The Authority: Barely Escaped

September 20, 2015:

The members of the authority barely escape from the 'coop'.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Rant's brain is suddenly /flooded/ with data. Imagine tapping into a water pipe in a house, a solid but predictable flow of water, and then tracing that back up to a connection that leads to the city's water main. The fiber optic cable is a generation or two ahead of what's readily available in the US, and it's running at capacity. Tapping into it is like trying to hurl herself into a city water main. If the water main was also not in any language she's ever seen before. Terrabytes of information passing at light speeds. Whatever Kaizon is up to, it's not small time. This is Big. Big Big. And it's in Gamorean.

Lunair's slowly drifting boats, with their fishermen going about their jobs, slowly become lifeless as men begin to drop, one after another, slowly sinking to the deck. Two problems with that. One, and it's the 'less' important one, fishing is a dangerous job for a reason, and if she's paying attention she'll take not that at least one man goes overboard and another on the other boat is half crushed by a crane's arm that isn't properly directed to a stop because it's opperator is now snoring. And two, the more important one, there's a man on each of the boats that sits at the top, radio in hand, ordering his men about. One of them is doing well enough as a fisherman that his little Captain's seat is in a box of plexiglass, one assumes with an air conditioner. So he doesnt' get dusted, and now he's yelling into his radio in real concern.

Lux's eyes settle on the canister, in which floats what could be accurately be called an 'ideal' man. Well over six feet, powerfully built with lean muscle and little to no fat, he's a sculpture of perfection. Short blond hair floats idely around his head in a halo, held mostly in place by whatever viscous fluid slightly foggy liquid fills the tank, blank ice blue eyes staring right through her, unblinking, unseeing. The resemblance is? striking. If one were to erase 40 years from Slade, thirty pounds of muscle, give him back his eye, and take away whatever life lessons made him the hard unyeilding man he is, perhaps catch him sleeping, he would look like this. It's down right creepy.

What's worse is that beyond him, past the conveyor belt with it's Deathstroke In A Can, Lux's eyes settle on what she though was just oddly shaped shelving. It's not. Focusing in she can see racks of such tanks, racks upon racks upon racks, tanks secured with tubing and wires, hung like fruit on a vine. It brings back some small imagery of that Matrix movie she saw once, only cleaner and less organic. Right down to the robotic arms that seem to tend the 'fruit', moving about in slow precise movements.

Of course, that's when the claxon sounds and red lights begin to flash.

"Sir?" Audrey slowly backs away from the tank, using the subvocal transmitter only once she's still well away from the man with the clipboard. "You didn't happen to sign up for any cloning experiments, did you? Because it looks like someone might be doing some cloning of you."

That was not good. Rant could usually contain the flow of data; parsing it into little packages that would be easier to contain. Instead, it hits her like a ton of bricks, her body shuddering as if she were being electrocuted, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, her fingers tensing and flexing as she fights against the flood to contain it into a narrow yet manageable stream.

With little luck.

Her nose begins to bleed, her head knocking back against the wall as she slowly begins to still herself, her hands pressing against the wall as her body hunches, her head lowering just a touch as she tries her best to keep her composure and not.. well.. cry. "Who..wha.. clone who?"

Lunair winces. She really needs to work on her AoE. But she's going to have to railgun that gentleman in the cabin. She does let the others know: "Fishing craft approaching, one on the radio. Taking care of him."

Deathstroke's silence is deafening, and he's grown so still that he appears stone like, which is almost impossible for a human being. Every part of the human body makes minute adjustments to stay upright every second, they breath, the beating of their heart causes the smallest pulse in surface tissue. These things are almost never noticed, but they're always there, and the lack of them is how people tend to instinctively know the difference between a sleeping body and a corpse before they even check. Deathstroke goes corpse still. Then his hand slowsly curls into a fist and a soft growling noise slips over the mics. "We need to go. Now." he turns away from the window showing the mass of Pickled Clones and begins to jog back the way they came, "Come on, his security forces are impressive if memory serves." Last time he was here he rode in with Team 7, a group of the deadliest killers on the planet, hand picked and trained by him, honed by dozens of missions into as lethal a force as the world had ever seen. This time he's out with one and a half rookies and a fishing boat sitter. The SMG's attached to his thighs come up, one in each hand and he begins a swift run back for the rail car tunnel that brought them here.

