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  • Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    Crimson splats of blood flew across the arena, cheers shook the rafters and sweat stung the eyes and throat. Lights flashed in a dazzling display “Oh!! That’s got to hurt!” a voice screeched through the speakers, the electronic tone was off high pitched and screaming -

     

    Screaming….Painful and terrified ‘Barricade the mess hall men, don’t let them through!’ a rough command barked ‘Chance! Where is Triss?’ - ‘Still serving penance in the Armory ser- Arrgh!’ Pain! Immense pain!

     

    “F- This girl is ruthless, folks! Just one more score and…..” - voices and cheers garbled in and out, jaw throbbed painfully as red gloves snapped out, kissing air space, bugger was quick but not smart, always be the smart one -

     

    ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’ cards fluttered, key’s jingled…. blood, so much blood, fire and gun oil.  

     

    “Woah!! And that’s that! Never underestimate a women! Wait...what is she-? Ref- do your job!” Cheers turned to shouts of surprise, defeated under victor, purchase after purchase, blood, so much blood.

     

    ‘Chance! Chance! Please don’t make me do this!’ she begged, tears clouding eyes. Howls of pain, groans, terror “N-no, no! You're not yourself, No! Chance! Don-” Gun fire ‘BangBangBang!’

     

    “What in all hell’s were you thinking Triss?!” Cody chided fiercely as he carefully cut red gloves from the girls hands “You know better than to fight so soon after the Full Moon.”

     

    “Is he ok?” Triss asked choosing to ignore the chidding.

     

    “Beat to a pulp. You broke his nose and jaw but they think he will live.” Cody sighed. It was always like this, after the full moon. She knew better...like Cody said, her emotions were far to unstable, her body still ached a horrible throb of pain. “Though I can say he deserved it.” Trisskar smirked as her hands were freed from the glaves, her right wrist was swollen from repeatedly beating the others face, and the heavy bag before. “Geez…” he whistled as he took her hand feeling for breaks “Good thing your a….you know.”

     

    Triss sighed and leaned back, resting her head against the post her stool sat by “A Lycanthrope.” she said for him. It wasn't as much a blessing as Cody made it out to be, enhanced healing abilities was cool...she guessed….strength, senses, gods she could taste the blood on the air and it caused that inner beast to shift and squirm anxiously.

     

    “Id tell you to wait a few days before entering another ring fight but….you wont listen will you.” Cody continued, putting her hand down to dig into his case “Just because your different dosn’t mean you shouldn't take it easy on yourself. Proving yourself out there wont do you any good.”

     

    “But it feels good.” Triss insisted which just made Cody roll his eyes and reach up with an alcohol swab that had Triss hiss instinctively at the sting to a rather nasty cut on swollen eye. “He hit hard though.”

     

    “Mm, Some enhanced human, extremely strong but slow.” Cody supplied “Thinks his god like body is worth flaunting and teasing the women here. Make you uncomfortable enough to fight him, he enjoys it...most cant win against him so he gropes and makes matters worse.”

     

    “Not this time.” Triss smirked.

     

    Cody smiled “Not this time.”

     

     

     

    ---
    Announcer & NPC medic Cody are temporary for scene and not meant for long term use. (unless thread/gym becomes more used)

     

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    Enough time had passed since the bright of the moon darkened the shadows of the city. Life was pretty much right back on track, for most. For those few unfortunate souls that experienced the horrors the full moon brought it would never be the same… for those horrors, life simply wasn’t anymore.

    Laying atop an uneven stack of papers Slate’s eyes were caught by the old New York Time’s article. “Vigilante’s Strike Again!” Read the headline, over the picture of a body obscured by a wall of investigating police officers. A body, that Slate knew was headless. They then swept to the ring where some red-headed dame was kicking the shit out of some second rate fighter. Actually he wasn’t that bad, the woman, she just didn’t move right. Too much speed to her reactions, giving a little too much weight with that slim frame of hers.

    “Oh, yeah! Wooooooo! Go girl!” Adria cheered cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice.

    Slate shot a deriding glare out the corner of his eye at his partner, shaking his head to which she responded with a playful jab to his shoulder, laughing. “How’dya like that?” She razzed.

    Slate was an old school cop. Hell he was a goddam caveman who didn’t have much use for skinny-ass woman assuming roles that demanded some serious physicality. It’s why Adria just couldn’t resist rubbing in the victory they just witnessed.

    [slate]She’s fucking ‘altered’[/slate] He calmly informed her.

    “So? She just fucking handed that guy’s ass to him. That alone was worth the price of admission.” Of course, they didn't pay the small fee to get in to watch the organized fight.

    Slate was unresponsive, but hardly irritated. Not really. Of all the partner’s he’d ever had, he respected Adria the most. A good cop with a smart mouth, but she had the strength to back it up.

    “Damn, I’d love to get in there and go a few rounds.” She mentioned, taking a fighter’s stance and faking a few to her partner’s mid-section.

    Slate didn’t flinch. Nor did he have to remind her that they were in New Rochelle following up on a case. He wouldn't be caught dead in this place otherwise.

    “Com ‘on. Don’t you ever just wanna cut loose?”

    He maintained his silence. She knew they couldn’t. Adria could kick the shit out of anyone in her weight class, it would be no contest, but she was also goading him on. Working together for close to two years Adria had seen enough to know that Slate was ‘altered’ but just how much, that was the question. The man had incredible restraint but there were a few times where she had given him a push that would have knocked most guys on their ass and he never budged an inch.

    “You and me. After hours. No spectators.” She playfully challenged with a semi-serious undertone.

    Slate’s stoic expression cracked a small smile as he shook his head.

    [slate]Com’on. Let’s try over there.[/slate]

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    Near where the investigators were heading the back/side door opened, spilling out a shaft of inside light and roaring cheers of another accepted match. The redhead from the previous fight strode out, adjusting her leather jacket and zipping it up from the cold, she remembered a time when septembers were still warm and filled with camping trips.

     

     

    (temp npc) “...You have some nerve coming here and abusing the rules of the ring!” Another voice growled after her. A large male hot on her heels.  “Don’t you walk away from me, monster!”

     

     

    The redhead paused at the insult, the act bringing a creepy grin on the mans face thinking he had hit a nerve, only for the redhead to keep walking again. In the parking lot was a black motorcycle that appeared to be her’s as she pulled keys from her pocket and plunged it into the ignition. (temp npc)“Your lot should be wiped from the face of this planet. Abominations, a plague on this cursed world.”

     

     

    Triss turned, hands plunged into her jacket pockets as he watched the angry man “Are you done?” she asked calmly “I’d like to go home now.”

