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I'll probably have a female as well.
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Hey, color me interested. I'll work on a sheet in a bit.
As someone who hasn't seen Misfits, I just wanted to be sure-our powers will be more aligned towards the weaker end of the spectrum as opposed to, say, Superman-level characters, right?
As someone who hasn't seen Misfits, I just wanted to be sure-our powers will be more aligned towards the weaker end of the spectrum as opposed to, say, Superman-level characters, right?
Andy and Selena Royal
Leave it to the professional. Andy was happy to acquiesce-he was down to three bullets, after all, and there was more to be gained. To Andy now (in the nights and years to come, it would be different, but for now) there was no empathy or compassion for the people running for cover, screaming and trying to pull away from needles and blades and bullets. He simply viewed all this as it related to Selena-the Fiends were only a nuisance insomuch as they threatened her. He admired her composure, although Andy questioned her methodology. She unloaded the shotgun (eighteen shots, 12 gauge, buckshot) into the Fiends, ripping flesh from their bones and sending them down. Selena muffled a scream from the alley behind him, and Andy vaguely considered things such as psychological trauma. There was a remarkable risk for civilian casualties with weaponry such as that, Andy noted. Furthered his suspicions about NEST, and cemented the rather grave feeling that this temporary alliance would prove very costly. However, Selena would be safe. The agent had agreed to that much. Andy stayed pressed against the wall, scanning the area around them for threats as Michelle focused on the lightning-thrower.
"Somebody named Khan," Selena muttered, clutching a hand to the side of her head.
"What." Andy asked, pistol leveled towards Michelle's blind side. A Fiend came around a corner and Andy paused only long enough to confirm it was an enemy. He squeezed the trigger coldly and the Fiend dropped some seven or eight feet from the vendor. Double-tapping preferable, but unsustainable given ammunition reserves. Two shots remaining.
"Somebody named Khan, I heard on the radios. And..." Selena turned, furrowing her eyebrows and looking at Michelle. "They're bringing in some lady called the Director." She glanced up at her older brother, a moment of silent understanding passing between them. There was now a very real risk of discovery. Andy did not care.
"She's finished them. Come with me." Andy grabbed her hand and continued to shield her with his frame, unintentionally but mercifully guarding her eyes from the eviscerated remains of the Fiends Michelle had killed. Selena kept her eyes firmly on the ground, trying to block out the screams, the motionless kids and women and dads strewn about, the smell of gunpowder and smoke...
Andy paused long enough to tuck his pistol into the front of his belt (something which would run the risk of blowing off certain sensitive organs on most individuals; this risk did not pertain to Andy) as he picked up a sawn-off shotgun from a fallen Fiend. Double-barrelled. Horribly inefficient. Handle wrapped in duct tape. Barrels removed crudely, poor accuracy and irreparable damage to the firearm. But serviceable. Andy cracked open the barrels with the idle ease of a professional and checked the barrels. One round remaining; three shots toatl. Ugh.
"What is our next move?" Andy asked, pushing Selena down behind the cover of the vendor with a gentle but firm hand. He knelt as well, gripping the shotgun in one hand and the pistol in the other. He demonstrated, unconsciously, rather remarkable firearm safety. Both weapons were aimed at the ground, fingers off the triggers, muzzles clear of any living people. Selena eyed Michelle's hardware, chewing her lip and hoping for an opportunity to present itself. Had she wiped its records? Maybe she had some other recorder on her-she'd heard cops were starting to get more and more body cameras. Footage of Andy would be...bad. Really bad. Grr. The NEST chick would have to get distracted soon, right? Until then, Selena divided her attention between the radio frequencies buzzing in her head and the bullets buzzing through the air around her.
Anastasia Lytvyn
Oh, Samuel. Anastasia recalled a bit of philosophy-Chinese, she thought, or perhaps Japanese. One of her old WLC squadmates had been fond of the stuff, pushing Sun Tzu on all the new guys and trying to hook them in further as it went. Thought-provoking, if nothing else. But she'd always been fond of one little aphorism of his-be the lightning, not the tycoon. If Sam wanted to be a hurricane, that would be just fine with her. Lightning was more her style-and they'd never hear the thunder, either.
Anastasia tightened the straps of her backpack, making sure it clung fast to her chest, and turned the opposite way, seemingly running from the combat. She grimaced, hoping that Fiona kept her ass still in that dumpster for a moment. She jumped up, flowing from the ground to the top of the rusted green steel in one smooth movement. She crouched, absorbing the impact with practiced grace, and turned her eyes to the ledge above her. The girl was small, but she'd always left her comrades in the dust on leg days-years of running and gymnastics rose from slumber as she burst upwards, clutching onto the shingles (they scorched her fingertips in the intense summer heat, but Anastasia forced it from her mind) and swinging up and onto the roof. She crouch-walked to the roof beside the alley, dropping and pausing for a moment. It'd taken about four or five seconds total, and she wasted no time in swinging off her pack, drawing out a small duffel bag which she gently lay on the ceiling beside her. She tugged on a pair of shooting gloves and a mask, again with experienced quickness, and then set to assembling her rifle, a task that took under a minute. Anastasia was good-the well-maintained machine almost purred in her hands, the receiver snapping into place. She hooked her leg around her backpack and swung it before her as she turned, resting the rifle on the bag, staying prone to minimize her presence. Anastasia hummed softly, stilling her nerves and calming her breath with the practiced birdsong. She dialed in the rifle and found Sam-or, perhaps more accurately, a vague zone of Sam- sensing his wake moreso than him; she saw the branches sway and knew where the wind was. A Fiend fell to unseen hands, and Anastasia turned her rifle a good thirty degrees away from there. Samuel, darling, you really are going to get shot one of these days. Let's hope it's not me.
The rifle didn't make any noise as she dropped the first two Fiends, the disposed brass falling into her cupped hand. She curled up around the SVU, attempting to stay clear of where Sam was operating and avoid killing any bystanders in the process. Easier said than done-no one was standing still, and in the chaos of the surging, panicking crowd, the room for error was very minimal. She'd silence them, giving the Fiend who was halfway through a word or sentence pause-just long enough to make them stop, see a look of confusion wash over their face as they tried to determine whether their sudden aphonia was the result of an overdose or-
Their skulls split open and they hit the ground. Anastasia felt some vague sadness about all this, but she simply hummed softly, and the emotion like her heartrate calmed back down. She swiveled back to the right, leaving Sam's little alley of bloody mayhem clear. Once, a bullet kicked the edge of the roof near her, and she took swift vengeance on the shooter. With his kneecap shot out, another Fiend scrambled to drag him to cover, showing unusual camaraderie for a gang of addicts. Made sense-with the whole world against them, they really couldn't afford to be against themselves, too. Still, it didn't earn them any reprieve from Anastasia.
