[b][u]Hi-Voltage[/b][/u]

The Lightning-Slinger came too with a jolt, aptly enough. His mind was blank as he shot up into a sitting position, a sharp pain careening through his chest. He was near panicked for a heartbeat, unsure of where he was or how he had got there. Ever since the Awakening Tommy had been unable to sleep, he wasn't sure why but Clara reckoned it had something to do with the uniqueness of the electrical impulses in his brain. 

Regardless to the cause, it meant for the best part of five years he had been completely conscious, so those times he had been knocked out in his heroing career – more than he'd care to admit – were a novelty with a terrifying undercurrents. Imagine never sleeping, never surrendering control of your awareness of the environment, never having to let your guard down in such a total and encapsulating way as closing your eyes and letting go of consciousness. Now imagine having that state forced on you. 

This was what Volt was dealing with, and it's fair to say he wasn't taking it well. In his moment of panic he flailed wildly, kicking and swinging his arms wildly, shaking the guerny he was placed upon so fiercely that he whole thing began to tip, gravity stepping in to calm him by way of a short drop into hard ground. 

He hit the floor with a pained [b']Whoof!'[/b] air rushing from his lungs as his body was given a sharp reminder of the beating he'd already taken. [i]Painful way tae find oot yer still alive.[/i] He began to recognise the place as the League headquarters, the constant beeping and whirring of medical machinery and the slight tang of antiseptic in the air making him guess the med bay. [i]Thats reassuring.[/i] 

The slap-slap-slapping of approaching feet roused him enough to push himself to his feet, still a little unsteady truth be told, but he'd rather be standing than sat on his arse like a bairn that can't get up. An orderly appeared in front of him, and started clucking at him, stating that he shouldn't be out of bed. 

"Haud yer wheesht mun, ah'm nae guannae die." [i]Ah hope nae, anyway.[/i] "Tell us, how'd tha riot gae?" What he really wanted to know was how were his friends, Hot-Rod, Flashbolt, Apogee and most importantly Sonja, but he didn't have the courage to frame the words, to afraid to find out the answers. He was a despicable sort of coward, and no mistake. Still, reckon he'd find out soon enough. 

[i][b]Morningstar[/i][/b]

Stalker was fast and agile, a bitch of a combination in the middle of a fight like this, dropping away from the path of the bullets and only taking a graze in the process. Still, Morningstar was fast too, as fast as a regular person could get, and she'd trained for these sort of situatuations morning, noon and night, Pariah and her own obsessions insisting on it. She backed off a step, no more than she needed to to avoid Stalker's kick, while swaying aside from the thrown knife with an ease so practiced that it was more sub-conscious reaction than active thought. As she dodged she fired another couple of shots Stalker's way, hoping for more luck than last time, while her free hand dropped behind her belt to grasp at a small flashbang grenade. If Stalker avoided the shots again Morningstar would toss the flashbang between them, trusting to her visored mask to protect her from the explosion then going in to take down her foe in the confusion.

[i][u]Mr Joe Black[/i][/u]

Well this was a predicament he had never pictured himself ever getting into. Then again, being strangled by a woman with super hair in the middle of a roof top gunfight involving a rock monster, fishman and zombie, probably wasn't a situation most folks figured themselves to get stuck in. Hippy-Chick had wrapped her hair around his neck, unaware of how useless a move like that was against someone who neither felt pain nor the need to breath. She pulled him in close, showing how fucking stupid she was. What was she wanting, to see the light fade from his eyes as he died, or something equally stupidly poetic? Hadn't she watched the movies, never toy with the good guy when he's in your power! 

Then again, he wasn't much of a good guy. 

"Oh toots, you got no idea who I am, do you?" He chuckled. He was near now, near enough to kiss her, to lick her, to bite her. She should never have brought him so close, and he aimed to show her why in a way that meshed with his own particular idiom, namely by kicking her. In the crotch. Hard.

Contrary to popular belief a kick to the groin will hurt a woman just as much as it will a man, probably more in fact, you just have to know were to hit. Sister Katy Gamble, the karate kicking nun who had effectively killed Joe the first time around, and currently his spiritual adviser, had given Joe a few pointers on close combat when she discovered he was going to be joining the League, pointers that would play to Joe's strengths, namely his penchant for dirty tactics. 

Long story short, Joe knows where to hit to make it hurt. . . And it was a nun who taught him how to do it.