     

     

    The calm and reserved nature of the women irritated the man further his hands grabbing onto the collar of her jacket, pushing her back into her ride. A clatter sounded as the motorcycle fell over from the force of his handling (temp npc) “Not to tough now, eh?!” He shouted. Breath smelled of alcohol and illegal drugs...and...human. His hands clenched tighter on her jacket, causing arm muscles to bulge. Tattoo, a christian cross that ended in a spike dripping blood, her opponent had the same tat, a gang mark? Pistol on his hip. She remained motionless as she responded to him, her voice was too low to hear.

     

     

    (temp npc) “You bitch!” He shouted in anger, what ever she had said it was taken as quite the insult as he shoved her back, feet tripping over her fallen motorcycle and spilling her on the ground on the other side. His hand reaching for his side arm, a righteous fury in his eyes.

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    Holding his phone before him, Slate made a quick verification by comparing the picture on the screen to the asshole who had picked a fight with the redhead. ‘That was him.’. Damn crying shame to. This was one of those situations where Slate usually let nature take it’s course but douche-bag over there unfortunately had some much needed information. His worthless ass actually had some value.

    Adria didn’t like was happening one little bit. Jaw set, her broad muscular shoulders tense beneath her leather coat she stepped ahead of her partner; prepared to intervene, that is until Slate’s hand fell on her shoulder, holding her back.

    Adria cut the guy a lot of slack, but she drew the line at his ‘let nature run it’s course bullshit philosophy’. Shrugging her shoulder free she through back an angry glare to note her partner’s eyes motioning to her right.

    Adria cast dark eyes over her right shoulder to see six guys, all fighters from the looks of them, emerging from around the corner of the building. They were making their way toward the redhead with a malicious intent in their eyes.

    “Ah, shit.” Adria cursed under her breath. Then there was a crash, drawing her attention back to the redhead who was now lying on the ground beside her toppled motorcycle. The asshole was standing over her, hand reaching round to his back…

    “Gun —!” She instinctively warned, the word trailed from her lips as she reached for her sidearm, while behind her Slate was already in motion. His grey blue trench coat fluttering in the cool air, a blur as he strode into the street, reaching for his sidearm! as

     

    The man already pulled his!

    There was little time to announce their identities but as police they had little choice in the matter.

     

    [slate]Pol —[/slate] Slate began to utter as the barrel of his nickle plated Beretta flashed into firing position.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    ‘Bang!’

     

     

    This seriously just wasn't her day. She should have just listened to Cody’s advice. Should have just stayed home, soaked in her hot stone tub, read a book and do yoga or some stupid light shit like that. Qi Gong or whatever the Chinese called it. That just wasn't her...even before the Resonance when she was frustrated or sick or sore from drills she would work it out on the heavy bag. Which was all she was trying to do. Work out on the heavy bag. Then that brute kept nagging her to join the Fight Club Championships and insulted her until she gave in. Bad idea. Really bad idea. By the gods it was turning out to be the worst idea yet….

     

     

    With inhuman speed Triss rolled to the right, nearly avoiding the silver bullet that hit pavement where her head had once been. To the thug trainers credit he didn't hesitate after he took fire.  leaping up onto feet she spun around just as the thug jumped over her cycle to try and pin her down. He wouldn't get that far, her booted heel whipping around in a back snapping kick, harshly throwing his momentum to the pavement only for the Redhead to land a knee on top of him, planting between shoulder blades while both hands pinned his arm down to try and take his gun away.

     

     

    Another point to the thugs credit was that he was strong...for a Human. Muscles surged and threw her off him, initiating a grappling match of wits and strength between him and the red head. Both struggling to gain control of his weapon. A punch stung ribs, another stung jaw, but Triss was quick and wiry, she fought best on the ground. “Shoot her you idiots!!” He roared - which was promptly silenced by a palm to nose and a shift of weight that threw him to the ground. Who was he shouting at? Green eyes scanned the parking lot only to hear the fire of another weapon, that had her instinctively throw herself down on top of the thug as silver bullet racked through her shoulder. Six...no...eight? Damnit to all hell! Who the heck were these guys?

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    [slate]Police![/slate]

    Slate’s announcement fell on deaf ears as a struggle ensued between the fiery haired fighter and their suspect, Casper Halgrun, a small time hood. He’d have taken the shot but he didn’t want to risk hitting the woman… actually that was bullshit. Not more than ten feet away the detective could have put a hole in the man’s leg but ‘red’ wasn’t doing so bad. Besides, he was more concerned with Casper’s cronies, they seemed a little anxious and it was pretty blatant that it wouldn’t take a whole lot to push them over the edge.

    “Don’t fucking move!” Adria screamed out as one of the thugs, prompted by the command of his senior pulled his pistol and blasted off a shot. Almost simultaneous with the squeeze of the trigger blood burst from the kid’s chest as the detective put a bullet straight through his heart. Death was almost instant. The young man collapsed in a heap at the feet of his brothers initiating a chain reaction of rash vengeance.

    Slate shifted his stance and levelled his weapon toward the gang, steady and calm. The first shot popped through a skull, the second and third in rapid succession tore through the back of another.

    [slate]Get outta there Traveler![/slate]

    She had no cover and the remaining gang members had ducked behind a few parked cars. They both had two choices retreat or advance, and both opted for the latter. Adria closed in on the further car, laying down a barrage of gun fire while Slate closed in on the closer vehicle, blasting out the windows and setting off the car alarm.

    Inexperienced and scared the young thugs stayed down, hiding behind their metal shields, waiting for an opening, which was precisely what the cops gave them.

    Pausing their gunfire at just about the same time, Adria and Slate tossed in their lines and waited for a bite. Two took the bait. The first one stood up, training his gun on Adria. Slate put him down with single shot while his partner riddled the other with series of chest ripping shots.

    Over half of their pack dead, the three remaining pups scattered. One headed down the street in the direction the gang had originally emerged, the other two high-tailed it the other way, past their leader and down an intersecting alleyway.

    Prepared to pursue the detective’s had to first confirm the location and state of their suspect. Casper was the prize. They weren’t about to let the big fish get away for three little ones. Also, Adria couldn’t be sure but it seemed that the redhead had taken a bullet. Couldn’t be positive though, a lot had gone down in that short span of time.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    “Get outta there traveler!”

     

    Trisskar heard the words but was currently busy shielding her face from an onslaught of furious cuts. The thug was getting desperate, making mistakes, he had sat on top of her too long, fell into the same mistake she did on the arena, punch, after punch assaulting her raised arms tightly positioned in a triangle and ready...ready for that opening when exertion took hold...when desperation made attacks wide and breath was only forced out by the vocal

     

    “Raaah!!”

     

    The attack was powerful, but Triss shifted unexpectedly, making his attack swing right past her head and into the pavement, broken hand for certain. Triss then grabbed his arm, twisted and a sickening 'snap' of bones followed by his pained howled echoed the gun fire. Rolling him around she managed to loop her arm around the thugs neck and cinch her hold, legs wrapping around his to keep him controlled as he thrashed for air. “5....4....3...” Triss counted through gritted teeth “....2....” his body slowly went still, his clawing hand falling from her wrist, and his thudding heart slowed “...One.” Triss hissed in his ear and slowly let up on her choke, careful to ensure his unconsciousness wasn't an act or ruse.