She ejected the spent magazine from the SVU and reached for another within the bag, trying to figure out howw much longer Sam wanted to keep this up. She hadn't come prepared for a fight-only one magazine for the GSh and ten more shots for the Dragunov. And there were so many of them, violently green syringes glowing in one hand and handguns and machine pistols roaring off in the other. Disgusting. So crude. She drew back the slide and sighed, emptying her lungs of air and her heart of hesitation.
Good night. The muzzle flashed and the slide racked back without so much as a whisper, cutting off a Fiend whom she suspected was dangerously close to running into Sam. Another Fiend had dropped with no visible cause, and this particular tweaker was curious as to the cause, a look of comprehension and fury dawning on his face. NEST. KINGFISHER. Always a flair for the theatrical. America's always got something to prove like that.
Leave it to the professional. Andy was happy to acquiesce-he was down to three bullets, after all, and there was more to be gained. To Andy now (in the nights and years to come, it would be different, but for now) there was no empathy or compassion for the people running for cover, screaming and trying to pull away from needles and blades and bullets. He simply viewed all this as it related to Selena-the Fiends were only a nuisance insomuch as they threatened her. He admired her composure, although Andy questioned her methodology. She unloaded the shotgun (eighteen shots, 12 gauge, buckshot) into the Fiends, ripping flesh from their bones and sending them down. Selena muffled a scream from the alley behind him, and Andy vaguely considered things such as psychological trauma. There was a remarkable risk for civilian casualties with weaponry such as that, Andy noted. Furthered his suspicions about NEST, and cemented the rather grave feeling that this temporary alliance would prove very costly. However, Selena would be safe. The agent had agreed to that much. Andy stayed pressed against the wall, scanning the area around them for threats as Michelle focused on the lightning-thrower.
"Somebody named Khan," Selena muttered, clutching a hand to the side of her head.
"What." Andy asked, pistol leveled towards Michelle's blind side. A Fiend came around a corner and Andy paused only long enough to confirm it was an enemy. He squeezed the trigger coldly and the Fiend dropped some seven or eight feet from the vendor. Double-tapping preferable, but unsustainable given ammunition reserves. Two shots remaining.
"Somebody named Khan, I heard on the radios. And..." Selena turned, furrowing her eyebrows and looking at Michelle. "They're bringing in some lady called the Director." She glanced up at her older brother, a moment of silent understanding passing between them. There was now a very real risk of discovery. Andy did not care.
"She's finished them. Come with me." Andy grabbed her hand and continued to shield her with his frame, unintentionally but mercifully guarding her eyes from the eviscerated remains of the Fiends Michelle had killed. Selena kept her eyes firmly on the ground, trying to block out the screams, the motionless kids and women and dads strewn about, the smell of gunpowder and smoke...
Andy paused long enough to tuck his pistol into the front of his belt (something which would run the risk of blowing off certain sensitive organs on most individuals; this risk did not pertain to Andy) as he picked up a sawn-off shotgun from a fallen Fiend. Double-barrelled. Horribly inefficient. Handle wrapped in duct tape. Barrels removed crudely, poor accuracy and irreparable damage to the firearm. But serviceable. Andy cracked open the barrels with the idle ease of a professional and checked the barrels. One round remaining; three shots toatl. Ugh.
"What is our next move?" Andy asked, pushing Selena down behind the cover of the vendor with a gentle but firm hand. He knelt as well, gripping the shotgun in one hand and the pistol in the other. He demonstrated, unconsciously, rather remarkable firearm safety. Both weapons were aimed at the ground, fingers off the triggers, muzzles clear of any living people. Selena eyed Michelle's hardware, chewing her lip and hoping for an opportunity to present itself. Had she wiped its records? Maybe she had some other recorder on her-she'd heard cops were starting to get more and more body cameras. Footage of Andy would be...bad. Really bad. Grr. The NEST chick would have to get distracted soon, right? Until then, Selena divided her attention between the radio frequencies buzzing in her head and the bullets buzzing through the air around her.
Anastasia Lytvyn
Oh, Samuel. Anastasia recalled a bit of philosophy-Chinese, she thought, or perhaps Japanese. One of her old WLC squadmates had been fond of the stuff, pushing Sun Tzu on all the new guys and trying to hook them in further as it went. Thought-provoking, if nothing else. But she'd always been fond of one little aphorism of his-be the lightning, not the tycoon. If Sam wanted to be a hurricane, that would be just fine with her. Lightning was more her style-and they'd never hear the thunder, either.
Anastasia tightened the straps of her backpack, making sure it clung fast to her chest, and turned the opposite way, seemingly running from the combat. She grimaced, hoping that Fiona kept her ass still in that dumpster for a moment. She jumped up, flowing from the ground to the top of the rusted green steel in one smooth movement. She crouched, absorbing the impact with practiced grace, and turned her eyes to the ledge above her. The girl was small, but she'd always left her comrades in the dust on leg days-years of running and gymnastics rose from slumber as she burst upwards, clutching onto the shingles (they scorched her fingertips in the intense summer heat, but Anastasia forced it from her mind) and swinging up and onto the roof. She crouch-walked to the roof beside the alley, dropping and pausing for a moment. It'd taken about four or five seconds total, and she wasted no time in swinging off her pack, drawing out a small duffel bag which she gently lay on the ceiling beside her. She tugged on a pair of shooting gloves and a mask, again with experienced quickness, and then set to assembling her rifle, a task that took under a minute. Anastasia was good-the well-maintained machine almost purred in her hands, the receiver snapping into place. She hooked her leg around her backpack and swung it before her as she turned, resting the rifle on the bag, staying prone to minimize her presence. Anastasia hummed softly, stilling her nerves and calming her breath with the practiced birdsong. She dialed in the rifle and found Sam-or, perhaps more accurately, a vague zone of Sam- sensing his wake moreso than him; she saw the branches sway and knew where the wind was. A Fiend fell to unseen hands, and Anastasia turned her rifle a good thirty degrees away from there. Samuel, darling, you really are going to get shot one of these days. Let's hope it's not me.
The rifle didn't make any noise as she dropped the first two Fiends, the disposed brass falling into her cupped hand. She curled up around the SVU, attempting to stay clear of where Sam was operating and avoid killing any bystanders in the process. Easier said than done-no one was standing still, and in the chaos of the surging, panicking crowd, the room for error was very minimal. She'd silence them, giving the Fiend who was halfway through a word or sentence pause-just long enough to make them stop, see a look of confusion wash over their face as they tried to determine whether their sudden aphonia was the result of an overdose or-
Their skulls split open and they hit the ground. Anastasia felt some vague sadness about all this, but she simply hummed softly, and the emotion like her heartrate calmed back down. She swiveled back to the right, leaving Sam's little alley of bloody mayhem clear. Once, a bullet kicked the edge of the roof near her, and she took swift vengeance on the shooter. With his kneecap shot out, another Fiend scrambled to drag him to cover, showing unusual camaraderie for a gang of addicts. Made sense-with the whole world against them, they really couldn't afford to be against themselves, too. Still, it didn't earn them any reprieve from Anastasia.
