Clusterfrag

The San Francisco Bay breeze blows cold against Mick's blood-streaked face. Struggling to keep their eyes open, the ork blinks in the blinding light of early morning. A few crimson droplets fall from the adept's eyelashes. Squeezing their eyes shut, Mick wipes their face first with the sleeve of their coat– which arguably does little but transfer arterial fluids from one place to the other– and then with the palm of their hand. It's semi-effective; the breeze has less of a sting to it.

But the ork turns away from the fresh, cool air and back into the dank, blood-soaked hell of Cell Block C.

"All clear outside far as I can see." The ork spares some looks at the bodies strewn about the chamber. "Safe to say these guys have the same kinds of bio monitors the other one had. If anybody's monitoring them, they can see how it's going for them." The ork casts glances around toward the ceiling, looking for security cameras. A devilish grin dawns on their face. "Somewhere at a some display, some shithead's asshole clenches a few foot-pounds tighter with every new flatline he sees."

And then there's the jackboot that isn't quite dead yet.

Mick makes their way over to Aoki, the blood pooling beneath him, and swiftly kicks him in the side of his head. His neck cranes with a sickening snap as his body– now little more than a loosely bound collection of weeping, floppy parts– yields to the force and scoots several meters across the floor. Looking up at the team, they see no pleasure or hatred on the ork's face. It's a practical action, as Mick see it– one less surprise vector to worry about.

"Let's get into D and get the fuck off this island."

Even with the ork’s assessment coming through distant and tinny, Mouse still can’t resist cracking a grin at the mental image. "ASSUMING ANYONE’S WATCHING THESE GUYS ANYWAY. THE BIOMONITORS MIGHT JUST BE AUTOMATED- SOMETHING TO BRICK THE EQUIPMENT SHOULD ITS OWNER STOP BREATHING." Her gaze bounces between her fresh prize, and the various drone feeds as she considers the implications.

"LUCKILY, I GOT MY GRUBBY LITTLE PAWS ON ONE OF THEM. MAYBE WE CAN GET A SNEAK PEEK AT WHAT THESE FUCKWADS ARE SAYING ABOUT US. FRAG, WE CAN EVEN THROW IN A LITTLE MISINFORMATION IF WE’RE CLEVER ENOUGH TO-" Her train of thought stops just as she eyes one of the video feeds, just in time to see an angled shot of Aoki’s body going slack.

…drek. She’ll just have to work quickly now.

In a swift motion, the persona conjures a small leaf, affixing it to her persona’s ‘forehead’ once more. There’s another ‘POP’, a stylized cloud of smoke, and her persona’s once again in ‘Disguise’, this time a rough facsimile of the reservist uniforms seen around the island. She crouches down to the commlink’s icon, and gives it a couple raps with her knuckles. >>Moshi moshi, fascist-kun desu? It's a long shot, but if there's one upside to having lingered in hotsim, then maybe, just maybe, she can win a race against the reservist's last synapses.

(( Masquerade- to convince any biomonitor that Aoki is totally not dead and any readings indicating repeated blunt trauma were just a wee glitch, (at least for the next minute) and start snooping.

(Masquerade is K.C. pg 39- Hacking + Intuition [Sleaze] vs. Logic + Firewall, Each net hit = 1 min of acting as the device owner's persona
It's really just a way to streamline what would otherwise be a bajillion separate rolls for control device/snoop/etc.) ))

Lips quiver beneath the mask. A bead of moisture fights fruitlessly against the force of gravity as it navigates epidermal cracks and crevices. But what is the source, perspiration or something existentially excruciating? It doesn’t matter, the mask conceals all.

It takes a moment to realize that the hand holding the Ares Predator is shaking. He looks down at the involuntary movement while slowly raising the hand and arm horizontally, gazing in a mixture of horror and disbelief; registering the scattered droplets of blood speckling both the gun and his outfit. He attempts to swallow but the lump gets caught in his throat, preventing him from completing the action. What follows is a mix between a retch and a cough.

"Blaar." He instinctively raises his sleeve to cover his mouth.

