Lynch & Wilson

June 19, 2016:

Deathstroke has gone missing. The Authority located his position and jumps in to find him.

Some ship.

Characters

NPCs: Peabody, John Lynch, Hobgoblin.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

<I need everyone to the War Room.> Peabody's voice says, coming over the coms. It cuts through whatever else may be going on where ever it may be happening. Phone call in New York? Call drops and Peabody's voice comes over the speaker. Riding the subway in Gotham? The intercom issues forth his words. On a street corner in Metro? Store front displays run text message announcements just as a team member passes by. It's a somewhat disturbing display of awareness of each member of The Authority, and the power Peabody's skills give him. It's like he's everywhere or something.

In otherwords; Peabody pulled a Melody. But in the epic world-like form. Melody was in New York, walking right out of a pizza shop, phone to the ear as she talks to one of her actual employees when the call drops and Peabody's sexual dark chocolate voice blasts in her ears. While it was a welcome sound, there was quite a bit of irritation because.. nevermind. She was going to finish her box of pizza.

She ducks and dips around a corner and makes sure she wasn't seen, entering into an abandoned building which was soon checked for hobos and..

"Beam me up, Scottie."

The transport comes easily, her room reached first to discard her coat and bookbag, box of pizza brought into the war room and set aside in all of it's super duper cheesy supreme pizza goodness, flipped open, cheesy slice taken and eaten. And silence. Cause this was important.

Lunair was napping. She enjoys naps. Lunair blinks, and then looks around a moment. She blinkblinks. Her phone- Oh, whoops. She was at home, her phone now giving her message. She rubs her eyes, and will bring the box of cookies and hot pitcher of chai nearby with her. "Please don't teleport me naked. Please don't teleport me naked." And she will make her way in from LunairHaus #whatever. Yes, Lunair has been running dark lately. She looks - paranoid, setting things down. Glance behind her, over her shoulder, up to the ceiling, below. Before she settles in to join the others.

+MEET: Kate Bishop has arrived via +meet.

Audrey has a few places she goes to unplug. All sorts of different tricks to convince herself she has a little bit of privacy. This time, though, she was in the process of training on the Resolve, running through an ever-changing obstacle course in an effort to improve her pursuit and escape skills. Peabody's voice comes over the comms as she's running up a wall, catching the top with one hand and pulling herself up to give a thumbs up to the cameras. She jumps back down, tucking and rolling as she does to burn momentum, then heads to the war room, arriving still sweaty.

Peabody doesn't have time for Rant today, a fact that's made clear as she's given roughly ten seconds of time in her room before a golden glow deposits her directly into the War Room, about 8 inches above a seat, with nothing but her clothing and the single slice still half in her mouth. The drop to the seat is likely there to make a point as well. Peabody is not fucking around tonight.

The War Room is already showing a mapped location, though there's scant little to see on it save a nearly endless amount of black-blue water with the slight pale flicker as one wave or another catches the soft moonlight just right. There are images of other things as well, most notably among them a grainy black and white photo snapped of a man's face as he glances over a shoulder. He's lean, but lithe may be a better descriptor, the sort of man who's strength isn't in layers of muscle but rather in whip cord sinews. His hair is short and his side burns long, almost mutton chop esque, both showing more then a fair amount of what is likely gray mixed in with whatever darker color makes up the majority of his hair. He's older, fifties, maybe sixties, hard to be sure, but either way it's clear the man's seen some shit, the cold look in his eye is sharp and focused and his face seems to be carved from wood, weathered and deeply lined, his lips drawn into a thin slash of something akin to annoyance.

A second photo is up there as well, showing a slightly better shot of the man, his brown/red hair is peppered with gray again, but this time one can see the whole of his face and make note of the white milky orb of one of his eyes and the map of scar tissue that passes from the socket across and into his temple, disappearing into his hair. It's not all that unlike the one Slade has actually, though Slade wears a patch and his scaring is more precise, less spread out. Under it is a name: John Lynch, and a series of papers with letterheads that read CIA, SHIELD, Stormwatch, IO, DEO, MI-6, FSB, etc, and that's about it, nearly every line of each is blacked out under a mountain of censorship, to the point one wonders why anyone even bothered.

Peabody is pacing and he looks angry, but also prepared. Everyone's preffered geat isn't in the armory, it's there, stacked against the wall next to him in neat little piles, costumes and ammunition included. "Fourty-two hours ago Deathstroke used the information we recovered from Searchers Inc to narrow down the location of this man, John Lynch, his former CO. Lynch has been opperating off of a constantly moving HQ, making pinning down his location at any one time almost impossible, save for the times when he must refuel." an image pops up of a nondescript internationall shipping barge, a /massive/ ship that in all honestly looks like a million other such ships currently out on the ocean. "It took some work but Searches sussed out Roxxon Oil's hidden contract to supply the ship with it's monthly fuel runs. We couldn't track the ship, but we managed to track the fuel. This was two days ago." Peabody flicks his hand and the holo table hangs an image in the air of a pair of ships docked together on the open ocean, shipping containers frozen in the satelite shot are being moved from one ship to the other, "Deathstroke left immediately. Eleven hours ago his coms went silent. Two hours ago he missed his first check in. Ten minutes ago he missed his second." Peabody turns to eye the ladies, "Deathstroke is most likely dead." he says flatly, "You're going to find out if that's the case, and if so, how, so I know exactly the level of retribution to level upon Lynch's world."

Ooooo. Peabody is /pissed/. One shouldn't piss off an international arms dealer and designer, generally it doesn't end well.

*PLOP*

Melody nearly chokes on her pizza but still, she was eating and watching the displays upon the screen. But that last bit? As much as she dislikes Deathstroke at the moment, he did come to her house to bullet someone to near death and well, there was a newfound respect there for the man. Okay. She liked him. And she had never seen Peabody pissed. Never. There wasn't even a word given or spared once his last line was spoke, she was already out of her chair, passing by the garbage to smack the pizza inside and right towards a first aid kit with a wipe of her hand at the back of her mouth. It was opened swiftly, two syringes and needles safely guarded taken from their place and the approach of her gear was next.

Wordlessly, she assembles herself, smacking everything down into place and checking each and every bit of her gear three times. She even goes so far as to wind her hair up in her hand to shear off the ponytail to toss right in the garbage too. Why not, right? "I'm ready." There wasn't anything witty. It was a dark mood indeed.

Lunair did bring enough for everyone, the scent of chai wafting around her. But she smiles, waving to Audrey. Lunair seems quietly fond of Rant and Lux, maybe seeing them as curiousities and friends. Audrey's a lot like herself in some ways.

For her part? She watches, her face blank and distant. There's cookies and chai tea, but they are forgotten.

Deathstroke? Dead? Lunair's face falls. She kind of doesn't believe it. Deathstroke doesn't just DIE (strange aeons or not). She had a hard time figuring out Deathstroke at first, but she kind of sees him as the world's sternest dad. So stern, he could almost be a boat part. But she liked the guy. he was way nicer than the HYDRA peeps. And he appreciated good chai. So Lunair is going to quickly get her gear and supplement it with her power armor. She will bring extra provisions, though she can create things as needed, perhaps. Regardless, if she notices needles? She's not going to be happy, so she takes non-needle first aid supplies.