She ejected the spent magazine from the SVU and reached for another within the bag, trying to figure out howw much longer Sam wanted to keep this up. She hadn't come prepared for a fight-only one magazine for the GSh and ten more shots for the Dragunov. And there were so many of them, violently green syringes glowing in one hand and handguns and machine pistols roaring off in the other. Disgusting. So crude. She drew back the slide and sighed, emptying her lungs of air and her heart of hesitation.
Good night. The muzzle flashed and the slide racked back without so much as a whisper, cutting off a Fiend whom she suspected was dangerously close to running into Sam. Another Fiend had dropped with no visible cause, and this particular tweaker was curious as to the cause, a look of comprehension and fury dawning on his face. NEST. KINGFISHER. Always a flair for the theatrical. America's always got something to prove like that.
Andy and Selena
The moment the first bullet ripped through the air, two things happened on either side of the Verthaven street, reactions that were entirely intertwined and wholly opposite.
Selena dropped her food, which was an act that truly conveyed the severity of the situation. She, like the others around her, got caught with a wave of Was....was that a gunshot?! Followed by the immediate rationalizations of "No it's a transformer or a car backfiring or a carnival game or". Then came more. And Selena felt a terrifying paralysis wrap itself around her neck and hands as she stood completely still, catatonic eyes swiveling around the festival. People were confused and dazed and ducking for cover and no one knew what was going on. There were NEST agents reacting as well, lifting up rifles, and cops lunging for their handguns, and frantically screaming into radios and there were kids crying and dogs barking and-"Andy?" she whispered, pale skin turning paler.
A few hundred yards away Andy blinked. The first gunshot was, yes, indeed, a gunshot. He suspected .308. Maybe 7.62. Something of comparable caliber and force, something carried by hunters or more probably...soldiers. Perhaps NEST was cracking down. Regardless, Andy twitched, eyes closing as one man and reopening as another. There was an utter calm to his features, a confidence and gravitas that bordered on absolute nonchalance. He turned away from the vendor, eyes scanning the streets around him in one whole, swift motion. He did not need a second glance. Mark II Combat Protocols, Initiated. Set Parameters: Protect Selena. Evacuate. Assist Law Enforcement and Protect Other Citizens if Possible. In the base of Andy's skull he heard Selena's voice, the radio within his head buzzing with their own little short-range frequency. They say twins can be telepathic, even if they're not metahuman. Well Andy and Selena weren't twins, and they weren't entirely human, but they knew. And the more pragmatic answer was that it was technological, the product of many hours of experimenting with what Andy's hardware and Selena's own ever-adapting abilities were capable of, but the more Romantic answer is that Andy would've heard his little sister's voice if they'd been in the middle of a fucking hurricane. His fingers curled into fists and he sized up where she was in a matter of seconds, triangulating her signal as his eyes set to work filtering through what they'd seen. His jacket flared back a bit, warm air gushing out his sleeves and collar as he began assessing. Filtering for rifles and handguns and blades and pipe bombs.
"Uh, sir?" the vendor asked. Older. Hard of hearing. Likely had not heard gunfire. Was not paying attention to nearby crowd. This is the early stage. Confusion. Panic. Yes. Understandable. "Are you still interested in buying this piece."
Andy didn't reply, he broke into a run, sprinting for Selena as he kept his head on constant rotation, ears primed and eyes strained for any sign of danger, any threat at all. There, before him, a Fiend. It was in-between him and Selena, not focused upon her at all. He reached into his jacket for a handgun-instinct and operating flashed at him that it was a 1911 Operator, pulling out a gas mask from a backpack slung over his shoulders. Should've armed within the cover of an alley. Not here. Very poor decision. Andy slammed into him with full force, turning and driving his shoulder into the Fiend's ribcage. He heard-and it was lost amongst the cacophony of the crowd-the crunch of ribs as Andy's weight drove him against the asphalt. The Fiend wheezed as the air was knocked out of him, the pistol clattering to the ground. He drove an elbow into the man's sternum, prompting another guttural whimper, and rolled, grabbing the handgun with one swift motion. He reached for the gas mask and paussed. No. Poor tactical decision. Will label self as Fiend, draw fire from local authorities. Must risk exposure of abilities. The man began to speak, too dazed and caught off-guard to respond-he was supposed to causing chaos, damnit, not getting body-slammed by-
The man yelled in earnest as Andy separated a fair amount of muscles, bone, and sinew from one another with a .45 round to the shoulder. Nonlethal. Injured ribs, possibly lethal. Likely to survive. Not of concern. Acceptable collateral damage. Six rounds remaining. Threat, incapacitated. Andy rose up, continuing to move towards Selena. Concentration of gunfire increasing. Situation escalating. NEST will respond with force, civilians caught in the crossfire. Selena needs immediate evacuation. Andy knocked two middle-aged women down without hesitating or faltering, no trace of remorse in his eyes or his still-running feet. He slid behind a food stand-its owner had long since abandoned his post-and kicked it with both legs, knocking it flat on the ground. He grabbed Selena from behind and pulled her to the ground-she let out a terrified shriek and threw an elbow back, prompting a raipd-and most unnatural looking-darting of his head to the side. Her funny bone hit the concrete-hard-and her right arm went numb.
"It's me." Andy said tersely, his voice as empty as his affect. "Stop." Selena did as she was told, and felt her earlier fear-that immediate, primal panic-start to twist into something more serious. Andy...Andy was pulling out the big guns. Mark II, she felt, given that he still had his skin. That meant this was...not good. Very not good. Andy drew up, placing himself between the highest sources of gunfire, his ears registering everything that broke the sound barrier, and his younger sister. Food stand would offer minimal cover. Not much. "Selena. Listen to me. You will absorb the oven in this food stand. If anyone gets close to you and tries to hurt you, you grab their face and burn as hard as you can. Do you understand me."
Selena nodded rapidly, curled up and trying to block out the sounds of screams and sirens and everything else from the other side of her brother. And she would never admit to him but she...she was a little scared of Andy, and as human as she knew he was, she wondered if there was a way to make him like this against her, to direct that remorseless fury towards her and..."Yes. Yes I understand."
"Good. Now you-" Andy paused, his head twisting to the side. A NEST agent was pressed up against a wall. Bleeding shoulder. Gunfire. Can't detect severity from here, likely nonfatal. Carrying AA-12 shotgun. Large potential for collateral damage. Size of woman abnormal, far beyond average values for woman. Possible metahuman. "Plan. We are moving towards that NEST agent. She will protect you and get you to safety. I am going to do the same but we may get separated. If so you are going to proceed back home as safely and quickly as possible and you will do so without me. You will not try to help anyone and you will not stop no matter what you see or hear. Do you understand me."
