The Future of Terror


abby6_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif griffin_icon.gif magnes_icon.gif megan_icon.gif

Scene Title The Future of Terror
Synopsis During a routine patrol through the forests south of Pollepel Island, the Ferry encounters an opportunity that cannot be passed up.
Date January 10, 2011

South of Pollepel Island

Sleet falls in icy sheets, draping the dense forest on the threadbare hills several miles south of Pollepel Island in pale, stagnant fog and creates a grainy texture that ripples on the surface of the Hudson River, visible from the ridge along which five figures swathed in dark colours move on horseback, veiled by the mist. It's miserable weather to be patrolling in, but it could always be worse.

They could be trekking through a snowstorm. Below them, Breakneck Road winds its snaking way parallel to the river; one of the advantages to having horses is that the Ferrymen are not restricted to the pavement and gravel causeways that their enemies and their drab-coloured military trucks are. They can cut through the gnarled brush, wade through shallow streams and navigate the woodland without leaving a single bootprint that Colonel Heller can trace back to them.

Dressed in her wool and leathers, Eileen Ruskin and her mare move at an easy pace a few meters ahead of the others to keep a comfortable amount of distance between the animals and ensure that their formation remains spread out. The rocks on the ridge are loose, and the earth beneath them is less likely to give way if they distribute their weight across a larger area.

When she stops, it's with a toss of her mare's head and a low snort that curls vapour from its flaring nostrils. She raises a gloved hand a moment later, gesturing for her companions to do the same.

Megan's dark clothing is suited to the outdoors as well. A layer of thermal underclothing is helping matters immensely, though the drizzle is miserable. Her copper hair is pinned up under the brimmed hat she wears to keep the water off her face, and the warm leather coat she's got keeps her upper half dry at least. Even if the denim-clad legs are wet above her boots. The hand signal from Eileen has her pulling her mount to a stop to listen carefully.

A gentle tug on the reigns, Abby's own bay mare stops at her silent directions, a little down from the avian telepath and glancing over the ridge and down, seeing what made one of the patrollers call for a stop. It's really crappy weather, sleet sticks to everything, like her jeans, the heavy jacket, the same hat that Megan wears on her own head. But she's been good at keeping herself warm in the time that they've been out, though she'll be ravenous when she finally gets back to the Island. One of the others on the Island had backed out and she needed to get away from the castle and get some fresh air. Even if the fresh air was wet and thick. Abby's hands curl around the reigns holding tight for a moment, ready to get the rifle if she needs to.

It's rather romantic, really, riding through the trees on the back of a white stallion. Certainly not a place Griffin thought he would ever be, and yet here he is. He wears plenty of layers, and a heating pack is wrapped around his bad knee to assist with the biting cold that snaps at his fingers and toes, despite the thick clothing that covers him. A thick black Carheart rests over his shoulders, and he wears thick gloves and boots. Still, the cold brings out little aches and pains that he'd rather not feel.

As Eileen comes to a halt, Griffin does as well, several paces from the woman. He pulls gently on the reigns, watching as the horse bounces a little, steam rolling out of its nose as heated air mingles with cold air. It does much the same for Griffin, who watches Eileen with raised brows, even as he gently pats the horse's shoulder.

Unbeknownst to Abigail Beauchamp, Magnes came to the island to plan for a surprise party, knowing he'll have to leave town soon and needs to get on the planning a bit early. But since he's here, he offered to patrol with the others. He's in a pair of black cargo pants with a black fleece and black sneakers, dressing darkly just in case. Sleet seems to decide to turn in the opposite direction when it gets too close to him, so all he has to worry about is the annoyingly cold air. "This reminds me of Argentina, except not humid, and without the being hunted part."

Eileen turns her head enough to show Magnes a sliver of her profile, the corner of her mouth turned down into a frown and a solitary curl of brown-black hair plastered to her cheek. She disagrees with him — about the not being hunted. "Down there," she says, indicating to the road below with a lift of her chin. Above them, a speck of snowy white blurred against charchoal gray clouds, a lone gyrfalcon lets out a shrill cry of alarm that cuts sharp through the dull roar of the wind in the ears. The truck comes into view a moment later, rounding the corner at a speed several miles above the posted limit. This partisan territory, and slowing down is a luxury.

Out here, the Ferrymen are more dangerous than the weather. Flanking the truck on either side are two motorcycles, each with its own sidecar, but at this distance details are difficult to make out. "Abigail, binoculars. Tell us what you see."

