[color=lightseagreen]"...The sun has gone down and the moon has come up, and long ago somebody left with the cup, but he's driving and striving and hugging the turns..."[/color]

Ramsay sung along as the lights of the city flashed across his half-closed eyelids. Though the way he leaned back in the drivers seat of the van coupled with an utterly bored stare across the road gave him a carefree appearance, his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrayed his true mood -agitated to say the least. One hand gripping the wheel like a teenage boy would a porno mag on a lonely night, the other shaking rather violently as it moved from resting on the back of the passenger seat to a gunmetal grey shape lying askew in the seat itself, stroking the cool metal to steel his nerves as much as it was to check that the tool hadn't moved. When his fingers found purchase on the curved grip of the gun, Ramsay's fingers arrested their excited dancing.

At least in comparison to his death-grip on the steering wheel, Ramsay's hold on the MAC-10 was almost casual, his hand allowing the weight of the automatic weapon to angle the barrel down towards the floor. He raised it, turning it over in his hands as he scanned it almost with pride. Certainly nothing special as far as guns go, but a bit different from H10's regular. Ramsay always found having something fully automatic was a hell of a lot easier to aim out the side of a car while driving than the semi-auto peashooters the gang usually carried. Inelegant? Maybe. Inaccurate? More often than not, yeah. Dangerous? Fuck yeah. But in the end, was it effective enough for the job? Honestly probably not, but Ramsay never was a gun guy. No, though Ramsay could tell you everything about a cars make and model just by listening to the engine, he never spent the time to figure out guns. He saw this little guy in a hell of a lot of movies and TV, and that was enough for him. 

[color=lightseagreen]"..Because he's racing and pacing and plotting the course, he's fighting and biting and riding on his horse..."[/color] 

Ramsay reached into the cup holder of the van, where a cracked mobile phone rested, blaring his music through speakers that made the music sound like it was run through enough cotton to make a plantation owner jealous. Calloused fingers fumbled across the slick silvery surface of the device until they found the protrusion they were looking for. The sound of the music dimmed to a harsh whisper with a surprisingly heavy bass sound still resounding. From the van ahead, Ramsay heard some muffled shouting and banging. He could only assume the same was happening in the transport ahead of that as well. A light smile shone from his face, dimples standing out stark amidst his stubble. The crew was getting riled up, certainly a good sign.

The lone driver took a brief glance to the back of his van, smile slowly vanishing. No comrades were to be found shouting and screaming for glory and Valhalla in this deathtrap of a tin can. No, Ramsay was accompanied by a far more somber party. Though Ramsay almost always had an odor of gasoline drenching him in lieu of cologne, the smell was even heavier in the air thanks to the rattling conglomeration of cans in the back, each a rusted red color. There was quite likely room for a few crew members to ride along in this makeshift funeral pyre, but Ramsay couldn't quite blame the others for favoring the transports that weren't destined to go up in a fireball. There was no way in hell that he would let the ignition go off prematurely, but hey. Nobody's perfect, or some motivational shit like that. 

When the vans reached the AutoMach, Ramsay found himself lagging behind, quite intentionally. His rolling bonfire was parked just out of the way of the fray, but close enough to be accessed easily when they needed it. Ramsay walked stiffly over to the others as the two vans carrying H10 members pulled away. He frowned as he saw the door of one discarded on the floor. He had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly who it was that was responsible for that.

[color=lightseagreen]"Fuckin' a, that shit isn't easy to fix."[/color] Ramsay muttered to himself as he approached the din and chaos, hands clenching and unclenching uncomfortably. One hand was gripped tight around his fully loaded gun, the other even tighter around a pill. Two twins to the little silver miracle were in capsules around the mans neck, not something he needed to use quite yet. Eyes fixed tightly on the fist containing the pill, Ramsay was distracted as a wide grin found purchase on his face in response to the crescendo of battle cries that erupted from his crew. As men poured through the breach, Ramsay cocked his head briefly in a sort of 'fuck it' gesture, before slamming the pill back. As the effects of Neon took hold over Ramsay, he slipped his bandana up over his nose.