     

    It was the blasted ringing of the gun fire that had her shove him off of her and move to her motorcycle. Hefting it back up on it's peg and resting her back against it's back wheel. Rushing out for a different form of cover would be too dangerous, she had no idea where the others were hiding and who was friend or foe. Retrieving her own weapon she loaded a mag, cocked the slide and held it's muzzle between raised knees. Sweat coating her brow as she shouted “Marco?!” she knew at least one of them was friend. She had to laugh at herself once she repeated her words in her thoughts, adrenaline was pounding like rapid wings in her ears. Marco was her and Chance's Code back in her military days, it was their way of knowing each other were in the same area and to not shoot. 'Polo...' Chances voice laughed in her memories. It was a child's games and it was special to them but...whoever was out there wouldn't know that.

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    As the perp’s dispersed, the detectives were now able to focus their attention back down the street. First thing they noted was Casper’s motionless body lying on the road beside the now propped up motorcycle. The next thing was the armed woman.

    Now standard protocol stated that the officers had to treat any unidentified armed individuals as hostile, but that was then and this was now. Gun permits? They didn’t exist anymore, it was basically the wild west (or rather east) and police simply didn’t have the man power to deal with every single gun-totting punk on the streets. Not that they weren’t wary, but common sense dictated that the redhead was probably more concerned with protecting herself than opening fire on the detectives. Still, one could never be so sure and so Slate closed the distance with his gun only slightly lowered.

    Leaning down next to Casper, eyes never once leaving Trisskar, one of his hands left the weapon and found the man’s neck. He felt the slow steady pulse of a heartbeat and acknowledged his find to his partner with a slight nod.

    [slate]You expectin’ someone?[/slate] Slate asked, his question referring to her calling out “Marco?”.

    ‘Were there more shooters?’ Slate wasn’t sure. The backlane was wider than some, there weren’t really that many places to hide but even still, he kept his guard up.

    “Should we go after them?” Adria inquired, following her partner’s example and keeping her gun at the ready. Slate shook his head then her eyes immediately fell on Triskaar’s bloody shoulder. “You’re hit.”

    Slate had already noticed the wound but didn’t see the point of mentioning it, not when she’d just naturally heal. He knew what she was, he could feel it. After killing scores of the creatures he had a real nose for picking them out, or rather is extra-senses were attuned to them. A Lycanthrope.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    When no response came to her Marco call she decided to simply wait. The gun fire had ceased, which meant there was definitely someone out there that helped her. And frankly she didn't want to go wasting bullets, its not like you could just jaunt down to the local store and buy up a lot anymore. So, she waited.

     

    The first to come into view and approach was male. Green eyes tracking his move as he approached, noting his cautious posture, well placed foot steps, style of clothes, those entrapping violet eyes....

     

    “You expectin' someone?” the question had the red head give a pained laugh and shake of her head as she force out a breath of air that she had been holding onto to. Her shoulders and tension relaxing slightly. He didn't smell threatening...at least not a threat to her. Yet...

     

    Next to come into view was female, she remembered hearing the voice before shouting at the mob of thugs and opening fire on them. “You're hurt.”

     

    Green eyes blinked and glanced to her shoulder, healing. The bullet had passed right through. “Not life threatening.” she answered “Thank you...For the help.” To show her gratitude she slowly moved her weapon to the side and shifted to holster it in her concealed waistband. No longer a threat....in appearance anyways. She leaned back and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply scenting the area, listening....after a second she continued “Those other thugs are long gone.“ She couldn't smell or hear them anymore. “That...” she nodded to the thug currently sleeping “Is one of their ring leaders, loyalty is a thing of the past these days it seems.”

     

    Loyalty. Loyalty to country, loyalty to flag, loyalty to man, loyalty to vows.... her service was sewn into the inside of her jacket, a reminder of what she was...she wasn't always some monster hunted down because she was different. Closing her eyes she breathed in deeply and held out her right hand to the Male cop “Name is Trisskar Ar'ran. I am in your debt.”

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    His stomach was cold.

     

    Even through the leather, the recent cold snap had left the concrete retaining a drop in temperature. He was acutely aware of it as he lay in shadow comfortably behind a low tripod, watching through the scope with the patience of a saint from several stories above. A distinct dip in the need for cars made towering parking garages a prime place to people watch. The open squares on the sides of the structures to vent water made for perfect “arrowslits”. Ever since pulling his weapon from its grave beneath the kitchen table, he hadn’t been able to stop. It was even loaded.

     

    Watching her was even harder to explain. Not sure why, the urge to protect someone an itch he couldn’t seem to scratch. First Mrs. Kolcheck, then one of his clients, now Tris. It was too close to rolling out of the full moons, possessively protective instinct making it impossible to ignore… the human reasoning telling him at least to be inconspicuous. He didn’t follow her, but knew her habits by this point. If she could case his range, turnabout was fair play. Maybe he was losing his mind. This time, he was intrigued. He’d known about the fights for a while. It was the smell of blood that had first alerted him to the presence of the place. It shivered the back of his spine with a lust he couldn’t explain, making it a point to avoid. But Tris? Oddly enough she’d come here. He wasn’t surprised, what did catch his attention was the same cop that had come to see him a short time earlier. After Tris?

     

    That’s why the rifle was loaded.

     

    Dark lashes blinked slowly, watching the redhead exit. She was pretty banged up. What the fuck was she fighting for? It didn’t bother him in the slightest that he was looking at her through crosshairs. His finger wasn’t on the trigger. Scope was better than a pair of binoculars, and ready in a split second to deliver judgment if need be. Several blocks away, he couldn’t hear the words from the altercation beginning to take place- the timbre did travel, tickling the edge of nerves enough to slide his finger into the trigger cradle. He hadn’t missed the tattoo, the Were had been enough places to know marks like that were significant. Who or for what, he didn’t care. There would be more.

     

    Crosshairs were dead on, following the asshole as the bike toppled and he went for a gun.

     

    His heart skipped, swallow soft. This emotion was not welcome. Gunmetal had been whispering to him for several weeks. He had always been a silent commander, swift justice that obeyed every wish. It spoke to him now, asking to be used, a flutter in his gut that was waiting for the exact moment to… Pop of a gun -not his- barely registered. He knew the poor shot would miss. Angles and lines, everything lined up exactly in his vision like a geometry problem. Which to go for and at what moment. Clusterfucked by the cop, and what he’d discerned was a partner. Keen eyes followed the fray, bypassing shots as the two seemed pretty keen on delivering their own. Find the weak link, and the rest would scatter. They did just that. Who the fuck was this guy? Raised voices were finally spinning loud enough to reach sensitive ears, the yell of “Marco” from Tris’ lips bringing a soft blink and engrained reaction.