"Y-yes..."
"Good." Andy stood up and nodded his head towards the food stand. Selena crawled to it and put her hands on the oven, burning only for a moment before she felt it rumble beneath her skin, feeling the electric coils and the path of the machinery, feeling every twisting gear and the dozens of wires and little mechanisms that turned propane into heat which turned something borderline edible into something passably so. She drew her hands back, the food cart's lights all out. "Okay," she said, "Let's go-"
Before she had a chance to finish, Andy firmly but gently grabbed her and lifted her up to her feet, pistol leveled with one hand (he moved his arm with each step, his hand not wavering or faltering and his eyes clear for any Fiends on that side) and the other shielding Selena. They moved quickly towards the NEST Agent, and as Andy opened his mouth to speak he saw something that threw an unfortunate wrench into their plans. One of them drew a syringe of some glowing mutagen, something Andy suspected was a touch more deadly than absinthe or lava lamp juice. He drew back the needle and began towards the NEST agent-
Andy lunged forward, intercepting the syringe with his forearm. There was the chink of needle on metal as the crude stab pierced through his skin and reached what lied below. Possibility of exposure? Can be handled later. Immediate danger. Andy twisted his arm, grabbing hold of the very surprised Fiend by his bicep and stepping in-between his legs, knocking him off-balance. He twisted his weight, putting everything on the man's off-balance side, and knocking him to the ground. Andy fired his pistol twice, once into each of the Fiend's kneecaps. He screamed. Blood splattered onto Andy's jacket and face, but he made no notice of it. "Selena. Are you alright?"
Selena very quietly whispered that yes, she was. She glanced at the touchpad on Michelle's arm. Those...those things could record, couldn't they? And it would've picked up on her brother....Selena shrieked, flinching back and letting her hand brush up against the touchpad. She focused hard, reaching into the machinery-not far, not far, she just needed a few seconds-and then fell backwards, hoping she'd managed to fuck up the last fifteen seconds of its recording sufficiently. Quietly, she began to reroute her internal cell phone, trying to pick up radio signals, news about what was going on, something.
"He's incapacitated." Andy said solemnly, audible over the very surprised and very pained shrieks of the Fiend below him. He kicked him in the gas mask for good measure, and the man went quiet, if not still, trembling and shaking. "You are a NEST agent. You are wounded." his eyes glanced at her shoulder. Yes, wounded. Not critically. "My sister needs to be taken to safety." Andy paused-NEST agent may not abandon post so readily. Perhaps needs convincing. "I have reason to believe the Fiends-" yes, Fiends, attack method of chaos, use of drugs to improve combat functionality at risk of mental lucidity-yes, Fiends-"are after her personally and may be using this chaos as a ruse." Lies to officer of the law. Perhaps serious repercussions. Perhaps exposure of identity and subsequent apprehension by Hands of Science. Acceptable risk. Selena must be safe. Andy stepped back into the cover of the alleyway, shielding his sister more fully. Could fully stop any round up to .50 caliber or higher. Would slow that round sufficiently to give Selena chance at survival. "Selena, lie down," Andy said, raising the handgun (four rounds remaining) and looking for any more Fiends. "Is this acceptable for you? I overheard your request for backup. I am capable of carrying out this task." A faint heat radiated off his frame, warming through his jacket and jeans. Andy began scanning the radio, filtering music and weather and political debates-no, no, he needed short range, he needed whatever NEST had. They would have information on what was going on, nature of the conflict. The other Fiends who were firing upon Michelle's position stopped for a moment, having given their more close-quarters-minded brethren a chance to stab her with the serum. Since it failed, they resumed, an arc of electricity firing past Andy-
"Andy!" Selena shouted out of fear, seeing artificial lightning and assuming the worst.
"Quiet." Andy said calmly. He knelt down, grabbing the wounded Fiend (he yelped) and pulling him close, lifting him up and using him to block the majority of his frame. "Agent, is this acceptable?" he asked as he leaned around the human shield, returning fire. He fired only once. Three rounds remaining. "I am low on ammunition. Three rounds. If you are amenable to this arrangement, I would appreciate .45 ACP munitions or an additional weapon. This violation of NEST protocol is likely acceptable given the circumstances." A bullet bounced off the alley corner and Andy jerked back, making the Fiend shriek once again. "Quiet," He ordered. "Selena?"
"I'm okay." Selena went prone, peeking between Michelle and her brother's legs and feeling rather silly, even in the middle of what was going on. "I just wanted some fucking ice cream," she muttered under her breath.
Anastasia Lytvyn
Harmless, most likely. Oh, Sam, those words do tempt fate ever so much. A few seconds later, the report of gunfire filled the air, and Anastasia had a quiet grin even as the practiced, trained movements began to take over. It was like a show, from when she was younger-there was the initial rush of surprise and confusion, followed immediately by pragmatism. She heard gunfire, there was no point in questioning its origin or the nature of the conflict. That was not her place, to question why. Merely how, and from there, how can I? Anastasia was rather handy in situations like these, even if she preferred for it to be a bit more on her terms, a bit less open gunfire. Anastasia spun, a movement that was not entirely unlike a pirouette, and pushed back against the wall, covering herself from one side of the street. Dropping down, her hand plunged into her jacket and pulled out her GSh, the other hand drawing out a small dagger concealed in her boot. She looked up at Sam and then turned to Fiona, flipping the safety off with her thumb. Anastasia had no words, but the message was clear. Do we need to worry about this one? She turned and braced against the wall, looking for potential threats as she left the situation to Sam's handling. Fiona seemed genuinely panicked, but she'd been tricked before in her day-a cold memory of that fucking Urals clusterfuck of a mission rolled through Anastasia's mind, and the shudder made her forget Verthaven for just a moment. She glanced, scar on her face darkened in the shadows of the alleyway, and looked for any Fiends. She wasn't going to open fire unless she was sure she could get them clean-there were a lot of innocent people running around....good God, there were a lot. Monsters. So classless, so messy. NEST started opening fire, probably tearing a few festival-goers to shreds. Necessary evil, Anastasia supposed.
