Open RP [EVENT] Head of the Snake

This RP is currently open.
Life and death.

This was living and for a reason. He'd been dying his entire life up to this point, rotting away in college, in the office, trying to figure out how to save .02% on a new acquisition. This was mortal combat, justice against injustice. This was the most meaningful thing he'd ever done - a righteous killing in the name of good against evil. He felt invincible. He was the right hand of God -

"SHHHHYEARGH!"

Getting shot really, really hurt. The adrenaline pumping through him went into overdrive as the van peeled into the street, a clear hole punching its way through his shoulder and narrowly missing his heart. It'd probably shattered his left clavicle, but he had no way of knowing that - not in the position he was in -

As a reaction to the pain, The World vanished off the front of the van. Fortuitiously, his disappearing act occurred seconds before Mr. Blue was catapulted through the windshield.

The overwhelming stab of agony in his shoulder completely disrupted his abilty to land.

To an onlooker, it'd appear as though he were glitching in and out of the tarmac, sliding along the ground, kicking up dust as he desperately thought hospital hospital hospital, running through his meticulously-memorized evacuation plan in the event of injury, but unable to execute.

Instead he flopped around on the ground and went still, aware that he was going into shock, but powerless to stop it, unable to stem the flow of bleeding.

Altogether, he'd scraped by with a minor gunshot wound, but that was traumatic enough to put an end to this adventure. His head felt like a 50 pound weight.

Randall Smith rolled onto his back and passed out on the side of the street.

Was this the end of The World?

Time would tell.
 

Ava Hunt walked briskly out of the convention center as she used the raw power of embarrassment and anger to propel her. Unbeknownst to her, the prosecutor had entered a bit of a jog as she realized that the entire area was going to be locked down if she didn't get out now. Most of the fleeing attendees from the conference center had left through the main promenade, but Ava'd been here enough to know that the side entrances were much faster. Plus she'd parked a few blocks west of here to mitigate the traffic leaving later.

Maybe I can pick up some Thai on the way. I think it's just around the corner.

The sound of screeching tires from a block away was audible, but she mostly ignored it. Such sounds and bad drivers were common enough in the city. If anything, she was slightly glad there were no...nope, there they were. Gunshots. This fucking city. Losing herself in such thoughts, Ava only barely noticed she'd reached 9th St. Her favorite Thai place, Nicky's, was to the left, and she'd almost done it. She'd almost managed to put the evening's events behind her for now and get that Jalapeño Squid that her assistant Andre routinely said was a crime against God and humanity.

Instead, Ava looked to her right. Why? Because a careening black van was violently swerving into traffic and heading toward the bridge. Oh well, that wasn't her problem. Right? ...right?

Wow, we haven't moved this quick in years... Wait... What the fuck are you doing, Grandma?

Admittedly it had taken the reasoning bits of Ava's brain a couple of moments to catch up with her enhanced body. The thoughts pertaining to seeing the out-of-control vehicle nearly hitting vehicles were processed first. The thoughts about the damaged rear doors second. The thoughts about the gunfire inside the van while a man rode on top of the vehicle were third. Reasoning outside of those thoughts came fourth at best.

You aren't a hero anymore, goddamn it!

That thought finally broke through. Only then did Ava realize she'd been running at an elevated speed, barefoot, through the streets of Pittsburgh... Looking around though, she noticed that no one on the sidewalks was looking at her. They were looking at the van as it slammed into then through the bridge guard rails. Ava could see a man laying in the road, clearly injured, and thus rushed to render aid. The good news is that he was up and trying to run out of the road, presumably to get help.

Either shock or head trauma. If he doesn't get proper medical attention, he could be in serious trouble.

It was only when she got within a few feet of the man that she finally processed who the man was...and the distinctive clothing and mask he wore.

Fuck. Bad Guy. Shit.

Mostly de-powered and barefoot, Ava's mind evaluated the potential outcomes from this confrontation. Here was an armed murderer/kidnapper in body armor who was attempting to escape justice. Clearly someone needed to take this guy down. However, should that be "normal woman" and Assistant District Attorney Ava Hunt?

