Participants:
| Scene Title | What's Your Game? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A Ferry technopath, an Institute employee, and a suit of FRONTLINE Horizon armor meet in a dark alley… |
| Date | November 8, 2010 |
The Streets of Staten Island
The night sky above was overcast even before the smoke of fire and riots veiled it; it fits Hana's mood, this gritty atmosphere, the lack of lighting supplied to these particular streets. She could be jogging down any other, or have chosen not to play broken-winged bird for this particular safehouse, decoy shielding the last few of its fleeing residents. Could be anywhere other than Staten Island; any part of the network would appreciate Wireless' personal assistance.
She chose to be here. Be it arrogance, fatalism, or spite, she chose to be here, imitating via radio a far larger posse of displaced civilians. Chose to jog down this street, dodge around that abandoned car and pass between those two buildings to an all-too-familiar corner. The entrance of an all-too-familiar alley.
Each unhesitating stride bringing her ever closer to the place of her premonition, Hana uses a few last seconds to refresh her memory of the surrounding urban terrain. This time, when negation instantaneously silences the chatter and noise of her ability, she isn't surprised. Isn't surprised to find company waiting down the alleyway.
"Brennan."
Hana has the advantage of having seen the vision. Brennan nor the individual in the suit did. Called out for the first time when he would be needed actually out in the field, instructions to rendezvous with a suited individual, the negator had been silent, following the individual when instructed. Gone was the suit in Hana's vision, replaced by jeans, sweater and jacket more suited for scrambling about in the streets. But when the woman came around the corner, came right into his line of sight, the physician was prepared, negation already in play.
His hand is up and out, palm up to ward off the woman, universal gesture of stop. "Gitleman. Stop. Please. I don't want to do this." He flickers his eyes in the direction of the suit beside him, then back to the technopath. The lift of the hand showing the gun that she saw, perched in a holster and ready to be used if need be.
Just to one side of the good doctor stands a faceless figure in black armour; it's the mark one version of the Horizon armor, not the mark two that most of Frontline Unit Zero uses, but given the situation it's perhaps not surprising that they had to throw some people into whatever they had laying around. An assault rifle is cradled in the man's (if it is a man) gauntleted hands, although the barrel's up towards the sky and the weapon rests against one shoulder. He remains silent as Brennan speaks, helmeted head turning to regard the doctor, and then the technopath.
Dark eyes flicker to the presumably-inhabited suit of armor, then back to the doctor. Hana continues forward, a steady closing of distance that might be interpreted as not quite aggressive. She has no weapons in hand, yet; Brennan and Wireless haven't had a lot to do with one another. But the suit was sent for a reason — and there's a dangerous light in the woman's eyes.
"You want me to stop?" He hasn't lifted the gun, yet, unlike her vision; hasn't even removed it from its holster. The plan, such as it is, hardly takes any thought to set into place. "Make me," Hana Gitelman challenges Harve Brennan, a heartbeat before throwing her weight forward, lunging at the doctor. There's no finesse and less mercy in her intent; rather, a reckless attempt to close with Brennan, beat out his draw and get him between her and the suit — before the suit decides they're both expendable.
She'll beat out the draw, if only because she's going for him this time, instead of the suit and he can see it. Not enough training to come close or near to Hana's skill, he turns into the rush, turning shoulder to the woman and moving in to her to create a collision and of the same mind too, to put himself between her and whomever resides in the suit. Not Harper, Harper's strung out on drugs and recovering from whatever clusterfuck had occurred the few days before. Feet dig in, head tucked down and closing his eyes at the last second, hoping — vainly — she'll ricochet off him or at least collide.
The man in Horizon armor moves— but slowly, almost casually as he steps away from Brennan and Hana. The brick of the wall behind him rasps against the heavy ceramic plating across his back as he leans there, turning his gun a bit and rubbing a finger over a scuffed bit on the side of it. It's almost as if he's just here to observe.
Collision is exactly what Hana wants — not to bounce off, but twisting one hand in Brennan's loose sweater as an easy grip, second going without conscious thought for an elbow smash to his head. Dazed is preferable to bleeding; she wants a shield, not a burden. But the edge of her vision is keeping track of that suit, and —
What the hell?
First object: subdue Brennan; Second object: get a solid grip on him; Third object: figure out what's up with the suit.
Hana does not like surprises. Especially suspicious ones.
He hadn't heard much about Hana in his short stint in the Ferry as Liette's erstwhile protector. Just knew that Hana was a technopath and someone who was held in high esteem and some small amount of fear. As her elbow connects with temple, her wish is granted, negation cut off with the loss of eye contact, eyelids slamming home closed and he's following her choreography almost perfectly to how it plays out in her mind. His head wobbles on his neck, having issues with seeing the world straight and an idle thought of whether death benefits will be paid to his wife and that Harper better not have been lying about danger pay as he's become just what Hana wanted. A dazed human negation shield, looking at suit now when he opens his eyes, negation now on that individual. There's no plea for help though, just hands held out away from his body so as not to provoke the woman further.