A Fiend came stumbling by their alleyway, the effects of whatever drug he was on (amphetamines, Anastasia figured, nothing else would get you pissed enough and riled enough to go do something like this) blurring his mind to the possibility of danger. He held a wicked little knife in one hand, a syringe that was...glowing green...in the other. Anastasia was not entirely familiar with what it was-chemistry was never really her strongest suit-but she had a rather reasonable hunch that whatever was in that vial was bad news bears. Anastasia, trusting on Sam to synergize with her silently and instantly, a trust that was perhaps unreasonable but not totally unfounded-they were professionals, after all, two of the same nature in a similar profession. She moved forward, exposing herself from the alleyway for just a moment. She focused and the Fiend's wild laughter came to a sudden and total stop. He looked confused, eyebrows furrowing. He glanced around, trying to figure out why he was-
It was just enough time. Anastasia kicked the back of his leg and hooked one of her arms under his left, the one wielding the syringe. Before he could turn and drive whatever foulness that vial contained into her skin, she twisted and knocked his weight out from under him, throwing him to the ground. Anastasia didn't have much in the way of brute force, but she had dirty tricks and she had the element of surprise and she had technique. It was enough against this meth-addled fucker. He dropped, slashing out wildly with the knife-she was fast, but he'd been turning and cutting on the way down, and she'd foolishly focused on the syringe and not the blade. It clipped her leg, a cut that was more annoying than life threatening. Rolling back, she lifted her pistol and fired twice, noislessly, into his head, which fell back lifeless, noiselessly. Anastasia crouched to pick up the fallen brass out of old habits-such are the old habits of a seasoned hitwoman-but quickly thought better of it, moving back into the cover of the alleyway. She pulled up her pants, silently cursing that fool Fiend and every fucking inbred member of his family tree. There were a sizable number of curses her fingers longed to form, but she instead sized up the wound. Nothing bad, assuming he hadn't wiped his ass with that knife or anything. She dropped her bag to the ground, clutching her knife in her teeth as she pulled out a roll of gauze, quickly wrapping her leg and tucking it back into the bag. Her suit was in there as well, but there was no time to slip it on-and she'd just get fired at more with that thing on. She gave a quick thumbs up to Sam before drawing the knife from her teeth and readying herself once more. Fiona was vaguely on her mind, but mostly an issue of mild concern-Sam was handling her, and that was for Sam to worry about.
She nodded her had at the ensuing chaos and raised an eyebrow. What's next?
The moment the first bullet ripped through the air, two things happened on either side of the Verthaven street, reactions that were entirely intertwined and wholly opposite.
Selena dropped her food, which was an act that truly conveyed the severity of the situation. She, like the others around her, got caught with a wave of Was....was that a gunshot?! Followed by the immediate rationalizations of "No it's a transformer or a car backfiring or a carnival game or". Then came more. And Selena felt a terrifying paralysis wrap itself around her neck and hands as she stood completely still, catatonic eyes swiveling around the festival. People were confused and dazed and ducking for cover and no one knew what was going on. There were NEST agents reacting as well, lifting up rifles, and cops lunging for their handguns, and frantically screaming into radios and there were kids crying and dogs barking and-"Andy?" she whispered, pale skin turning paler.
A few hundred yards away Andy blinked. The first gunshot was, yes, indeed, a gunshot. He suspected .308. Maybe 7.62. Something of comparable caliber and force, something carried by hunters or more probably...soldiers. Perhaps NEST was cracking down. Regardless, Andy twitched, eyes closing as one man and reopening as another. There was an utter calm to his features, a confidence and gravitas that bordered on absolute nonchalance. He turned away from the vendor, eyes scanning the streets around him in one whole, swift motion. He did not need a second glance. Mark II Combat Protocols, Initiated. Set Parameters: Protect Selena. Evacuate. Assist Law Enforcement and Protect Other Citizens if Possible. In the base of Andy's skull he heard Selena's voice, the radio within his head buzzing with their own little short-range frequency. They say twins can be telepathic, even if they're not metahuman. Well Andy and Selena weren't twins, and they weren't entirely human, but they knew. And the more pragmatic answer was that it was technological, the product of many hours of experimenting with what Andy's hardware and Selena's own ever-adapting abilities were capable of, but the more Romantic answer is that Andy would've heard his little sister's voice if they'd been in the middle of a fucking hurricane. His fingers curled into fists and he sized up where she was in a matter of seconds, triangulating her signal as his eyes set to work filtering through what they'd seen. His jacket flared back a bit, warm air gushing out his sleeves and collar as he began assessing. Filtering for rifles and handguns and blades and pipe bombs.
"Uh, sir?" the vendor asked. Older. Hard of hearing. Likely had not heard gunfire. Was not paying attention to nearby crowd. This is the early stage. Confusion. Panic. Yes. Understandable. "Are you still interested in buying this piece."
Andy didn't reply, he broke into a run, sprinting for Selena as he kept his head on constant rotation, ears primed and eyes strained for any sign of danger, any threat at all. There, before him, a Fiend. It was in-between him and Selena, not focused upon her at all. He reached into his jacket for a handgun-instinct and operating flashed at him that it was a 1911 Operator, pulling out a gas mask from a backpack slung over his shoulders. Should've armed within the cover of an alley. Not here. Very poor decision. Andy slammed into him with full force, turning and driving his shoulder into the Fiend's ribcage. He heard-and it was lost amongst the cacophony of the crowd-the crunch of ribs as Andy's weight drove him against the asphalt. The Fiend wheezed as the air was knocked out of him, the pistol clattering to the ground. He drove an elbow into the man's sternum, prompting another guttural whimper, and rolled, grabbing the handgun with one swift motion. He reached for the gas mask and paussed. No. Poor tactical decision. Will label self as Fiend, draw fire from local authorities. Must risk exposure of abilities. The man began to speak, too dazed and caught off-guard to respond-he was supposed to causing chaos, damnit, not getting body-slammed by-
The man yelled in earnest as Andy separated a fair amount of muscles, bone, and sinew from one another with a .45 round to the shoulder. Nonlethal. Injured ribs, possibly lethal. Likely to survive. Not of concern. Acceptable collateral damage. Six rounds remaining. Threat, incapacitated. Andy rose up, continuing to move towards Selena. Concentration of gunfire increasing. Situation escalating. NEST will respond with force, civilians caught in the crossfire. Selena needs immediate evacuation. Andy knocked two middle-aged women down without hesitating or faltering, no trace of remorse in his eyes or his still-running feet. He slid behind a food stand-its owner had long since abandoned his post-and kicked it with both legs, knocking it flat on the ground. He grabbed Selena from behind and pulled her to the ground-she let out a terrified shriek and threw an elbow back, prompting a raipd-and most unnatural looking-darting of his head to the side. Her funny bone hit the concrete-hard-and her right arm went numb.
"It's me." Andy said tersely, his voice as empty as his affect. "Stop." Selena did as she was told, and felt her earlier fear-that immediate, primal panic-start to twist into something more serious. Andy...Andy was pulling out the big guns. Mark II, she felt, given that he still had his skin. That meant this was...not good. Very not good. Andy drew up, placing himself between the highest sources of gunfire, his ears registering everything that broke the sound barrier, and his younger sister. Food stand would offer minimal cover. Not much. "Selena. Listen to me. You will absorb the oven in this food stand. If anyone gets close to you and tries to hurt you, you grab their face and burn as hard as you can. Do you understand me."
