Proving Grounds: PT 2

July 24, 2015:

Part two to Proving Grounds.. things just got a lot worse.. (Emits by Deathstroke)

Characters

NPCs: Hobgoblin, Flashpoint, Mr. X

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Day Four: Frankly things are not looking up. Starvation has pushed bodies to the breaking point, and while there's been enough water to allow the group to last a day, maybe two more, it's hardly enough to quench anyone's thirst. Wounds have not been tended and this is hardly a sterile environment, clothing is dirty, and frankly, well, everyone could use a bath on top of everything else. Of course. There's always the option to just… give up.

"You have water." the words come from the shadows of a passage way that's not well lit in a small nook the group has found that appears to be somewhat safer then a few other places they'd been. No place is safe for long, but this one has allowed them a short rest. From the shadows there is a faint glint of metal and the faintest outlines of a face can barely be seen, "Give it to us."

Lunair dropped Deathmoth.

Day Four:

Let me tell you, the past few days were pure hell. Lots of screaming and wasting bodily water on her part. Melody cried like a baby was being neglected and soon there were a shortage of tears. Most of it was mind numbingly excruciating. The rest of it, she hallucinated. She was so hungry, it was a wonder she didn't chomp down on Lunair and take nibblets of her skinny ankles. But she was tired, her hand was healed thanks to her inner-tech. But she looked like shit on a stick baked in a hot summers sun. And then .. that voice. It causes her to jump and slowly rise from her settled position upon the ground. As settled as it was. Expression blank as all get out. She ran out of being scared two days ago. There was practically nothing left.

"Fuck. You. All."

One thing about having the God of Fear in your group is that no matter how dark things kay get… there is no need for anxiety nor stress despite the dire situation. Strengthening morale and keeping them putting one foot in front of another is a benefit of such control of fear. So perhaps they're able to function better through the slog, despite the need for showers and the like.
Of course, the same thing can't be said for other groups that they encounter. Not on point at the moment, it's when he becomes aware of the approach of others that he steps forwards. Alexander's faintly glowing crimson eyes remain level on the speaker even as he seems to radiate a subtle aura od intimidation, something that clearly might make others less likely to push their puck. "Tons, we went past a starbucks a few rooms back. If you hurry you cam get there before it closes."

Lunair is not in good shape. She's keeping a light saber and a laser rifle at hand, but only those and her armor. Lunir is also quietly grateful she is not nibbled. She's running a fever though, and reality ebbs and flows. It's a feeling all too familiar. Being so close to death, with a body trying to give way and burning away fear leaving only a quiet want to /live/. She wanted so badly in those days, just to get to go outside, to feel the sun on her skin…

Why is it then, do you continue to live? Why is it you are made to live? Familiar questions, woven in between hallucinations and long repressed memories. Lunair is quiet, snark, giggles and sass long wrung out in favor of quiet stoicism. Too dazed and aching to bother complaining. No energy for peaceful, puppylike smiles. Nothing. Just an overly warm body that keeps trudging like a corpse awaiting a parade. Why is it you contiue to live, really? There isn't even irritation, which burned away. She has to open the visor of her helm to wipe away sweat now and then. The speaker gets a dazed look. Words cost precious energy and it seems others have offered them before her.

Taskmaster is nothing beyond a mortal man when it comes down to the wire and he is currently very exhausted and all of his snark and sass has gone out the window. His gear is in dissarray, no ammo left, bowstring snapped, sword dulled and his shield was turned to slag by mechanical rats what remains of his gear is several throwing knives, a gas grenade, half a billy club and a sword. Simply put the skullfaced merc is grumpy. His sullen mood has carried on for the past day where he has spoken very little unless it's to just be a dick. At least the mask stays firmly in place. Not a one of these people has seen his face nor will they be likely to.
"This is dumb. Slade's gonna get it for this."

DAY ONE

"This isn't even that bad!" Grace exclaims, fingers lodged into one of the serpent's eye sockets for purchase as it tries to throw her off, "If that old bitch did this solo, you know we'll be alright! It's math!"

DAY TWO

Grace's shoulder is healed, but the rats left deep gashes all over her legs and the cold room leaves patches of frostbite over the exposed parts of her skin. They recede some hours after they're free, but it's a miserable trek.

"Sh-shoulda made those other j-jerk-offs come w-with us— why the fuck did we sp-split up?"

DAY THREE

Fatigue has set in. It takes longer for Grace than it does others, but she's only (half-)human, and the group has been punished relentlessly. The offensively loud nothingness is what really tips her over; given another day or fighting and surviving, adrenaline and necessity may have been enough to help her ignore the heaviness of her limbs, the way her tongue seems bonded to the roof of her mouth.