"Hem, hem." Realizing the tell, he attempts to play off the action by holstering the Ares.

"ha…HA!" Beneath the mask a sordid smile spreads across his lips, the bead of moisture finally finding egress upon reaching the base of his chin.

"Drek Doc, you see that?" He says too loudly. "Dunkelzahn ain’t got shit on me! Wooh wee!" He yells, turning back to locate his unconscious companion.

His pace is slow and deliberate, robotic, avoiding the pools of blood that impede the way until reaching his self-appointed charge. He leans down, giving the doctor ocular pat-down to ensure he didn’t catch a stray bullet. He brushes a few errant bits of concrete and dust off of the doctor before leaning in close. "Just realized, never told you why I do it Doc." He says flatly. "Probably the same reason you do, eh?" He whispers, bowing his head and touching his forehead on his companion's shoulder.

He silently filters through the nano-storage drive of his combat mask, a familiar series of routines, before locating the file simply called El Noche. He displays the image on the AR feed of the mask, removing it from his head and holding it up against the cockeyed face of the doctor. He whispers once again, "The things we do for the ones we love, eh? We make it through this Imma buy you a beer." He places the mask back on his face once again, before resuming his position as chauffeur to the doctor and making his way toward the open blast door.

Mouse quickly isolates the code that is feeding external data to the commlink-- if there is biomonitor feedback, it'll be there. Once located, she injects her own little baka-in-the-middle code. It's nothing more than a simple script that captures incoming data, rewrites it to assigned variables and then outputs it in the same format. The quickly crafted solution is crude, but it should suffice for a few minutes.

It seems to work. Mouse eyes the commlink icon, which is still active.

Zal's gruff voice buzzes across the comms.

<< We've secured the marina. There are two patrol boats here-- gonna see if we can commandeer one. What's your status? >>

Mick is in constant motion, pressing ahead. << Secured Luis. Moving onto next objective. Cover's blown. They know we're here. >> The ork returns to the open blast door, steals another peek outside. Then, making eye contact with the team, the adept raises their fist to chest height, their pinky and index finger extended and their knuckles facing out. With a cock of their scar-broken eyebrows, Mick slips through the open door, low and lithe.

The movement is shaky, an undignified scrabbling of hands and knees against the grimy floor, but there’s still a small sense of triumph as the decker pushes herself back to her feet. "SUCCESS. OUR GOOD LITTLE SOLDIER HAS BEEN REPLACED BY HIS EVIL TWIN." She claps her hands together, as if to conclusively brush off the remaining dust, only to glance down and find a stubborn layer of persistent filth. There’s a fleeting furrow of her brow, before she opts to wipe the grime off on her pants in an overly-well-practiced motion.

"I MEAN, TECHNICALLY IT’S NOT AN ‘EVIL TWIN’, BUT WHAT ACTUALLY MATTERS IS WE HAVE FULL ACCESS TO HIS ACCOUNTS."With a swipe of her hand, she draws up the dead man’s inbox in front of her, and multitasking, begins what could best be described as a ‘hasty shuffle’ to catch up with the rest of her team."IF WE PLAY OUR CARDS RIGHT, WE COULD SEND SOME GOONS ON A WILD GOOSE CHASE." A smile brushes against her cheeks, as she adds "OR, I COULD JUST SPAM HIS ENTIRE CONTACT LIST WITH SOME CHOICE IMAGERY. I’VE GOT A GREAT LITTLE DEEPFAKE OF SAITO WITH HIS TONGUE UP A-"

There’s a long ‘sloooorch’ sound as the decker’s boot hits one of the many puddles of liquid coating the ground and begins to slide out from under her. Her arms wheel as she fights to regain her balance, before she catches herself on the nearby wheelchair. Without a word, she slowly lifts her boot, filling the air with the uncomfortably tacky sound from coagulating blood peeling from the two surfaces. Her gaze drifts from the blood at her feet, to its source: a corpse that is most definitively missing its head, and therefore still leaking. "...oh."