For a moment, Ramsay was completely numb and his vision narrowed like a letterbox film. Even as he squinted to make up for this, he felt the Neon really kick. His vision slowly returned to normal as he felt sheer power running through his skin, felt phantom fingers of his own running up and down every surface around. Every surface, other than himself, that was. He felt the heavy material of his flannel as it flapped behind him like a cape in his own simulated wind, but he wasn't able to exert any of that influence over himself, leaving him numb and, in a way, weaker. 

That didn't stop Ramsay, or even put a falter in his step, as he marched on the breach with those of his crew that had yet to make it through. Tonight wasn't a test run for the Neon -nothing short of war, here. A shocked expression quickly turned to a smile as he saw one of the H10 crew (he hoped to god) tearing one of the Breakers up with a goddamn tiger. Approaching the path left behind by his comrades, Ramsay exerted his telekinetic influence on the van door as he walked next to it. As though lifted by a really strong guy, or just two normally strong guys, the hunk of metal lifted itself in the air, forming a moving piece of cover that kept itself just in front of Ramsay.  He adjusted his grip on the MAC-10, raising it to eye level when he entered the AutoMach, and resting the barrel atop his cover as a makeshift tripod. Almost instantly on his entrance Ramsay felt bullets ping across the metal surface of his shield. Apparently an attractive target, he ducked his head as a bullet found itself striking a weaker area of the door and piercing directly through.

[color=lightseagreen]"Who fucking does that?"[/color] He asked himself incredulously. Peeking his head through the shattered glass window of his door, Ramsay locked eyes with the man who had shot at him -apparently just now realizing the ineffectiveness of shooting the man hiding behind cover. [color=lightseagreen]"You're shooting at the one guy who has a goddamn shield, you dense motherfucker."[/color] He muttered in protest, pulling the shield in closer. As the metal moved ever closer to his body, Ramsay felt his influence increase exponentially. Putting all of his force into it, he launched the makeshift shield at the shooter. He didn't bother to check whether or not the blow was fatal, the satisfying sound of metal colliding with skull was plenty for his aggression. Plus, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

[color=red]"FUCK YOU."[/color] Came a rather creative shout from what Ramsay had thought was empty air. A fist caught him in the jaw, sending a violent vibration throughout his skull. 

[color=lightseagreen]"At least buy me dinner first, tough guy."[/color] Ramsay spat as he recovered, one arm raised defensively. The perpetrator stood in an almost comical boxers stance, head and arms bobbing up and down giving the image of a cheap novelty bobble head figurine. The man spat on the floor, the spit itself sizzling upon impact. As if inspired by this sizzling, the 'boxer' looked down at his hands, which ignited with flame. He did a couple of punches in midair, maybe as an attempt at intimidation? [i][color=lightseagreen]"Neon's a hell of a drug."[/color][/i] As his fists moved, fire trailed behind, leaving a line of red hot air that lingered for far longer than it should've. Ramsay raised his gun, only to find the man was now in his face, hitting him hard in the gut. The punch didn't ignite Ramsay, but it sure hurt like a bitch. Another punch quickly came, aimed at his temple, but this time Ramsay was able to get an arm up to block. The sheer force of the punch numbed his arm, and he dropped his gun on the floor with the impact. 

[color=red]"Y'all should've stayed at ho-"[/color]

A bullet, piercing through his throat, cut off the taunting voice of fire-fist-guy rather effectively. A fountain of blood ripped out from the wound, eager to find escape. Though his control was rather weak as far out as he had reached, it had been enough to shove that bullet in the right direction, and for that Ramsay was grateful. The immediate threats on his life dispatched of, he ducked down to grab his MAC-10 and knelt behind the cover of a heavy crate, to survey the situation and rest his sore injuries. As Ramsay raised his eyes to peer through the over, he felt his influence of the world around him slowly fade, eventually diminishing to nothing. No more telekinesis shenanigans, unless he wanted to pop more Neon, it seemed. A deep sigh escaped him before he snapped his head down lower in response to a bullet whizzing by his head.