[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Centerville Electric Corporation Windfarm[/h3][/color]

Song was not the most intelligent of men, wise for his age maybe, but uninitiated to the deeper mysteries of life and the way certainly. Yet one thing was clear, that the sudden crash of the low flying aircraft was anything but natural. Its nose dipped and suddenly the entire airframe shuddered as it pivoted into an uncontrolled spin, ending in a hard stop against the ground with a globe of flame erupting from it. Setting the binoculars down for a moment, thinking hastily, Song gave the phone in the shack a stare. He could call the police, they would know soon enough as it were, but they could be told sooner. But what good would that do?

Thinking against it, the man snapped the binoculars up again until the shadows of the ground swept and moved, joined by a third which sprinted with unchecked resolve toward the others; the fight breaking out convinced Song enough was enough. Setting the binoculars down upon the window's ledge again, he in one swift motion unlatched the pane at the bottom, and with a forward roll as the window flew up and open, leapt out and allowed the momentum to carry him to his feet. A series of flashes and loud echoes from the struggle ahead came through the night as a burst of gunfire tore into the air.

Sprinting as he was, Song's breathing barely rose no matter how much speed his feet carried in building momentum, and his stability waned none as he reached down and snatched a small stone, no larger than a fist, from the grass. The blades waving as his hands brushed their stalks, there was a slight moment of delay - a serenity and calm - that fell over the white jacketed interloper; gathering himself in one breath, he exhaled the next and imparted himself upon the stone just as it left his finger tips and skirted across the ground at furious speed. It bounced, skipped once, and evened out, not at all breaking its surreal pace. A missile of [i]qi[/i] infused stone, surely over one-hundred miles per hour, shot right for the ankles of the all too familiar masked man.

Song didn't know who the gunman was, but he probably wasn't any worse than the two he knew for certain now to be the "bad men", and if all went well, the attacker would either vanish out of harm's way - the Golden Tiger unsure if it was a reactive thing the stranger did - or suddenly have a very painful, crippling blow distract him and slow him down; maybe even trip him. That [i]should[/i] afford Song to pick up speed and enter the brawl himself, especially as he continued to close the gap.

[@Metronome]