Mouse rifles through the contents of the commlink as quick as her processing will allow. The contacts and messages yield nothing of real interest. The thing that does catch Mouse's eye is the private key to an encoded frequency. It seems she has discovered an inside line to the Blacksite's staff.

Axel's head swims as the stench of blood and gunpowder is overcome by a slowly growing third smell: Death. The various fluids and bodily processes that stay on the inside for a person's entire life finally reaching the open air for the first time. The sensory experience should sober and subdue him, and it does in some walled off portion of his mind. But he's in motion, struck with the certainty that if he dares to stop for even a moment, he will not make it off this damned island.

His feet find purchase as he lands, having vaulted over a cage. He wonders for a moment that he didn't slip on the blood soaked floor, before he takes another step and slips on the blood soaked floor, turning just in time to land on his side and paint his forearm and lower right leg in the rising sea of spent life. Without a word, he springs back up, and continues toward the fallen bodies. Scavenger instincts in full force, he begins to open the pouches on the front of the dead men's armor, searching for appropriate magazines for the trio of drones.

As he works, he glances over at Reiya, a new understanding dawning. I'm a crow. Picking over the battlefield. He nods, not dallying long enough to see if she even caught the moment, and returns to his grim harvest.

Reiya holds the crossbow at her side and breathes a small, largely inward sigh of relief. One more skirmish accomplished with none of her pack injured further. That's a win.

The shaman watches Mouse almost-fall and catch herself in time, while also coming in direct contact with the congealing gore on the floor. She considers gently guiding the decker away when she catches Axel's eye as he searches the bodies for useful items. She understands and approves: why let anything go to waste?

Reiya gives their rigger a small smile and a nod, quite possibly the first time she's done so. "If you find any personal items, like one of those Nipponese talismans, snag 'em for me."

Mick slinks towards cell block D, using the foliage and low brick walls as cover. They stop as the path curves downhill, about thirty meters from the looming structure. Although block D is functionally identical in appearance to the other cell blocks, there's something formidable about it. It's nothing Mick can articulate... more like instinct. Forcing their eyes to gaze beyond the physical plane and see into the astral, Mick is taken aback at the result.

Inorganic material usually gains a grayish hue in the astral plane, like wet clay. In fact all of the buildings that Mick can see with this one exception, appear as such. Cell block D seems to have a hard shell, almost like a candy coating. It isn't pleasant to look at. Mick feels as though their eyes slide off of the surface. It's like wet glass.

Mick frowns as they squat in a bush. The approach to D is a stretch of washboard with no cover, but there doesn't appear to be anyone in sight.

The man in the mask stares at the open blast door, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. A sudden jolt impacts the wheelchair, he stops pushing but continues looking forward toward the opening. The squelching of blood causes an odd twitch of the shoulder and head. Without turning or registering the source in any way, he remarks in a voice not quite his own. "Watch out for that first step, it’s a doozie."

After a moment's pause he continues to push the chair forward. He balances his weight unevenly on the handles. Whether deliberate or not, the movement causes the rotating wheels to issue a high pitched squeak. Every few steps, squeak. Like nails on the chalkboard, squeak. Yung and the doctor approach the blast door, squeak. He ducks his head as he passes into the daylight, squeak.

He stops, looks up towards the sky for a moment before once again gazing forward. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning." He begins pushing again, squeak. Rounding the edge of the building, squeak. Following the same path as Mick, squeak. Cell Block D finally comes into view, squeak. He stops, silently staring towards the final objective.

Mick eyes the massive structure and comms the team, << I'm looking at D, and it's definitely guarded by magic. And not much cover on the approach. >>

(( It'll be a default test, but can I get an assensing roll? ))

Never let them see you sweat. Wasn’t that the unspoken rule of any game? If you get tilted, you lose.

Unfortunately for Mouse, her team’s already witnessed her jumping at shadows, shrinking away from firefights to blend in among unconscious bodies, not so much as drawing a weapon while the rest of them go about their bloody business. She might as well be the little-sister tagging along a team of professionals. She eyes her compatriots scavenging the fallen in a detached practicality that once again stirs at familiar memories, before forcing her attention to those pressing forward, in some vain effort to emulate their drive.