She hasn't seen a sidecar on a motorcycle in ages. Movies maybe? Who knows. But Eileen's birds are showing something and they can see the truck from up top. At her request, Abigail's undoing the top of her jacket, fishing out the black binoculars so that she can lift them up, adjust, readjust the lens.

Sucks in her breath.

"Department of Evolved Affairs" She verbally offers up, shifting her gaze here and there, watching the vehicle go with it's escort as it takes the road. "Lord. The motorcycles, they have.. I think they're.. machine g..uns on them." Abigail leans forward a fraction as if that might help her see better before pulling the binoculars away, looking to the others. "It's a DoEA truck, two motorcycle escort with mounted Machine Guns" She purses her lips. "What do you want to bet it's got Vaccine, or some other drugs on it? Maybe taking it up north to the prison"

Megan reaches back to make sure her rifle is secure — it's in a good position to be slung around to the front if she needs it, but right now, she's simply watching. Machine guns is not good news. The redhead glances toward Eileen. "Could be prisoner transport as well. No way to really know." She'll abide by the woman's call — she rides patrol often enough to have become far more soldier than she's been in years.

Griffin turns his eyes, green for now, down toward the road with a frown on his face, squinting to see a little better. Abby's words only cause that frown to crease Griffin's cheeks a little further, and the green in his eyes is slowly swallowed by a milky-blue tint at he summons forth those telekinetic arms of his. Just in case. "DoEA, hmm." He turns his gaze toward the others, frowning, before his gaze lands on Eileen. Her call, certainly.

"What are we going to do about them? We can't very well get rid of them, more will come." Magnes' hands tighten on the reigns of his horse, looking to Eileen for the answer. "The machine guns shouldn't be a problem if we do come into conflict. Eileen can distract them with birds, and I could crush the guns…"

Five horses, three vehicles. A minimum of six soldiers — two to each motorcycle with an additional pair inside the truck, including the driver. The Ferrymen are armed with pistols and rifles. Abilities, too, but still the odds are not in their favour.

"More will come," agrees Eileen, her voice crisp, and like her mare when she breathes she exhales what looks like a crystalline cloud of white, "but not before we take it. Try not to damage the motorcycles if you can. They can be repurposed. The guns as well."

She winds her fingers around the reins with a soft creak of her lambskin gloves. "I'll go out ahead," she says, "to draw their fire. Abigail, Megan — take out the flanking soldiers. Magnes and Griffin are best equipped to stop the truck without damaging its contents, whatever they are. This way."

The Englishwoman spurs her mare into motion, guiding it down the embankment. Rocks tinkle and clatter under the mare's hooves, tumble through shaggy patches of brush that have not lost all their leaves or dry, shriveled berries still clinging to skeletal branches. "We'll get up alongside them. Wait for my signal."

Take out the flanking soldiers. Kill them? Shoulder shots? Rifles, in her mind have always been for hunting and the way Abigail's face re-arranges itself, muscles twitching into worry and concern, it's not very hard to see that shes not relishing the thought of shooting at someone again, much less to kill or hurt them.

But if there's people in the truck, if there's who knows what in the truck, possible the white containers… "Okay" Abigail murmurs, getting ready to move the horse again, reaching down and behind to get the rifle out, make sure bullets are accessible. Think of it like a deer Abby, it's just a two legged deer.

Not really.

As the horses all get underway once more, Megan says softly to Abby, "Don't think about what's on the other side of the scope, Abigail." She pulls her own rifle around. Taking the shots from a horse are not as simple as being on the ground, but… it's going to have to be done. She's seen Abby out on a hunting party or two, she knows the girl can hit what she aims at. And much as Megan hates what they're about to do… it's become 'us' or 'them.' She kicks her horse into following the path of least resistance down into the fray.

With a nudge of his heel and a soft 'hah', Griffin spurs the white stallion to move, heading up the rear behind the rest. Even as he rides, the two rifles that were strapped to his back are pulled out. held hovering over his shoulders as he and the horse weave through the forest and brush. Another pair of vectors pull out two knives, which also go to hover over his shoulders, held by those telekinetic arms of his. Kinda scary, really.

He waits for the signal from Eileen, eyes narrowed on the trucks.

Magnes isn't so great with a horse, reaching behind for one of his guns as he trails behind Griffin. Who is that guy anyway? But he has no intention of killing anyone, he'll just have to hope things work out with as little bloodshed as possible.