"I'm not sure he knows how to die," Audrey muses, deadpan, as she stands to start gearing up as well. Good thing she's been working on conditioning. Now would be a bad time to be physically exhausted. "Also, not that I'm objecting to a rescue mission or vengeance in general, but I feel like if it was too much for him to handle, then he'd probably say it was too much for us and be pissed about us going in without a plan. So."

Fastening the last of her clips and buckles, she turns to face Peabody again. "What's the plan?"

Peabody watches the girls as they dress, and he's already working hsi hands in the air, setting up new images in the air, "I do a lot of things he doesn't approve of, now seems like a bad fucking time to make a change." Peabody answers Lux before flicking his wrist at the ship, "This is usually his gig, but I'll do my best. We don't know much about the barge except that it's not actually a barge. I think this is just a shell welded over the real super structure of something bigger. For starters it has cloaking tech that I can't breech, and it's shielded somehow, so porting in isn't an option. Soon enough it'll be passing out of satelite coverage and after that I won't be able to pick it up again for another month assuming Lynch doesn't change his fueling plans, which he will, and then we're back to square one. So…" the image shows a plane with some kind of rotating blade like inserts in the wings and an angled dark skin on it that screams 'stealth'. "How many of you are trained for HALO drops?" he asks and then continues without waiting, "All of you, good." yeah. Because all of them have been trained in the most dangerous form of military personel insertion. Sure. "Because I'm going to be dropping you at sub orbital heights and you'll be free dropping for nearly three fourths of that distance before pulling your shoots at seven thousand feet, max, and then riding the stealth shoots to the ocean where you'll hit hard enough to make you question all your life choices to this point. You'll be dropped in the path of the ship, which will three minutes later pass straight through that water and you'll have one chance to attatch to it's hull with these," he waves at some stuff one the bench near him, "magnetic hand holds. Then you climb the ship, silently, then you start murdering everyone you see until you find the boss." he turns to the room, "I have no images of the internals because it's not filed anywhere, no plans for it, no nothing. I can see the outside, I can see around it, but once you're indoors?" he shrugs.

"Oh. I almost forgot." he flicks his wrist again and another image pops up, this one of a somewhat familiar face. Hobgoblin. "This is Lynch's newest thug. Advanced military training, physical enhancements, high tech personalized weaponry, and of course the glider. This guy has, reportedly, handed Spider-Man his own ass in a bag one a couple of occasions. So you know… there's that. And the small army of PMC's. Them too. Large machine guns with sociopathic war criminals attached to the triggers."

This almost seemed like a time for warpaint. It was all out war! Melody was fine with that, it was about time she got to cut loose without reprecussions. She was well outfitted to the point her boots were laced so damn securely that she'd be hard pressed to fall out of them. Gloves were on, helmet smacked down, chute tugged on her back over her other gear. Yeah, she was ready.

"I like that plan. After the HALO drop." There was that one week in hell month were she was repeatedly dropped, over.. and over.. and over.. and over.. possibly right after her head was shaved. She did not like that one bit. There was a little PTSD there by way of the twitch of her eye. All well and good. The magnetics were soon taken, but first dropped carefully into a bag then stuffed into her boot. Secure. "HALO drop. Swim. Attach and attack. Kill everything in sight, even shoot the rats out the walls. Hobgoblin. Tech. Spider-Man's a pussy and dudes with machine guns. I'm ready."

Lunair doesn't really do warpaint. It might get awkward in her power armor. Lunair looks over to Peabody and nods. MINION! She frowns faintly. She doesn't seem too thrilled about the HALO business, but she'll be doing it. And somehow she doubts any sort of armor is going to help. So she's going to - do the magnet thing. Explosives and murders. "I can do that." Her voice is quiet and cold. Chemicals, weapons and explosives. She can handle that. Oh yes.

"Righto, I'll probably do the power armor thing. I guess that means I get to tank with my face for a little while." Sigh. Not that she's going to take fire if she can help it, and her statement was a faint wryness. But whatever the case, she is ready.

Deathstroke points to each in turn, "Not that this will come as a surprise but Armory, you're the big walking distraction, or more accurately, you're in charge of making noise and blowing up all the things. Rant, you're on personel control, which is to say as Armory is all about drawing attention and causing property damage you are about keeping a reign on the war criminals and whatever jumped up asshat super villain is hanging around." he turns to face Lux, "And you find the boss. Quietly. Kill if you have to, but these two are in charge of drawing the attention so you don't have to." he looks at the trio then, "Becareful. Whatever is on this ship is good enough to take out Deathstroke and I don't have to tell you how scary that idea is. Don't start the mayhem until you've no more choice. It's a big ship and you'll need all the time you can get to search it, once you start blowing things up the clock starts ticking." then he's slamming his hand down flat killing the holo table imagery. "Move out."

The port sets them down inside a hanger and it takes less then then five minutes for the plane thingie to lift off. The ride is smooth and quiet and there is a surprising amount of g-force for a transport, and then again once they eventually slow down for the dropping of said personel. <Fifteen to drop point.> Peabody says over the comms as the rear of the plane lights up with soft green illumination, <Bay doors open in five. Good luck ladies.>

* OOC Time: Sat May 28 22:08:38 2016 *

+MEET: Audrey has arrived via +meet.

It's a long five. When the jump light, which is muted, finally goes green, it's in a rush of air that's deafening and into a sky that's darker then night. Below them, far below, the clouds whip by like a thick layer of cotton rolled out, opaque and almost solid looking there's a moment of vertigo, staring /down/ at clouds is not normal and the mind reels. <GO! GO! GO!> Peabody's voice rips through the coms and breaks the moment, the barking of orders doing that thing it's designed to do in a soldier's head, trip a switch that takes the mind from thinking to acting. Training. Say whatever you want about his methods, Slade Wilson has never allowed his people to be totally unprepared for their job. Even if it is their first time.

Infiltration and exfiltration. Precisely what Audrey has been trained for over most of her life. Although whatever you have to exfiltrate Slade Wilson from…When the orders come, she takes her running start out of the plane. Nobody tell Slade she's thinking about how Cap would do it. There's no doubt stealth built into her gear, but she has her own stealth as well. Halfway down, she goes invisible. No sense in giving anyone any extra warning.

Lunair will don her power armor partway through. It appears over her, sealing her away. But she wanted to experience the jump as others did. And now she does. She is pretty sneaky, though she pales in comparison to some. For now, she will do one thing she does well. Be a huge, obnoxious distraction. She will find a good place when she lands, and start planting noisy, colorful explosives along the walls. Not enough to collapse the place. But enough to rattle, blind and daze.

Only once the others are safe and in position.*

*Safe is a relative term.

The 'go go go' snaps something in her head. All fear sensors were naturally turned off. It was training, nothing mechanical that runs through her blood. When someone says go go go when the door was opened you pass through it without second thoughts. She was prepared for this. While it wasn't her bread and butter, goddamn it, it was added to the menu that Deathstroke created for her. The run and jump from the plane was uniform, arms smacking against her side, reigning in her limbs to keep them from flying, her eyes peeled upon the point of breach with enhanced sight for the meanwhile. The wind was hard, everything about that jump was hard, even the way the little chute at her back tugs against her at the descent with the need to be opened but.. would she even dare? Yeaaah.. she would!