But…but fascinating information that might actually give some hints about the mystery that is Deathstroke. There's definitely a beat of a moment where Audrey looks back toward those tanks. Knowledge is power, after all. But it only lasts a breath, and then she's jogging after Deathstroke, trying to keep the group cloaked from any impending doom. She's going to have a hell of a headache in the morning.

A loud sniff is given as she glances upright, her eyes glowing and not, constantly pulsing as the information continues to filter through the nanites, practically electrifying her brain. But.. it was time to go. Rant really wasn't going to stay around to see why or even give a second glance. For one hand pinched off her nose and wiped upon the back of her hand as she begins to jog, falling in line behind Audrey.

Lunair is watching the feed, too, perhaps curious about the Deathstroke. Not just any deathstroke THE Deathstroke. Lunair is going to pick off the Captain with her long range railgun. She's an alarmingly good shot, and there's likely not much left. But hopefully whomever he radioed is going to take time. She's going to keep watch and clear the path for the others to return in the meantime.

Deathstroke leads the way and it's likely a good thing since they're barely down the long hall and into the main loading bay, the massive room where the rail cars meet to load and unload their cargoes, when steel plates in the floor and ceiling slide apart and turrets drop down on smoothly moving ball mounts. A dozen of them, easy. Slade doesn't even bother to throw the canisters first, he just reaches up and yanks the tabs on a pair of smoke grenades strapped to his chest, his body and anything neary him instantly covered in a thick gray blanket. A moment later the canisters clink and rattle tot he floor, moving ahead of them, "Go go go!" he says into the smoke, only it's vauge swirls giving a clue as to which way he's gone.

From somewhere nearby there is a scraping of metal on metal and the ground trembles slightly, then again, as if something heavy just took a step. "Cybrogs." he curses under his breath, though the mic picks it up clearly.

Lunair is perhaps not so lucky as she would wish. The captain vanishes into human pudding and vapor, the round plastering most of his mass above his nipples along the inside of his plexiglass box, painting it a chunky red color. In that moment after the shot and before Deathstroke is yelling for people to go, Armory hears the sound most feared and loved by ground troops. The distant woosh of jet engines. Of course, if they sound distant…

Smoke grenades mean that trying to be invisible is going to be more trouble than it's worth, which means Audrey can at least drop the cloaking and invisibility for the moment, giving herself a chance to rest those abilities and instead put some mental focus into drawing her weapons and picking up speed.

Melody's head was hurting, but it wasn't enough to keep her from -not- running away from the facility. Running was her thing, kicking up dust but pacing herself to not run too far ahead or lag behind, occasionally wiping away at her nose to stop the flow of blood from hitting the ground.

She stops and waits, the turrets not a fond memory, then cuts out running right into the cloaking smoke which… reminds her, she has to get one of those. So awesome..

But the mention of Cyborgs had.. well, at least it made her a little bit relieved. It was a machine, she could easily take it over.. and she was already bleeding from her nose. Disgusting, but highly, highly effective. "Where?!" She almost sounded like a happy kid at that. She couldn't have one of those big cats; so she was going to get a cyborg.. for two seconds.

Jet engines. Lunair tenses. She does alert the others, "Jet engines," She offers. "They sound distant now, but." She hesitates. "I may have an EMP weapon and smoke cover. Past that…" There's also ye olde shrapnel, but… Well. She's watching, ehr feed still up and available.

Deathstroke exits the smoke cloud with a leap that takes him twenty feet through the air, tendils of the thick cloud clinging to him like a lover as he explodes into the open. His weapons open up, chattering and raining brass and small explosions begin popping off around the room, their flashes lighting up the inside of the smoke cloud slightly. "Lux! They track movement, give us cover!" he says as the first two turrets are rendered useless under the hail of explosive tipped rounds Deathstroke slammed their way.

Rant's question seems somewhat moot since cyborgs are not the first problem they have. The turrets begin sending out super heated blasts of continuous energy, tracking Deathstroke as he moves. The beams cause steel to glow pink and concrete to smoke and sizzle where ever they pass, and there are a /lot/ of them, two per gun, at least ten guns left. It creates a lethal lattice work that constantly cuts through the air as Slade leaps and flips and twists, seeming to always be just an inch or two away from ending up with cauterized holes in him. "Can you access the turret control?" one of his guns goes silent and a third turret goes down, he drops the empty and lets the assault rifle slide down from his back and into his hand.