"...YEAH, WILL DO." Mouse answers her masked companion’s first recommendation as though it was somehow directed at her, pulling back from the wheelchair to instead keep a tight grip on her own upper arms, as though to shield her from some physical chill. She forces herself to keep pace with Yung and his strange foundling dependent, figuring that if nothing else, she won’t be any more conspicuous than the shrieking metallic wheels that go with them.

Clear of blood slick-floors and stagnant air, she flips her hand, moving to silently patch in the incoming traffic from the encrypted channel into her own feeds. She makes another swiping motion, forward to forward the take to Taipan, as she once again finds herself dividing her attention between data streams, ready to report out, to translate, to do frankly anything that might be more useful than she’s been.

Yung’s next words catch her off guard in their total non-sequitur, a strangely empty echolalia, from the team’s de-facto face. Her first impulse, of all things, is to furrow her brow, trying to search between the lines for a meaning that was never there. "...NAPALM?" she repeats, prompting for clarification. "IS THAT YOUR WAY OF SAYING YOU SMELL VICTORY?"

Mick’s message only adds to the sense that Mouse may as well be speaking another language now. She gives Yung an expectant look, as though in anticipation of one of his breezy magical explanations, even as she follows up. << Zal did say this place would be ‘Warded’, whatever that entails? And there’s still that Kuroikaze mage we haven’t met yet. >> She twists her head behind with an increasingly frantic energy, as though only now checking to see if Reiya followed behind, or literally anyone else more socially-and magically literate who could decode what is happening now.

(( Probably safe to assume she’ll be running occasional Matrix Perceptions as she moves. No need for a real response unless something actually pops. ))

Following both the words and steps of her comrades, Reiya feels the relief of combat successfully concluded ebb away, leaving room for an incoming tide of anxiety and fear. If she'll let it in. She won't.

The shaman breathes and focuses on her steps. It is the flash of a firefly in the night, she reminds herself, briefly closing her eyes and reminding herself of the teaching.

She opens them and watches Mick, seeing the ork scout the entrance to the cell visually and astrally. Reiya halts a small distance away and lets them go first.

The good doctor's wheelchair is not quiet. A continuous shriek emanates from the wheel hubs. Branches get caught in the spokes and snap loudly. At one point, Yung even rolls over a mound of dirt and part of the wheelchair assembly falls off, making a clamorous ringing sound as it strikes a stone. Yung grits his teeth and scans the area, but fortunately it appears the team is alone on the cliffside.

Yung arrives-- passenger in tow-- a few meters from where Mick is hidden. He does his best to blend into the trees, but the glare from the wheelchair's frame projects a veritable lightshow on the surroundings.

Next to arrive is Reiya, whose presence is obscured by the obstreperous wheelchair. She sinks low into a bush, peering intently at cellblock D. Just like Mick, she intuits a sense of repulsion.

Next to the blast door is a biometric terminal, identical to those belonging to the other cell blocks.

The interjecting question from Mouse catches him off guard, he jolts slightly at the inquiry. "Huh, what?" He remarks flatly. "When did you sneak up on me?" He asks without turning to address Mouse. He doesn't wait for a reply before continuing, "Looks clear, we ready?" He says before leaning down and whispering something inaudible in the doctor’s ear.

Mick eyes the vast open space between the bushes and the biometric terminal. With a grumble, the ork unslings the Ingram smartgun from their back and shoulders the stock with surprising deftness, their right index finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard. Making eye contact with Yung, "Got yer hoop, Doc Wagon."

It was a strange quirk of having a Direct Neural Interface permanently embedded in one’s consciousness: Mouse’s deck, in an attempt to pre-empt any potential searches, would occasionally pick up on the stray thought and ‘helpfully’ stream any relevant content directly to her retinas.