High Altitude: Low Open, it's what HALO stands for when connected to a jump. It's a really pretty way of saying 'extremely dangers and high chance of lethal or debilitating injury upon impact' jump. Also has a catchier acronym. The fun part is holding your breath on the way down for the first minute plus. At that height there's no air to breath, and jumping without a mask is dangerous. But then again, Slade never trained them for the best case senerio so air masks are clearly for sissies.

The impact with the water, when it comes, is jarring clear to the skull as the water tries it's best to drive their heels up into their sinus cavities, even with the chutes open, as low as they were when they opened, there is only so much they could do to lessen the blow. The water, with it's impact is only the beginning. Then comes the part where they have to shed the pack and chute all while trying to deal with the sudden temperature drop, a drop made more dangerous by how cold the jump was, from it's high altitude start, to it's wind buffeting finish. Shakes and full body chills are standard and that's before one slams into forty degree water. There is a reason only a very small number of soldiers do this sort of work.

Forty-five seconds is all the time they have to shed their unessicary gear, get their swimming legs on while still kitted out with their weapons and ammo and armor before the barge in all of it's bulk is blotting out the stars over them, it's enormous painted hull rising several stories into the air over their heads and it's prow churning the water to a fatal froth before and behind it. So yeah. Now it's just a four story climb up the side of a wet steel hull with shaking numb hands before the mission can actually, you know, begin. Never let it be said working for Deathstroke didn't let you experience new things.

New and exciting things. All before you even get to go up against whatever it is that can kidnap Deathstroke. So that you can rescue Deathstroke. Whose gratitude usually takes the form of barked orders. It's really a good thing that Audrey doesn't do this for the thanks. When she hits the water, there might be a brief moment where she considers how peaceful sinking would be before she's pushing back up again, reaching for the surface just in time to catch the side of the ship. And then there's the climbing. At least if she's freezing she doesn't need to worry about trying to mask her thermal signature much.

Lunair, thankfully, does remember to don power armor. But it's still incredibly unpleasant, all in all. A mild buffer that turns suck and blow into just suck. Ish. It's like being the guy set on fire, covered in lemon juice while walking over legos versus being the guy with fire ants on fire, covered in lemon juice and walking over legos and metal d4s. She will kick and wiggle as best as she can. She huffs, looking up at the climb above her.

Say what one will, but Lunair's main drive seems to be DON'T FREAKING DIE. So the sinking is a peaceful moment, but there's no time to start - contemplating. Time to grab a boat butt and get up ther.

Melody's main drive? Nothing! The chute was deployed and it was a shock once she hits the water, sinking low, that desperate need to take a fist full of water into her lungs in the form of air, her arms hoovering then pushing against the current to bring herself up. Her gear was shed, her body was trembling, but she swims. There was no time to stop and think, only do. For now.

It wasn't the drop out of the plane, or the fall, or the smack against the water. It was dealing with the pins and needles that her hands felt like as she begins to climb upon the side of the hull. Numbness came and went, but there was that nagging annoying feeling that made her hands want to curl up into themselves until they were warm. Until she was warm. But that would happen soon enough. She was practically depending on Lunair to set off an explosion soon so she could walk through the fire.

Briefly.

The deck of the barge is … well, the deck of a barge. It's dimmly lit by saftey lighting that's in half decent repair, which means only half of it is working, so long dark shadows cut across the painted deck at odd angles and in weird shapes. The shadows are impervious and there's a maze of gear, machinery, chain, rope, and all the accutrimont of running a ship the size of a sky scraper littering the deck. It's all battoned down so it doesn't move, but that doesn't mean that walking is safe, it's hard to pick ones way through the shadows and the debris if one doesn't knwo where it all it. In the center, a full 100 feet from where they climb up, there's a hole in the deck that decends down into darkness, the tops of neatly stacked cargo containers peaking up multi colored into the dim night light, adn beyond that, far beyond at the back of the ship, the bridge rests atop three stories of twisting stairs, it's windows allowing a full view of the world around the ship. Men pace the stairs, the bridge, and the only warning they get that they're not along on the deck itself is the faint crimson glow of a cigarett tip that suddenly blooms to life in the depths of a shadow not ten paces from where they topped the rail.

When she reaches the top of the ship, Audrey pulls herself over the edge and creeps carefully toward something resembling cover, away from the man taking his smoke break. "Headed for the bridge," she murmurs, letting her eyes relax in the darkness into the infrared spectrum, all the better to see any potential enemies coming. "See if they send anyone to secure the prisoner when things start going boom."

Lunair is going to get on deck. And she nods. She is silent a moment, creating fireworks and explosives in various nooks and crannies - notably along any deck guns or what have you. She waits until they are both up, and in cover.

And then the fireworks start, literally. Small explosions - enough to make noise and rattle, starting a fire here or there, sing out, bellowing in sonorous, thundering choruses of war and invitation.

Come to play, will you? Or shall you be dazzled by the lights, allowing primal fear of fire and water to take hold? Lunair makes no attempts to hide, hefting a railgun and taking a pot shot at the first enemy she sees.

Manic laughter. Of course.

And yes, Lunair knows how to meter and manage explosions. She's no fool, let alone a suicidal one. These do serious, real damage, but they are in no danger of sinking the darn boat, nor would she explode a teammate.

Melody was the last one over the edge, listening to Lux and heading towards cover herself, ducking down next to a shipping container as she readies herself for an incoming fight. "Gun.. or blades.." Melody murmurs to herself. There was a half a moment where she nearly decided to take the bow and arrow approach, mostly because it was fun.. and.. well, funny once the arrows penetrate the fleshy parts of peoples flesh! But, all morbidity aside, guns it was!

Her hand reaches up to press against her ear. "P. Hook me up with a few programs. Shit's about to get.."

Cue the explosions and maniacal laughter.

"…real.."

It's a long hike for Lux, and while sneaking is her game, it's almost criminally easy on the boat. The sound of water and the deep shadows make the walk to the bridge almost disappointing. It would have been too, had she not almost tripped over something that seemed out of place on the deck. Not that she's got a lot of time to figure out what it was other then very large and oddly shaped before everything on the deck lights up with fire and thunder. Then again, now's prolly not the time to be playing with random things on the deck that aren't big enoguh to hide a Deathstroke.

The men on the deck, and it turns out there were far mroe the them then were visible at first, do not react to the sudden explosions and fire in the way one would expect people to generally react to fire and explosions. First of all, there is no screaming and flailing. What there is is a general higher volume voiced raised in order and light. Oh yeah. So. Much. Light. Hopefully no one was wearing NVG's. The entire deck si suddenly fludded with lights, lights from the bridge portion of the ship, lights from the containers, lights that looked broken along the walk ways, built into the walls and floors, lights bolted to the rails, lights everywhere. And they turn night into noon on the salt plains instantly, robbing the women of any sort of shadow based cover. Following the lights are the bullets as men begin to move forward in careful practiced waves. And as they have the light to their backs, the Authority gets to do it's shooting 'into the sun' so to speak. Good times.