The answer: Nope.

Then what? Stand here like a helpless idiot as this man carjacks some innocent victim? Never.

And so, with an average woman's strength, Ava hurled her only weapons, the destroyed shoes, at the criminal.

Vengeance.






Pittsburgh, 2023
 
The first thing she felt when she burst into the van was a body crumpling beneath her feet.

One.

The second were two cracks to her chest in quick succession, four more filling the air. If those hit her too, she couldn't feel them, which was either a good thing or a very bad thing. Whatever the case, it left her ears ringing.

Two.

The third was the veering thudding of the van, blood flecked on her face, a frantic man screaming in the driver's seat. The thuds were the breaks. Or maybe the tires. She didn't know cars much. The blood - wasn't hers.

Three.

And the fourth, a limp hand hitting her from the front passenger, face uncovered, skin pale.

Four.

The van jol-TED, sending Basilica flying against the back of the seats in the front, entire vehicle creaking as it eventually came to a gut-wrenching halt. Her thoughts spun. Think. Think. Look. Ears still ringing, look.

Man in the front left, dying or dead. Incapacitated. Man beside her, gone. Out the back door. Man beneath her, scrambling. Trying to move. Reaching for his gun. Man in the front right - the hostage. Basilica moved, trying to get off of the terrorist she'd bodied, but as she did, the entire van began to shift. Holding her arms out, she paused.

"Move and we might die," she hissed at the man beneath her. "Take my hand, and I guarantee you won't."
 
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Matt moved without thinking, taking off at a full sprint after the van. He needed to keep giving accurate callouts or else the chance of the suspects getting away rose exponentially. He needed to buy time for responding units to get in position or, at least, in the area. If they were able to change vehicles, the hostage was almost assuredly dead and there would be no justice for those wounded or killed in the attack. His gear was heavy, though it didn't compare to the weight of the knowledge that Matt might very well be the only one standing between the criminals getting away and them sitting in front of a judge to answer for their crimes.

His feet thudded beneath him, adrenaline allowing or, rather, forcing him to hear his heartbeat. He barely heard himself giving out details about his position. That is, he barely heard himself until he watched as the van slammed into the guardrail of the Ninth Street Bridge. His hearing returned at the same time his brain processed the heavy crunch of metal against reinforced concrete. "10-45, 9th Street Bridge! They're hanging off the edge, break!" More thudding. More distance covered. He passed a civilian who looked oddly familiar but Matt couldn't place her. "Send fire/rescue and water rescue. Keep all units and the airships coming. Four-TAC-Seventeen on scene!" He tried to avoid sounding out of breath and excited on the radio. He was normally cool, calm, and collected even during shootings but he'd covered quite a lot of distance and between the exertion, the shooting, being effectively tased, and the stress of being the only officer this far forward, he was sure he sounded less than composed.

As he arrived near the van, roughly 15 meters from it, he watched as the man in the pink mask pushed himself up with his rifle. One arm dangled uselessly but Matt didn't have time to care. Yelling with as much force and authority as he could muster, he braced himself against the concrete guardrail that separated the pedestrian footpath from the road and aimed his rifle at the man. "PITTSBURGH PD! DROP YOUR WEAPON OR YOU WILL BE SHOT!" Matt's backstop was a mix of the steel supporting structure of the bridge and the Andy Warhol bridge a hundred meters away and, beyond that, the buildings on the other side of the river. He didn't want to miss, of course, but his backstop was important to consider. As he scanned with his peripheral vision, he saw one man lying supine on the ground, blood pouring onto the asphalt. I can't help him now, I need this guy in custody first.

Holding his rifle with one hand and adjusting himself to keep the man squarely in his rifle's reticle while also using the concrete for support, Matt used his radio with the other hand. "One at gunpoint, get me units here now!" If the man took off running, Matt would jump the guardrail and give chase but, should the man raise his rifle or, worse, attempt to hijack a vehicle, Matt would take a deep breath and fire three rounds at the man's chest.
 