In lieu of violence, she's tried to keep her mind off of things by swearing about the Maze Runner, and the Hunger Games, and, really, any narrative about groups of plucky and varyingly special youngsters surviving insurmountable odds due to the unreasonable expectations they create for real life people who find themselves trapped in real life death traps.

"We shoulda brought the fucking snake," she mumbles during a brief intermission. "Fuckin' Katniss woulda brought the fuckin' snake, Christ. Then again, the fuckin'… snakeblood woulda probably eaten through the walls, and…"

NOW

"Fuck you too, bitch."

Grace doesn't even look at Melody, or the tunnel, or put much heart in it; it's pure instinct at this point. /Afterwards/, though, she actually looks around and sees that glint in the shadows.

"No, yeah, for sure, fuck you," she mumbles after squinting at it. She even holds her arms out in the universal gesture for 'you want some, punk???' but she can barely stand up straight.

The funny thing about fear is that it tends to ellicit one of two responces, only one of them is running away. "You took it from Shrike, or what was left of him. Shrike was our man. You stole our water." Razorfist steps out into the light where he can be seen a little more clearly. The blades on the ends of his arms are somewhat rust colored at present, but one imagines they're not made of a metal known to succomb to actual rust, and one of them is missing the tip, likely snapped off in some mechanical horror. "Give it back, or we will take it from you as you took it from him." Flashpoint, who continues to sit with his back leaning against the wall of the nook, offers an exhausted little smirk, "I'm with the kid," he nods at Rant, "you can happily fuck right off." his eyes flicker and glow, though not as brightly as they have in the past. "Outa your league cripple."

Razorfist eyes Flashpoint, "The Wolverine said that to me once. Once." he says in a dead pan voice. His lips are cracked and dry and his eyes a little to wide open. He's clearly not the most well balanced person to begin with, the last few days havn't made him any saner. Something sharp and pointed presses up under the edge of Grace's jaw bone, "Oh no pretty girl, you stay real still." The shirtless tattood man who questioned Deathstroke earlier at the meeting, the one with the shades who called himself X is behind Grace, how he slipped around without anyone seeing is anyone's guess. There is a bandage around his thigh and his glasses are missing, but otherwise he seems to be the best off of the lot. The shiv appears to be a bit of broken giant robot cat tooth made into a blade, and it's /sharp/, and currently nesstled up against Grace's carotid. "Keep the arms out wide like that, spectacular defensive strategy." the sarcasim in her ear is acidic. Razorfist's grin is small, but it still causes his cracked lips to split a little, "Water." he reinterates.

Grace Choi dropped Deathmoth.

So thats where he was. The guy with the bladed arms. She knew she saw him somewhere.. oh.. when they first arrived. Rant.. just takes those few steps back, allowing those who could fight, would fight for their little ration of water to step to the front. While she held no fear and as tired as she was, she wasn't in the mood to bleed. Just when she was about to turn to hide behind the masses, the glint of metal catches her gaze, her eyes lowering just a little bit as she lets out a soft sigh. She wasn't a leader, a fighter or a killer. She also wasn't about to give up the water. So she keeps it mum, with a quick sidestepping shuffle to go the other way to get out of the way. And she moved as slow and calm as ever.

Alexander's eyes continue to glow, maintaining some aspect of trepidation for those opposed to them, though not pressing for more just in case the blade wielder's response might be more violent than he'd wish and end up with an injured Grace. So he stands there at the front, one hand lifting to the katana on his back and staying there for the time. He offers a few quiet words to Razorfist. "How would you drink it anyways? Have one of your boys pour it in your mouth for you?"

Lunair is dazed, in a world of haze and forgotten dreams. In a body that runs solely on just keeping on. In a fever dream that is without end. What is reality? What is? Questions fall away from a bowl spilt on a floor, washed away. She keeps her visor closed as she can, but a fever burns. She stares blankly at the duo. Calculating, perhaps. There is an awful lot of metal… and she could… she could… possibilities flutter away, maddened butterflies driven into a fan. Blood burns angrily at the mere thought of further creation. She hesitates, mentally calculating as she can.

"… stop pointing … your knife at her … or I will teach you what it means to really regret a bad decision." Her words are huskier sounding than usual, more edged with a rasp. Strangely, little irritation but that could be because she's unable to truly process the world around her, hallucinations and hope and despair woven into a cape most durable.

"Aw you kidding me? C'mon now. Thats just a bad judgement call all around." Taskmaster shakes his head, "Ya fucked up on so many points, you picked out the strongest of the herd, not the weakest. You're outnumbered. And well, you see, you're also screwin' with me now. This is not going to reflect well on you once we all get on out of 'ere." A glance down at his half a billy club and Taskmaster lifts a brow looking at Razorfist and X. "You boys do know I hang out with Lester right?" Yeah hes on a first name basis with a buncha well known crooks. The Taskmaster is after all one of the most top paid mercenaries and hitmen in the world. He's just lately getting some crap jobs. It's the summer.
"Fuckin' scrubs. This is why you two are never gonna be taken seriously. That and what the fuck, Razorfist… you ain't even got fists, you should just call yourself Razornubs."

