one familiar with the internet.. but his arms don't slow any. Deep slices through cloth, flesh, meat, and bone appear on the man in angled lines. Tendons at the elbows and knees are first to go, then begins the work on the torso and throat.
From her vantage point, Huruma might be able to see a few sprays of blood.
Ryans earns a nod from Nick, who glances to the others. "G'luck, mate," he tells the speedster — or more accurately, the puff of wind ruffling his hair where Edgar had been standing. He shakes his too-long hair out of his eyes in order to target the furthest of the six Retrievers, following the man's actions for a moment with the barrel of the tracing the man's path before squeezing the trigger to let fly a volley of bullets — the first shots are always the easiest since it takes a moment for the enemy to register where they came from; none of the following will be as simple.
Best to make it count.
The white-eyed telekinetic watches Edgar disappear, rolling his eyes. "Wasn't going to follow." He shakes his head slowly, before pulling out his own gun, taking aim and following Nick's example, sending bullets scattering toward the nearest of the Retrievers with narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. Slowly, four of the knives he has hidden on his person begin to pull themselves from their sheathes, before coming to hover around him.
What Edgar does is effectively shaking the bag of treats for Huruma's ears only- she becomes momentarily enthralled- out of relief and interest- with the bursts of emotion, before she seems to realize where they are coming from. Shots fire in the near distance, and they help bring her back; when Huruma regains her mental bearings, she is already on her feet and bursting her way through a knot of plants, and over a cracked sapling.
The dark woman comes down heavy on the second officer as her apparent assistance finishes the first. He's turned, to either look toward the shots or to his partner- thankfully, Huruma doesn't care. Something cracks when she plows him into the ground- and if her hand were not scraping for purchase over his mouth, he might scream from the pain in his ribs. Huruma's hand does move, and he tries- but instead, her hands have wrapped around his neck, somewhere between suffocation and force, either waiting for that last rattle, or that last satisfying snap.
There is subtle uptick of one of Ben's brows as Edgar blurs off to do whatever he's doing. He reaches up to resettle his head loosened a bit by the gist of air stirred up. "Get your licks in while you can. He might not leave much."
Sounds morbid, but it's not like he has any love for Institute types. Falling silent, Ryans brings the rifle to his shoulder and adds his own burst of bullets to the fray.
There's a muffled yell when bullet spray slices like an axe through the back-thigh meet of the closest Retriever, the white figure toppling over metal railing to roll as the others immediately react. Gunfire is deafening and sudden, bullets gone wild pinging off the side of the van and finding kevlar and body parts to puncture. Two are down, beneath the aim of Nick and Griffin, another spun benearth Ryans' assault and one disappearing onto his stomach while the other two are swift to take cover — one behind the van, standing where fat tire shields his feet as well, the other disappearing into the dark forest at a run.
Immediately, return gunfire sings out, a rifle leveled against the metal railing using as quasi-cover, and another volley cracking from the trees from the other's retreat. The two left still uninjured make a run for it as well, one wielding a silver cannister that his gloved hand fidgets with.
Meanwhile, two dead policemen fall to the floor, one bleeding from violent lacerations, one strangled and broken. Their radios are jammed and fritzing at their belts, as with communications for the Retrievers.
The sound of the gun fight echoes loud enough that Edgar and Huruma may as well be standing in the middle of it, for all that they aren't.
"Fancy meetin' you again in a place like this, Cousin," is the cordial greeting from the carnie when the bloodshed and bone crunching is done. "I'd sing sumthen about savin' the day bu' I'll keep et 'til we're well away frum 'ere." He wipes a line of crimson drops into a diagonal smear on his face, something like warpaint. The two kukri in his hands are wiped against the sleeves of the leather jacket before once again sheathed in their proper places at his back.
One hand is extended to the empath and he nods toward the noise from the motorway. He might be shorter than the giant woman but she can feel the confidence flowing through him as strong as the anger just seconds before. "I ain't a freighter by no means, bu' I can give you a lift as far as my brothers out there." And sisters… but they're in the car keeping the engine warm.
As metal pings against metal, Nick stays low behind the guardrail, sending another spray of bullets toward the men that lie on the ground and then raising up like a meerkat for a better angle to send bullets flying toward those trying to retreat into the woods.
"Oy, speedy, which direction are you? You find the bird yet?" Nick speaks into his radio to determine if giving chase to the retreating Retrievers is worth pursuing, or if they should get the hell out of dodge.
Holding his rifle in front of him, he slowly begins to rise from his crouch, indicating to Ryans and Griffin he means to move around the side of the van.
Gritting his teeth, Griffin does as indicated, three of the knives sliding back into their hiding spots. He scatters a few bullets at the trees in the direction of the man, but his real focus isn't on shooting — it's on reaching out with four of those invisible arms of telekinetic energy to violent grab the closest of the enemy, his eyes glimmering faintly.
He's in a particularly good mood for ripping someone apart, and it may as well be the first bad guy he can get his hands on.