In this particular instance, as she takes in the scene of the sleepwalking Yung, the distant outline of the cellblock ahead, the doctor’s helpless, her attention drifts instead to the stray lines of 'RELATED:' text now filtering, line by line, into her HUD:

> But why he said so strange a thing
> No Warder dared to ask:
> For he to whom a watcher's doom
> Is given as his task,
> Must set a lock upon his lips,
> And make his face a mask.
[...]
WILDE-READINGGAOL.TXT

At least, from her best guess, it’s the byproduct of some ancient reading assignment, deemed by the whims of predictive text to be relevant to the current context. But why? She gives her head a hard shake, both in answer to Yung, and to clear the intrusive text from her view and screen.

Instead, she gives a hard stare toward Yung once more, trying, and clearly struggling, to make sense of what’s happening here. "…DID YOU EVEN LOOK? WHAT HAPPENED TO SEEING WITH 'EYES UNCLOUDED'" As she says this last piece, she reaches up to her eyes with both hands, holding them comically wide in crude imitation.

She drops her arms to her sides, and shifts her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot as she forces herself to mull over the approach, and what the frag she’s supposed to do when it’s someone else who’s clearly unwell. "NE, HOW ABOUT I TAKE A TURN BABYSITTING KUSOJIJI? HE’S MORE MY SPEED ANYWAY." She offers Yung a weak smile. "THAT’LL GIVE ME A CHANCE TO LISTEN IN TO FASCIST RADIO BEFORE WE RUSH THE DOOR, AND FREE YOU TO DO YOUR WIZ NINJA RECONNAISSANCE DREK." She folds her arms tightly against her chest once more, choosing her words carefully as she attempts a strategic approach to both the situation at hand, and the completely unstrategic, illogical business of empathizing. "OR ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO TURN DOWN A CHANCE TO SHOW OFF?"

(( Not sure if this requires a separate roll, but she'll attempt to patch into the encrypted channel if she hasn't done so already. ))

Mouse pops the private key into her communications app and opens up a new channel. She finds herself holding her breath as she both listens and focuses intently on the equalizer readout hovering in her vision. After a few seconds of silence roll by, her attention begins to waver, piqued by the forbidding façade of cell block D. A rash of furious Nipponese, like a brillo pad in her ear drums, snaps her focus back. The equalizer graph spikes, looking for all the world like a seismograph of the big one.

"Nishimura's team is not responding! We need reinforcements."

"I know, but I can't raise the garrison. The intruders must have disabled the satellite uplink."

"Divide the reserve fire team. Send half to the cell blocks and the other half to the marina. Destroy all the ships, if you have to. The quick response unit will come when they don't get a heartbeat signal. We just need to make sure nobody leaves this island, especially not any of the prisoners."

"Destroy the ships? But--"

"That's an order. Unless you would like to explain your failure to Hachiman-taisho?"

"Ryōkai, sir."

The channel lapses back into silence. Mouse watches as the equalizer's wave sinks, matching the sensation in her stomach.

<< So… Zal? COMINT says you have half the island’s ‘Reserve Fire Team’ en route to the marina, and they’re planning to poke holes in every ship they find, like Akela’s mom with a pack of condoms. >> Despite the decker’s colorful phrasing, her expression is stark, clearly grasping onto old habits like a security blanket. She reaches a hand out to grip the nearby wheelchair once more, more to brace herself than out of any duty toward the doctor. << No clue if that fire team includes any of our unaccounted for kuroikaze. Either way, unless you guys can get your boat out of range, start planning your ambush. >>

She grits her teeth subconsciously, eyes rapidly between data only visible to her, as if in illustration of her mind bouncing from one futile idea to the next. << If we burn the feed entirely, we might be able to dissuade them from their current warpath to your crew. We could kindly inform them that their channel’s compromised, which may prompt them to change their strategies. But it’s a big gamble, and one that costs us any upper hand from the intel gap. >> Her attention shifts from one teammate to the next, as if so desperate for any idea or an order that she’s attempting to intuit one from their body language alone.

<< That's not great news. >> Zal's dismay is palpable through the comms. << These boats are running Ares brains and they're tougher than we thought, gonna take a while to crack them. >>

TacStar alerts to the team to an incoming video file: wobbly bodycam footage of an imposing terminal underneath a canopy of bullet-proof plexi. Candy, her face intent under a sheen of perspiration, is contorted underneath the terminal and picking at circuit boards with a microtool. Her expression is enough to communicate the difficulty of the task. She flashes a half-hearted grin at the camera. "Piece 'a cake."