Well, now Grace is standing up straight.

The blade against her neck brings tension to her frame. She doesn't move, not even to lower her arms as X shit-talks her.

She doesn't look particularly scared, either, though. If anything, she appears (perhaps predictably, by this point) to be pissed and trying to rein it in, if only a little. Her eyes dart towards the blade briefly, and then they shift between Lunair and Flashpoint.

"Bieber's got a point," she murmurs in a low, tight voice. Now and again, her eyes flick from Lunair or Flashpoint towards X, then back to them, questioning and urgent all at once. X is convinced that he has the advantage, here, and it may even be so that he could open her up with that shiv of his, judging from the feel of it against her flesh. But with his energy bolts and her expansive arsenal— if either wanted, really wanted— they'd have perhaps the best odds of anyone of hitting him despite her.

"What's your end game here? Shit, what do you do at home, dude? You a big hackey-sack guy?"

Sure, they'd have to hit her to do it, but— the acid burns are gone. So are the gouges, the frostbite. She'd probably be alright, eventually.

Whether either is in any place to remember any of that, or even catch onto her silent communication is another matter after three days of hell.

"Kate Moss' right too, though, because"

And that's when Grace attempts to simultaneously seize X's hand and slam the back of her skull into X's face.

LOGNOTE: change second 'X' at the end to 'his'

"Heh." Flashpoint snorts, "Razornubs… Hey brother, quick question, those things only have the single edge so that you can used the back side to hold your cock when you piss? Cause it's /killing/ me trying to figure out," he pantomimes swatting at his crotch with flattened hands, "how you mana-" it's so fast that when it happens it's shocking. Flashpoint simple stops talking and goes limp. Razorfist has his back pressed up against Flashpoint's front, having slid low across the flow in a blur, one arm is tucked up under the other, crossing over his chest. The blade entered Flashpoint's forehead and exited out the back, slicing through the brainstem so quickly the meta never even knew he was dead. Like a puppet with his strings cut he was just gone. "Enough talk." he says as the blade comes out of Flashpoints face in an arc, blood and brain matter expertly hurled towards Taskmaster's eyes while the other arm snaps out in a low thrust meant to sever the arteries in Phobos' groin. Goofy gimick or not, the man is /good/. Scary good. Good enough to merit an invitation here and good enough that he ranks Shang-Chi among his nemesis'.

X is just… not where he's supposed to be when Grace attacks, her head hits nothing but air and the edge of the shiv slices up the side of her face, grating against her jaw bone as it goes /narrowly/ missing the artery it was pressed against but still slicing her open like a ripe fruit. "Tsk." X says conversationally as the heel of his hand connects with the base of Grace's skull and the edge of his foot slams into the back of her knee, "You should have just given us the water no-longer-pretty-girl. I have mastered every martial art the world knows, you think you can catch me unawares?" a flick of his wrist sends another shiv tumbling throuh the air, aimed at Taskmaster's gut.

When you're so hungry, so tired, pretty much gone out of this world you're pretty much useless. Melody was trying her best -not- to be useless. But the fact of the matter, she practically was. Her little slide back was probably missed from the others, out of sight, out of mind, not really significant in the grand scheme of things. But it /works/. Especially for her. Her eyes were darting left and right, not catching movements but.. catching sight of the blood that stupidly flies through the air which makes her eyes widen like wonder.

"I'm dreamin'.. right?" She mutters slowly, the flick of wrist of X was almost like a calling to wake the hell up. Her arm dashes out, snapping in front of Taskmaster's gut, the shiv itself planted right in the middle of her forearm with a wet and nasty sounding -*THUD*-.

"Ow…"

She looks down at her arm. "Fuckin' ow.."

She looks up again, arm drawn around to grasp at the handle of the shiv to try to pull it out. "Ohmygodthishurtssomuch!" She was hopping now, stepping away from Taskmaster and the rest of the crew to try to pry the shiv out without as much pain as possible. Which would fail of course.

As soon as Razorfist moves and initiates hostilities as far as Phobos considers, it's on. The blade on his back is drawn with a clean diagonal downward slash even as he steps forward that single pace needed to close the distance. His own swing would be aimed to split the man open from shoulder to hip, most likely coming together with the strike Razorfist offers to make against him. Normally such a thing would cause a resounding clang as blade meets blade… but then again Grass Cutter has a tendency to slice through whatever resists it.
Whatever the results of the strike, the young Olympian starts to move to the side trying to make the man turn with him and give his flank to another.

