[img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjExNi5hY2FjZWYuUTJ4aGJtTjVJRkJoZEhKcFkycy4x/burn-out-fade-away.regular.webp[/img]
[@Punished GN][@Atrophy][@FernStone][@NoriWasHere]@everyone
[code]Kari Wilson's Yard[/code]
[hr]

The gaunt latino was out of sight and mind for now, the rotting influence disconnected; Clancy barely noticed that the sleeve of his hoodie had withered for the moment he'd grabbed Luca.

The stench of smoke, rain, charred wood and rotting meat continued to wash over him like waves against rocks. The smoke was almost worse than the heat at this point, although neither bothered him. Like with the tear gas, the only effect it had on him was ruining his clothes and blinding them to - the torrential downpour had only amplified it by half-smothering the fire.

Overhead, he caught a glimpse of a familiar purple light, spearing through the flesh-beast's 'leg' and out the other side into the ground like an oversized magic bullet. The creature, for its part, seemed unbothered by the chunk of meat that had been removed apart from some loss of mass and balance, and remained steadfast.

Somehow, that didn't surprise him either. It wasn't as though the [i]cane[/i] Shayton pushed through his eye socket and out the back of is skull had made any lasting damage, apart from drawing unnecessary attention at the festival.

Then, accentuating htis was the feminine silhouete overhead with an almost iridescent glow. The voice calling out confirmed his suspicions about the [i]other[/i] girl, the one that had struck him as odd.

Everyone had their secrets, he recalled.

Pacing towards Lila, at a distance beyond his reach, was one of the 8th Street assholes - [i]Vashti[/i], enshrouded by a distorted weather-effect that he could only describe as [i]harder[/i] rain than the torrent raging over them, barely obscuring her form.

A few paces behind her was Linqian's red-hot silhouette, sprawled nude in a literal mud-bath as steam rose from wherever the water made contact with her skin. Was she dead? Not yet, there was still warmth - [i]too much of it[/i] for him, Much as he didn't want to see her hurt any further, she was beyond [i]his[/i] ability help at this stage, and his focus was on the greater threat.

[i]Assholes.[/i] The word sprung to mind, a phrase he'd inherited from his brother reading 

Clancy had dropped down from the burning patio at this point, maneuvering apart from the others. Each footstep more waterlogged than the last; the wind and rain tugging at his senses like a swarm of insects buzzing in on ear. 

His shoes were going to be ruined at this- no, his clothes were [i]already[/i] ruined at this stage, he knew. The [i]Donald Duck[/i] knock-off mascot now a distorted, faceless abomination from where the heat had destroyed the transfer on the hoodie, and his denim pants were more like uneven summer shorts at this stage, not unlike the fashion of the '80s.

Even the dufflebag had seen better days with the plastic clips twisted and shrunken by the heat, and halfway across the yard he was forced to withdraw its contents before it fell apart on him and dumped it into the mud.

In his hand was the [i]Baldur Axe[/i] that had been the possession of the tattooed Victor Villarian of the Wolfpack, an unrepentant [i]asshole[/i] through-and-through, who wielded it like an ogre with a club.

In the hands of most, it made them stronger, [i]dangerous[/i], but its [i]last[/i] owner had learned the hard way that idealogical purity and performance enhancers meant nothing in the face of someone with [i]common sense.[/i]

In his hands? [i]A useful tool.[/i] He didn't need strength.

In front of him and partially obscured from the others by the flesh beast, he saw the greater collective of 8th Street clustering around and behind it. Their self-styled boss clung to the 'shoulder' of the now-hobbled flesh-beast as it pawed at a jacket like a cat with a toy. 

Truth be told, he was tired of the facade. A part of him below the surface waiting to push beyond the self-imposed barriers he'd set for himself, kept in check only by estalished rules of [i]self-control[/i] and sheer [i]will[/i].

These people? 8th Street? They fell outside those [i]rules[/i]. They were the [i]worst[/i] example of it, he knew. Ashley had told him. The vision had showed it too. 

They were [i]fair game[/i].

His smouldering, hooded silhouette approached clutching the axe in one hand by the mid-section of its handle, maneuvering past the beast's flank. 

[b]"Not [i]too old[/i] to be acting like high school [i]assholes?[/i]"[/b] His voice was close enough it didn't matter that he'd been downwind of them, and only just managed to carry across in the cacophony of the brawl. [b]"Are you so [i]weak[/i] you need this fucking [i]prom-queen[/i] to matter?"[/b] 

There were three close enough for him to reach. Of them; the strawberry blonde wielding an ornate crossbow, the short-haired girl who was older than she looked, wielding a bat and hockey mask, and the lean, dark-haired man, it was the latter of the three was close enough for him to strike at.

To his credit, he was completely unaware this was [i]Aaron Sawyer[/i] he was dealing with. And no doubt, Aaron could look back into the abyss at who and what he was.