MIKE ROBER - NEUTRALIZED




CARMINE MORETTI - NEUTRALIZED



"MR. ORANGE" / KIERAN BELL

Clarity came a moment too late.

The impact had knocked the sense out of him. By the time it returned, he was on his stomach; his head burned with an unpleasant warmth, like a fever had suddenly swept through him, and there was an acute ringing in his ears from having most of his body utterly slammed into the van's stripped metal flooring. Above all of that, though-- like the euphoric high of a dopamine hit-- was the blissful numbness of energy, like he'd simultaneously snorted a line or ten. His heart felt like it was about to burst out of his fuckin' chest. The pain in his shoulder-- shattered, maybe, from the bullet?-- was negligible.

"Sssomething." He rasped, lips sticking to the cloth ski-mask he wore beneath the ballistic faceplate. "Something is... hhrhh." Kieran rolled onto his back with a small thud, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes. Something is inside me. It needs to get out. The vehicle creaked as it rocked from the woman atop him. She moved, and she wasn't supposed to. He could still hear Wynn's heartbeat from the front of the car.

Couldn't hear Mr. Blue's. Footsteps on the pavement; yelling. The world was at his fingertips. Odd, really, that this was the movement he couldn't have felt more alive.

The woman told him not to move. Said he'd die if he did. From her, or from the van, he didn't know-- but he gave a small chuckle at the thought. Slowly, his hands raised in surrender, pain in his chest spiking with every little giggle that tore through his lungs. It came out more like a wheeze.

"You're right," Kieran muttered, a smile forming on blood-stained lips. "But I'm not going back to jail. Sorry."

His open, splayed palms clapped together-- erupting a blast of sound from his fingertips, and cracking a few bones in the process as the aftershock rippled through his arms. The fabric of his sleeves were torn away, and beneath the black suit, lacerations tore through his forearms and biceps-- cracks in porcelain, beautiful and red. They glowed with some sort of crimson energy, like his entire body was filled with it. Bursting with it. Something was inside of him, and it needed to get out. The thunderclap partially deafened him, but it hardly mattered. Didn't need to hear where he was going.

Regardless of whether or not the strike hit, the result was instantaneous. The bridge shook; the blast of energy sent him sliding back into the divider at the front of the van; the force of his release dented the ceiling, and the vehicle gave one final groan in the aftermath of the sonic detonation before tipping forward, sliding-- and falling off the side of the bridge.

Weightlessness. There was weightlessness and complete silence as the vehicle fell, Kieran's body floating up off of the ground and slamming into a wall as the van turned; only the creaks and pops of suspension returning to rest, and a heap of metal sailing through the air-- slower, perhaps, than normal, as if the vehicle itself were nearly weightless.

But it fell, all the same, and in a moment--

KRSSSSSSSSSHSHSHSHCHHHHSHSHHSHCHHHSHHHHSSSSSSS.



"MR. PINK" / WILLIAM LAVERNE

How long until a police chopper arrived? He needed to leave. Now.

Fully intending to leave Wynn and Mr. Orange behind-- his survival was prioritized, now, over the hostage-- his moment of respite was shattered with a pair of shoes to his side and head. Harmless, of course, but enough of a distraction for him to turn his head-- one hand going to his pistol as he stopped, looking the civilian up and down. Familiar, somehow, but he could hardly place her. And she'd thrown her shoes at him.

As his rifle moved to raise-- one hand grabbing it with shaking fingers-- he was stopped by a clear, familiar voice as a single SWAT member threatened him from a ways away. LaVerne blinked, steadying his vision. Someone from the hallway assault that'd flatlined Green; even from here, he could see the scorch marks along the outfit, same as his own. He supposed his power was useful for something, here.

Or maybe it was the threat of a power that'd help him the most.

He didn't raise his rifle. Instead, he simply stared for a moment, all 6 and a half feet looking over the man and debating how he wanted to go about this. Raise his rifle? Dead. Charge him? Dead. Move... dead, most likely, but his best option. But...