     

    “Polo,” he whispered.

     

    Finger barely moved, lips breathless as a rush of adrenaline pickled over skin.

     

    One of the fleeing thugs hit the ground and slid from his own momentum, scope immediately moving in a fluid motion to the other two scampering in the opposite direction. They were dropped in a similar fashion, knees crumpling to faceplant on the concrete. Tris and her “buddies” were otherwise occupied during his quiet cleanup- he’d waited until the shits were out of their peripheral to take the shots... no sound of gunfire to herald their demise, but the distinct crack of skull couldn't be hidden from the keen.

     

    He knew better.

     

    The cop was smart, if he or his partner decided to go after either direction of fleeing thugs the Were would probably have to relocate after his handiwork was discovered. But, he also knew that one guy didn’t swell to almost a dozen because they were just in the neighborhood. He was almost certain it would get uglier. He wasn’t looking forward to sitting across from the cop and lying his ass off again… but he wasn't moving until Tris was in the clear.

     

    Heart was pounding.

     

    This was not good. Rush, addictive.

     

    Crosshairs were trained on the cop’s skull, his original point of order- attention wide on their surroundings… shadows and any movement, waiting to see if he would pull some dumb shit move- or more 'friends' appeared… instinct said it wasn’t over.

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    The Nephilim’s ears were alert to the suspected arrival of reinforcements, seeking the distinct sounds of approaching soles or tires upon pavement. Momentarily his attention was caught. Something soft and hollow striking the street. Eyes zoomed in on the source, a discarded paper coffee cup toppled over by the cool Autumn breeze, rolling round the far corner of the fight club where no more than a mere fifty feet away lied the bodies.

    Slate nodded in agreement with the redheaded woman when she declared the thugs ‘long gone’. There was simply too much residual noise in the city to pinpoint and decipher those minute tell-tale sounds when not knowing what to specifically concentrate one’s attention. The sniper remained a ghost in the cityscape in the present moment while she presented an interesting tidbit of knowledge concerning Casper. Adria was curious as well, how this woman knew the identity of one of the gang’s leaders with certainty.

    Slate shook the woman’s hand. [slate]Detectives Morrison and Nighttravler, Jersey City PD.[/slate]

     

    They revealed their badges then he didn’t waste anytime eliminating Trisskar as a suspect.

    [slate]We know him as Casper Hulgrun but on the street you call him Sledge… Hedge?[/slate] Slate purposely disrespectfully played with the man’s nickname of ‘Edge’, probing for a reaction. [slate]So, Miss Ar’ran. What’s your relationship with Mr. Hulgrun here?[/slate] He questioned with a hint of suspicion, while eyes flicked quickly to the side as if he had heard something.

    A cool sensation creeped across his back. Was he being watched? ‘A gang member?’ No. Something else. There was a precise coldness to the shadow that loomed over him and the Nephilim began to instinctively search the dark corners of the alleyways around them.

    Adria followed suit and started checking over her shoulder. After two years with Slate she’d learned to trust his intuition, it was rarely wrong, but there weren’t many places around them out of their line of sight. Except for one. Momentarily Adria looked up at the roof tops in their immediate vicinity. A quick scan that yielding nothing. Why in the hell would street thugs go to such trouble? She gave her head a few shakes and abandoned the silly thought, looking down the alleyway where two of the street punks had fled.

    It was quickly becoming apparent to both detectives that if this gang did decide to return with back-up and take back their leader they’d be in one serious ambush.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran
    [slate]"Detectives Morrison and Nighttravler, Jersey City PD."[/slate]

     

    For Triss's part she was oblivious to any bystanders or back up. Likely due to the fact that she was busy trying to clean blood from her nose that blocked out all scent save blood. Her blood, the thugs blood, his back up dogs blood, lots of blood.

     

    [slate]"We know him as Casper Hulgrun but on the street you call him Sledge… Hedge?"[/slate]

     

    Triss lowered her hand and blinked up at the cop, it was pretty obvious his mess up of the name mainly because she doubted a cop of his type, all dressed up in a fancy coat would be remiss to forget something like that and less so because she knew the guys name. She didn't and showed it with a shrug of her shoulder and frown. 

     

    [slate]"So, Miss Ar’ran. What’s your relationship with Mr. Hulgrun here?"[/slate] The Cop asked, causing her to raise a brow after checking her hand, broken, had to be by the sharp sting when she moved fingers...easy fix, easy heal. 

     

    "None, Ser." Triss answered.

     

    "None of importance. His fighter goaded me into a match..." she gestured back at the Fight Club building "...he lost. A bit sore about that, guess he didn't like me putting his boy in place. Didn't think it would come down to this though." She then waved her unbroken hand at the prone man, this...Casper. "We get his type in the Fight Club a lot since the...You know. Sure we got thugs before but things are different now. Grudges are more deadly, fighting it out in a controlled ring is just one way to release and if you reach the Gold Championships, you get easy cash, so. At least once a year you get a large influx of....them." 

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    Eyes narrowed, unconsciously repeating a previous thought as he watched the cop.  It was more than just a good cop instinct. This man was not a Were, he wasn't anything he'd ever scent imprinted before.  When he'd been at his office, alarm bells were pinging, but not overtly so.  Careful.  He would have to be careful... not missing the glances from them both toward the rooftops.  Compromised.

     

    Movement was immediate, smooth and methodical.  He knew exactly what he needed to do, wasn't the best plan.  Sometimes the only plans were the best plans.  Now he would be known to two cops, also putting himself within the scent path of a lot of blood.  His lover was packed away in its sleek case as he made the rounds down to his parked truck, putting it into the floorboard compartment and sliding into the driver's seat.  Short work was made of the distance, parking a bit away to seem at least a little cautious of the situation.  Hands tucked easily into his jean pockets as he crossed the street with a bit of worried concern placed on his features- playing the worried trainer that couldn't find his charge and had come looking to find a mess.

     

    He kept a bit of distance.

     

    "Tris, you okay?  Why the hell are you here?  You weren't answering my calls."

     

    It was an act, and a damn good one.  She had done it once for him, and he was returning the favor.  He was very aware of his vastly different appearance.  Dark jeans, a specialized black leather coat, knit cap pulled to his eyebrows.  Hey, even professional suits could dress down right?  Most professional suits weren't armed to the teeth under their clothes though. Eyes passively flicked to the officers, allowing recognition to perk at Slate before moving to the guy on the ground.

     

    "You in trouble?"  eyes flicked to Slate,  "is she in trouble officer?"