Hey! Lunair was pretty alright with Flashpoint. She watches the scene unfold in front of her, and the part of her that hasn't gotten entirely seared numb to killing twinges for a moment. Attachments are dangerous, painful. Lunair doesn't speak for a moment, fevered visions dancing before her. She may not be the most experienced combatant on the field, but she does seem to have surprise going for her.

And then they shiv Rant. There's an immense sympathy for Rant. But her brain is desperately screaming orders. They want to /live/. Why is it you continue to live, really?

Because I can. Because I wish it so.

And that is enough. Phobos seems to have the world's most frustrated man at hand, and even though every vein and artery feels like it /burns/ when she does, Lunair has to use something that isn't going to maim her allies. A stave with a cat at the end of it. The shockwave generator. She grits her teeth, hissing hard as reality goes foggy for a moment. Huffing as blood burns and she swings, using a shockwave at X to try to swat him away. "Leave her alone, you brutish, illmannered BOAR." Her dialogue falters, speech a skill forgotten and scorched. Her knees buckle a moment. Oh no.

Irritated, hungry and equal parts tired Taskmaster might be a bit sluggish but not so much a rather fancing twist at the torso in to an evading dodge has him simultaneously dodging the brain matter and hurling the broken billy club not at X but behind him. It is a shot meant to richochet back. An evade is anticipated.
"Nice catch, kid. You got promise." A response to Melody's shiv snare, "Now get out of the way."
That spin and throw continues in to side leap that brings the mercenary out of the fray. It is about to get messy with that many in close quarters and this 'team' has no coordination. Nope. Not getting taken out by friendly fire.

fancy not fancing^

Blood slices through through the air in a thin arc as X leaves a fresh, angry line along Grace's jaw.

Which, coincidentally, is also setting into an angry line.

DAY THREE

"Hey," Flashpoint interjects out of nowhere, "Fuck Divergent, right? More like Duhvergent."

NOW

She and Flashpoint were just starting to understand each other! She thinks. That probably wasn't a hunger and thirst-induced hallucination catalyzed by the sudden death of another human being in the midst of intensely stressful circumstances, right?

But, no, either way, fuck Divergent. Grace is sure of this. She's sure even as X flows around her like water, sending shooting pains through her skull and knee and causing her stance to quiver, but not quite buckle as she twists around to track - and punch - at him. Her fists hit air; it's like there are four of him and none, all at once.

"My face'll heal, shitbird!" she exclaims after what she thought was a decently timed haymaker goes awry and leaves her side open for another cut. "Your stupid's terminal!"

If it weren't for all the aforementioned stressors, this would probably be a record skip moment for Grace, who at least tries to hold her snark to a marginally higher standard. Instead, she just stumbles through her follow through, brushes her fingers across the wound, then clenches them to

SHOCKWAVE!

Grace suddenly finds herself launched across the nook, due to her close proximity to X.

+MEET: Lady Vic has arrived via +meet.

People talk about how a sword is made for them, sometimes romantisizing how they sleep with it, never let it go. Razorfist /literally/ lives with his. Grass Cutter comes in and instead of meeting resistence it slides along the flat of Razorfist's blade, his own twisted at the right angle to deflect instead of counter Phobos' attack. He comes to his feet in a graceful arching Crane style motion, one leg sweeping out low and fast, his 'fists' a glinting pair of deadly arcs that swoop around him as he moves. He could make a killing if he bothered to do shows instead of murders. He comes to his feet in a long limbed stance, showing a tremendous flexibility, and eyes Phobos with slightly narrowed bloodshot eyes. Pho has gained his full attention.

X drops low into the splits like a video game character, dipping just under the lowest edge of the shockwave headed his direction, "To slo-GUH!" he was quipping at both Taskmaster and Lunair, but the rebounding billy club slams into the back of his shoulder, it's broken ends digging into the meat of the muscle there. Distracted by the pain, he doesn't spot nearly two hundred pounds of Amazon hurtle his direction. A stray elbow clips him across the forehead, and opens up a cut over his eye, sending him falling back into a tumble. Onto Mr. Billy Club Esquire. He slides a couple of feet and comes up onto his toes in a quick motion that proves he's not out of the fight, his teeth bared in a snarl. "You /hit/ me!?" he reaches over his back and wrenches the broken stick from his body, "/NO ONE/ hits me!" and he launches himself at Taskmaster in a flurry of movement that Task's brain can see coming and still is boggled by. Razorfist is good. This guy is Batman and Iron Fist fucked Lady Shiva to make a baby. And he's /pissed/.