<What the hell is going on down there?!> asks Peabody, who being the pilot of the plane is now several miles away and of just about no help at all to anyone on the ship.

Light? Please.

The lights crash on and from her place on the bridge, invisible, Audrey smiles. Thank you, gentlemen, for the ammunition. Ducking into cover near whatever she tripped over, Audrey soaks in the light, pulling it together. It's a lot of light. But she shapes it, drawing it from its natural boundaries into a small, super-bright ball. One that actually seems to be smoking in the cold sea air. It's a lot of energy being pulled into a very small space, after all.

"Mind your ears," she cautions the rest of the team, starting back up toward the bridge at a crouch before releasing the light with a crack like lightning as the energy seeks release from its unnatural confinement.

Lunair has ear protection. She is wise. She tries not to get distracted, although she notes: <They seem more prepared than expected,> But Lunair has a job. She does not use NVGs, thankfully. She is going to point her railgun at lights, people, and even cheerily roll a grenade at some before ducking behind the nearest bit of cover.

"Oh hi!" She's not aiming for accuracy. She's aiming for chaos. And the second explosive she throws? It's plasma and shrapnel. Maximum carnage for her buck. Though, she has to withdraw and focus on mending her armor between bouts of chaos and railgunning, to protect herself from bullets. She's loud. And obnoxious.

What the hell was going on?

"The sun came up!" Melody cries out. Though, it wasn't a frantic cry, she didn't need no stinking app to see! They pretty much helped! Now, it was time to play! But first…

Rant immediately clasps her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut as Lux does her thing, while Lunair goes gun happy, Melody goes up. Yes, there was no cover, but she was probably one of the only teammates who could take a bullet and keep moving. (THANKS DEATHSTROKE! 'preciate ya!) She's up and over a cargo crate, keeping a low gait as she rushes over the top, not stopping as she double taps one man, the quick rush forward and a kick before he falls to drop him into the sea of men that were on the approach and firing.

Hopefully ducking out of the way, she slides towards the edge of the cargo, dropping down a level, gaining enough room to press her back against the metal as she braces down and begins to -PUSH-. Another hopeful, if she pushes hard enough, that damned cargo crate filled with whatever the hell would smush those below her. Or.. she'd probably pop a blood vessel in one of her eyes.

* OOC Time: Sat Jun 18 21:03:10 2016 *

After the thunderous explosion that shatters more or less every pane of glass and lightbulb in fifty feet of where Lux crouches, she ducks into the nearest bulkhead door, shimmering from view as she begins her search for the teams erstwhile commander.

Meanwhile, on deck… shit be gettin' asplodey. Armory's return fire, while impressive, is simply limited by her being a single gun toteing crazy person against a small army of gun toting soldiers. These men are not stormtroopers, they know how to shoot and they do so in controlled short bursts, moving in a rolling wave, some take cover, others fire, then the first group shoots while the second takes cover and moves, this is no mad mob of rioters, they're well trained military men and the bullets impacting Lunair's armor should be clear representation of that.

Poor Rant finds herself trying to teeter over a container weighing more then a few tons, and it's clearly balanced weirdly, a fact she gains greater knowledge of as she shoves and it seems to… slosh it's weight around, making the direction of it's soon to be fall none to clear. Liquid physics suck.

That's fine, that's fine. If only easy opponents only get fought, it's easy to get fat and lazy. Thankfully, she can drop some grenades with ball bearings and glass in them over the nearby soldiers. She has to duck for cover after creating those things. It would be so, so disappointing to die to her own shrapnel. The bullets pinging into her armor sting. "Upgrade, motherfuckers!"

She isn't stupid, either. But so many soldiers stick to the same plans. Flank, cover, move. She's outnumbered, for now. But she's doing her best to cut down those numbers. And she is not restricted to creating weapons in her hands, hence - the rain of shrapnel bombs near where she sees movement. But her attacks are limited, and that's something she is all too aware of. Deep breath. Concentrate. There's an immense whirring sound and various POWER UP NOISES as she mimics some sort of armored suit that looks like Iron Man and a gundam had drunken sex and agreed never to talk about it. Hey, she's gotta put those nanodoohickeys in her brain to work for SOMETHING.

No freeloaders.

The loud clacking sounds of the gunfire spilling back and forth seems to be kicking up. Lunair was handling things below, and it was clear she was alright because of the delicious swear word that Rant heard coming out of her mouth. Rant herself was not so lucky. She gained her footing, but it was still hard to push the cargo crate. But.. she could feel against her shoulders and hands how the steadiness of her push created the wave within. There was resistance..

..and then there was not.

There was no counting, she was relying on pure instinct, stopping where it felt the most heaviest to finally push forward with every last bit of her strength. The flow of the water that leans against the other side travels back, allowing her a little bit of leeway until it lets up again so she could push.. push.. push as it smacks against the opposite side. She was damn near coming apart at the seams. Deathstroke saw it constantly during her months, all of her strain and fight went into that moment by way of a super -BRIGHT- light that uncontrollably emits from her skin. She does remember him telling her to dial that shit back.. but fuck that noise, now isn't the time.

One of those grenades comes right back at her after she dropped it over the edge, one of the soldiers scooping it up and side arming it in the general direction of her face. Regifting is rude! Then the shrapnel bombs go off, including the one that was regifted, splattering everything down on the deck with bits of pain and suffering. After the rolling booms fades, the air is surprisingly quiet for a few seconds before the screams of the wounded begin. The few soldiers remaining upright begin a hastry retreat, screaming into their walkies for backup.

This would be more effective if a pair of containers didn't sloooooooooowly rock over, blotting the stars from the sky before crashing down with a sound like someone playing the world's largest steel drum times a thousand. The men yelling for backup are suddenly quite as the containers burst at the seams and a small wave of liquid gushes forth, pouring out and knocking men left and right, taking their legs from under them and washing them across the deck. Three seconds later the smell hits Rant square in the face and a part of her mind she wasn't using in the fight pipes up now to remind her of something. This would be the part of her mind that speaks in the stern uncompromisingly disappointed voice of Deathstroke. 'We're going to have to revisit your tactical training, aren't we?', the snide mental comment comes a mere fraction of a second before Peabody's briefing of hte mission plays in her head, reminding her that the only reason he was able to locate Lynch's ship in the first place was because of the other ship that just met it to transfer over enough fuel for Lynch to continue his opperation without docking.

That smell that just punched Rant in the face like a Hulk love tap? Yeah. That's diesel. Tens of thousands of gallons of diesel fuel, currently spreading across the deck and slipping through openings and hatches in the ship to trickle down into the boat's innards. Now would be a bad time for a soldier to decide to light a smoke.

"Well. That's not good." To be greeted by one's own explosive. She throws herself down, but her armor is dented, pinged and there's bits of shrapnel wedged into it. Now she looks like the junkyard gundam. Wounding instead of killing is a cruel, but useful tactic. Wounded men require resources and attention, and most are easily dispatched if they try anything. "Yoohoo! Anyone else home? No?" She is going to advance. She'll take pot shots at anyone uninjured that she sees retreating. "Hey! Don't leave a lady alone~" Malevolent giggling. The leash is off.