The bodycam blurs as Zal turns around, before settling on the rest of his team. They look haggard. A few of the rebels are wearing bandages, and Lafayette is using a shotgun as a makeshift crutch.

<< We've seen better days, >> laments Zal. << Still, the goal remains the same. We can hold the marina for a short time, if you hurry. >>

Yung's demeanor remains unchanged despite the prodding comments from Mouse. Whether he missed the bait due to the tinnitus from the hail of gunfire just moments ago, or he is keenly analyzing the approach to D; the truth remains veiled beneath the mask.

Regardless, he is disinterested in surrendering his charge and after pausing for a few moments, starting fixated on the building holding their final objective, Yung begins to move again. Slowly pushing the squeaky wheelchair towards the biometric scanner.

"You ready to do your thing doc? You heard Zal, clock's ticking."

(( Yung will approach and attempt to assist the doc in using the scanner. He's not moving quickly and if anyone interjects with an action or objection he'll give pause. ))

On a fundamental level, Mouse knows what it means to default to this state, to kill every non-essential process, just to keep functioning. It would be entirely hypocritical for her to find fault in Yung’s cold silence when she herself was there less than a half hour prior.

Nobody said Mouse was emotionally mature.

"FINE. WELL, DOC SAYS THAT IF HE’S LEARNED ONE THING, IT'S NOT TO STAND IN FRONT OF SOMETHING THAT’S ABOUT TO EXPLODE." Her brows knit together, lower lip trembling, in the familiar frustration from throwing a thousand different inputs against a non responsive system. Only now, from the tired desperation in the eyes of their military counterparts, it's clear that the clock is ticking. "SO IF WE’RE GOING IN NOW, LETS NOT ALL WAD UP ON THE OPEN DOOR WITH OUR MOUTHS HANGING OPEN."

She takes a heavy breath, eyes narrowed, and places one smaller, trembling hand on the wheelchair handle, or more specifically, Yung’s hand gripping it. "LET ME REPHRASE. I WILL BE TAKING DR. WILEY." Her fingers curl tightly as she speaks. "WE DON'T KNOW WHAT'S IN THERE. COULD BE A STACK OF DREKHEAD KUROIKAZE, OR SOME MAGE JUST WAITING TO LIQUIFY OUR BRAINS." Even with her plaintive words carried through synthetics, she still swallows hard as she searches for the right words. "...BUT I KNOW THAT WHATEVER IT IS, I'M IN NO WAY EQUIPPED TO HANDLE IT. BUT YOU ARE, AND WE'RE GOING TO NEED ALL THE HANDS WE CAN GET TO GET OUT ALIVE." Her attention remains locked on the empty mask, as she summons the entirety of her pride and willpower to add, "...PLEASE."

Taipan silently gestures to each member of the team and directs them into place, stacking on either side of the door. If there were any observers, they might have marveled at the comic display: a motley assemblage of enigmatic personalities tucked against a brick wall, one hand on the shoulder of each comrade. Nevertheless, the team moves to their assigned places with uncanny speed and professionalism; perhaps due to Taipan's expert instruction. It's a formation that would make the Red Samurai gasp in awe.

Once Taipan is satisfied with the positioning, he turns to Yung and nods.

Yung examines the bio-scanner for a moment, tilting his head to and fro until he deduces how the device functions. A resolute hand reaches out and pulls up the small shutter over the retina scanner. The wheelchair squeaks in protest as Yung makes a few adjustments in order to align the unconscious doctor with the entry panel. Yung then gently takes the doctor's shoulders and eases him forward, until his forehead is pressed against the shutter.

"Sorry, Doc," Yung murmurs as he reaches down and uses thumb and index finger to force open the man's eyelid.