Lognote fix: X is good. (not Razorfist is good)

Grasscutter twists and shifts along the blades of Razorfist's deflection, Phobos stepping into motion to follow through for less impact, the sweep catches his footing which sends the Olympian flat upon his back with his blade in the air. A twist to bring the sharp edge to the foreground, the double blades that hit causes an impact that makes shoulders cringe and twinge, a push back and a roll upon shoulders and a kick out that brings the young man to his feet at a crouch and a blade swung towards those legs to try to sever sinew and bone.

Good catch? All she got was a good catch? Melody was still hopping, still tugging, still bleeding, dancing in pain out of the way of the ruckus.. going for a good left side of the area.. and then a sudden right.

Stuff was flying everywhere and she quite literally had gone hoarse from all of her whining.

"… I'm really sorry. I'll buy you clothes or a snack later. And if you could stop the talking hammers, that would be /great/." Well, to be entirely fair, none of them expected that. Lunair is staggering a bit. She's having problems pulling reality from fiction. "Hey, Skeletor!" She'll give either the shockwave staff or the lightsaber to Taskmaster, depending on which he's known to prefer. Actually, she kind of gives them both to him.

She's swaying on her feet. "Miss Rant - here-" She staggers over to give poor Rant part of her shirt to wrap her wound. Except she's offering the shirt to air and tilting dangerously.

"Just hit you, chump. You think you're scary? You ain't shi-" Taskmaster grunts as a solid fist hits him in the chin and a rapid dance of flowing violence follows. Hard styles, soft styles, ancient unkown techniques, ultra modern wu-shu and even alien? The men transition fluidly from move to move with resounding impacts and grunts as they seem evenly matched. Those who truly know martial combat know that Taskmaster is losing. Mr. X seems to be able to anticipate where Taskmaster will move and what he will do next, strikes end up going in to counters, counters become more counters and soon the skully merc is on the defensive.
The weapons Lunair slung his way were deflected, blocked by a kick and a swat while Mr. X keeps himself positioned between them and his opponent.
"Shit… you're cheating somehow." The only words Taskmaster rasps amidst the engagement.

Grace isn't even (that) mad as she sails across the nook, not after feeling her elbow clip X along the way.

Her "Fuuuuuuuuck!" trails behind her until it is finally terminated by the *THUD!* of her hitting yet another wall. She pushes herself forward as soon as she stops moving, intent on getting back into the fight as quickly as possible only to nearly pitch herself onto her face instead as the room spins around her. Her hands go forward in time for her to catch herself and rasp out a sharp breath meant to help her center herself.

There are two fights happening; she tried X already, and didn't particularly care for him. Also, Taskmaster has Lunair covering him; he'll (probably) be fine.

So it's Razorfist she finally settles on charging, heedless of the killing storm of he and Phobos' duel as she tries to take advantage of the talented warrior's keen focus by chop blocking him.

There's an opening, parts of the walls had shifted and where their attackers came in the shadows hold another. And from it an Asehai spear shoots out, flung at a speed and with a directive for Lunair's opponent, seeking center mass landing in its sudden air-splitting throw from the darkness.

Flipping quickly after the deadly throw, a female clad in red and gold with blonde hair tied high into a knot upon her head, the upper portion of her face is masked in silver, leaving split and dry-cracked lips bare. The bun had fallen to disarray, golden wheat falling over bare shoulders bearing bruises. No worse for wear then any of them, having apparently been here just as long.

The fine and swift movement of the masked mercenary known as Lady Vic comes at a speed gathered within the bending flips and contortions of her body bringing legs over head and seeking to encase Mr. X in a landing tha will have thighs trapped around his neck, a silk cloth quickly being drawn to try and wrap around his throat.

Razorfist doesn't jump so much as lift his legs off of the gruond, Grass Cutter slicing through the air beneath his feet. He lands on his toes and spins in another whirlling arc, trying to bring the edges of his blades across, one after the other, Phobos' stomach. He growls annoyance as they spark off of the steel floor, missing his target by a scant inch. "You're good." he says, 'hands' held before him in a mantis like stance. "I'm bet-" betting, better, bethesda, bethany? Really it's a crap shoot what he was going to say next, because no one normal gets to finish their words when they're tackled by an Amazon. They'd need breath for that and Razorfist finds most of his gone as he's hurtled across the floor, skittering and clanging, his 'fists' flailing in an attempt to find purchase. He comes to a stop resting against a pair of dirty but still orange boots foldover shin high boots. Hobgoblin stares down at Razorfist, the canteen in one hand, resting at his side. "I liked Flashpoint." he says flatly. "He laughed at my jokes." The spear thrown at Razorfist glances off of the floor next to Razorfist and whips off towards the darkness. Hobgoblins hand is a literal blur as he snatches it out of the air, his lips twisting in anger.