The truck and its escorts are ahead of the riders by the time they reach the bottom of the ridge. The sound of the sleet glancing off the cement dampens the sound of hooves on concrete, but it's ultimately the rumble of the truck's engine that defeans the soldier's to their approach, and like a pack of wolves spreading out around a herd that it intends to thin, the Ferry patrol advances on the convoy from behind.

Eileen's mare is not as spry as it once was, and it takes some firm coaxing to steer the animal into a gallop before she's pulling ahead of the others and thundering up alongside the convoy on the left side of the road. One hand grips the reins, the other a pistol with a pearl handle, which she levels at the soldier in the sidecar. A squeeze of the trigger sprays the sidecar's plexiglass windshield with a fine sheen of red, and the man at the motorycle's controls jerks sideways, veering away to avoid her next shot, which dings harmlessly against the side of the truck it's supposed to be protecting.

That would be the signal.

Megan pushes her animal to greater speeds as well, and she leans forward over the horse's neck. Her rifle cracks in the direction of the motorcycle driver on the right, who is startled by the situation on the left. She's not sure she'll get a clean hit, but she'll give it the old college try!

Upon getting close enough, Griffin does his part to take out the motorcycles, his guns flaring to life over his shoulders and sending a few stray bullets flying in such a way that they won't hit anyone, but damn if they don't come close. But really, that's only a distraction for what he's really trying to do right now. Abby and Megan are the ones in charge of the bikes.

Once close enough, Griffin puts the knives away, reaching out wth four of those vectors and aiming to grab hold of the roof of the truck. He's shifting in the horse's saddle as he does so, unlooping his feet even as he spurs the horse to run faster, faster.

Abigail rides, much like the other,s as fast as she dares to try and catch up and keep up with the truck and it's escort. SHe's by no means a rodeo rider or even used to shooting from the saddle. Which means she's careful with her shot, trying to go with the motion of the horse and the jouncing, firing off a shot at the bike that Eileen just dispensed of one rider with as the horse is up and that split second of steady. Whether it lands or not, different story, but at least one bike should have no one alive or able to man any guns to fire.

Fortunately for Megan, she doesn't need a clean hit — just a hit. Her rifle rips out a chunk between the motorcycle driver's shoulder and throat, and he tips sideways off it, hits the pavement and goes rolling side over side like a ragdoll, leaving a wet smear on the concrete in his wake. He's already dead when he's dragged under the right rear tire of the truck, though the same cannot be said of his companion in the sidecar, who swivels the machine gun around and compresses his finger around the trigger in the seconds before the bike spins out of control, toward the side of the road rather than the truck. Bullets flit through the air inches away from Megan's head. One snags the material of her jacket, grazing her upper arm, and drenching her clothes in her own blood.

Back at the truck, the soldier in the passenger's seat unloads his pistol on Griffin. The first few shots blow out the side window, showering both man and horse in broken glass that crumbles to dust under the horse's hooves. A third goes wide and nicks the leather of his saddle dangerously close to the inside of his thigh. He's lining up a final shot with the center of his chest when the motorcycle on the left side of the truck, its driver felled by Abigail's rifle, careens into the cabin, producing a loud bang and an explosion of smoke that blows across the truck's windshield, stinging at the riders' eyes and noses.

Eileen's gyrfalcon tucks in its wings and swoops down, fighting against the wind as it aligns itself with the top of the truck and twists its head to check on the status of the motorcycles behind them. If any of the soldiers survived being thrown from them, they're either unconscious or too injured to untangle themselves from the wreckage or wherever it is that they've landed.

On her horse, Eileen raises a fist into the air to communicate a job well done to Megan and Abigail.

Well, the shots didn't go wild. Megan thought she was going to be okay, even with the bullets whizzing around her and the horse. But at the last moment, the graze shocks her. She keeps hold of the rifle by dint of the fact that the strap is still around her shoulder, and her hand slams across her body to staunch the blood on her arm. She doesn't have enough air to hurl invective. It's taking all she has to stay atop the black mare. But stay atop she does, indeed, and though it takes long seconds to pull herself back into position on the thundering horse, she pulls that rifle right back up. She can't take another shot yet — she has to get grazed arm to cooperate first. But hey… the truck's clear!

