[sub][h3][center]Nicholas[/center][/h3][/sub][hr]

Peeking over the top of his lunchtable, improvised shelter that it was, Nic saw that the beast was momentarily disoriented, perhaps made pensive by the biting cold burst. [I]That was the right move, right?[/I] His angel wasn’t an angel, so he supposed that he could take that as validation, to one extent or another. Natalie, the one that had been at the dance with Archie, had latched onto the werecroc’s leg. But she was about as effective as a python trying to crush the ribcage of a big rig’s front tire.

Fortunately, she seemed to be invincible. Or at least close enough. Either way, she was seemingly going to do a better job protecting his angel than he could. That was, until he could finagle something more powerful. Completely unarmed at this phase, it seemed illadvised to continue in that particular melee. As he leaned against the overturned table that held him, he decided that when he got out he’d have to look into what sort of weapons or self-defensive measures were [i]legal[/i] onboard. And if there was nothing he’d find a way to make his own.

Using the scalpel that he’d added to his first aid kit, he loosed the screws on the underside of the lunch table. About forty-five seconds of tooth-gnashing twists later, he had liberated a pair of steel chair legs from the table, each about three feet long, hollow and straight. Excellent. He slid them into the backside of his pants before thinking on how to extract his angel. But brainstorming for Operation: Rapture was put on hold when he heard the sound of gunshots. He’d have to have a little faith in Wonder Girl for the time being, he supposed.

[I]Nononononono[/I], he thought as he crept for the exit. [I]Wherever Archie is he’d probably never forgive me if I let his girlfriend get killed to protect my angel.[/I] It then dawned on him precisely how much of a possessive sociopath he sounded like. [I]Worry about that later, that’s what hell is for.[/I] He decided to proceed anyhow. It was novel being in a combat scenario without communications with his father to guide him. Maybe novel wasn’t the right word for it. It was terrifying being in a combat scenario without communications with his father to guide him. Exaggerated by the fact that he didn’t have eyes on anyone in the vicinity. He felt completely blind.

At that, he felt his antennae perk up before violently emmitting a stream of his retroviral carriers into the air. They smattered against the ceiling before spreading out over the room like a cartoon soundwave. It was an involunatary physical response. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t busy fearing for his life and everyone else’s. That is, everyone else who wasn’t already dead.

He saw an imposing man with his gun at the ready happening upon the girls. He said a few words that Nic couldn’t hear. Probably dabbling in some villainous monologue. He’d have to send the Devil a Thank-You card sometime to demonstrate his appreciation for the fact that what he’d thought was a nonsensical fictional trope was, in fact, an ironic reality. But before the guillotining gunman could seal his peers fates, Nic darted in from the loading bay before diving behind a large plastic garbage cart that the janitor had never quite put away.

In order to conceal his position, he tilted his skull and jutted out another stream of carriers to imply he was positioned closer to the opposite end of the cart before, a split second later, flinging one of the steel chair legs directly at the man’s skull, sentencing him to death, shouting “Angelus enim meus!”