Mr. X just smirks as Taskmaster is forced back on the defensive. Frankly it shouldn't be possible. Doesn't matter how fast Task is, this guy is always just there, ahead of him, one step, two, doesn't matter. The blur of motion is almost hypnotic, but Task it pushed back a step. Two. Three. "It's no more cheating then you are. After all, it's not like you ever trained a day in your life now is it? Me? I traveled the world, I trained at the feet of hte greatest masters on the earth. Then I killed them. There is nothing you know I have not seen, done better, perfected. You are like all the others. All ta-" he stops mid sentence and raises his hand to his jaw level and drops low to one knee. Lady Vic barely misses her target, sailing just over his head, and her silk garotte never finds purchase as his raised hand blocks it from sinking in under his chin. "lk." he finishes, twisting his hand in the silk to grip it tightly. "Bring your girlfriend?" he quips at Taskmaster.

Well, that was unexpected. Phobos didn't expect the Amazonian type basher to fight by his side, he was well content to handle this on his own. He wasn't cross, as long as it ended swiftly and quickly and everyone was out of the maze sooner than now, he'd be purring like a kitten with a feast befitting of the gods. As Razorfist tumbles and slams to the ground, the young Olympian rises to his feet, Grass Cutter dragging at the ground as his red, glowing gaze weighs heavy upon the man, the metal striking and sparking along with that fast pace marks his attack as he nears with a sharp swing upright that causes the blade to sing.

He didn't intend to sever an arm. He didn't intend for a swift kill. He did however, sever the brachial artery underneath Razorfist's armpit, an intended strike that would truly be a gusher. Speaking of..

Melody twists and turns, dodging and ducking out of the way of flying limbs and bodies, still holding onto that shiv which was soon yanked asunder from the thick of her forearm. She glances up as her alias was called.. but.. Lunair was facing the wrong direction? "WHAT?!" She shouts out, voice filled with irritant, mostly because blood loss? Was not the one thing that she was intending. She also was not intending to share in the blood to heal and stitch the folks back together, so the shiv itself was tucked within her back pocket (along with the cracked phone), that same hand soon covering and holding her arm against her stomach as she continues the dancing game, moving in the opposite direction of whence they came to find an exit.

Fuck this noise, she's scouting ahead!

"…?" Lunair looks around, reality ebbing and flowing, a woven fabric of fever, a body burning up and a brain in full Captain Kirk mode trying to keep them from being killed. Nevermind then. She just - lets poor Rant go, staring into space.

And a piece of advice enters the realm of Lunairality. DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODGE!

Right! Lunair tries to fight for a moment of lucidity, of speed. The weapons didn't make it to Task. Not good. But she can retreive them and try again, this time using her power armor to move swiftly and /put them in Task's hands/ unless he moves. "Hey… um. That water you're fighting for … how much of it is even left? Why didn't you grab it before…?" She asks quietly. She sort of air staggers, but she is covering Taskmaster, even if partially body because she has fancy shmancy armor and keeping the one dude who seems pretty lucid is wise. "Please to put your metaphorical penis away and think about that a moment." Pause. "Is that-" She shakes her head. "Sorry."

Also holy shit, a ninja fairy. "… that is so cool."

"Never trained? Don't get a body like this without getting up off the couch." With Lady Vic situated on Mr.X's shoulders the garrote wire wrapped about one of the man's hands Taskmaster does the reckless and launches forward at about two-almost-three times the speed a human should be capable of moving and crotch kicks Mr.X. The problem with this is he's about to tear ligaments and even muscles.
"No time for chit chat with these asshats, Loonie. Just go for the eyes." Dirty pool. Definite dirty pool but the look on X's face will be worth it. Hard to dodge a superhumanly fast attack when you got unbalancing weight on your shoulders.

Grace hits the ground right around the time that Razorfist does, but with far less clanging. Still a similar amount of skittering, though, only hers is done with bared teeth and eyes set in a glare and stops when she seizes Razorfist's ankle.

Grasscutter flashes past her ear as she crawls up the length of his body; it doesn't give her pause, wielded as skillfully as it is by the God of War, but the fountain of blood rushing from the man with the most unfortunate prosthetics ever devised does when it coats her face and her top.

Briefly, it gives her pause.

And then, with a wordless cry of fury, she lurches forward, seizes the back of his head in one hand so she can twist his torso up and off the ground, and—

*WHAM!*

His head hits the ground.

No more snark, or swearing; just screaming and wrenching Razorfist's head back again—

*WHAM!*

— and again—

*WHAM!*

— and—

*WHAM!*
*WHAM!*
*WHAM!*…

Vic's landing is ducked and dodged by X, but she did not release that silk 'noose' nor did her and her body snaps back with that leverage in a manner of a dancer with her object of display reaching its end. It flowed despite the unintended plans. Adrenaline has been raging in her veins for days now, making sleep a lacking thing, and when she rebounds back towards X her grip shudders and becomes suddenly solid in a twist that aids in her impact.