Armory gets a view of what appear to be Russian made Sukhoi T-50, stealth fighters, with clear technological additions from Gamora's scientists. A trio of the planes roars past a half mile out, low enough that once they zip by and the sound that follows is almost deafening. Scouting pass, trying to pick out the threat. They bank in unison and begin a new pass, and this time they seem fairly intent on Lunair's wee boat's immediate aread. Her cries for advice go unanswered, sue him, Deathstroke is currently dodging super lazers from a double handful of auto turrets while trying to keep his people alive. Armory will just have to deal with her own problems for now, that's what the training was for after all. He doesn't actually say anything, but she can almost hear Deathstroke's growl in her head as he watches her on one of the training courses, 'Do the job.' It was his mantra, shouted at them hour after hour as they trained. No matter the obsticles, how impossible the goal, how tired they were, how hurt, he never cared. Do the job. Everything else, everything, was secondary. No weapons meant for this, staring advanced fighter jets in the face? So what? Do the job. He's kind of an asshole like that.

Audrey spares Deathstroke the lecture on how just what she can do depends on what the sensors that guide the motion-sensing firing are actually tracking. He probably knows that. And while she's gotten better with varying applications of light in different spectrums, she hasn't yet perfected anything that can actually stop or control laser beams. Yet. So she does what she can, which is to throw a cloak around Deathstroke first. It isn't perfect, and it draws most of her attention, but it should keep the turrets from seeing him. The real drain, though, is keeping it visible from his side, so that he can see where he's going. That takes enough concentration that it's all she can do to hug the wall and move along it, and the rest of her distraction is limit to firing off bursts of witch light the size of her fist in the air.

Turrets first, Cyborgs second. Got it.

There was a quick glance as he explodes into the air, Rant herself taking the low dive onto the floor, rolling to avoid the cutting lasers that could probably take an arm off and stop the bleeding in one fell swoop. It was a constant movement, that roll, leaping upright to tumble again, even though her limbs flail she made it in just enough time to only catch a burn of the boot. And toe. Her big toe, that is.

The distraction from Lux provided what she needed to at least -try-, her eyes closing as she huddles down into a tight ball, her mind expanding as she attempts to access the computers from afar, traveling.. traveling..

"What the fuck? I can't read this shit!" Who could, really? Time to upload a virus…

Well, hell. Lunair doesn't push the issue. She thinks for a moment. What does she do? Do they have EMP protection? She's got to do her best. She knows that jets often use infrared and heat seeking missiles. She also knows most of them don't have EMP protection and that radar jamming is a thing. That explosives are a thing. Gotta think. And then it hits her.

Time for a dramatic push! She has an alarmingly huge laser cannon modified with EMP grenades, to bother the jets. To launch smoke and blanket their infrared. Hopefully it works.

Going invisible was, frankly, not what he'd been planning on. Apparently he didn't fully understand Lux's abilities, and that's something he's going to address later. The point of all his acrobatics was that he was keeping the turrets busy. Soon as he disappears from their censors, all the remaining guns spin towards new movement. Movement named witchlight and Rant. Slade's not entirely certain why their focuse changed, but he takes advantage ot it as best he can and drops his second SMG so he can pull his sword free of his back. With the assault rifle yattering away in one hand and the promethean blade in the other, he begins to take out the nearest turrets first, jamming the blade through their mechanized housings and ripping it free in splatters of hydraulic fluid and smoke while the gun tries desperately to do damage with small bits of lead. The sword is more effective as it turns out.

The lattice work of beams has more holes in it then it used to, but the tracking is now picking on Rant, making her the gun's new bitch, only one or two continue to chase Lux's balls of light, confusedly spitting at them like cats chasing a laser pointer.

Armory's targets, aka some of the most advanced aircraft in the world, fire off a pair of missles at her from over a mile away as they bank out, the smoking trails of the weapons curving around gracefully to hurtle towards her little boat. There is a reason air superiority is coveted. It's superior. High ground and all that. Of course, behind the missles, closing quickly, come the jets, expected to see a small teensy cloud of fire where there used to be a boat.

Once Deathstroke has a chance to get close enough to a turret to take it out, Audrey drops the veil around him. Sure, he might get shot at, but if he's on the turrets, then they can shoot at each other in the process. It also frees up more concentration for distraction. More of the witch lights pop up, and a much simpler, flat, opaque veil jumps up in front of Rant. She won't be able to see through it, but given the other woman has her eyes closed, that's probably not going to be a problem.