A grid of green lasers project across one half of the doctor's face, spinning and scaling down until centered over the iris. The laser pulses a few times and then a series of LEDs on the panel flicker green. The ground reverberates as the massive pneumatic locking mechanism within the door retracts. Yung eases the doctor back into the chair as the blast door rumbles and begins to open.

There it is: the order she hadn't even realized she needed. All it takes is one silent directive, and the decker’s mouthiness, anxieties, sense of youthful rebellion all part, making way for the immediate imperative: get in, do the job, get out alive.

Comfortably assigned her position in this array, and with Taipan attending to the business of putting the remaining dominos back up again, Mouse instinctively pats herself down, making a mental inventory of any gear that might be relevant in the upcoming drekshow: grenades (smoke), gun (loaded with stick n shock), emergency hemostatic syringe… apparently the most lethal item on her is a glorified pocket knife.

So, she’ll be useless again. At least that simplifies things.

She forces any lingering thoughts of Yung’s stubborn fixation aside, embracing instead a techno-zen ritual, clearing both RAM and mind. Inhale, reboot. Exhale, ping outward, focusing on each sensation from the digital space around her.

(( Ehhh, reboot, and one last Matrix Perception for literally any icon in the 100m radius as the door opens. Not that I'm expecting anything, but just so I don't have to spend a round doing it later. ))

Axel checks the magazine on his Alta for the tenth time. The three drones show green on ammunition. He draws in a shuddering breath. Stay focused.. The command falls flat, as his mind shoots off into the weeds once again. Concern over his unresolved loss of time at Bongo Land vies for control over his sense of being completely out of his element, in spite of his own growing body count. He squeezes his eyes closed, visions of the gore and viscera of the last hour already stretching into cartoonishly exaggerated shadow play that threatens future nightmares and flashbacks.

His eyes pop back open, and he takes his index and forefinger, facing downward, and makes an inverted “come hither” motion. Wind and Whirlwind dip several centimeters lower, positioning themselves in line with the lintel of the blast door, their weapons and sensor clusters poking down just far enough to see and aim into the building without exposing the whole of their chassis. Doug sits in line expectantly, ready and eager to follow his meta human teammate’s leads like a murderous golden retriever.

The door shudders, retracting into its frame within the structure of the building. Cell D is laid bare.

The lay out of this detention block much the same as the others, but the equipment seems to be of a whole different caliber. The cages are twice as thick, opening twice as narrow. Each cage is surrounded by a secondary barrier that resembles complex chain-link, though the alloy from which its made glitters bizarrely in the later morning light. Only about a third of the cages are actually occupied, and each occupant is restrained and hooded. There are a few desks and a terminal located in the back, as well as a secure storage locker.

Although there don't appear to be any humanoid threats present, a large, gleaming carapace catches the runners' attention. As soon as the door opens fully, the carapace lifts, propelled by a dozen spindly, articulated legs. A mass of sensors and weaponry protrude from the lip of the hard armor, like some over-sized cybernetic hermit crab. The enormous drone scuttles forward to meet the team.

A panel retracts on the front of the crab drone's carapace, and a set of minigun barrels appear. The device whines and chatters as it unloads at Mick, before they can move to cover. The ammunition appears to be have kind of exploding tip, because the brick above Mick's head explodes into flaming debris. It's all the adept can do to dash out of the way, even as a few stray round burn scores along their clothing. No real damage done, however. Smoke and soot quickly fill the entranceway.

Axel's jaw drops, and for a moment he forgets the fact that he's standing in hostile territory with little more than a pistol and frag-all for training.

"Oh. Oh, you are GORGEOUS."

Yung’s back is pressed against the wall as the door to Cell Block D opens. The mechanical whirring followed by the ear-splitting popping of high caliber explosive rounds causes his hands to clinch the wheelchair handles with a vice-like grip. A bit of exploded brick bounces off his left hand with just enough heat and velocity to cause a sting. He retracts his hand, raising it to the bottom lip of his mask, lifting the veil to rest atop his head.

The man behind the mask is sweating, teeth are clenched tight. The glazed over look in his eyes has been replaced by an expression that is the embodiment of fight or flight. But in the moment of panic his senses come flooding back, he feels a strange sensation on his high hand. He glances down to see Mouse next to him, her petite hand cupped over his own, she is squeezing too.