Selena nodded rapidly, curled up and trying to block out the sounds of screams and sirens and everything else from the other side of her brother. And she would never admit to him but she...she was a little scared of Andy, and as human as she knew he was, she wondered if there was a way to make him like this against her, to direct that remorseless fury towards her and..."Yes. Yes I understand."
"Good. Now you-" Andy paused, his head twisting to the side. A NEST agent was pressed up against a wall. Bleeding shoulder. Gunfire. Can't detect severity from here, likely nonfatal. Carrying AA-12 shotgun. Large potential for collateral damage. Size of woman abnormal, far beyond average values for woman. Possible metahuman. "Plan. We are moving towards that NEST agent. She will protect you and get you to safety. I am going to do the same but we may get separated. If so you are going to proceed back home as safely and quickly as possible and you will do so without me. You will not try to help anyone and you will not stop no matter what you see or hear. Do you understand me."
"Y-yes..."
"Good." Andy stood up and nodded his head towards the food stand. Selena crawled to it and put her hands on the oven, burning only for a moment before she felt it rumble beneath her skin, feeling the electric coils and the path of the machinery, feeling every twisting gear and the dozens of wires and little mechanisms that turned propane into heat which turned something borderline edible into something passably so. She drew her hands back, the food cart's lights all out. "Okay," she said, "Let's go-"
Before she had a chance to finish, Andy firmly but gently grabbed her and lifted her up to her feet, pistol leveled with one hand (he moved his arm with each step, his hand not wavering or faltering and his eyes clear for any Fiends on that side) and the other shielding Selena. They moved quickly towards the NEST Agent, and as Andy opened his mouth to speak he saw something that threw an unfortunate wrench into their plans. One of them drew a syringe of some glowing mutagen, something Andy suspected was a touch more deadly than absinthe or lava lamp juice. He drew back the needle and began towards the NEST agent-
Andy lunged forward, intercepting the syringe with his forearm. There was the chink of needle on metal as the crude stab pierced through his skin and reached what lied below. Possibility of exposure? Can be handled later. Immediate danger. Andy twisted his arm, grabbing hold of the very surprised Fiend by his bicep and stepping in-between his legs, knocking him off-balance. He twisted his weight, putting everything on the man's off-balance side, and knocking him to the ground. Andy fired his pistol twice, once into each of the Fiend's kneecaps. He screamed. Blood splattered onto Andy's jacket and face, but he made no notice of it. "Selena. Are you alright?"
Selena very quietly whispered that yes, she was. She glanced at the touchpad on Michelle's arm. Those...those things could record, couldn't they? And it would've picked up on her brother....Selena shrieked, flinching back and letting her hand brush up against the touchpad. She focused hard, reaching into the machinery-not far, not far, she just needed a few seconds-and then fell backwards, hoping she'd managed to fuck up the last fifteen seconds of its recording sufficiently. Quietly, she began to reroute her internal cell phone, trying to pick up radio signals, news about what was going on, something.
"He's incapacitated." Andy said solemnly, audible over the very surprised and very pained shrieks of the Fiend below him. He kicked him in the gas mask for good measure, and the man went quiet, if not still, trembling and shaking. "You are a NEST agent. You are wounded." his eyes glanced at her shoulder. Yes, wounded. Not critically. "My sister needs to be taken to safety." Andy paused-NEST agent may not abandon post so readily. Perhaps needs convincing. "I have reason to believe the Fiends-" yes, Fiends, attack method of chaos, use of drugs to improve combat functionality at risk of mental lucidity-yes, Fiends-"are after her personally and may be using this chaos as a ruse." Lies to officer of the law. Perhaps serious repercussions. Perhaps exposure of identity and subsequent apprehension by Hands of Science. Acceptable risk. Selena must be safe. Andy stepped back into the cover of the alleyway, shielding his sister more fully. Could fully stop any round up to .50 caliber or higher. Would slow that round sufficiently to give Selena chance at survival. "Selena, lie down," Andy said, raising the handgun (four rounds remaining) and looking for any more Fiends. "Is this acceptable for you? I overheard your request for backup. I am capable of carrying out this task." A faint heat radiated off his frame, warming through his jacket and jeans. Andy began scanning the radio, filtering music and weather and political debates-no, no, he needed short range, he needed whatever NEST had. They would have information on what was going on, nature of the conflict. The other Fiends who were firing upon Michelle's position stopped for a moment, having given their more close-quarters-minded brethren a chance to stab her with the serum. Since it failed, they resumed, an arc of electricity firing past Andy-
"Andy!" Selena shouted out of fear, seeing artificial lightning and assuming the worst.
"Quiet." Andy said calmly. He knelt down, grabbing the wounded Fiend (he yelped) and pulling him close, lifting him up and using him to block the majority of his frame. "Agent, is this acceptable?" he asked as he leaned around the human shield, returning fire. He fired only once. Three rounds remaining. "I am low on ammunition. Three rounds. If you are amenable to this arrangement, I would appreciate .45 ACP munitions or an additional weapon. This violation of NEST protocol is likely acceptable given the circumstances." A bullet bounced off the alley corner and Andy jerked back, making the Fiend shriek once again. "Quiet," He ordered. "Selena?"
"I'm okay." Selena went prone, peeking between Michelle and her brother's legs and feeling rather silly, even in the middle of what was going on. "I just wanted some fucking ice cream," she muttered under her breath.
Anastasia Lytvyn
Harmless, most likely. Oh, Sam, those words do tempt fate ever so much. A few seconds later, the report of gunfire filled the air, and Anastasia had a quiet grin even as the practiced, trained movements began to take over. It was like a show, from when she was younger-there was the initial rush of surprise and confusion, followed immediately by pragmatism. She heard gunfire, there was no point in questioning its origin or the nature of the conflict. That was not her place, to question why. Merely how, and from there, how can I? Anastasia was rather handy in situations like these, even if she preferred for it to be a bit more on her terms, a bit less open gunfire. Anastasia spun, a movement that was not entirely unlike a pirouette, and pushed back against the wall, covering herself from one side of the street. Dropping down, her hand plunged into her jacket and pulled out her GSh, the other hand drawing out a small dagger concealed in her boot. She looked up at Sam and then turned to Fiona, flipping the safety off with her thumb. Anastasia had no words, but the message was clear. Do we need to worry about this one? She turned and braced against the wall, looking for potential threats as she left the situation to Sam's handling. Fiona seemed genuinely panicked, but she'd been tricked before in her day-a cold memory of that fucking Urals clusterfuck of a mission rolled through Anastasia's mind, and the shudder made her forget Verthaven for just a moment. She glanced, scar on her face darkened in the shadows of the alleyway, and looked for any Fiends. She wasn't going to open fire unless she was sure she could get them clean-there were a lot of innocent people running around....good God, there were a lot. Monsters. So classless, so messy. NEST started opening fire, probably tearing a few festival-goers to shreds. Necessary evil, Anastasia supposed.