"SHOOT ME AND I BLOW UP THIS BRIDGE." LaVerne called out. "ONLY WARNING."

And then, the entire bridge was struck with tremors; a thunderclap was unleashed from the van-- a final stand from Orange, no doubt-- and it tipped over, falling off the guardrail and into the open air. It was then that William ducked and dove behind the nearest stopped car, scrambling along the chassis and keeping his head low as he broke out into a sprint down the Ninth Street Bridge and unholstered his pistol from his hip, eyes scanning for any occupied cars. Anything he could use to his advantage.

He was getting out of here alive, even if it was the last thing he was going to do.

 
There was an infinitesimal amount of time before the crack. Milliseconds made of centuries. Long enough to see the hands cock back, long enough for Basilica to tense, expecting him to - well. Expecting something. Pain. Whatever was coming, it was going to be pain. The explosion of a detonator, maybe. The explosion of something worse. There was always something worse with metahumans. Always. Always.

Long enough of a time to brace for whatever was going to happen, but not long enough to stop it. The hands came together.

The air exploded.

Everything turned to static.

They were -- falling? Probably falling. Basilica couldn't quite tell. Either the van was tumbling, or her head was, or both were tumbling in different directions. There was definitely something more than vertigo, here, though, because vertigo didn't send you careening into walls like that. She grabbed at the councilman, wrapping her arms beneath his.

Two men here. She could only lift one. She didn't even know if she could lift one. Between the terrorist and the hostage, there was obvious priority. Wings unfurled - rattling, creaking, glass debris flying out of frames - and she kicked out of the back of the van, holding the councilman tight as she fell backwards out of the open doors. She opened her mouth -

And didn't stop falling. She hummed again. Again. She could hear the vibration in her throat, feel the strain against her larynx, and maybe - might've - slowed a bit - but whether it was her broken suit or her deafened ears or the weight of two bodies or some combination of all three, there wasn't enough lift to take her up.

So she went down, bracing around the councilman before they hit the water.
 
The man's words cut through the pandemonium of the situation. Distant sirens, the honking of traffic, and even Matt's own breathing were drowned out, faint whispers beneath the words that boomed in Matt's head. A bomb. Of-fucking-course there was a bomb. Pittsburgh was going to be crawling with the feds at this point. As the man spoke his threat, Matt scanned the giant of a man through his optic. One arm was broken but empty, the other holding the pistol grip of his rifle. While Matt couldn't confirm it 100%, he didn't see any wires in the man's clothing or plate carrier. Plus, I shot him earlier, either it's well built or it was protected from the shots by the vest. No apparent dead man's switch.

In the split second before the van fell, Matt weighed his options. Option A: let the suspect, armed with a rifle, a handgun, and potentially even a bomb run loose upon the city. His city. His daughter's city. Let the man get away with assassinating a public official, kidnapping another public official, and planting bombs on a major bridge. Option B: Chase after the man and try to subdue him in a way that doesn't detonate any explosives. So long as he doesn't use his phone, I only have to keep eyes on a detonator. We've been using our radios without anything blowing up so it must not be radio triggered.

And then the van fell, the crunch of metal against concrete second only to the massive BOOM of energy from inside the van. Was that a bomb? Were they prepared to blow themselves up to get away, thought Matt as his eyes recognized what was happening: The man in the Pink mask was getting away.

Matt didn't even realize he had leapt over the guardrail and began running until he passed the injured or, possibly, dead man on the ground. He watched as the man dropped his rifle, the sling stopping it from clattering to the ground, and drew his pistol. "Central, 4TAC17, in a foot pursuit with a whiskey mike, six and a half feet, black suit with a single pink stripe, black mask with pink stripe, body armor, rifle, and handgun. Show me northbound on the 9th Street Bridge. He said he has a bomb, get the bomb squad to the bridge." Letting his hand return to the handguard of his rifle, Matt dropped his voice until he knew it would be barely audible over his breathing. "Cece, I love you. Grow up to be better than me. Change the world, make it a better place than I left it."