He relaxes a bit as he looks her in the eyes. A flood of subconscious data streams through neurons, fire team…kuroikaze…ambush…showoff…please

His lips are still trembling slightly as he inhales deeply, the acrid smell of firearm propellant filling his nostrils. Eyes remaining locked with Mouse, he lifts his right hand from the handle of the chair, waiting for her hand to retract before reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out his circle-framed glasses. The hint of a smile spreads across his lips as he places the glasses over his eyes. "I’ll be back." He says with renewed confidence.

He releases the breath, his muscles tense before springing to motion. He flies headlong around the opposite side of the entryway as Mick, charging at the mechanical creature with reckless abandon.

He draws back a fist, reaching inward and calling upon his Ji, but there’s nothing there, it’s hollow. His eyes go wide milliseconds before impact, his only reaction is instinctual. He drops down to his side into a slide, ducking his head back to avoid colliding with the bottom of the drone’s shell. He reaches out, attempting to clinch one of the legs with a chokehold.

(( Attempting to slide under the crab drone and clinch one of the dozen or so legs. Attempting to hold on if and when it moves so that I can remain hidden underneath, if possible. ))

As Yung approaches the crab drone, one of the articulated legs slams the concrete directly in front of him. In the next instant, Yung is air borne, tucked into a forward roll. Once directly in front of the limb, Yung springs up and wraps his arms around the coiled alloy, anchoring himself. He pulls himself in underneath the shell, so that he is directly underneath the drone.

Reiya finally understands how Mouse felt when the network went out, or whatever it was that caused the data she and Axel are constantly keyed into to disappear. A place impenetrable to spirits is anathema to her. She’s been in plenty of places without traces of astral energy, but there was always the potential for that energy to appear, for spirits to be called, for her own spellcraft to create its own astral signature. She can only describe it as desolate, and she aches for all of the inmates of this horrid place, inwardly shuddering at what days trapped in this space would do to her, let alone weeks, months, years.

Also, she admits to herself a small relief at having remembered to disable her foci before entering.

Enough, her inner voice commands. Focus.You’re not helpless, even here.

The shaman takes a breath. As Akela performs his acrobatics to move in, Reiya brings out her crossbow yet again. The voice of her medicine mother springs to mind. “You must choose a physical weapon, Reiya. There will be places that spirits cannot penetrate.” True enough, for now. Before Reiya can consider what to do about the wards, however, they need to take out this metal approximation of a giant crab.

Reiya grabs one of her new barbed head bolts, aims for minigun barrels, and shoots, dropping to the floor immediately after she fires.

The head of Reiya's bolt strikes the outer rim of one of the barrels, just narrowly missing a clean entry.

Doug rolls in behind Axel, diverting to lay down a volley of automatic fire at the drone's legs. Several of the rounds strike the spindly limb, causing a cascade of sparks and leaking hydraulics. The leg remains functional, but just barely.

Wind dives in next, adding another torrent of seething bullets at Doug's target. The added firepower does the trick, and the mechanical limb is destroyed. The crab drone lurches to one side, but the remaining legs keep it aloft. It's obvious, however, that its lost some mobility.

"THAT'S MY BOY!" Axels shouts at the small, squat drone as it dismembers the metal horror. Axel continues into the room, loosely following the instructions given by Taipan as best as he can remember them, and slides behind one of the substantial cages.


"It would be a crime, an act of vandalism to dismantle you," he manages to murmur to the monstrosity. He aims for the sensor cluster with his Alta. "But that won't stop me."

(( Called shot to the drone's sensors ))

Axel waits for his smart-link reticle to align with the gleaming sensor array, then pulls the trigger. His shot hits the upper pod of visual sensors, taking out a few of them. Shards of glass and sparks explode from the back of the array.


"Cangrejo de puta! " Luis fires a wild burst as he dashes to cover, trying to damage one of the remaining functioning legs. The bullets flatten on the hard alloy of the leg plating, but fail to do any real damage.