A Fiend came stumbling by their alleyway, the effects of whatever drug he was on (amphetamines, Anastasia figured, nothing else would get you pissed enough and riled enough to go do something like this) blurring his mind to the possibility of danger. He held a wicked little knife in one hand, a syringe that was...glowing green...in the other. Anastasia was not entirely familiar with what it was-chemistry was never really her strongest suit-but she had a rather reasonable hunch that whatever was in that vial was bad news bears. Anastasia, trusting on Sam to synergize with her silently and instantly, a trust that was perhaps unreasonable but not totally unfounded-they were professionals, after all, two of the same nature in a similar profession. She moved forward, exposing herself from the alleyway for just a moment. She focused and the Fiend's wild laughter came to a sudden and total stop. He looked confused, eyebrows furrowing. He glanced around, trying to figure out why he was-
It was just enough time. Anastasia kicked the back of his leg and hooked one of her arms under his left, the one wielding the syringe. Before he could turn and drive whatever foulness that vial contained into her skin, she twisted and knocked his weight out from under him, throwing him to the ground. Anastasia didn't have much in the way of brute force, but she had dirty tricks and she had the element of surprise and she had technique. It was enough against this meth-addled fucker. He dropped, slashing out wildly with the knife-she was fast, but he'd been turning and cutting on the way down, and she'd foolishly focused on the syringe and not the blade. It clipped her leg, a cut that was more annoying than life threatening. Rolling back, she lifted her pistol and fired twice, noislessly, into his head, which fell back lifeless, noiselessly. Anastasia crouched to pick up the fallen brass out of old habits-such are the old habits of a seasoned hitwoman-but quickly thought better of it, moving back into the cover of the alleyway. She pulled up her pants, silently cursing that fool Fiend and every fucking inbred member of his family tree. There were a sizable number of curses her fingers longed to form, but she instead sized up the wound. Nothing bad, assuming he hadn't wiped his ass with that knife or anything. She dropped her bag to the ground, clutching her knife in her teeth as she pulled out a roll of gauze, quickly wrapping her leg and tucking it back into the bag. Her suit was in there as well, but there was no time to slip it on-and she'd just get fired at more with that thing on. She gave a quick thumbs up to Sam before drawing the knife from her teeth and readying herself once more. Fiona was vaguely on her mind, but mostly an issue of mild concern-Sam was handling her, and that was for Sam to worry about.
She nodded her had at the ensuing chaos and raised an eyebrow. What's next?
Anastasia Lytvyn
Anastasia, sweating softly under her jacket, had her attention evenly divided between where she suspected Sam Clarke was sitting and a small pigeon that was busy feasting upon the smorgasboard of discarded food. When the festival came to town, the birds had trouble flying for the next few days, that much was certain. She watched the little guy with a quiet smile, testing herself on his genus, phylum. She couldn't remember the latter, but didn't feel too bad-she stuck more to songbirds. They were beautiful, and resonated in a...want what you can't have sort of way. Sipping (more quickly than normal-Anastasia was used to colder weather, and with that, cold weather clothes. This damned summer heat was not appreciated, and she hadn't yet had the time to assemble a new wardrobe that was more practical. She'd suffer the heat for now) on an iced coffee, she returned her focus to the spot that shimmered a few moments ago. Anastasia was not gifted with supervision-well, her sense of sight was sharper, but not enough to pierce Mr. Clarke's little veil. No, she merely had experience, which was worth far more than any preternatural ability genes could bestow. She knew what to look for, and she knew where to watch. Her guess had been off by a few feet when he finally re-materialized, but it was close enough for her to feel a touch of smugness. Don't get cocky now, dear. These boys-this whole city-is dangerous. Anastasia frowned, soft pale features twisting up as she heard the tell-tale slurping of an empty cup. Damn. This iced coffee wasn't quite as popular back home-she rather liked it, having endured a grueling career of poorly made, name-brand black coffee. One day I'll open up a coffee shop. This notched onto the increasingly long list of "Things Anastasia Lytvyn Will One Day Do". Still, she was young (relatively) and had some capital. Starbucks had better stay on its toes.
Grabbing the small backpack next to her (one that weighed, perhaps, more than you would expect a small pack to) and slinging it casually over her shoulders, Anastasia threw the cup away, gently placing it on the top of an overflowing mountain of trash. She pitied the trash collectors come tomorrow morning. This was certainly an interesting festival-and an interesting city. Lots to buy, lots to do. She could stay here a little while. Of course, if this job (and Anastasia still wasn't sure how she felt about signing on with KINGFISHER, of working with an organization that seemed a little too like NEST, a little too like the meta-regulatory-on-paper-, political-wetworks-in-practice group she'd come running from) came through, perhaps Verthaven would be home. At least for a while.
Nomads have more fun than the rest of us. For a while.
She crossed the street, pausing wholly before smoothly and briskly gliding across the asphalt (some young thing sprinted right past her, not looking either way-careless, these American children). She looked at Michelle, standing watch. Alert, focused. Anastasia watched her for a moment, head tilted to the side, a strange mix of cute features and harsh scars. Little soldier with your gun. What're you fighting for? Or maybe, I wonder, who? To put it bluntly, Anastasia had not exactly seen a great multitude of African-Americans in her life (not far from the Caucasus, this was, perhaps understandable), and had never seen a woman this tall or muscular. With NEST? She hadn't quite made up her mind about America's superhuman agency yet. It certainly seemed more on-the-level than Russia's, but she was tentative of the West. For now, she'd stay out of their way, which was generally how Anastasia preferred to do business. She was quiet, in every possible sense, and if there was anything NEST excelled at it, it was being loud.
Anastasia slipped past a goateed man and stood near the line of the Pad Thai restaurant, designer sunglasses masking her icy blue eyes. She arched her head up, seemingly gazing at the menu while keeping an eye on Clarke. There was a figure, slightly ominous and entirely out of place (Makes two of us, little darling), standing in the alleyway. Were she law enforcement, she would've expected a drug dealer, a terrorist sizing up a crowd for a pipe bomb. But Anastasia was not law enforcement, not yet. At the moment, she was in a more grey occupation, and as such, she merely expected a trap. Officers, bless their souls, were rather predictable once one left the agency, looked at them from the outside. To the average onlooker, perhaps it seems impossible that criminals can evade the police. It's more of a never-ending struggle: neither exists without the other. They simply fill the void, chasing round and round...