If he does not move aside she is going to twist that cord harder and quicker around his fist as well as her own grip so they are basically bound together, but her intentions are clear as she seeks to impact him with an booted foot slammed down and back upon his knee to snap the patell back and out the other side, all the while her open hand is now in front of his face, bearing a familiar device each and every one of them got at the beginning. Now she's going to make him eat it.

"Fuck." *Slam*

"You." *Crunch*

"You're." *Slam-slam!*

"Out!" With a clatter bits of the device fly from impact on his face. He may not have pushed the button, but his face just possibly did.

Razorfist stares up at Hobgoblin and he suddenly remembers something. Footage of the goblin, swooping upside down at a hundred miles an hour through powerlines in a New York City street a hundred feet above ground… throwing Spider-Man like a rag doll. Spider-Man. Sure, in the end he got his, but how many people manage to get their hands on the Spider? How man are crazy enough to fight him in the skies? That's terrifying. Fear's a funny thing. It's results are unpredictable. Most people run, a few fight, but everynow and then there's the odd ball, the already prone to kill, to violence, most people think they'd settle on a fight reflex out of habit. Truth is, those aren't the kind that fight straight away. They hessitate. Fear causes them to doubt more then it causes them to piss themselves. Men like that have conquered fear of death, of pain. Doubt though. That lingers. And what is it but the small nibbling fear in the back of the mind. Razorfist stares up at Hobgoblin and for just that second he remembers the news footage, his heartrate picks up four beats, and he is afraid. He hessitates. He never sees Grass Cutter come, only realizes Grace has a hand on him when she's lifting him like a sack of wheat over her head. He flails out with one arm, trying to sever her arm at the shoulder, but for some reason his arm doesn't work properly, it just sort of flops on his shoulder, spraying blood like a childs squirt gun. Then there's pain. Then there's darkness. His skull caves in on the third blow, he was, for all his skill, just a man, and Grace is clearly more then that.

X sees the blow coming, which would be totally helpful if by the time his mind had processed that information his testicles weren't somewhere up around his apendix. His eyes blast wide and the air escapes him in an extremely manly, "…eep…" noise, a sort of strangled squeak he spits out as he starts to collapse to the floor. He can't focus now, can't seem to pull the threads of his mind into a cohesive vision. Everything is choppy, stop motion, and by the time he figures out what's happening Lady Vic's knee is flying up at the bottom of his chin, causing his teeth to slam closed on his recall device. The instant it cracks his body glows and is just gone, vanishing in a soft wooshing sound as air fills the place his body once was.

The thuds that continue to premate the air from the skull smashing upon ground would be like music to anyones ears. But the young Olympian knows that enough is enough and dead is just dead, the only thing that was being wasted was energy on something that was no more. With Grass Cutter properly sheathed, Phobos takes an arm with an attempt to hook it underneath Grace's to pull her back. Strong as they may be, they were exhausted, and there was not enough time left to be spent beating the meat until one passes out.

"It's over. It's done."

Bodies may remain twitching upon the floor, people may be hurt, breaths needing to be catched and as the haze of blood-mists and angry spit fades into the backdrop, painting the ground and those gathered…

…who would know that Melody? She was not there. Ghost. Gone girl.

"Worth… " Taskmaster hisses out before hop-limping backwards clutching his leg. Both hands instantly begin to grasp and squeeze along it's length to make sure nothing is broken. Muscles and ligaments torn, swelling and flaring up will occurr and most likely his ankle is going to expand to the size of a cantalope. The mercenary proceeds to shred the sleeves of his shirt down so he can bind his leg up tight enough to give extra support.
"Uh, good assist on the mooseknuckle punt, Lady uh.. " Taskmaster stares, studies, tries to remember, body language mapping? Nothin' - yet. "Lady whoever. You either with or against… choose wisely."
Hop. Limp. Hop. Limp… "Yep, Razornubs looks like meatloaf now. That would almost be appetizing if gimp was on the menu. Way to go, sport. " Taskmaster taunts Grace in his hobble past to pick up Armory's conjured/constructed staff. It will double nicely as a crutch should he feel like showing some weakness. Not that he intends to.

Well more than he has already…

… well, that escalated quickly. Lunair shivers a little. "Yeah, diplomacy was a lost cause," She agrees quietly with Task. She dismisses the staff, feeling some relief as serum returns. But it's not much in the face of burning and aching. She takes a deep breath. "Thanks-waitaminute." That voice. Lunair has to shake her head, to be sure she heard that straight. She knows those F-bombs. "… hi." She is happy to see Lady Vic, but there's an odd disconnect.