"Eh?" What's that noise. And Lunair blinks. Somehow, she's doubting that's their water supply. What are they doing? Nevermind. This might get more interesting, whether or not she realizes. "Hey! Bring your friends!" Surely… Surely… GUNFIRE wouldn't set the gas off, right?

The explosions itself was deafening, the crash moreso. There really was no getting to Melody now. After all of that bullshit that happened for that entire month? Nope. No. Before that? Nope. The proving grounds that she ACTUALLY SURVIVED? Nope. It was like a sick fascination to see this big, muscily mutherfucker to live. Just so she could hear that he's actually proud of her. But, even if he's dead or not..

SCORCHED EARTH.

Her hand lifts to press against her ear as she finally collects herself, drawing forward to the edge of the cargo that she was standing on. "Talk to me Armory, Lux. Anyone. You find him yet?"

She draws back now.. and perhaps the biggest disappointment of Deathstroke's life would be something that would go unseen. There was minimal hope that Slade wouldn't see it, but she was going to do it anyways. Yes. She produces a bow. Yes. She snaps it open like she was training all day and all night in the acts of achery. If Deathstroke was dead, he was going to bust through the afterlife to float right back into his body to probably eject Rant out into outerspace. (But if you think about it, at least he'd be safe, right?)

She draws upon the faint electrical current that resides in the broken bulbs, her fingers soon striking out in waves of tiny thunder as it coats the entire bow itself. Whatever answer they give? Probably wasn't enough. "You guys better find him fast because I'm going to fuck this shit up. Get to high ground."

She curls her fingers around the metallic fletching… then pulls back upon the wire…

Aaaaaaaaaand that would be when things get bad.

Lunair's giggling is suddenly drowned out by the cackling laughter of someone who does it /right/, who is far better as displays of madness then Lunair generally is, and is completely okay with it. Someone who, apparently, flies, as a second after the laughter reaches their ears a streak of bright light explodes into the night's sky, ripping up from the bowels of the ship's container storage section is, right in it's center, trailing a plume of thick black smoke in his(?) wake and rising high enough into the sky that the laugher is hard to place, coming now from one of the many twinkling stars high above. The cackling gets louder now, presumably as the figure, hard to see at night against the sky, approaches. It only takes a moment before he's suddenly lit up (definately a he), his ratty orange clothing fluttering in the breeze as his glider sends a pair of twisting missles down at Armory in brightly lit blurs of death.

Hobgoblin. Someone invited the explosives maniac to a fight on a ship currently soaked in diesel fuel presumably carrying several thousand more gallons of diesel fuel presumably still containing both the teams commander and one of it's sneaky sneaky members somewhere in it's dark tomb like passages.

"Be a dear and hold these for me?" comes the screechy high pitched voice of the goblin as the rockets near impact.

Waitaminute. That's familiar. "Um. I think something spilled, actually-" Lunair might be entering yandere mode, but she still has no intention of dying. She takes flight then, as missiles come to greet her. Shit. Well, time for evasive maneuvers. And counter fire. "I really can't believe a guy like you got a gig on a /ship/. Is everyone here suicidal?" She wonders. "Whatever. Time to die. I'm going to enjoy tearing you apart~" The most practical of loonies, at least.

"And sorry, I never hold rockets on the first meeting." As Rant's words reach her, she replies. « No. I've made an explosives using friend. I'll keep them busy. Just - you guys do your thing, please. What's with all the liquid? » Concern. Nevermind. She's got to deal with her own arena. She straightens, and pulls several plasma rifles out. "Ugh, so uncouth." Each is used, spent, dismissed in a hurried barrage of plasma, which looks more like hellfire in the nightsky.

The shockwaves are unpleasant, admittedly, and her flight path looked like Tinkerbelle on LSD.

Just when she was about to fire off her bow, another player comes into.. well, play. She had -NOT- expected that. She could hear it now, Deathstroke laughing like it's some sort of sick joke. (Even though admittedly, he'd be seriously pissed.)

But woah. She figured him dead. Probably killed off shore or retiring somewhere or, you know. Dead. All the lights in her body immediately went dark, the electric shut off, her bow snapped back into a compact mode with a click of the button. Rant has gone dark.

« Keep him busy. I'm going to try to find him. Be sharp. »

She quietly climbs down the cargo, landing upon the ground to take off in a breakneck speed, following Lux's path.

The problem with fighting experienced villains, and Hobs has been around for a minute, is that they don't do the expected things. It's how they get experienced and not deadified. As Armory takes to the sky and pulls out plasma weapons, he twists his glider into a spiraling dive that puts him between Armor and the ship, so that any shot she missed with would send plasma down onto the fuel soaked deck of the ship. The dive also closes the distance between him and Rant as he shifts his focus, making Armory's flight to saftey turn itself into more of a manuver that leaves Rant unprotected. The sky fills with something glittery as the Goblin's arms open wide over Rant, "What about you? Will you hold my pretties?" he asks, his voice carrying over the sound of his glider's engine. Fractions of a second later the air around Melody is filled with the whisteling of razor sharp wings as a dozen automated drone weapons that look like bats with foot long razored wings decide that they want to nest somewhere in Rant's chest cavity. Sparks spray and fly around her as steel strikes deck plates, container walls, and one buries itself four inches into the steel of the bulkhead door right in front of her face, it's weaponized length quivering ominously… right before it starts to beep.

One has to wonder why Spider-Man even bothers putting on his onesie in the morning with enemies like this.

"Uugh, YOU'RE NOT EVEN WORTH RIPPING APART!" Lunair is irritated. "Useless trash!" She's irritated. She's also going to try to fly to match him. She's not as experienced as he is, but she's got to help rant out. « I swear to god, this ship is full of suicide cases- » She's irritated. Whatever, if he's not paying attention to Lunair, then she's going to do her best to tear into Hobgoblin while he's distracted.

Plasma shunted away in favor of lasers. Any shot she can get? She will. She can't risk plasma, and she has a weird feeling about the liquid Rant didn't answer her about.

Any soldiers that dare to peek out will be greeted by lasers. And now she's clamming onto the fact that she's going to have to get close. An electrified whip and she's going in for melee. AND ELECTIC WHIP CUDDLES. The air cracks. She's been working hard, as the whip dances at any drone foolish enough. She's bruised, grumpy and trying to do her dang job. And she's going to try her damndest to harry Hobgoblin.

At least the ground was slick enough to stop her from halting right away. Her legs stiffen at a crook and a bend, her eyes widening as those little pretties begin to fly..

And there was Taskmaster, threatening to her that he was going to hang live puppies from strings so that she could kick them until they're dead. She was a ninja now!

Whatever god graced this side of the planet was probably rooting, for as those little suckers begin to fly she kicks one off towards the water. Drawing her blade out to smack another. And another. Halving one, and taking one to the shoulder which deadens her left arm to leave it hanging. The rapid beeping of both implanted into the metal and in her own arm has her fingers drawing along the wound, and soon snapping out to grasp it out of the door to hold it bloody.

"Yeah. I got your pretties."