She definitely didn't see it. Her concentration was elsewhere, focusing upon the lines within the connection to the systems that were created and possibly sounded the alarm. The virus itself uploads, something small and quick for now, meant to give a stall in operations which spreads while everyone makes quick work of the turrets.

Once it uploaded, she then opened her eyes, keeping herself pressed against the wall, slowly inching and moving out of the way of a turret who tries to fire at the light that distracts it. "Virus uploaded.."

That's not good with capitals, neon signs, sodium dunked into water and a Hulk holding up pompoms around it. Right. She's got to deal with it. Bruce can likely steer the boat as best as he can. But she's been busting her ass training. The girl takes a deep breath, preparing herself and burning up a great deal of serum. Tissues ache and protest, her immune system going up in neurologically fueled flames.

Time to pull a mother trucking black lagoon. Between Bruceboatin', and her own thoughtful expression, she's gunslinging with rocket a rocket launcher and EMP grenades at the jets, using a modified laser cannon barrel to hurtle the EMP grenades to where the jets will be coming into. Rockets swirl gracefully to meet the missiles, in the world's most explosive hello outside of Black Widow fighting the Shoe. There's shockwaves and roars, Lunair hunkered down in her power armor like a copyright infringing turtle. She's burning up and anyone monitoring her vital signs will see things spike as if she just ran a marathon while on fire and being chased by a kraken in a school girl outfit.

Deathstroke braces his feet against the barrel of one of the guns and uses the impaled sword as an ancho so he can shove, his back bending with the force of the push. Metal grinds and the turret he's mounted, one sticking out of the wall, is wrenched away from Rant and sizzles it's beams across the floor, slicing the barrels from another gun before he has to leap free as his invisibility gives way and three of the remaining turrets obliterate his pet pewpew nearly out from underneath him in an explosion.

He comes up from a roll and flicks a grenade off to the side, the canister taking out another turret as he reaches Lux, "Go! Rail car!" he says, "Pick up the nerd on the way!" and his hands are full of heavy pistols, the large calibre weapons booming so fast they sound like automatic fire. With fewer turrets left, he seems to be able to take his time, allowing him to more easily keep them from aiming at his team. This is clearly his element. He follows, more or less, behind Lux, trying to provide cover while he lets the two women get the transport ready. They need to leave, the turrets are only teh first line of defence, not the last. They're only slightly better then a stalling tactic… And while the other's can't hear it, not over the gunfire or the explosions, Slade can. Heavy footsteps approaching at an inhuman run.

The missles are designed to lock onto a target and take it out, but they're not meant to dodge incoming fire, very few missles are. It's presumed few things could ever shoot down a missle. A hail of smaller rockets all trailing heat of their own on the other hand. Targeting computers are confused, locking onto multiple heat signatures that are suddenly closer then the target was a moment ago. The computer lock, unlock, and relock mutiple times a second, trying to decipher the information. The computers are fast, very fast, but it doesn't matter. The missels are traveling at supersonic speeds, as fast as the computers are, the Hellfire missle is traveling at nearly 1,500 feet per second. In the fraction of a second it takes the computer to suss out the data, the pair of slightly confused missles have traveled 700 feet. Right into Armory's swarm. The explosions that follow are, literally, deafening. If Lunair were not wearing her helmet, her ear drums would have blown out. The concussion from the blasts, as far away as they are, rock her boat alarmingly to one side, nearly capsixing it, and even though they were far above the water's surface, waves appear from no where, slapping at the boat's hull. And bits of shrapnel rain down all around her, because if you're traveling at 1,500 fps and you explode, your peices still keep moving at that speed, hell, some of them get a boost. The sheer raw might of the missles is terrifying, explosions that could level large buildings just went off a few hundred feet away. It's… alarming. Superheroes fight powerful foes all the time, guys who can punch through walls, but few people understand the true raw power of a military unleashed, and Armory just got her first glance at it up close and personal.

Sadly, the Hellfire explosions also altered the trajectory of her EMP, and by the time her vision clears and she's not clinging to her little snipers nest for dear life, she notices only two planes spiraling out of control for the water far behind her, the third remains in the sky, it's engines screaming as it climbs.