Matt had closed the distance to roughly ten meters but that was all he could do. He wasn't gaining any more ground, though Pink was no longer extending his lead. Matt had his rifle, his pistol, his OC spray, a single flashbang, and two tear gas grenades. He silently wished he had brought his taser, though he knew there was almost no way he'd be able to use it even if he had it. Even if he had it, it would be far more effective and, if he was being honest, fun, to simply pepper spray the man's face and wounds and let him writhe in pain while waiting for the ambulance. The dark part of Matt's mind, the part that wanted to make this bastard hurt, was growing with every step and every car they passed. He wouldn't be able to hold on for long, that devilish part of his mind already thinking of ways to explain why his bodycam cut off.

"STOP, MOTHERFUCKER!" yelled the detective, losing all sense of composure and professionalism. This man had shot at him, killed innocent people, threatened to blow him up, and expected to escape? He tried to take Matt away from his daughter and Matt would be damned if he let him get away without doing everything in his power to stop it. Either the man had a detonator, which Matt knew he'd need to get to in order to use, someone else had a detonator, in which case it didn't matter what Matt or Pink did or didn't do, or he didn't have a bomb planted at all, in which case it was a moot point. "I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T STOP! I'M GOING TO BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR OWN ARM IF YOU DON'T DROP YOUR WEAPON AND FUCKING STOP! I SWEAR TO FUCK, YOUR OPTIONS ARE STOP OR DIE, YOU SHAWN BRADLEY MOTHERFUCKER!"
 

Well...shit.

Her amazing shoe-assault had done little, if anything, and had only really served to get the heavily-armed criminal's attention. Luckily for her, the prosecutor's knight in burned shitty armor decided to show up in the nick of time. Jonesy entered a brief standoff with the man. Well, she had no time for that. Belatedly in her panic, Ava had seen another injured person on the ground. Surely she wouldn't be so unlucky as to run up on two villains...right?

Running once more, Ava's brain finally processed the criminal in the street's threat just before the sudden cacophony of noise burst forth from the balancing act called a van. The vehicle itself seemed to contain most of the blast, but Ava's old nemesis, tinnitus, really didn't need much to come back with a vengeance. Looking back to the downed man, a sense of dread built up within her gut as she saw his mask. It vanished though when she noticed that none of the rest of the man's clothing matched the criminals and, to be honest, neither did the mask.

Meta. Probably some kid trying to help. City's overrun with these idiots.

Seeing the wound, Ava swore silently as she took off her jacket and ripped the nearest piece of somewhat absorbent cloth she could find: the sleeves of her white ruffled blouse. As she stuffed the cloth into the bullet hole, Ava's questionable hearing did pick up something of note: the sound of a few thousand pounds of steel, glass, and rubber hitting water. Looking back over her shoulder...

Yep...Van's gone swimming, the woman thought angrily as she wrapped her coat around the unconscious man and tied it over his hand which was now over the bullet wound. The idea was that his own hand plus the tension from the coat would apply some pressure to the wound. In any sense of a controlled environment, Ava, as the first responder, would stay with the unconscious man and continue to provide care until a more qualified professional or professionals showed up to take over. The van carrying the kidnapped councilman deciding to take a drink from the goddamn river sorta fucked up the whole "controlled environment"-bit.

Less than ten seconds would pass before Ava was standing on that destroyed guard rail and eyeing her way down. The van was sinking...quickly. Downsides of having multiple openings from crushed windows, windshields, and open doors.

Well, it was only a 40-ish-foot drop into a river with currently very low surface tension. This was...believable for normal people...right?

Yeeeeeaaaaah was Ava's thought as she leaped into the river below feet-first with her arms crossed over her chest and her legs together with a slight bend to absorb any impact with the water. She'd aimed for the outboard-side of the van, away from the shoreline, and had hoped to give it about ten feet of clearance. A moment of panic kicked in as she hit the water just barely eight feet from the side of the vehicle.

Fuck this water was cold.