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    ‘No relationship?’ Amethyst glare cut into her emeralds. He didn’t believe that for a second, then she tossed a bone about the fight. [slate]Yeah, I saw it. You bounce around too much.[/slate] He criticized, tucking away his gun and pulling out a pack of smokes. He was looking forward to her retort but just as he finished lighting up his cigarillo a man ran to Trisskar’s side… a familiar man.

    [slate]Mr. Morgan.[/slate] Slate’s greeting was as cool as the wind tossing a strand of his thick black bangs in his eye. He didn’t seem surprised at all, not that he had any suspicions, only that he had been expecting to run into the man again. [slate]Good to see you again. No, she isn’t in any trouble at the moment. Do you know this man?[/slate] He verified, gesturing to the still unconscious Casper Hulgrun.

    Adria started walking toward the backdoor to the fight club. “Gonna call this in and bring the car around for sleeping beauty here.” She mentioned before disappearing inside.

    ‘Call this in. Right.’ Fuck, another shoot out, people dead, the Captain was gonna grill his ass over this one.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    "♃ Yeah, I saw it. You bounce around too much."

     

    Triss rose a brow up at the cop, still sitting on the ground with her back against her motorcycle. Her lips forming the word 'Bounce?' trying to decide if she should take offense to that or as positive critiquing. A shrug of shoulders showed she took the second options just as her chin rose slightly and nose sniffed out a familiar scent.

     

    "Tris, you okay? Why the hell are you here? You weren't answering my calls." The familiar cat asked as he strode towards them. It brought a smile to lips and the thoughts of 'Your Late' to flicker across mind. "You in trouble?” The Cat asked, Triss opened her mouth to respond but he had already directed his attention to the cop “is she in trouble officer?"

     

    "♃ Mr. Morgan. Good to see you again.” Again her mouth formed words without speaking 'Again?' geezus this Cat gets around. “No, she isn’t in any trouble at the moment. Do you know this man?"

     

    Well at least she got the verification that she wasn't in trouble and used that as an invitation to move. Muscles screaming as she stood, breath hissing from cracked ribs still knitting and healing, her hand was numb and her shoulder felt bruised to all hell. Not that she was complaining, it felt good in it's own way.

     

    [triss]“He is the Trainer of the Guy I beat.”[/triss] Triss supplied to the Cat and gave a shrug to show she didn't know to terribly much else...well, nothing that could be done for it right now. Dogs of Masters were wasted effort, like 'sleeping beauty' here. As the other cop so aptly named him. [triss]And before you lecture me, the boy asked for it. Making underhanded comments and illegal contact off arena...[/triss] Illegal contact off arena was just a fighters fancy way of saying he was groping and pawing at her inappropriately.  

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    "♃ Mr. Morgan."

     

    His nod was cordial.

     

     "♃ Good to see you again. No, she isn’t in any trouble at the moment. Do you know this man?"

     

    He took a few steps closer, hands calmly in his pockets as he knelt and studied him.  It was twofold, to get a good look at the asshole from something other than a rifle scope, and to allow the cat to get an even better scent imprint.  He smelled familiar.

     

    "I've seen him before.  Not sure where.  Sometimes dealing with the jerks that send their significant others into my office are an unfortunate part of the game."

     

    He worked with many women that spent their days with the worst of people.  Eyes studied the facade of the building, intentionally looking across the street signs.  It was tickling a memory that he couldn't quite place.  The address was familiar. On one of his patient's forms?  Why would they be listing this place as an address?  He would have to look into it. 

     

    "♠ “He is the Trainer of the Guy I beat.”"

     

    Eyes narrowed slightly.  Hadn't they talked about this?  He wasn't training her to make money kicking asses on the weekend, he was training her to survive.  Expression was concerned, watching the cop's partner disappear inside.  Trainer... trainer... lips pursed to expel a thought, then decided against it.

     

    "♠ And before you lecture me, the boy asked for it. Making underhanded comments and illegal contact off arena..."

     

    "Should not have been in the arena, not without me here,"  comment was whispered up at her from his close proximity, quiet.  "We are not welcome here. You're lucky they didn't shoot you and cut off your damn head."

     

    Standing, he took several steps back.

     

    "They're going to probably need you to stay to get their reports.  If you want, I can stay.  If not, we can talk about this tomorrow."

     

    The sideways glance thrown to the cop as his back was turned, signaled to Tris he didn't quite trust the man.  He would rather stay, but didn't want to seem conspicuous.

     

     

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    A small curious crowd had gathered at the back entrance of the fight club. For the time being they instinctively kept their distance while Slate took in the dialogue between the woman and the ‘surprise’ visitor. His eyes remained fixed on Morgan, cigarillo hanging limply out the corner of the detective’s mouth, acrid smoke drifting between them. What he at first assumed to be a lover’s quarrel proved nothing of the kind, no, it was far more intriguing. This wasn’t a relationship founded on a nice piece of tail, or rather, one could say it was the tail itself that solidified a bond based on mentorship. Yes, his suspicions had been proven true. Lycanthropes.

    Kai was quite candid with his references as was she with her attitude. For creatures that were pretty much on the endangered species list they weren’t all that concerned with hinting at what they were. Wasn’t the first time the Jersey City cop was taken for a half-wit, wouldn’t be the last for damn sure.

    Though he showed no physical reaction, the distant sound of screeching tires caught his attention. Ever so slightly his hand creeped into his trench coat.

    [slate]Just need some contact information. Then she’s free to go. Already know where to find you.[/slate] Slate mentioned to Kai with a smirk.

    Skidding treads echoed through the alley as two cars came to an abrupt halt at it’s mouth. Slate didn’t budge a muscle, nor did he need to turn to know they were squad cars. Slowly his arms went up, the hand in his coat withdrawing a badge.

    It was then, at the other end of the alley that two more cars pulled up simultaneously with the cops.

    [slate]Oh, shit.[/slate]

    There was definitely some surprise in the detective’s sedate remark as the doors of the two black sedans burst open and out poured armed men seeking retribution for their fallen brothers.

    A barrage of automatic gun fire sprayed through the alley as Slate dove behind the first of the two already shot up cars parked along the back wall of the fight club. One of the bystanders, a fit looking woman took a bullet and collapsed while the others scrambled for the door while the NYPD without hesitation returned fire, trapping the three in the crossfire.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    "Should not have been in the arena, not without me here," Triss folded her arms at that, she respected the guy but she had been on her own for seven years already, she wasn't a porcelain doll after all. "We are not welcome here. You're lucky they didn't shoot you and cut off your damn head." That also wasn't true. She grew up in this club, knew some of the old staff that stayed despite the Resonance and change, this was her training zone those thugs just think they can walk in and own the place.

     

    [triss]“They did shoot at me.”[/triss] she simply answered on a discontent grumble, that too, wasn't her fault. Sure she beat up the kid but no worse than any other arena match...that was a risk you took when stepping into the ring...frell you even sign contracts stating you knew, understood and released the facilities from any damage you take here. Luck of the trade. Luck of a fighter....luck...or lack there of.