"Yes sir," Audrey responds immediately, dropping the light show in favor of dashing over to Rant. She's not exactly doing great herself, vision swimming with all of the heavy-duty manipulation she's been doing, but she keeps going all the same. She offers a shoulder to Rant if she needs to, and then she's beating feet up the tunnel ahead of Deathstroke. Her brain may be tired, but at least her lungs aren't having any trouble keeping up.

There was a moment of awe that Rant was trapped in. Her brows raised high as she watches the light show as well as the expert display of the two in front of her which.. does admittedly spring forth a touch of jealousy. Ah well! But it was time to go, Rant immediately picks up, meeting Audrey half way, arm looping along the shoulder as she tries to keep all of the information locked up and tight all the while pulling herself from the system of the base she's connected to.

Firewalls go up almost immediately, keeping whomever was at the helm of the controls out, back and away from what was stolen and what could be. No ones getting in that head of hers! Which.. pounds. A lot.

Lunair dims her feed appropriately at the moment it goes down. She is grateful she has her armor, and that the boat almost barely capsizes rather than an actual capsize. Her world is rocked, leaving her dazed and reeling. She knows she did her best. Is doing her best. Clinging like an especially tenacious limpet. Her brain is screaming at the sensory input, all of which amounts to OH JESUS FUCK FUCK SHIT SHIT SHIT COVER GIRL GET YOU SOME COVER OH GOD WHAT. Everything is bursts of light, sound and shockwaves as she wants to desperately dive into the water.

But cling she does, reading the feed she allows herself, observing the results. No time for relief. There is still a very functional jet there. The power a military brings forth is terrifying. This is undisputed, war infinite in its cruelty and innovation. She is a super-powered terrorist, meant to be dropped in, cause chaos, murder and havoc then skip out. Not today. She is a diligent and powerful boat guardian. She wishes desperately to live, and she cares about those coming back to them.

Despite aching, angry muscles and veins that burn as if fire itself had broken out with in (and a few capillaries are indeed, likely leaking) she grits her teeth, hissing softly. Not today, jet dude. Not today. Time to reload her rocket launcher and EMP cannon. It's all she can do while she watches the jet climb. Wait for it. The agony of hurry up and wait.

And it is likely she'll need vitamins, chicken soup and plenty of rest after this. Still beats being blown up.

The turrets suddenly stop firing and begin swinging around randomly and without any real seeming reason. Slade doesn't question it, he just follows faster behind them, actually passing the two and leaping up onto the rail car, "Rant, get us moving!" he calls out, taking up possition at the front of the car, "Lux you have the flank," he tosses her his big assault rifle and a second drum mag as he resheathes the sword. He pulls out a two foot long metal rod that snaps to a full length staff, the twin ends blaze to life with a faint glow. He pulls some small circles from a belt pouch and flicks his wrist, much like he did on the way down here, and tosses them out, letting them stick to the surfaces aroudn the tunnels entrance. "Rant? Don't be gentle. We really don't have the time." he glances over his should just in time to see the cyborg arrive. At a full run. It's arms come up, chainguns slung on the outsides of it's wrists begin to spin up to speed and laser targeting paints the rail car. And of course, a pair of rocket pods slide up over it's shoulders, one on each side of it's head, 12 rockets a peice. Deathstroke blinks. "So." he says flatly into the comms, "They upgraded." and then it fires. Everything.

At least her boat isn't sitting still anymore. Banner has the engines up and running and the modifications made to the wee ship weren't haphazard or half assed. Deathstroke isn't big on half measures. At the moment Lunair's ride is ramping it's way up to be the fastest fishing vessel in the world. This might make aiming a bit of an issue though, waves + speed = bounceybounceybounceybouncey. At least the jet takes /time/ to make it's turn and reaquire targets, perhaps not a lot of time, but some…

Audrey gives Rant a hand into the car, reaching out to catch the gun in the other. This part, at least, she knows. "On it," she replies as she climbs into the car, ducking beneath the edge of it and sighting over the rim. And this is the difference between a soldier and a hero. When the cyborg rounds the corner, she doesn't hesitate. Doesn't look for a face, doesn't wait to see weapons, doesn't shoot to wound. There's movement around the corner, and she fires a targeted burst.