The beeping slows rapidly as the one ejects right from her wound, spinning rapidly as she lets the other go. "You forgot about that shit didn't you?" Yeah, they were hers now, bloodied explosives that whip around to clean itself of her DNA which whips in every which direction as she sends them on the attack. Hobgoblin better hope none of those drops land upon his glider or gear, cause if it does, he's screwed. Sorta. He's smart though. So maybe not.

Hobgoblin makes a face as his razor bats suddenly turn on him, "Hrm. This is a wrinkle. Still, if one can't adap-GAH!" he reaches up to grip his bicep where a laser's slicing beam cut along through his armor and into the flesh beneath. "So, it's to be a true fight!" he grins manically, "Excellent." and the glider blasts back up into the sky, headed straight at Armory, leaving the pair of bats seeking him out lost in a thick fog of black exhaust plume. He cackles as two more rockets race from his glider's wings and head straight at Armory, an odd bit of metal is snapped from his belt and a curving falcions blade made entirely from flame explodes from the hilt just as he paises Lunair in mid air, her whip and his flaming blade striking an explosion of sparks and embers in the sky.

Something metalic and round bumps into Rant's boot toe, a quick glance down will show her it's a hissing pumpking. Seriously, who drops pumpkin… … …oh.

"Do you have a fucking deathwish?!" She asks. She growls, coming at him, hoping to evade the missiles and send them back at Hobgoblin. "Who uses bombs on a b—" She was using explosives mere moments earlier. A deep sigh. She looks surprised by the flaming blade. She growls as whip and blade meet. « Just - please, hurry. Find Deathstroke. This guy is gonna blow the damn boat. » She pulls her whip back, wincing at all of the embers. It's only a matter of time…

The whip strikes out, arcing gracefully, electricity coursing over it and around her. Defense and offense simultaneously. At least it limits the missiles. The shockwaves threw her off, but she's come back, tenacious and irritated as all hell. She's gotten stronger and smarter since starting this whole Deathstroke's Super Fun Cuddle Hug Sparkle Dancetime Joy Camp business. « Please, please hurry. »

The little razors halt as soon as he flies off to return to her person, flying around her like obedient little children fearing the lash if they upset their mother. With a lowering of her brow, she shrugs her shoulders. Lunair was a better fighter than her, which was obvious. And if two of them were down and fallen below? At least Melody had the strength to carry them (after a stripping of gear of course). Divided they stand! WOO!

That little knock to her feet has her stopping and looking, bending down to snatch it up with her blood covered hand as she hiss begins to stutter and abruptly stop. « This dude keeps dropping shit. »

Talk about lack of self awareness. She could have been dead. And Peabody would note, all of her systems are functional, even her shoulder is slowly knitting itself back together. Meaning, she didn't turn off any fear sensors and she has full capability to cry (which she'll do when she gets back to the Resolve).

Pumpkin bomb stashed into her pocket for later use as Melody strafes forward, turning upon the balls of her feet to put her back to the door, knee drawn up and a backwards kick to send the metal flying. Lord forgive her if anyone was behind that door.

« On it. Stay froggy. Try to take him over the water!» Good advice, right? Guys? Right?

«Is that the fucking Hobgoblin!?» Peabody's voice comes over the coms, more then a little annoyance worked into the tone. «We fucking fired that guy!» well, to be more accurate he was never hired, but yeah, they've met. «Slade said his glider was his weakness, it's not armored or it wouldn't be able to lift off, it can't take much punishment, certain less then he can and he can't fly without it. Don't forget, your pick up isn't for another ten minutes, and at that point you only get a two minute window, so don't fuck around.»

Rant plucks the bomb up from the floor and eyes it, her nanites rendering the device null literally just in time, it's interior fuse dowsed by the tiny machines /just/ before it reached it's charge. It's not a techno-bomb, though it looks a bit like it, it's more oldschool style grenade with newfangled explosive compounds. The hissing? That was a legit fuse, not some kind of electrical timer. Hobs went old school on her. Luckily, right now he seems busy, so she can kick in doors, which she does, only to find herself stareing down the barrel of a shortened CQB 12 gauge shotgun and the cold face of John Lynch hovering right above it. "Hey." he says as the barrel spits fire and thunder and a load imbeds itself right in Rant's stomach. "Kenway, right?" he asks nonchalantly as a shell, spewing smoke, falls to the floor with a little plastic 'plunk' noise. "Do me a favor, go sit over there?" he asks, gesturing with the muzzle of the shotgun towards the ships railing across from the door while the two razor bats over her head suddenly flip the fuck out and run smack into one another, their wings slicing into their own electrical bits without any warning or cause. "Wilson will get all pissy if I have to use the phosphorous rounds on you." he says calmly. This is the guy they came to see, the one Peabody warned them around, the one Adeline and Slade were so hyped to find, the one with ten thousand miles of history etched into the lined folds of his dead eyed face.

Meanwhile high above the ship Armory and the Hobgoblin continue their dance, one that rains down glowing cinders and sparks of lightning as swat at one another with their weapons and occasionally a pumpkin bomb explodes nearer to Armory then is likely polite. Or safe.

« Thanks. » Lunair is grateful for Peabody's hint. She's a bit busy to help Rant just now. She's working hard. But now she has a target. And now she's going to whip out at the glider itself, using electricity and that force. Maybe trying to wrap around and yank or crush at least part of it. She appreciates hints.

Lunair is moving over the water, trying to pull Hobgoblin with her. A part of her feels guilty for not being a better distraction. But she's going to finish this dance, dead or alive.

« Yeah, actually. It is. I thought if we weren't accepted into whatever this program is we'd be like.. dead. You know, killed. I thought the dude was.. »

Mid conversation, Rant was transmitting her words as she walks through the door, turning to see the double barrel of the shell..

*BLAM*

Rant nearly flies back from the impact, her body doubling and curling as she falls to her knees, her hands soon free of the blade that she held as she keeps both of them pressed to the ground. A heavy cough causes blood to spill in a splatter upon the ground, her hand clutching her stomach, leaning back to settle her bottom upon the balls of her feet as she tries to unhook her side-arm from her thigh. Fuck. Her grip was shit from the stab. She lost control of her little thingies, they weren't in play. Even if she tries to blow herself up.. something was blocking it.

"Who the fuck are you.." Yes. Still transmitting. They can hear everything. All the while she grunts and crawls.. little quiet pebbles eject themselves from the holes they entered into, one by one.

Lynch doesn't seem to blink, he has Slade-vision, that sort of empty deep cold that goes to his core. Also he only has 1 eye. What the hell is it with old soldiers all losing one eye? Slade, Fury, Lynch, that weird future mutant guy with the metal arm… Seriously, it's borderline a fashion statement. Unlike Slade, who covers his up with a patch, Lynch wears his scars along the entire side of his head with pride, and the blank gooey white/gray orb in the socket is open to the world for them all to see. "See, that hurts. Pretending you don't know who I am, that Alex and Slade never briefed you. Slade briefed you because that's how he opperates, like a professional. I would know, I trained him." he motions with the shotgun's muzzle again, "Against the railing of the next round is willy pete in your guts and your body won't be able to just push that out like the double ought." her side arm is also not being cooperative, not releasing from it's holster like it should, as if it were snagged on something.