As the doctor looks up and towards him, the armoured figure looks up from his 'weapon examination' with a manner so casual that one might imagine an eyebrow raising beneath the helmet's face. The voice is muffled by the helmet, disguised and beyond recognition as the figure suggests, "…try not to kill him, please."
The rifle's safety is still on, and it's held in a manner that isn't anything close to ready.
Dark eyes slide down to glimpse the unresisting doctor in the periphery of her vision without ever quite leaving the suit. They slide back up. "'Long as he behaves," Hana allows, mostly for Brennan's benefit (and hers, in the interest he keep 'behaving'), "I don't need to. Though damn well enough of my people are fucking dying today," she snarls, dragging her captive ungently along in a change of relative position. A few steps sidewise to get away from the wall at her back; a few more backwards to get past the suit, theoretically opening the possibility of bolting down their backtrail.
No longer negated, she can hear the radios chattering, feel the uncovered spaces between; there isn't anything resembling a net, the logistics of hitting too many targets spreading personnel unfortunately thin. Unfortunate for them. Possibly a saving grace for Hana, except — Her gaze narrows at the suit. "What's your damn game?" she snaps, distrusting the armor and by extension the person inside.
Negation will hit home again with Hana, Brennan looking down at her hand as he's forced to move, keep up with her. It's not intentional, it's just… on. Feet work almost, a few stumbles as he goes along with her and unsurprised that the suit is telling her to leave him alive. Brennan is however, surprised that the man's not doing a thing to help and he lets out a grunt, a glance back to the suit — all things technopathic returned once again. "Institute. You need to run, he's Institute." The suit he means. "We're supposed to negate and obtain you. I don't want to. You need to run." His voice remaining low, unsure of whether the suit can hear him or not. Hana can.
"The end one." The armoured figure tilts his head slightly as he regards the tangle of doctor and technopath, remaining leaning there as he watches the pair otherwise mutely, the tips of his fingers rattling in a slow beat against the side of his gun.
The flickering on-again and off-again of her power is a distinct annoyance, but Hana fights that down for the moment. She snorts at the armored figure's cryptic reply, her patience with decoding such statements never being good. "Don't fucking ever tell me what to do," the woman hisses at Brennan, tightening her grip briefly. Never mind that his advice and her plan, such as it is, align.
She shifts her weight, loosing one hand's grip on Brennan to drive it into his side; from this angle, it doesn't have nearly the force it could, but she only needs him back off-balance and uncoordinated for a moment. Long enough to pivot, exposing her profile briefly to the suit; and in the return motion heave the doctor in the suit's direction. Ungainly enough an action for the woman to lose her balance carrying it through — but she expected that, allows for the scrape of exposed skin on asphalt and attempts to direct it into a scramble for the nearest gap between buildings.
It might buy her enough time. Probably not, if the suit is really interested in retrieving her — but is he?
Don't tell her what to do. Brain clearing, Brennan nods his acknowledgment to never do such again, her grip rewarded with an honest to God squeak from the physician who has been in similar situations before in other countries. He never expected it to be domestically that this happened.
She's loosening her hand on him though, maybe about to let him go and he seems inwardly hopeful until the fist meets flesh and air pushes out of his lungs, doubling him over and towards the injured side, once again giving Hana what she needs to heave him towards the suit, one arm curling around his side, the other pushed out as if to soften the blow of the impact of unprotected body meeting reinforced armor. This is going to leave marks.
The stumbling of the doctor is brought to a very sudden halt as the rifle in the armoured suit's hands is finally lifted — and the butt of the weapon is thrust in a sharp motion towards the crown of Harve Brennan's head in an attempt to knock him out entirely. "Sorry, doc," he mutters against the face of the helmet, "Time to take a nap."
Hana looks backwards only inasmuch as she needs to check for pursuit. The hazards ahead are comparatively easy to avoid; dodge-the-radios, she could probably play in her sleep, as long as her ability was functioning — and it is, away from Brennan's influence. The safehouse is empty, her responsibility discharged; the sting of scraped skin and the beginnings of muscle fatigue are ignored in favor of a ground-covering lope and a course out of here. She does keep a wary awareness, physical and technopathic, of her backtrail the entire way.
The solid impact sends the doctor out like a light, and the armoured figure reaches out to catch him — pulling Brennan in against his chest rather than allow him to tumble to the dirty alley's floor. "Can't let you get yourself killed, Harve," he mutters, carefully easing the man down to the pavement at the side of the alley, "Michelle'd kill me."
Some garbage and cardboard boxes are dragged over the other man to conceal him from easy sight and the danger of someone deciding to pick the body, paying no heed as Hana charges down the alley and out of sight.
Stepping away from the pile of refuse that conceals Dr. Harve Brennan, the suited figure fades into shadow within moments, and is gone.
It's been a long night, but Richard Cardinal still has more to do.