Rant graps Lux's hand as she leaps into the car, immediately shuffling towards the other side as she listens for the pounding of four feet to touch the surface. "Hang on.." She murmurs out, her eyes brightening as the rails beneath the car begin to hiss and electrify. Lux was already firing when they took off, Melody bearing down hard upon the controls, pushing herself and the car as fast as it could go, having to close her eyes to beat the created wind of their takeoff.

And it all begins to hurt, but she pushes through with gritted teeth, fingers nearly denting the edge of the car as she braces herself to make a sharp stop whenever the go ahead is given.

Oh geez. Oh geez. Okay. The boat is moving. And things are bouncier than randy rabbits on a trampoline. She's still got a job to do. Lunair tries to settle her stomach. Please hurry, she quietly prays to anyone who will listen, who will here. Still, she is rocking. And she is going to have to rely on area of effect - the traditional AA tactic - stockpiling. Letting it turn. Hefting her launcher(s).

Blood itself protesting, oxygen leaked away - warning of hemorrhages and pending infections from hell. Her vision swims a second. But she waits, like a predatory animal awaiting a lethal prey. And when the thing comes into range, it shall be greeted accordingly. Hopefully.

The kick in the rifle is no joke. Clearly Slade packs his rounds hot and from the weight, he makes sure they're AP. The cyborg stutters for just a second as he enters the tunnel after them, the rounds from Lux's weapon denting even it's advanced armor and a few punching neat holes. Deathstroke has all the best toys. That stumble is the only thing that saves them. The chain guns go off, the sound like rolling thunder in the concrete tunnel, and most of the rounds find their way into the floor and sides of the tunnel as it's arms strech out to catch itself even as it's legs keep churning. Deathstroke turns away from what's behind them to face what it in front, "Don't slow down!" he shouts into the mic so Rant can hear over the noise. Then he thumbs a stud on his belt and the tunnel becomes hell. The disks at the base of the tunnel explode in fire and concrete, but they're only the first. As they traveled down the tunnel he'd been counting and tossing out explosives, ticking them off at regular intervals. Now they begin to explode in the opposite order in which they were laid, which means the stumbling cyborg gets it's feet under it just in time for the mines at the entrance of the tunnel behind it to explode, shoving it forward, then for the ground just to the left of it to explode, slamming it to the side of the tunnel, then one beneath it slamming it up into the ceiling. It's chain guns continue to churn out rounds, but it can never seem to compensate as it's forward momentum is altered by explosion after explosion, most going off only a few feet behind the hurtling rail car. Chunks of concrete the size of dinner tables smash around the room and softball sized bits smash into the rear end of the car, a few narrowly missing Lux herself. And still it comes on, pushing and battering it's way behind them, falling only slightly behind with each explosion, never quite losing them.

The final jet in Lunair's big blue sky is streaking back her way, having already suffered the loss of a hellfire it doesn't seem keen on firing off anything else she might be able to pick off, so it's comming in fast for a gun run, straffing her with 30mm rounds, the kinds of gun that could be used to jsut cut a boat in half without batting an eye. The pilot never gets the chance. In WWII flak was the prefered method of dealing with aircraft, and while things have become far more sophisticated in the last half century, it remains a very viable weapon for the same reason short barreled shotguns still work. Aiming is a lot easier to handle. Bit's of Armory's flak round enter through the cockpit glass, one lodging itself int he pilot's should and another grazing his flight helmet, the force of it knocking him unconscious, which is likely for the best. Because at least one other peice is sucked through the intake and his left engine simply explodes, spinning off two great halves of fighter jet burning brightly into the ocean.

Audrey doesn't waste ammo with the explosions coming behind her, ducking as low as she can into the car without losing the visual. Holding on to her gun and keeping that visual is her main focus. Should she get a steady chance between explosions, she'll fire off a few more rounds at the cyborg's head, but only if she's got a good shot. Who knows what's waiting up above?

It was pointless to keep the light from shining upon her skin, really pointless to keep herself contained. Everything was going to hell right behind her and the orders to speed it up was given and she finally lets it all go. Traces of light begin to bleed through her skin; a sign that the nanites were working in overdrive, shocks of white pursing through as if she were littered with stars as the rail-car picks up in speed.

And they could feel it, that tugging of gravity within their bellies, even the way the wind begins to whistle in the ears not riddled with comms. "ALMOST THERE!" She hollars out, ducking down to avoid any shrapnel that may come her way.. one clicks.. two clicks.. three.. wait a minute..