There's quiet for a moment before Peabody's voice comes over the coms, «If that's Lynch, do as he says. He knows where Slade is and we need that intel. Plus he doesn't make threats, just informs you of consequences. Stall. Buy time for the others.»

In the skies overhead Hobgoblin swerves and dips and dives, clashing over and over again with Lunair. He's more skilled with the sword then she is with her whip, but the natures of the two weapons lend towards her favor, evening the odds, that and she's more manuverable. The glider has many tricks and weapons, and it's acceleration is stunning, but it's not good with exceptionally tight corners or with hovering, physics doesn't help it in that way. Getting the timing right it critical. But doable. The tip of Armory's whip snakes out low, under the swing of the flaming sword, and it's end cracks against something in the glinders wing, sparks flash in the night sky and the Goblin suddenly twists left, black smoke billowing from the wing's circuits now. But it was a bit of a trade off. The flaming sword slid along Armory's side, heating armor and bits, and knicking her boot's repulsars at the end, causing a sudden flashout in it's energy output, cutting off the power to Armory's left foot. Not so much she can't fly, but enough to make anything more then the simplest slow banks impossible. Poor Hobgoblin on the other hand is now on his knees clinging to the glider as the wing flickers with internal fires and belches thick black clouds into the sky while the pair of them spin off into the darkness, his curses and the twisting smog the only sign of his passing.

SLADE-O-VISION. NOW WITH MORE DISAPPROVAL. Ahem.

Lunair is distracted. She's not getting out of this unscathed. She's certainly going to have a nasty case of MEGAFLU due to burning up all these weapons and armor. And she's been fighting nearly half her life. "Take that! — whoa, oh crap." And repair takes concentration. "Buh bye, you suicidal weirdo!" Ugh. She knows she's gonna chug vitamin C and soup when she gets home. She has to carefully make her way down, to work on repairs. And then to find where Rant got off to.

If she manages to find Rant and Lynch, there's a SCREE as she skids to a halt. "Oh. Oh wow. Hi! Uh. You look /great/ for your age," Lunair fingerguns in her armor helpfully. "Um. So, like. I'm going to need my people back. What are you hoping to get out of this, mister?" And while she's chatting, power armor starts to cover Rant. Before they know it, there's a junkyard gundam and a protected Rant. "Also, please stop shooting her. That's - incredibly rude."

And yes, Lunair is aware that this dude? 100 distilled, stone cold pure bad ass. She's aware that she's punching so far up, she might as well be trying to backhand the moon. But when has being outclassed stopped her?

"Yeah…" She hisses quietly, her eyes closing. "..he's briefed us." He'd even brief them on what lunch they were going to eat for the next month and the healthy advantages it would have in the long run. But she was moving and listening to Peabody. Her healing was going slow. It was like a battery was slowly running out, but it still worked, it was just shit. She reaches the railing, her hand smacking out to grip upon the iron as she pulls herself up. "But you know? Maybe its the shape of your head.. or maybe its the face or the height.." Rant was stalling as she hooks an arm over the railing..

"Honestly, I thought you were a lot shorter.." She breathes out, bringing her arm up to hover over her head. "You're a pretty big guy. I mean I guess that explains why that image he's shown of you had your head looking five ways big. Guy hates you."

Rant could feel it, the first little inklings of protection that slowly has her standing up with confidence. The armor wrapped itself around her lovingly, making her feel as if she could ice-skate up hill. And from there, her continued stall tactic was ending. She's got back up. "Makes me hate you too. Shoot all you want, but I'm getting him back. Now move." Yeeaaah buddy. LUNA ARMOR!

Lynch watches the armor slide over Rant without consern and continues to point the shotgun barrel at Rant in the meantime, "To be fair it was you and your boss who showed up on my perfectly legal ship and kills a great many of my men." he says conversationally, "So I mean, between the two of us, having only shot your friend once makes me a down right gracious host. For instance," he looks back at Rant, "I could have just electrified the deck plating when you landed and then removed your heads from your unconscious bodies with a pocket knife before sending you over the railing… sadly I was below having a long heart felt conversation with my old protege at the time and my men acted without real leadership. I swear," he sighs heavily, "good help is so rare. Amirite?" he asks to no one at all.

He smirks at Rant, "I'm five foot eight and a hundred and sixty-five pounds. I know exactly how big I am, but you?" he turns to point the gun away from both the girls and out at the deck soaked in fuel, "You have no idea what weight class you are fucking with." he doesn't have to say anything, make the obvious threat. He told Rant what the next shell in the gun was, phosphorus, and that entire deck is soaked in diesel fuel thanks to Rant. He doesn't have to fight them, he can hold the entire ship hostage without any serious effort. A ship who's interior hulls still hold Lux and Deathstroke.

Slade always warned Rant that a true warrior wins a battle without having to throw a punch or start a fight. Tactics. This guy, like Deathstroke, is steps ahead of the game.

Lunair is quiet. "… you are the oldest dude I have ever heard use the amirite meme." She actually kind of boggles at him. He used a meme. She tilts her head. "It's not exactly how big you are in body, though - that's a factor. And I'm aware that you probably have a hojillion contingencies, and plans I would have to live EASILY half a century to cook up. It's not that people aren't aware. It's that sometimes you have to take those things to the face and keep trucking to get things done. ANd believe me, I know you're probably way smarter and cleverer than I am. I know experience counts for a LOT and you've probably seen more action than Charlie Sheen's pinky nail." Beat.

"But uh, thanks for the not electrocuting us thing." "And yeah, you seriously need to work with HR or something. Explosives on a boat with oil tanks? No offense, mister, but…" She shakes her head. "I dunno about that. Anyway, what do you hope to gain out of holding that person here?" She asks. "It seems like an odd decision. I mean, I doubt it's a stupid thoughtless one… so… What do you hope to gain out of all this anyway?" Stall for Lux, Stall for Lux. "And I mean, your men really did do their best. It was an intense battle and I think I learned something, even if it wasn't a LOT."

"Well, you're doing some pretty back handed stuff.. so that's pot calling kettle.." If Peabody has something up his sleeve, now would be the time. Rant was hurting. Moreso. The power armor was great at giving her confidence but everything still stung. And at the prospect of being set on fire? From the inside and out? His entire point made her grow quiet. Lunair asked to question, so Rant took the moment to rest, to lean against the railing with a bent knee and an outstretched leg, her head lowering to try to focus those nanites into working faster.

Lynch stares at Lunair and blinks once, "So you're the crazy one. Check." he says flatly, nodding as if that was something he wasn't sure about before but now has decidedly put forward as truth. "The Goblin did his job, which was put Wilson in a cage when he inevitably came for me. I know what he's capable of, I needed someone unpredictable and physically threatening to handle him. Not my best work, but my resources are not what they once were. You take what you can get." shrug, "Gain? Oh, my dear, I'm not gaining anything." he grins again, this time warmly, "I'm not the master mind behind all of this, I have a boss, just like you do. I'm doing my job right now, while we sit here and banter." his grin instantly twists into a grimace as a pencil thin beam of light pokes a neat clean hole through the right side of Lynch's chest just to the side of his shoulder blade. The shotgun drops from his hand as he falls to a knee. As he falls he reveals a Lux behind him, barely keeping a mostly naked and blood caked Slade Wilson upright. He looks… like shit. Open lacerations, clearly broken arms and legs, crusted blood across his… well, his everything really, and his hair is matted down, thick with the stuff, his lips split and his good eye nearly swollen shut.