As the bullets rain on Griffin and his mount, the man lets out a low grunt, pulling the horse away just a little. Damn, that was way too close to his femoral artery. Thank god for small miracles. With those in the truck distracted, Griffin uses his telekinetic grip on the truck to his advantage. Steering the horse away from the road, Griffin suddenly flies from the saddle, up onto the roof of the truck, leaving his horse to gallop off into the brush, to be retrieved later.

Once atop the truck, Griffin is quick to leap down onto the roof of the cabin. One, two, three vectors snake down through that nice open window that the passenger of the truck was kind enough to make for him, aiming to grab hold of the sodier and quite promptly fling him from the vehicle, possibly toward a big tree if he can manage it.

Oh, and then there's that gun floating just outside the driver's window, a looming threat: Pull over or you'll be pulled over.

Bikes are down, Megan got hit and Abby couldn't see where, but the woman is still upright so it can't have been too bad. She'll have to deal later with what she's done, take care of Megan later as well, many things to do but so far, there's presents or at least one present coming home for the Special Activities group in the form of bikes, and mounted machine guns.

The brunette digs her heel into the horses flank, urging it faster to go past Megan. "Check on the downed men" She can probably easier take care of that while they try to stop the truck and see what's inside. Likely more armed men too, flits through her mind, blue eye's glancing towards the back and it's mysterious possible cargo. It's something, that's for sure. She tears her gaze away, rifle lifted up and pointed towards the passenger portions of the truck, ready to fire again if needed.

Magnes ducks to avoid being clobbered off his horse by the soldier that goes sailing over his head and into the ditch alongside of the road and, leaning forward into his saddle, drives his horse forward to keep up with the truck. A hand goes out in an attempt to slow the vehicle with his ability in case Griffin's tactic should fail, and so that the others don't fall too far behind.

The driver glances over at Griffin, then to the left side of the road and the river below, and decides that he stands a better chance braving the frigid waters than he does surviving being taken prisoner by the patrol. He spins the wheel and the truck's tires scream in protest, kicking up ice and snow as the back end swings out, startling Abigail's mare into rearing back onto its hind legs, front set in the air and kicking.

"Mihangle!" Eileen shouts, but it's too late. The truck slams into the guardrail with enough force to crumple it, and goes skidding toward the river. A thick layer of ice at the Hudson's edge saves the vehicle from dropping directly into the water, though it can only support so much weight for so long, and the first cracks are already appearing in its surface when the truck shudders to a halt, a thick cloud of smoke and ice billowing out from beneath it.

Megan pulls her horse to a slower pace, letting Abby and the others take the lead, nodding briefly to Abby as the order's given for her to stop and check the soldiers. It'll just take her a few yards to actually do so. By the time she's pulled to a halt, though, the truck's hit the railing and Abby's horse is rearing! Megan shouts, "Stay forward, Abby! Stand in the stirrups and stay on his neck, he'll drop!" It would be better if there were weight on the reins, but hopefully Abby will be okay. Megan kicks the black mare into motion again to catch up, assuming Magnes has the truck — it's what he does.

He sees it coming. Griffin can see the truck starting to turn from his vantage point atop the truck's cabin, only two vectors holding him loosely to the vehicle. It's almost like it happens in slow motion. But Griffin isn't a time manipulator or a speedster, and when things go in slow motion, he does too. Unfortunate disadvantage of not having such abilities.

Then, the slamming into the guard rail is more than enough to fling one Griffin Mihangle off of his perch atop the truck, sending him flying right smack dab into the middle of the Hudson River. There's no ice in the middle of the river, only along the edge…and thus, Griffin is slapped right in the face with a nice wall of water.

Ouch. It'll take him a moment to recover from that. For now, he's being swept along by the current.

She's skilled enough to stay on a horse at high speeds, take a little hop, just the basics. Abigail's not so good a rider as to know how to stay on a horse that's gone up on two feet and panicked. It hops, shudders beneath the EMT who's tugging back on reigns out of instinct, listening to Megan instruct her on what to do. But feet were already out of the stirrup and she's gone, off the saddle, off the horse before it can even fall back on her and crush her.

She's pitched over the embankment like the truck though hers isn't voluntary as it's is. Hands go up to cover her head and neck as she tumbles down the slope hitting scrub as she goes eventually skidding out onto the iced part of the river, prone on her side, rifle lost somewhere on the way down disoriented, her breath curling out into the air to say that she's very much still alive.