Pittsburgh, 2023
 
Behind the mask the young man’s eyes were fixated on the charred remains of the man who still held the frozen frame of Nat’s armor in his hands. Time became irrelevant as what remaining bits of humanity left in that corpse seared themselves into Nat’s vision. If the officer hadn’t been holding Nat’s armor, or maybe if Nat had remained and taken the brunt of the electricity that had arced through it, he might have returned home to his family that night with a harrowing tale of heroics. Instead Nat was left, while the meta responsible had taken his own life.



There was no justice to be had here.



Nat wasn’t sure how long he had been transfixed by the gruesome scene, but when he moved he moved, launching from his prone position down the hallway, past the stunned and regrouping officers that had trued to arrest him and the smoking corpses the conflict had left behind. Hands might have grabbed at him but he shook them off with practiced ease he would have in sparring sessions with his grandfather. He was intent on one purpose, one goal. If there was no justice to be had, on behalf of the officer who couldn’t seek it himself, Nat chose vengeance.



He broke into the alley at a dead run, brushing his hand over a nearby dumpster without a thought of its weight or his limits. There was a crash as the metal rippled; the van hitting the bridge for whatever reason. Nat panted against his exertion, both with his power and as he ran, the metal flowing over his legs and building, not around his body but beneath is feet. With each step the Wolf grew taller, the steel of the dumpster he had touched trailing after him and forming a set of lattice stilts. He had given a lot of thought in the dark hours of early morning to the benefits of a power that could aid in movement.



This had been one of his worse ideas to make up for the inability to fly, or an enhanced physicality. Each step took him several meters as he towered nearly as high as a building. Thankfully by the time he reached a significant height he had already cleared the nearby power lines, but as he chased after the teetering black van something caught the base of his stilt. As Nat fell a massive blast echoed from the van, ringing in his ears even from his height. A concrete barrier, a wall meant to separate pedestrians from vehicular traffic, flashed by his rotating vision as he tumbled through space. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to his footing, so focused on the vehicle that shook and tumbled into the water below.



He didn’t think about the distance to the water, though it was considerable enough without the added height of the stilts. What did it matter, in the end, when he had already lost balance and was falling? The stilts rippled and the lattice condensed upon itself as he fell, heavy steel plates changing his trajectory from far over the rail just past the van. The plate from his left foot rippled again, tendrils of steel thread tearing free and wrapping around themselves and a stable portion of the bridge’s metal framework.



Like a bungee jumper Nat dove toward the water, steel cable winding behind him as the other plate formed something of a shield around his outstretched arms. At the instant he hit the water the steel formed a smooth point, breaking way for Nat with much of the impact deflected around him. The breath still drove from his lungs as he frantically grabbed for the cable, to pull his head free of the freezing water and choke life giving air back into his lungs. Spray joined the gasped breaths, choking Nat as he searched for the van and swam toward it. His arms and legs burned from the sheer effort it had taken to get there, but once his fingers touched the black metal roof he forced another ripple, attaching the cable as solidly as if it had been welded there.



It wasn’t enough to stop the van from sinking completely, but it would give him time to catch his breath, and hopefully rescue some of the people inside. The cold water had cleared his rage, though he still intended that all of the remaining perpetrators faced a court for their crimes. Panting, gasping, Nat lay on the top of the van on his back, ripples running over its surface from his flat palms. There were splashes nearby; others coming to the rescue or occupants swimming free. It really didn’t matter.
 


MIKE ROBER - NEUTRALIZED




CARMINE MORETTI - NEUTRALIZED



"MR. ORANGE" / KIERAN BELL

Masked bitch must've gotten the councilman. Good for her; she could keep the whiny prick, for all he cared. As the van turned over itself and struck water, Kieran felt his head slam against the side of the vehicle and his shot shoulder crack on the driver's side divider; cold water met his body moments later as the hunk of metal tried to float, took in water, and sank. He didn't realize he was the only one left in the van until it was fully underwater, his vision returning to the eye-irritating, foggy depths of the Allegheny River.