"I am sure you'ave a lovely voice, mpenzi." Huruma's voice, though the same as ever, comes out with a slight puff of air behind it. As if she had been holding part of one back. Less out of need and more out of fellowship, she lifts her hand to take his by the wrist, and let him give her something to pull herself up with. Maybe she did need it- a little- but she'd never say that. If she can't trust him to do that, well- she has nobody better to trust.
Huruma readies the rifle under her grip again, keeping low as shots keep moving around and through the patch of green. "Point and I will follow." Her eyes turn up to scan through leaves, fluttering shapes against what she can see of the sky. Her ability folds out like an indolent beast, sprawling its way back across her consciousness.
Only half listening for an answer from the speedster, Ryans goes about reloading. A magazine clatters to the ground, but quickly retrieved and stuffed in a coat pocket — can't waste things like that — to be replaced with a fresh one. Ben slaps it in with a clack, and glances at the other two.
There is a single nod from the old man as Nick rises to his feet. Hopefully, the young man knows that means Ryans has him covered. When the kid moves, the former Company man comes up enough to spray the other side of the road with short bursts of gun fire to draw attention and keep the enemy busy allowing the other to get where he needs to go.
Before Edgar can fully reply to Nick, a female voice comes tinny down the line, sounding in all earpieces, Huruma left out for virtue of not having the equipment herself. «When you're moving out, head south down the motorway.» It's Nora's voice, sounding distracted, concentrating. «Stay off of the road. There's a turn off point, go down it and we'll pick you up there. Move fast — I put them on the wrong track but they'll figure it out.»
The one with the cannister is gunned down, falling broken amongst the forest ground and muffled screaming into his mask. He twists just in time to see his colleague suddenly yanked up and back by something invisible, and with a last fumbling motion, he rips the plug out of the cannister and hurls it adrenalised out onto the motorway, the sound of it clattering on the asphalt ringing out as yellow smog begins to belch and fill the air, whorling as the other Retriever is dragged through it in preparation to be ripped to pieces.
As Nick moves up on the van, but it's the sound of Ryan's gunfire that has the attention of the Retriever on the other side. He moves to angle around the vehicle and send a return spray of bullets right back, the barrel of the weapon clear in Nick's vision.
Answering Nick? Too slow. Huruma following behind? Too slow. Listening to Nora — almost. When the giant woman delivers her instructions, Edgar gives a quick shake of his head and yanks her up, "Sorry Miss, et's easier this way." There's a high speed swing of her arm and she finds herself up around his shoulders in a fireman carry.
Edgar's not as romantic as Edward.
Following Nora's advice to the letter, the speedster zips through the trees with all the grace and dexterity of a Twilight vampire. «Moving, we'll be at your location» Edgar says into the radio, " now" but finishes in front of the vehicle the two time travellers occupy. He dodges to the right, his right (the passenger side of the vehicle), and finally sets the empath down in an unceremonious dump on her feet. «Birds in the nest, safe 'n sound,» is the late reply to Nick.
As gunfire sprays from one side of the van, the barrel visible, Nick runs toward the other side with quick, weaving footsteps. He can only hope that the gunman is focusing on Ryans and doesn't see the Doc Martens on the asphalt as they cross the length of the van.
Wrapping around the opposite bumper, Nick takes a breath there, somewhat covered and shielded, to steady his hands and breathe. He readjusts his grip on the weapon before slowly letting the barrel's nose peek around the corner, finger pulsing on the trigger as soon as he has a target in his sights.
Griffin can't help the somewhat…sadistic smile that crosses his face as he fetches one of the Retrievers through the yellow smog, drawing back away from any chance of being harmed by it. Six telekinetic hands grip the fellow who was unfortunate enough to be caught in Griffin's talons, raising him up high enough for his fellow Retrievers to see what is sure to result.
Venting a great deal of frustration in the violent act, the telepath sneers as flesh and bone are pulled in ways they were not meant to pull. What results is a shower of five pieces of Retriever scattering to the ground; briefly, where the man met his fate, disembodied hands stained with blood hover in the air, before those disappear into the putrid yellow smog. The cannister is sent flying back in the direction of the Retriever it came from, to ensure that none of it hits the Evolved present.
Huruma doesn't like being dragged about. At least, not by Edgar. Though she protests with a growl that echoes down through her stomach, she has no better reason to not let him tow her out of there. It might leave her a little dizzy at the end, when he sets her down on her boots again. The tall woman plants her hands behind her when she teeters into the side of the getaway car. She hisses something undiscernible at him, before it gets to something he understands.
"I am not a bird. Do not manhandle me." (Without asking first.) Because that sort of thing is incredibly important. Only now does Huruma have a second to look over and see who exactly Edgar has brought her to.
«Thank you Nora. Time for retreat.» Better to start making their way out, then keep sitting there. Besides, it seems most are down, to the Special Activities co-head. «Edgar, if you can. Make sure we don't have stragglers we don't see trying to follow.»