"I'll keep the truck above the water!" Magnes tells Megan, and there's no guardrail anymore that his horse has to leap over. He and Eileen are plunging down the embankment on their mounts, Magnes' focus on the stalled truck and Abigail's crumpled shape while Eileen's gyrfalcon skims above the river's churning surface, seeking out Griffin. "You take care of the driver!" And Abby, but whatever injuries she's sustained aren't as important as dispatching the last soldier already accounted for. He spills out of the truck from the driver's door popped open, disoriented and staggering. His sidearm is already in his hand, and he leans against the side of the vehicle for support as he lifts his arm and takes aim at Magnes, who has put his body and his horse between the truck and the ex-healer, presumably to shield her from fire.

Eileen's mare surges past the truck on the opposite side. Her gyrfalcon has spotted Griffin up ahead at the mercy of the river's current and, standing up in her saddle, the heels of her boots hooked firmly into the stirrups, she casts out a length of rope into the water for the drowning man to grab.

Megan pulls her horse to a stop up on the road and dismounts in a hurry. She's the only one left to keep watch, and she's also the only one left to handle the driver. Even with her left arm numb from the gunshot, she's functional. Pulling her rifle to her good shoulder, Megan takes just that moment to aim and …. God help her and Scott Harkness forgive her… she takes that kill shot directly at that man's chest. If it doesn't kill him, it'll at least throw him into the river with the impact of a high-speed round. Only then does she start scrambling down the bank.

It takes Griff, dazed from his collision with the river and from swallowing/inhaling a little too much river water, a moment to recognize the rope. But then, suddenly, he grabs hold of it with all six of his vectors, pulling himself in toward the shore; his body is a bit too beat up for him to pull himself in, but his mind is screaming at him to fight, to live.

The vectors pull him up by way of rope to the blessed solidness of the ice, the man coughing and collapsing against the ice, half choked on the disgusting water of the Hudson River.

The crack of Megan's rifle sends birds scattering from the trees on the opposite of the riverbank. The soldier drops, a uniformed heap on the ice still clutching his pistol, dead arm bent at an awkward angle above his head. Magnes breathes a rough sigh of relief, swings one leg over the side of his saddle to join the other and dismounts just as Megan arrives on the ice. "He probably has a key for the back," he says. Then, angling a worried look over his shoulder, "Is Abby okay? Are you okay?"

Eileen loops her end of the rope around her saddle's horn and directs her mare toward the road, line pulled taut. She lacks the physical strength to pull him all the way up onto the ice if she were just using her own arms, but the mare has only minimal difficulty dragging Griffin's waterlogged form out of the Hudson, and the Englishwoman does not allow the animal to stop, straining, until he's a safe distance away from its edge.

Abigail's not moving, staring at the ice, the natural texture that cold weather and the liquid that it's comprised of made on the surface, taking inventory of what hurts - an ankle, ribs, her whole left side which hit the ground first, is it safe to move, does anything feel like it's leaking, and internally shutting down any flicker of her ability so that she's not heating and weakening ice.

And breathing. Making sure to inhale, suck in air and release it as her body seems to not really want to do that. Gun shots going off are registered, Horses breathing, hoofs connecting with solid surfaces and Magnes. Saline leaks from her eyes as she shuts them again, playing possum for now, just in case.

Megan starts to move toward Abby, but the truck on the ice worries her. "Magnes, move her to the bank without shifting her about too much in case she's got internal damage," she instructs. She doesn't want to remain on the ice longer than absolutely necessary. "Get her to the bank, I'll get the key and we'll get the hell off the ice." She heads for the guard, approaching him carefully to search for the key. She checks his pulse…. and regret spears her through the stomach as she looks at his slack face. She will remember him. He deserves that; at the bottom of it, he was a soldier doing his job.

Finding the brass key ring that contains the truck's keys, Megan stands up. More will be coming. She debates the matter… and leaves him where he is. Her gloves mean there are no fingerprints and he deserves burial by his family. Meg slips around to the back of the truck and carefully checks everything out before she opens the rear doors. If there are other soldiers in the back, they'll have the element of surprise, but it's a risk she'll take.

Coughing, Griffin drops the rope once he's on the ice, and six handprints can be seen in the snow as the man drifts along the ice, up until he rolls onto the shore with a groan. He lays on his stomach for a long moment, coughing and gagging up the putrid water. After a long moment of this, the man groans, weakly raising to his feet. He's cold, and wet, but now is no time to rest. More will come, and it was their goal to take the truck and whatever is within.