Contemplating the sort of cycle that would make Hegel weary, she did her best to stay on-guard, ready to spring into whatever action she could muster. This harsh daylight was irritating her, and not merely because of her jacket and heavy (if stylish!) jeans. She had a GSh tucked within her coat, concealed well. A dagger tucked in the boots. Her hands and forearms began to tense and tingle, burning with that energy that always came before a job. She'd practiced, and experience was nudging at her, wanting to coax her hands through the old motions. But no, that wouldn't be necessary. Wouldn't be necessary at all. Because Mr. Clarke and the mystery cloak wouldn't get into any trouble whatsoever.
It was that sort of optimism that got people killed, Anastasia figured. Ah. She continued, attention split once again, but this time between the Pad Thai food and her potential coworker. While she didn't want to risk distracting him and getting him caught off-guard, she figured a heads-up wouldn't be amiss. Anastasia reached into her pocket and pulled out a track phone, the sort that, ironically, got sold a lot in Verthaven for entirely different reasons (or maybe Anastasia wasn't too far off from the drug dealers). She punched out a quick message to Sam-I'm close if needed., ran it over once or twice-she'd been paying for some pretty high-quality English lessons, and learned a bit while she was back home, but wanted to be sure. She punched send and slid it back into her phone, watching Fiona surreptitiously. If she was Fiona, she'd jump when (and if) Sam checked his phone. If she was Sam, she wouldn't check her phone. Fun games for car rides-Anastasia was full of them.
Anastasia, sweating softly under her jacket, had her attention evenly divided between where she suspected Sam Clarke was sitting and a small pigeon that was busy feasting upon the smorgasboard of discarded food. When the festival came to town, the birds had trouble flying for the next few days, that much was certain. She watched the little guy with a quiet smile, testing herself on his genus, phylum. She couldn't remember the latter, but didn't feel too bad-she stuck more to songbirds. They were beautiful, and resonated in a...want what you can't have sort of way. Sipping (more quickly than normal-Anastasia was used to colder weather, and with that, cold weather clothes. This damned summer heat was not appreciated, and she hadn't yet had the time to assemble a new wardrobe that was more practical. She'd suffer the heat for now) on an iced coffee, she returned her focus to the spot that shimmered a few moments ago. Anastasia was not gifted with supervision-well, her sense of sight was sharper, but not enough to pierce Mr. Clarke's little veil. No, she merely had experience, which was worth far more than any preternatural ability genes could bestow. She knew what to look for, and she knew where to watch. Her guess had been off by a few feet when he finally re-materialized, but it was close enough for her to feel a touch of smugness. Don't get cocky now, dear. These boys-this whole city-is dangerous. Anastasia frowned, soft pale features twisting up as she heard the tell-tale slurping of an empty cup. Damn. This iced coffee wasn't quite as popular back home-she rather liked it, having endured a grueling career of poorly made, name-brand black coffee. One day I'll open up a coffee shop. This notched onto the increasingly long list of "Things Anastasia Lytvyn Will One Day Do". Still, she was young (relatively) and had some capital. Starbucks had better stay on its toes.
Grabbing the small backpack next to her (one that weighed, perhaps, more than you would expect a small pack to) and slinging it casually over her shoulders, Anastasia threw the cup away, gently placing it on the top of an overflowing mountain of trash. She pitied the trash collectors come tomorrow morning. This was certainly an interesting festival-and an interesting city. Lots to buy, lots to do. She could stay here a little while. Of course, if this job (and Anastasia still wasn't sure how she felt about signing on with KINGFISHER, of working with an organization that seemed a little too like NEST, a little too like the meta-regulatory-on-paper-, political-wetworks-in-practice group she'd come running from) came through, perhaps Verthaven would be home. At least for a while.
Nomads have more fun than the rest of us. For a while.
She crossed the street, pausing wholly before smoothly and briskly gliding across the asphalt (some young thing sprinted right past her, not looking either way-careless, these American children). She looked at Michelle, standing watch. Alert, focused. Anastasia watched her for a moment, head tilted to the side, a strange mix of cute features and harsh scars. Little soldier with your gun. What're you fighting for? Or maybe, I wonder, who? To put it bluntly, Anastasia had not exactly seen a great multitude of African-Americans in her life (not far from the Caucasus, this was, perhaps understandable), and had never seen a woman this tall or muscular. With NEST? She hadn't quite made up her mind about America's superhuman agency yet. It certainly seemed more on-the-level than Russia's, but she was tentative of the West. For now, she'd stay out of their way, which was generally how Anastasia preferred to do business. She was quiet, in every possible sense, and if there was anything NEST excelled at it, it was being loud.
Anastasia slipped past a goateed man and stood near the line of the Pad Thai restaurant, designer sunglasses masking her icy blue eyes. She arched her head up, seemingly gazing at the menu while keeping an eye on Clarke. There was a figure, slightly ominous and entirely out of place (Makes two of us, little darling), standing in the alleyway. Were she law enforcement, she would've expected a drug dealer, a terrorist sizing up a crowd for a pipe bomb. But Anastasia was not law enforcement, not yet. At the moment, she was in a more grey occupation, and as such, she merely expected a trap. Officers, bless their souls, were rather predictable once one left the agency, looked at them from the outside. To the average onlooker, perhaps it seems impossible that criminals can evade the police. It's more of a never-ending struggle: neither exists without the other. They simply fill the void, chasing round and round...
Contemplating the sort of cycle that would make Hegel weary, she did her best to stay on-guard, ready to spring into whatever action she could muster. This harsh daylight was irritating her, and not merely because of her jacket and heavy (if stylish!) jeans. She had a GSh tucked within her coat, concealed well. A dagger tucked in the boots. Her hands and forearms began to tense and tingle, burning with that energy that always came before a job. She'd practiced, and experience was nudging at her, wanting to coax her hands through the old motions. But no, that wouldn't be necessary. Wouldn't be necessary at all. Because Mr. Clarke and the mystery cloak wouldn't get into any trouble whatsoever.
It was that sort of optimism that got people killed, Anastasia figured. Ah. She continued, attention split once again, but this time between the Pad Thai food and her potential coworker. While she didn't want to risk distracting him and getting him caught off-guard, she figured a heads-up wouldn't be amiss. Anastasia reached into her pocket and pulled out a track phone, the sort that, ironically, got sold a lot in Verthaven for entirely different reasons (or maybe Anastasia wasn't too far off from the drug dealers). She punched out a quick message to Sam-I'm close if needed., ran it over once or twice-she'd been paying for some pretty high-quality English lessons, and learned a bit while she was back home, but wanted to be sure. She punched send and slid it back into her phone, watching Fiona surreptitiously. If she was Fiona, she'd jump when (and if) Sam checked his phone. If she was Sam, she wouldn't check her phone. Fun games for car rides-Anastasia was full of them.
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