     

    "They're going to probably need you to stay to get their reports. If you want, I can stay. If not, we can talk about this tomorrow." The Cat informed. Triss shifted, truth was she wanted the Cat to stay, who knew if those creeps would come back and two was better than one if so....She was about to respond when the cop filled in for her.

     

    [slate]Just need some contact information. Then she’s free to go. Already know where to find you.[/slate] Triss frowned at that. One, she was very particular about who she let know about her place...only two knew where she really lived and Two, she didn't exactly have an address....not...exactly....

     

    She was saved though by the screech of wheels. Well...Maybe 'Saved' was the wrong word.

     

    [slate]Oh, Shit[/slate]

     

    Green eyes registered a second after the cop [triss]Aw, Common![/triss] diving after the cop she pressed up right alongside him but wisely kept herself from retrieving her own weapon in fear the cops would suspect her and fire on her as well. [triss]Really? Who the frell are these guys?! I didn't beat the kid up that bad![/triss] glancing under the car she noticed the casualty and growled [triss]Kai![/triss] her hand pointing to the shot women. Mind racing, sleeping beauty was still out there and wasn't going to stay sleeping for much longer. Green noted his tattoo again. Bloody Cross...Bloody Cross... she knew it was familiar, it rang a bell, a mission, the Underground....

     

    ....for now though, it would have to wait.

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    "♠ “They did shoot at me.”"

     

    Sigh was impatient, quirked expression on his lips under the softening of angered eyes.  Calm.  Controlled.  The fox was very good at what she did, but she had to be indifferent to violence against her.  He had mixed feelings about it, ever since the night at the range.  She was not him.  They were both damaged goods... but, she could still feel.  He wasn't sure he wanted to take that from her.

     

    "Glad you're okay,"  forehead released it's furl and he nodded with the boyish soft quirk of his lips that flushed the seriousness from the intense eyes.  He could smile, when he wanted to.  "He's right.. you do bounce around too much."

     

    Eyes flicked quietly to the small crowd gathering and the rear door.  Feline eyes never missed a beat, the whole situation moving out of control too quickly.  The cops should have been containing.  Instinct was already looking to clean this mess up, Tris' condition assessed several moments ago. Hurt, but fine, irritated by the feel of eyes on him- waiting for a screw up?  A slip of the mask that would never come unless he wanted it to?  Scent of cigarette smoke and blood ticked ice picks at his temples, static in the air a live wire he couldn't ignore.

     

    "Get those people inside," dark fractured irises glanced at the cop, voice always a kind, gentle hush- knowing the cop had heard what he said to Tris about their "situation".  His intentions were never squandered, they were not the aggressors here and he wanted the detective to know that. They were not animals, they were human once... like everyone else.  "It's not over."

     

    Eyes flicked to sound of hard run engines not yet approached.  Cops most likely.  Unnecessary, but effective.  Containing.  They were doing what they were trained to do.

     

    "♃ Just need some contact information. Then she’s free to go. Already know where to find you."

     

    Expression that met the smirk was a lukewarm nod, this man was hard to gauge.  Expressive eyes remained on him, moving only to the cars after the detective's hands were showing a badge and the cruisers had skidded to a halt.  His hands never made an effort to raise, jaw ticking at the click of safeties-off when the guns trained on him.  Ears knew- instinct, knew he was not going to be the problem in a matter of seconds.  Muscles already in motion before the skidded tires behind him came to a halt and the cop reacted with a blase' curse that did make the cat smirk.  He was loving to hate this guy.

     

    The sound of automatic gunfire peppered his eardrums.  Expected.  There was never an easy way out of the middle.

     

    "♠ Kai!"

     

    Fingers had already grabbed the scruff of two collars before he joined the party behind the battered vehicles, the asshole variety slid behind the car in front of the sheltered two to clunk his unconscious sleeping beauty head on the hubcap.  The other, the woman that had been hit, more delicate.  Blood was still moving in her veins.  Oblivious to the gunfire that was raining glittering glass dust into the air, he yanked the asshole's belt and lifted his pantleg to pull a small knife.  Sliding the belt under her leg, he threaded and yanked it tight with a zip and sliced a new hole to hold the buckle tight over the gunshot wound that had most likely ripped apart her femoral.  It was a quick and dirty field move.  She might survive.  Might.

     

    NYPD was not going to survive, and then they would close on their hunkered location and shoot them as well.

     

    He was moving, relocating the two unconscious "refugees" and unzipping his coat with a snap, pulling both pistols and laying on the bloody concrete to check the ground clearance of their shelter cars.  He had several shots and had to make them count before they realized what was happening and took cover.  They were starting to fan out and take the superior position.  He had no time.  They would take the cops, then they would finish the three.

     

    "They are going to move.  You will only have seconds.  I need one of you to shoot under the gas cap on both their cars, punch as many holes as you can UNDER the cap.  I'm going up.  Do not let your cops shoot me!"

     

    Without hesitation, he rolled to his side and extended both arms under the car to erupt in carefully placed shots.  Not kill shots, but horribly painful kneecaps and ankles.  There was a predicted lull in the automatic fire as they crumpled, were snatched by their buddies and the entire crew began to relocate.  The cat rolled upward and was gone.

     

    Soft clang signaled his weight moving up a fire escape to disappear into blue and red swirled darkness.

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    Crouching down, back against the front of the car Slate pondered the redhead’s statement amidst the cacophony of ricocheting bullets. This definitely wasn’t about her, at least not anymore. She might have started the fire but he and his partner had dowsed it with gasoline, still, something was missing. Gangster’s had an unspoken code of conduct extending to police as justifiable hazards. Death by the hand of a cop just doing their job was their own folly. ‘What the hell had stirred up this hornet’s nest?’

    Rounding the corner of the building in her unmarked car, Detective Nighttraveler was just stopping to inspect a suspicious body out of view from the alley as the NYPD cruisers pulled up. She was quick to flash her badge to the officer closest to her, “Detective Nighttraveler, Jersey City PD.” she announced. Her call in to dispatch had been late and obviously there hadn’t been enough time to call off the officer’s who were on route.

    Curious about the body, she was taking a moment to inspect the wound just before the sound of automatic gunfire resounded and bullets perforated the side of one of the cruisers.

    ‘What the hell was going on?’ Taking out her gun, she smoothly moved to the corner of the building and peeked round to observe a couple of car loads of thugs having an N.R.A. meeting. Slate, the redhead and the man he’d addressed as Morgan were pinned down, caught in the cross fire. This kind of hit didn’t make any sense, unless… Adria shot a look back to the body. The way he had fell, the location of the wound. Her eyes then rose to the darkened rooftops. ‘A professional.’