"Don't…" He spits up a bit more water, making a face as he stumbles toward the truck. "Don't ever take a drink from the Hudson River. Disgusting." He wrinkles his nose, coming to lean against the destroyed guard rail and holding his side.

Then, he's walking with the assistance of his Vectors, moving to stand behind Megan. Don't stop, Griff. It's freezing right now, but there's much more important things to be worried about.

"I can move" Before Magnes can make an attempt to move her himself. "I don't think I ruptured a spleen or kidney" Shook them up probably, who knows. She's hurt other things, she knows that. Careful with being on the ice, Abigail's pulling herself up to a crawl, favoring her one side and trying to keep her weight spread as she starts for the bank, get off the ice, be one less worry hopefully for the others. "Help with the truck Magnes, find out what we just killed people for" Hope that at least on some level, it's worth it.

With Megan rummaging around in the dead man's coat for the keys, Magnes trots across the ice toward Abigail, careful to avoid the cracks and maintain his ability's hold on the truck. He takes to a knee beside her but at her request does not move to touch her, and is standing up again at her order.

A click audible only to Megan's ears has the padlock disengaging, but everyone will hear the doors grinding open when she hooks her fingers around the lever and pulls. Inside are several large wooden crates, each with the same insignia as the one painted on the side of the truck itself. They're secured in place with thick lengths of rope not unlike the one Eileen threw to Griffin, though they need not be cut for the redhead to take a look at what's inside. There's a crowbar hanging from a hook on the wall that they can use to crack open the topmost lid.

Eileen's gyrfalcon alights on her outstretched arm. She brings her mare back around the truck to join the others, offering Abigail a hand up and the rear end of her saddle if she wants to take it. Although the patrol can see the bay mare stomping its hooves up on the road, Griffin's stallion is missing, and it may take them several hours to locate it.

Magnes passes Griffin and climbs into the back of the truck, taking down the crowbar. He wedges it under the lip of the lid, lifting it enough that he can slide it the rest of the way off, revealing a shimmer of silver-coloured metal packed in loose paper ribbons and straw.

It's a skull. Not human, but vaguely feline with empty sockets where eyes should be and pieces of wiring encased in its gaping, toothy jaw. "Robot," he reports.

No other word for it.

"Uh…. what the hell?" Megan asks, confused. "They're transporting robot pieces?" She reaches back to scratch the back of her neck with the arm that works properly and murmurs, "Is anyone else starting to feel like they live in a Terminator movie or something. If the thing's eyes light up, I swear to fucking God, I'm going to demand somebody EMP the thing." She is mostly kidding.

Griffin watches from afar, his vectors supporting him as he watches the skull pulled out of the crate. His brows raise as he draws closer, ignoring the fact that he feels like a brick wall just hit him. "A…robot." He draws even clower, reaching out with a few vectors in an attempt to clear the paper ribbons away from the robot to offer a better view.

"What is the Department of Evolved Affairs doing transporting terrifying robots this way? Hell…what are they doing with robots period?" He leans against the crate, wincing. He'll be sore for a few days.

"They're dispensable" Abigail points out. "They don't take a beating like people, they're immune to most abilities, can't be swayed by telepaths. Argentina" Surely the others that participated in the who save the world for the government, remembers the stories of argentina. If they brought the negation gas from Apollo, it's no surprise that they likely brought the technology that she'd heard of, from there. Abigail's hand holds tight to Eileen's, carefully standing up, avoiding weight on her left foot and still holding, takes that hand up to help get onto the back of the horse with no small amount of pained noise. But it could be worse.

When she's on, her arms wrap around the telepath's middle for support but not squeezing. "They'll have trackers, maybe, I don't think we can bring them with us. Maybe a piece or two, for special activities to look at but.."

Magnes frowns, crossing his arms as he looks over the robots in the back of the truck. "These are the same kind of robots we fought in Argentina. I can't believe they're producing them here now…" He closes his hands tightly, looking back at everyone. "We have to destroy them."

"We can't afford to destroy them," Eileen cuts in, some bitterness in her tone, "but we can't afford to leave them here either. At the very least we've solved the mystery of the missing Hector von Stahl." On her wrist, the gyrfalcon ruffles its feathers, flexes its claws and parts its beak around a thin hiss of aggravation. "Megan, radio Bannerman. Tell Nora to have them send out a salvage team to our location. We'll find a place for the shipment that isn't Pollepel if Abigail's right.

"Welcome to the brave new world."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License