How in the hell were they going to get up top?

There is a reason AA guns are still feared and useful. Adrenaline has torched a path through all of her, and it feels painful to rely on flak as it burns through precious resources. But it works, and this is duly noted for later. Lunair suspects that her opponents too, shall adapt. Notes made for later. For another day. Right now, there is an uneasy relief, the joy of seeing a foe downed and knowing there are likely far more.

"Jets dealt with. We wait for you," She offers softly. From the sound of her voice, Lunair is dead exhausted. She just perches, like a frumpy barnacle. Letting herself watch uneasily. An exhausted, but watchful overwatch. Otherwise, she's not moving or talking unless she has to.

Get out top? Who said anything about getting out topside? Sure, the chicken coops were where the loads were used, but that's not where the rail line ends, there is extra rail, the tunnel went on further then that, all the way to a section of jungle with a small winding access road, in case the cars needed to be hauled away, removed from the tracks for maintenance or any of a dozen other reasons. It wasn't used as a point of ingress because it was further away from the boat's easiest access point, it would have been to weird for a fishing boat to have been on that side of the bay, risked exposure before they even started. But with exposure no longer an issue… "Armory!" he calls over the coms, "Extraction point Delta! We'll be coming in fast." he understatements the crap out of that.

The tunnel continues to explode behind them, and finally, a testament to the craftsmanship of the Gamoreans, the tunnel itself begins to crumble. The massive cyborg with all it's weapons finally takes a wrong step, it's foot landing on a bit of concrete that doesn't turn to powder under it's weight and it's ankle rolls, sending it face first into the rails. Sparks fly, explosions go off, and the machine man is lost instantly in a cloud of dust, cement, and growing distance. Ahead there's a faint light, "Armory! You better be there soon, we need to get outside the dampening field ASAP!"

As he says this Deathstroke runs back up the car and plucks up Lux and Rant, tucking each one under an arm, "This is gonna hurt." he informs them. The train hits the end of the line at an insane pace, the front end instantly buries itself in the soft earth and the back end of the car goes airbourne, flipping ass up. The effect is that the trio are catapulted into the air. The slightly bulky pack on Deathstroke's back, the armored one he's been wearing since before they went into the water, suddenly unfolds, a pair of wing like protrusions snappoing out of his back as he uses the force of the catapult and a leap of his own to carry the trio into the air. He's covered in armor so it's not a soft grip, the two women are pressed against sharp metal edges, bandoleros of ammunition, traveling at reckless speeds, and suddenly, they're flying. Or… more like controlled falling. They exit above the tree line, a slight dip in the topography sending them soaring out over a cliff and the jungle beneath. Slade says nothing, no whoops, not shouts of terror, nothing. He's silent as he tries to control the glide while carrying uneven and rather ungainly weight. It's not perfect.

The landing isn't gentle, but at least it's on mostly sand. Clearing the last of the trees in a manner that involved Deathstroke tucking the girls in front of him and him turning his back to heavy branches, the three explode in a tumble out of the last few feet of the jungle and land on a beach, rolling and spitting up sand as they go. First to his feet Slade is hauling the other two up and shovign them towards the water, "Gogogogo!" he's screaming as he spots the fishing boat in the distance kicking up an impressive wake. "Get to the ship." he turns to look over his shoulder towards the jungle and he spots the treetops shaking as more of the Kaizan's forces begin the hunt, knocking jungle out of their way with reckless abandong. He turns, dives into the waves behind his team and vanishes into the water.

A half mile out the boat has pulled them far enough and golden disks swallow the team entirely, the fishing boat is scuttled a half second later, explosions rocking it and blocking it to kindling. The small submersible packs they used to get there, superheat and melt down under the water, their self destructs triggering as well. Gamora, as a nation goes into high alert and efforts to launch the attack are redoubled, a shorter deadline put in place. And four soaking wet, exhausted, injured soldiers lay on the floor of the Resolve's War Room. Slade pushes himself to his feet and grunts as he reaches down to yank an eight inch shard of wood from his thigh where it's burried, and ignores the bullet wound in his forearms completely. "Get up." he says to the three women on the ground, "This job just got infinitely harder." and he walks off, blood smearing his footprints as he goes. Even for Slade that's hardcore… or it would be, if what he'd seen down there didn't have him as close to panic as he ever gets.

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