    Adria popped in her ear-bud and contacted her partner. “Hey, ugly.” She gave a quick wave from around the corner to reveal her position. “These assholes have some serious fire power. What’s your situation?”

    [slate]Gotta civilian down, heavy blood loss. Morgan’s about to do something I’m hopin’ ain’t stupid, make sure our people don’t go shootin’ him the ass, okay. I'm already dreading the paper work, don't want anymore.[/slate]

    Adria had just crept behind one of the squad cars and was informing the police of ‘special operative Morgan’ when he pulled off his stunt. No doubt about it, the guy could shoot. Switching the gun to his off-hand Slate reached round the side of the car and emptied a clip of blindly guesstimated shots at the gangster’s vehicles. When it came to guns, he was mediocre at best. All he could do was lay down some suppressing fire. Hopefully Trisskar could do a little more than hit the broad-side of a barn.

    ‘Where the fuck was he going anyway?’ Slate considered, flexing his fingers into a fist as they instinctively crept toward the concealed pocket containing his whip. This was not the time or place for ‘unnatural’ heroics. As always, Slate struggled to imagine what a non-empowered individual would do — forcing himself to react ‘normally’; to never reveal what he was capable of.

    Popping a new clip into his Beretta Slate flashed a look toward the backdoor of the fight-club, then over to the only other exit in the alley besides the two that were cordoned off by gangsters and police. A narrow alley across from them and near to the gunmen and just outside it, a small dumpster. A suicide run for either. One would have to cross into point blank range to make it and the high powered rapid fire weapons would cut a body to shreds before they even got close.

    The doorway wasn’t an option. It was too exposed, at least if totting a wounded civilian, not that running toward the cops didn’t leave one’s ass hanging out. If he retreated, he couldn’t leave the woman. The only way he was going to be able to ditch little ‘Miss Cross-fit’ was to attack.

    Narrowed eyes focused on the dumpster. Hand brushed against the solid device hidden beneath the pale blue material of his trench coat.

    Not yet.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    Triss took a few moments to take in deep breathes. She was already worn and tired from her vigorous training, her fight in the ring, her fight with the first group of gangsters....and now this lot. Green eyes tracked the Cat with professional calculation. Hands already freeing both her Sig's.

     

    Wait....

     

    The cop next to her made his move, emptying his clip in a blind shot at the vehicles causing lips to smirk.

     

    ….Wait

     

    High position. The Cat was looking for a vantage point, she just hoped he was smart enough to keep a weapon hidden up there. Wait for it...Breathing in deeply she began [triss]“Four....three....two....”[/triss] Green eyes glanced to the building once more. Kai wasn't Chance, Kai didn't have a communication device for her to confirm his position....he didn't need to. Nose and ears keen, searching, listening, scenting...mouth opened and jaw slacked to let in more of the Cat's trail....Now.

     

    [triss]“Now!”[/triss]

     

    Weather or not the Cop would follow her prompt she shifted and rose up in one fluid move, her arms resting on top of the cars trunk, her feet stable, pair muzzle's aimed true 'Pow! Pow!' quick, precise, rapid fire rained first on the thugs gas tanks, causing the barrels to erupt and spill out it's pungent liquid to the pavement 'Pow! Pow!' two thugs went down and the Fox retreated, falling back to her spot behind the cars back tire [triss]“Time to go!”[/triss] She hissed, emptying and refilling her mags before returning one to holster and grabbing a hold of the passed out thug, they would be best not sticking around when the Cat made his move.

     

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    He had no range.  He knew he had no range, he was still determined to make it work.  Why?  People were in danger, Tris was in danger, the small force of police that were trying to make the world a bit safer were going to be sawed in half by the firepower.  Yes, he was even concerned about the detective.  If it wasn’t him, who would it be?  Cops were pinned, and outgunned.  He was also limited and outgunned… which was pretty normal.  He knew this, he’d lived this.  Mixed with the adrenaline of a Were, he had no idea how this was going to turn out.

     

    Foot kicked a door open to access the third floor of the club, it was instinctual, dodging in and out of people to go in the opposite direction of where others were fleeing.  He had twenty five yards at best with the weapons he had- even then the odds of hitting accurately were shit.  First, he had to get to the other side of the building to find a vantage point on their rear, or at least their seven.  He snatched several items along the way, discarded lighter.. half filled vodka bottle, Styrofoam cup, bloody towel.  Things he had used before in desperation to turn the tide of a situation turned sidways.  Overturning a table on the deserted far side, he slid it against the wall.  Walls were not bullet proof.  It was unlikely the table would stop the bullets, but it would slow them down.  Crackling sounds of firefight spilled into the building, compounding the panic- the club was emptying downward, crushing tightly into the first floor, realizing they couldn’t exit.

     

    Elbow shattered the window, not quite where he wanted to be, but there was nowhere else- he was behind the automatic fire, more to the side.  He could smell the gas.  Someone had made the shot, or at least attempted.  Gas didn’t burn.  The fumes did, which was why hitting the neck was so important.  Explosive, vicious.  If he could ignite the fumes, it would explode, the gas... splatter, and as it evaporated would go up in flame as well.  Tactics of less than civil countries were not elegant, they were brutal and effective.  If he was lucky, the muzzle flash of the automatics might do the job for him and light the fumes.  The tanks, were the last resort.  When he was out of shots, he would light the fuckers on fire.  He may have been limited by man-made mechanics, but the Were could throw the damn thing far enough to make it count.

     

    Sliding to the floor to quickly mix the crude Malotov, very aware that every pop could mean a life was snuffing out on the good guy side.  Fingers were precise, exact, lighter set directly next to it, one quick exhale before kneeling to make shots that would be discovered quicker than he wanted.  First hit a neck, nearly decimating the entire throat- the man keeling to the right with his finger still on the trigger, the spray of bullets causing the Were to duck and cover his head.  Snapping up again, several more fired in succession, one clip left, dropped and discarded to snap in his last and begin to fire the remaining.  The shots were too long, it was taking too much time to line them up based on distance.  He was hitting, but not enough kill shots, and they had figured out someone was tearing them up from the side- finally getting smart and turning an aim at his window.  He was already on the floor when the bullets ripped through the wall, splintering the table in a line above his arm covered head, not wasting a second.  Lighter was flicked, waiting for a lull before he lit the vodka soaked shredded towel and rose to hurl the crude weapon at the nearest car, exposure of himself in the window bringing a grunt from his lips and a jerk to counteract projectile force, but it was already done.  The glass shattered on impact, flames breathing into the fumes to chase up the side of the car.

     

    In a few seconds, the cops would have their opening.  Crispy bad guys, or running thieves.  Either way, he’d given them the edge.

     

    He slid to the floor under the window, pistol dropped in lieu of the other half of the torn towel.  Chest burned in a bright fire.  He was bleeding, trying to figure out from where.  Brass was cleaned and stuffed in his pocket, everything put away in their holsters, hands pulling out in smears of blood.