Having lived in Pittsburgh for long enough to understand that the central river was a polluted, murky piece of shit, Kieran decided that the longer he remained underwater, the better. Not being able to see two feet in front of him was a bitch to deal with, but with any luck, the same handicap applied to any poor son of a bitch that dove in after the van-- including the would-be backbreaker cunt who'd taken Wynn. With any luck, they landed wrong and were halfway to drowning. Not his problem, anymore.

What was his problem seemed to be touching along the roof of the car. Despite his limited hearing, the relative silence of being underwater afforded him the ability to hear the soft pang of metal upon metal; he needed to move, and quick. Kicking out from the cabin of the van, Kieran used what strength remained-- which, given his influx of energy from the crash and fall, was thankfully a bit-- to get himself into the open water, unfortunately revealing himself to a fucking woman who'd fucking jumped after the van, God damn it. Somebody on the roof of the van, too, though he could barely see it now in the low visibility. Something inside me. Need to get it out.

His entire body itched. Like something was crawling underneath his skin. Fuck it. His gaze lingered on the woman for a moment-- perhaps out of sheer incredulity at the persistence of these fucking people-- before he brought his legs up, knees folding to his chest, and kicked out-- swimming away, of course, but not without--

THRRRVVVVMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Oh.

An eruption of energy burst forth from Kieran's lower body, the entire affair not unlike a collapsing of an air pocket or underwater detonation; at once, Kieran's eardrums ruptured as the sound propogated, thankfully sending him up and away from the van-- and entirely out of the water with the force of propulsion. Though he didn't hear it, he resurfaced after a second-- cold air returning to his exposed, cracked skin as he sailed out of the water and into the open air, looking as if he'd suddenly gained flight for a few moments. It was a relatively absurd affair-- his body, airborne, sailing back towards land.

It struck the paved concrete of the Three Rivers Heritage Trail a moment later, missing both legs from the knee down-- ragged, almost calcified stumps that ended in shredded ropes of flesh and bone like butcher's scraps. His arm and head lay at awkward angles-- not quite human, like a discarded marionnette.

Along the lacerations that plagued his form, though-- cracked ceramic, almost, in how orderly the destruction was-- there was almost the faint whine of sound, as if something were trying to leave the corpse.



"MR. PINK" / WILLIAM LAVERNE

Footsteps. Didn't dare use his power-- made his eyes nearly melt out of his skull, last time. What use was it, anyways-- only let him see outlines, couldn't discern his tail quickly enough. No, he needed to make a move and make one quick. Use what distance he gained, William kept his eyes peeled for open cars and warm bodies, trying the handles of cars he passed. Most were locked. People stared at him like he was some kind of fucking monster as he ran by them. Were the others even still alive? Had he given anything to Blue and Orange that could've been used against him-- names, details, descriptions?

Couldn't think about it. His hand tugged on the handle of a sedan-- white. Ford Focus. Dad used to own an old one, '08. This one was newer, had a woman in the driver's seat. He heard the scream of a baby as he yanked her out of the car. You'll have to do.

With his strength, he tucked an arm around her torso and lifted her up, guarding his body and half of his head with an almost half bear-hug. His Glock went to the side of her skull. That's what the cop would fucking see when they finally came face to face-- him, holding her. William backed up a step, steadying his breath.

"Don't." He barked. Didn't have the energy to say much else. "Will fucking shoot her. DROP THE GUN." The barrel pressed flush with the bit of hair just above her ear-- tucked back in a ponytail. She screamed, or maybe it was still the whine in his fucking ears. "NOW!"

 
Chaos and cold and churning and black.

Her back hurt from where she'd hit the water. Hoped nothing was broken. Probably not. She could still feel her legs - they hurt too. All of her hurt. All of her hurt, and she couldn't breathe, and she was sinking. Her mask had slipped at some point, and it hung loosely off her head, face wreathed in a frizzy halo of hair that had come loose from its bun. She wanted to grab at it, but her hands were full.

The hostage. She had to get him up. Get him to the edge. She tried to kick to the surface, but his weight and the costume combined were too much for her to manage.