He catches sight of the canister flying out of the corner of his eye as he sends another volley across the way. Shifting his footing as he readies for the fast get away, once Nick does his thing. «Just be careful of the gas. There is a canister down.» Ben doesn't doubt the speedster knows what he means.
On the other side of the car, Benji pops up like a meercat, expression bright and watchful, hands set on the roof of it as she glances over Edgar, focuses on Huruma. "You're alright!" she exclaims breathlessly, relief apparently enough to wind her before she turns her clear, worried look back to the speedster. "Is— oh, never mind, go on." Questions later, and if Nick isn't alright, then asking Edgar won't make much difference — and the difference between Nick's alrightness and non-alrightness might be the difference in stopping to answer. She instead moves around the car, opening up a door for Huruma, but from the look of her, the last thing she needs is for someone to coddle her the rest of the way home.
She's gotten this far on her own.
If there are any stragglers, they find their radios unusable and most of their men down. Smarter to disengage from the crazy Evolved terrorists, because there isn't any back up coming and the helicopter is off in the wrong direction. Just one man, mask abandoned and gun gripped in two hands, fleeing through the bramble as if he were one of those he is employed to hunt.
There's a quick nod to Benji before there's nothing left of Edgar but whirlwind of leaves and other debris. The nod could be for anything, really, it's mostly because the speedster is just impatient to leave. He doesn't skirt the edge of the cloud, he stays far far away from it as he runs through the trees in a bid to cut the lone straggler off. Witnesses are bad, witnesses with access to yellow gas is worse. This is a lesson that Edgar knows all too well.
He zig zags through the wooded area with a practiced grace, knives coming out and held at the ready. The last man in white is met with a grin smirk and a quip as intelligent as Edgar is able. "Any'un tell you i' ain't good teh bring a gun to a knife figh'?" It's the only thing the speedster says before slicing one of the kukri through the fellow's neck, beheading him. «Last man down, I'll run ahead teh make sure the way's clear.» Edgar's way of telling the rest of them that Huruma can have his place in the getaway car.
The last man gunned down, Nick takes a moment to grab the weapons he can from the fallen; the Ferry needs as many as they can get. When Edgar's voice cuts through he looks to Ryans, assuming Griffin and Edgar will find their way in from where they are finishing their killing sprees. "Let's get," he says amiably enough, and he nods in front of him for Ryans to go ahead toward the get away, moving to take the rear and cover the older man if he needs to.
When they get to the rendezvous point, he flashes a somewhat uncertain smile at Benji, Nora, and Huruma, blue eyes flitting over their faces. "Good to see you," he tells the former Institute prisoner, tone dry but sincere.
He wants to hunt down that last man, rip up a second person into pieces…but instead, Griffin turns, floating with blood-stained vectors over to the vehicle with a cold look on his face. He doesn't feel any better, but it was satisfying to leave his mark. In any case…it appears that the speedster has the straggler taken care of.
As Griffin reaches the van, the 'hands' disappear, sending droplets of blood spattering to the ground. Once the others are loaded in, he climbs in himself, silent as can be.
Huruma tries to not be so surprised that it does turn out to be Benji and his ilk. Time has been a decent enough friend, apparently, as has wishful hoping. Huruma resigns to the door being popped for her, and she all but falls right in. A bit worse for wear, breath-wise, but that seems to be all. "More than alright." She finally replies, for Benji's sake, taking the moment she has in the vehicle to pry free the suddenly constricting kevlar from over the hospital garb.
When the others get to them, Huruma has to force herself to remain stoic; it's not that she's never been saved before, no, just that it was never as graceful. Her attempt is valiant. Silent, honest gratitude wins out, writing itself in the shadows of her face and the steel in her eyes.
Huruma tries to not be so surprised that it does turn out to be Benji and his ilk. Time has been a decent enough friend, apparently, as has wishful hoping. Huruma resigns to the door being popped for her, and she all but falls right in. A bit worse for wear, breath-wise, but that seems to be all. "More than alright." She finally replies, for Benji's sake, taking the moment she has in the vehicle to pry free the suddenly constricting kevlar from over the hospital garb.
When the others get to them, Huruma has to force herself to remain stoic; it's not that she's never been saved before, no, just that it was never as graceful. Her attempt is valiant. Silent, honest gratitude wins out, writing itself in the shadows of her face and the steel in her eyes.
He'll gladly take point, hurrying along at a good pace. Benjamin the older wants to get back to the get away vehicle, quickly. Well, quickly and cautiously. Maybe he wants to check on the rescued woman himself.
In fact, Huruma will feel the worry probably before she sees Ryans. The old man arriving at the car, stating, «Good job Nora. Benji…. everyone.» There is no moving to hug her like he would one of his girl, but his eyes give her a quick once over, checking Huruma for injuries. And while his face doesn't show it, there is a wash of relieve and genuine gladness that she's there. She was missed. "Huruma." He motions to the vehicle and doesn't get in til she does.
All in all, it was a good mission. No one was hurt and they found someone they thought lost. A small victory for the good guys in his mind.