Lux steps over the man, still struggling to keep the far heavier then he appears Deathstroke even somewhat upright, though mostly she's just dragging his broken legs behind her, "Come on," she grunts, walking over and past Lynch, "we need to go." Deathstroke growls something unintelligable as they pass Lynch, a wad of phlem and blood splattering down on Lynch's nice dress shirt as they go. «Evac is at the bow. You have two minutes until it auto-launches.» Peabody's voice comes over the coms. «If you're leaving, now's the time!»

"I'm NOT crazy! Oh my god!" She pouts. "You are the rudest old man!" She's so sitting on his lawn. He has it coming. Lunair ahs. "I see." She listens. And peers up at him. "Man, they must be scary to boss around you," She muses. "And doing your job right n—" Um. She blinks as Lynch falls forward. "Holy crap. Want some help either of you?" Rant or Deathstroke? Lunair will moveto help out. "Bye!" She waves. "Rude guy."

Nevertheless, she has no intention of staying here. She's just happy to have Lux and Deathstroke back. If Deathstroke wants help, she'll help him. Otherwise, she can help Rant. Just gotta get them all scooting fast. "I'm going to chug so much soup and vitamin C after this." She's going to likely be unavoidably sick for several days at best.

Banter banter.. but he has a boss? That news was interesting. Thankfully, she could recall the entire confrontation for Slade's viewing, at a later date. After a much needed nap and..

He ker-flops. Just like that. Rant reaches up to pull the helmet off of her head, tossing it beneath her arm to hold as she takes those staggering steps past Lux and Deathstroke, reaching down to grab the shotgun. That bullet? Yeah. She was going to burn the ship down. But.. when they were in the air!

She says nothing as Lunair helps her, hell, she was allowing it. Winding down and all as her body works to knit itself back together. Thankfully, she could actually sleep through the night after something like this. Not unlike that Henshaw incident. That was bullshit.

Lynch grunts and tilts his head to the side, his neck popping slightly as he stands back up, hole in his shoulder or no, "As I was saying," he manages, his grin returning to his lips, "I'm already doing my job." he turns to stare at Rant and the weapon she holds, "Stalling." wider grin, "Sound familiar? Oh. By the way, you prolly shouldn't put strange bombs in your pants pocket and then cover yourself in armor, you sort of prime yourself for becoming human gespacho." he holds his hand out for the shotgun as Rant feels the bomb in her pocket wiggle of it's own accord, the on trapped against her thigh /inside/ the super strong armor that would act like an insulating chamber should the pumpkin bomb detonate. One imagines there's a limit to how much nanites can heal and 'turn pudding back into person' is likely where that line is. "My weapon, Kenway." he says as Lux shrugs Deathstroke onto Lunair's shoulders so /she/ can carry 300 or so pounds of human muscle and broken bones to the minisub that's awaiting their evac off the bow. "Before I follow Armory's adorable suggestion and become… rude." the pumpkin bomb wriggle again suggestively. So. Not gonna have nightmares, eh? Nothing about bring trapped in power armor with something alive somewhere deep in it's recesses trapped against your skin? Newp. Not having that reoccuring nightmare at all.

« When you want it gone, just let me know, » Lunair remarks. "Holy shit, old dude." She remarks. Lunair is going to be shouldering Rant and Deathstroke at this point. Thankfully, her power armor lets her stay standing. She has to walk slowly and carefully with the weight of A DEATHSTROKE (1- (one) standard issue Slade Wilson). She WANTS to do something, but well. She's being a pillar. When Rant gives the word, the armor goes away. If she does. They've got to evac.

"And mister creepy old guy." Beat. "YOU GO TO HELL AND YOU STAY THERE. I HOPE A KRAKEN GETS YOU. I'm NOT CRAZY." Rude! Rude! "Such ill manners!" A portal gun appears in hand. The exit is in the water below, and a portal appears under him. "RUN FOR IT. DROP THE THING IN YOUR PANTS." Armor disappears and it's time to haul ass. Lunair doesn't stop to think about her words. She's just going to help DS and if Rant is close again, Rant back, with Lux.

Talk about chills. Hearing him again, standing up as he does shouldn't surprise her. She just took a shotgun to the gut and Slade was still able bodied enough to hark a loogie at the downed dude. But her blood ran cold, the sardonic way in which he spoke her last name has her turning, as well as the vibrating little ball in her pocket.. yeah. Nevermind. Blood ran cold. Nightmares are coming. Nightmares are coming.

«Take it off.»

It wasn't her voice, the mechanical transmit of what could be her voice is what's heard as she wordlessly staggers towards Lynch, the barrel up, pointing towards the man as the armor disappears and..

LUNAIR TO THE RESCUE!

At -least- before Lynch gets the chance, her pants were forcibly ripped off around the area of the pocket and tossed overboard in a well timed fashion for Rant to actually -TRY- to pull the trigger before Lynch is shot with the portal gun. Then without another word, she boots it. Dropping the shotgun and finding that last little bit of endurance to put foot to ground, hall ass, get the hell out of dodge and to the choppa! Jesus.

Lynch is surprisingly fast, namely in that he disappears through the portal hole, only for his hands to snag out and grip the portal's event horizon, and for a mind bending moment there's a man off the side of the ship seemingly dangling in mid air. His legs twist up and back, using the momentum of the drop to his advantage, and he swings back up through the portal hole, bending a bit at the waist like a gymnast and twisting out of it to roll upon the deck of the ship, his head snapping around to watch the fleeing backs of his 'foes'.

The shotgun in Rant's hand simply refuses to fire, it's as if the saftey were on, the trigger unwilling to move even a little as she tries to pull it. Tossed away it lays discarded on the deck as she turns to run, the splash of the pumpkin bomb in the sea inaudible over the pounding of hearts and feet. Lynch winces and raises a hand to his wounded shoulder and checks it before calmly walking over to scoop up the shotgun while The Authority flee on foot. Hopping the railing is either a matter of a hooked line and a decelorator or a fifty foot drop to the ice cold waters of the ocean, just beneath which lurk the mini sub Peabody had sent for their pick up.

Loading up the sub feels like it takes forever, though it's only a matter of some moments. Jostles of his body cause Deathstroke to cry out in pain twice, but he clamps his teeth together and turns each scream into a groaning sound instead, exercising some of that 'control' he's always going on about, though the sweat on his brow and the odd claminess of his skin seem like bad signs. He's unconscious before the subs engines even start up and the only heartening thing about the entire venture is that no one shoots at them as the sub's auto pilot kicks in and it dives into the silent dark depths, disappearing into the vastness of the Atlantic.

The worst thing is the knowledge that no one even knows WHY THIS WAS A THING! Except the guy napping on the floor in a puddle of sweat and blood. Of course. Jerkface.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License