She should be bothered more by the death that fell around her, but another part of her reminds her that people are simply animals in a jungle of steel over trees and she could have just as easily been next. "Um. Maybe you should hold at least one weapon. I'm not -" Well, whatever, she'll look over those around her. "I guess miss Rant is scouting. Thank you for your help." Nod. She seems okay with letting Lady Vic tag along, and making sure no one's going to keel over.

"… do you need a hand?" She asks Taskmaster, noticing him hop along.

Actually, she keeps the staff as Task goes for it but she didn't want to flood the universe/

Phobos has the blood of gods in his veins; he's strong enough to pull Grace free, even if she doesn't particularly want to be. With his arms under his, he hauls her up and away from what's left of Razorfist.

"FUCK OFF!" the Amazon thunders as soon as she isn't grasping pulped meat and bone. She twists, shoves, and forces her way free of Phobos' grip, stumbles a step or two towards Razorfist, then— falls and ends up on hands and knees, panting loudly due to nerves and adrenaline and, of course, exhaustion.

It's the perfect position from which to study her handiwork, just soon as she lifts her head. The ragged breaths stop when she do, but her mouth remains ajar. Her eyes grow almost as wide as the dark red pool spreading beneath Razorfist as reality sets in.

She doesn't even tell Taskmaster to fuck himself when he taunts her in passing.

She will, given a few long seconds of staring, eventually pull herself together enough to stand and drag herself along with the rest of group, arms hanging heavier than ever at her sides and eyes turned firmly forward.

Lady Vic walks over and retrieves her fallen Asegai, looking along the shaft while it works through her hands and the balance is checked, drawing fingetips upward towards the spearhead and testing it for flaws with a swift slip over pinched fingertips.

There's a flash, honey hair stricken with streams of white veil one side of her face, the other peers a keen blue gaze out over those that are being picked up or picking themselves up. Lunair's look and wording has Vic staring at her deadpan, behind the mask perhas a brow would rise but the spear is placed back along her spine as she nears the woman and the skull faced merc, scanning him from toe to head as well. "I don't think that is your code. Let alone anyone elses here. But whatever, I will humor you." The scarf is whipped up with a stiff snap at the edge before she winds it up and tucks it around a wrist for safe keeping.

Grace and Phobos get another look as well, the woman on the ground gets a different form of appraisal, but no words, instead lips draw tight with debate upon a small smile. "Lady Vic."

Once Grace shakes him off, Phobos gives her a small nod as he steps past to survey the situation. There are the fallen, the injured, the fled… and the new. His glowing red eyes flick towards Lady Vic, but then he looks back upon Grace. No umbrage is taken from her words nor her manners. For some profanity is as natural a form of expression as breathing. That, or he's used to it from having watched Deadwood recently. Either/or.
The blade is sheathed back over his shoulder and once things are mostly settled he starts to pat down the pockets… what pockets there are of the fallen adversaries. There's still a long road ahead of them, any supplies or equipment might be needed down the line. The young Olympian looks up, considering the other travellers, but says naught else for now.

And so it goes.

Day four was every bit the shit day days one and two were, only it started with squishier more human death threats. From their resting nook, and Razorfist and Flashpoints final resting place, they moved on, following after Rant. A long hallway that ended in a room of lazer beams swinging wildly and to devistating effect. Hobgoblin lost his pointy hood in that room. Well the pointy part anyway. Then there was the room with the giant colossus shaped in mockery, or perhaps homage, of Rodan's Thinker. It's great metal fists were faster when they should have been given the size, and they struck hard enough that retreating out of the room was the best option. Sadly, retreating to far meant the laser room again and on the otherside of the colossus was another exit, the only one they hadn't tried all day.

It took three more attempts to cross that room, each progressivly more dangerous then the last as they were running out of what little reserves of energy they possessed and the giant forty foot tall statue seemed to be learning from them. Taking a much needed breather leaning against the sparking ruin of the giant masterwork of sculpting, everyone breathing heavily and a few nursing new injuries, more scars for the collections. They look around at the room itself, the machine was a true master peice, strong enough to dent the floor and walls wehre it struck, stronger perhaps, then even the room built to contain it. Whoever Deathstroke had make this place, he wasn't playing around.

Rant's eyes settle on a space where the steel wall has peeled back a little, a fist print larger then a VW Bug having dented the metal inward pulled the rivited edge up just enough there's a gap to stare into. She's been staring at it for twenty minutes, to tired to think, to see what was right in front of her face. But eventually even the dullest instrument will cut through a rope. Slowly a weary smile starts to creep across Rants cracked lips, and her tongue, sticky with thirst, flicks over them once. "Guys," she croaks, her voice hoarse and raspy to her own ears, "I… I've got an idea…"

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