     

    Now he was pissed, rolling forward and reaching to his back to unsnap his knife to return to street level.  If they ran, he was going after them.  The cat, was raging.  In pain, the scent of blood only fueling the anger.

     

    Hell, he was going after them anyway.

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    Slate crouched down low behind the cover of the vehicle, eyes transfixed on the injured woman lying before him, seeing through her, a strange serenity washing all expression from his face. Wrath stirred within his heart, fiery rage fuelled by divine judgement demanding Angelic punishment.

    He would kill them all. Every last one of them, to the last man and woman. This was his charge.

    “Time to go!” The woman’s words brought him back. Grip tightened on his gun, attention focused on the forty yard dash to the police cars. It was a deadly gauntlet. They couldn’t make it unscathed, at least, not until Morgan evened the odds. Fire erupted upon the spilt gasoline, engulfing the cars in bright orange flame.

    Hot air wafted through Slate’s hair as he smoothly rose with the slender woman cradled in his iron arms. The remaining three police officers and his partner were already advancing, laying down a barrage of gun fire. Unfortunately, the gangsters were determined to hold their positions despite the fire, shooting blinding through bright flames.

    “Ambulance is on the way.” Adria informed as she quickly checked the woman’s injury while Slate carried her to the safety of the police car barricade. She then ran over to alleviate Trisskar of her load, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

    Adria grabbed hold of one of Casper’s arms and hefted him up with surprising strength, freeing the Lycanthrope of her burden.

    “We have two officer’s down. Back up is on the way.” Adria called out to her partner, and as much as Slate wanted to join in the fray his duty lied with his fellow officers.

    Placing the woman down on the pavement, he temporarily loosened the tourniquet to allow some blood to flow to the extremities of the leg before synching it tight again. His attention then turned to a nearby officer who had been struck in the chest.

     

    [npc]How bad is it?[/npc] Coughed the officer, seeking words of encouragement but Slate didn't have any. He just continued to apply pressure to the wound, waiting for the ambulance… biding his time.

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    Guest Trisskar Ar'ran

    Free of her Burden the Fox alternated her path. The Cops had back up, but The Cat did not. Not yet. Checking her Sig she rushed with an enhanced speed to the Dumpster the Cop had been eyeing earlier. It got her closer to the thugs and put her at more of an advantage, her agile and slender form slipping between dumpster and building, laying out flat on her belly and bracing her arms against the ground, muzzle aimed towards the smoke.

     

    This, this was her field. Designated Marksmen of her team, backing her comrades up from advantageous points while her comrades took the brunt of the fire. Breathing in deeply she calmed her nerves. Sirens howled in the distance behind her. The Cop's advancing forward were taking the brunt of the remaining attacks....That was ok though....They were perfect decoys.

     

    Keen enhanced eyes gazed into the smoke and flames, shadows moved about disjointed.

     

    'Bam!'

     

    Someone took the shot. Ears rang and one of the cops howled in pain, shoulder. All of this processed in a half heartbeat as Triss' aim adjusted, behind the ringing explosion, locked on the boasting voice, muzzle adjust, body tilted, 'Bam!' Head Shot! Victory however was for the weak as she rolled and pressed her back up against the dumpster. [triss]Get out of there, you Idiots![/triss] the Lycanthrope growled feraly at the Cops. Not like they could hear her as she stood and placed her arms atop the dumpsters edge. Rot, Roadkill, and fermented fruit stung her throat and lungs as she narrowed Emeralds. Waiting.

     

    Two more shots followed. The first was from one of the thugs the second was her's. She didn't stick around to see if it hit as she ducked from cover and ran into the Fight Club. She needed to get behind the thugs. Let the Cops continue to distract, she was faster, stronger, keener of senses and trained for these senarios. Although...most of her training didn't involve a frightened crowd of people pressing in on her the moment the door closed, shouting, demanding, begging, crying....Some were injured from gun fire pecking holes into the walls. Others were eager to get out and join the fight. [triss]let me through[/triss] Triss growled, pushing her way through the assembled [triss]Move! Back. OFF! - Marco!![/triss] The call again. Hoping the Cat was nearby, upstairs? Even if he didn't answer back with 'Polo' she hoped her voice would let him know she was still standing as she slowly made her way to the back door. If she can just get behind the thugs, catch them off guard, pin them down, then the back up would arrive to finish them off.

     

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    • 2 weeks later...

    Leather clad elbow slammed through glass, the lean muscle of a killer sliding through and clinging to the edge of the building before dropping several stories to the alley pavement. He hadn’t done this since his world had ended… the scent of blood, the thrill of watching it fray into the air in a mist before becoming a viscous stream of death calling to the Were.  Not the Cat, or the man… but the Were.  Before, a job.  Now, a thrill.  It shouldn’t have been.  He was a soldier.  He was stronger than this.

     

    He was a soldier.

     

    He was stronger than this.

     

    He was a…

     

    This had gone too far, heat across his skin as his heavy footsteps increased to a jog toward the cool side of the cars.  He was heading straight into the fray, no regard for himself, only the scent of blood and frenzy of bottled anger that had no outlet.  The shot that whizzed past him caused the Were’s reflexes to snap backward to avoid the rip across his chest, bared teeth jolted him from his mental mantra as soon as the splatter of blood hit his cheek; a direct headshot that almost scoured through his chest.  Goddamn it, hadn’t he said not to shoot his ass!?!

     

    To their credit though, he was behind enemy lines- anything behind enemy lines was game… only a few moments before they realized he was there, ducking under the spray of gunfire as another was hit by the “good guys” and was sent twisting to his final smack on the concrete.  Crouch remained, snagging his other knife from his ankle before the warning snarl… Knifed ear to ear, another went down and the fight behind the burning cars turned into a frenzy of inward gunfire and confused flailing from flame blindness.  One by one, they were snatched from their perches by a shark dragging them off into the deep.  Necks cracked, only two left to defend their position against the advancing police… blades wiped and stowed, an automatic retrieved before stealing away into the cool darkness behind the flare of flames to take a wide block back to his truck.

     

    He couldn’t do this, be by anyone’s side, be on anyone’s team.  He was not fit to train anyone, let alone another of his kind to fight.  Or live.  Automatic was discretely slid into the compartment in the back with his sniper case, tailgate closed quietly.  He should go back… deciding swiftly against it.

     

    If he didn’t leave, it would get worse.  For him, for everyone.  Slipping into the driver’s seat, the sharp pop of gunfire still echoing through the dark street, he turned the key and was gone.

     

    (Kai going to home to lick his wounds...  and have a beer- no.. tea, probably tea)

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      • A modern/fantasy, intermediate+ collaborative writer's rp. Caters to an experienced player base (25+) with a slower, more relaxed pace.
    • HELP GETTING STARTED? TRY A CANON!

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