Something loud erupted to her left - it cracked through the water, fluttering her heart and knocking her lungs. She winced, bracing for an attack that didn't come. The man from the van - the terrorist - wasn't there. No, instead it was a woman she thought she knew. Two-piece, business suit. Had to suck to swim in. The woman was reaching out.

Basilica let go of the hostage, reaching up to fix her mask, pushing him into the woman's arms. Take him. Take him. Lighter now, she was able to kick up to the surface, erupting from the water -

Air.

She breathed it in greedily, heavily, still struggling to stay afloat, lips barely breaking the surface, sour river water filling her mouth with every gasp. But it was there, and she was alive, and the councilman was safe.
 
How hard was it to lock your doors? Modern cars locked them automatically after you reached fifteen miles an hour. If you locked your doors, it was a lot harder for some masked madman to take you from your car. Not impossible, of course, but a lot harder.

But that didn't matter now. What did matter was what was directly in front of him. A young woman with terror in her eyes, baby crying in the backseat. Her hair flowing slightly in the mild breeze on the bridge. The scent of the river's air as it wafted past them. The pleading look on her eyes as she locked eyes with the steely face of Matthew Jones.

The masked man ordered Matt to drop his gun, though not only was Matt not going to do it, he couldn't do it. If he dropped his gun, he had no cards to play and had no leverage. If he dropped his gun, there was a non-zero chance that he or, more importantly, the hostage and her baby, were dead. With every second that passed, he hated this man more and more. He wanted desperately to let the man in Pink know what awaited him: lowly detective Matthew Jones bringing the full brunt of the entire City of Pittsburgh Police Dept to bear against this piece of shit. Instead, he kept himself under control, forcing the baby in the backseat to wrangle the growing storm in his mind. Think of Cecelia. Think of Cecelia. What if it were Cece? Bring her home. Do it for her.

"We both know I can't drop my gun but let her go. Take the baby out of the car and let her go and I'll let you go without so much as another quip. The bridges aren't shut down yet, you can just flip a U-Turn and get out of here. You want to get away? Leave her and the baby. If you kidnap her or, heaven forbid, a kid, you'll have the full force of the PPD and the FBI brought down on your head. Right now, you can escape if you leave them. If you don't want to end up with a fifty million dollar bounty and on the FBI's top ten, let them go. Let her take her baby and her diaper bag and get back to your life. Take the win, please."

As he spoke, he kept his breathing measured. He kept in mind his height over bore, putting his reticle just over the top of the man's head. If he needed to fire at such close range, roughly 7ft, placing his reticle right on the man's head would likely result in hitting him in the shoulder or, most likely, hitting the hostage. By keeping the height over bore in mind, Matt knew his bullet would hit the man's T-box if he needed to pull the trigger. For the first time since he'd shot at the man in the Pink mask, he didn't want to pull the trigger. Take the fucking win. Give me the baby and the woman and get the fuck out of here.
 
I should have just stayed home today.



Every muscle and tendon in Nat’s body ached from his mad dash and impromptu dive. He was almost positive he was covered in bruises, and if nothing was broken he would have been surprised. It would have been nice to have simply taken a rest, a small break on the roof of the black van to catch his breath. If it hadn’t been for the slow sinking he might have considered it, at least until the water covered him. It was pretty well known that the river was fairly polluted, and as tired as he was Nat wasn’t keen on testing the strength of that pollution.



Besides, the last kidnapper, with an orange stripe over suit and mask, was not quite done with their resistance. Nat wouldn’t have known he was there if it weren’t for the blast of sound that roiled the water and sent him flying through the air onto land. The force of Mr. Orange’s attack not only blew his own legs off, but rocked the bobbing van and pushed it under, forcing Nat to act as his cable snapped with a plink that could be heard over the ringing in his ears.



Painted black steel warped around him, flying upward in thick tendrils that caught the cable and fused with it seamlessly. With most of the air in the cab of the van escaped the vehicle began sinking more quickly, affording Nat no time to pull more of it’s frame away. If he had been wearing his armor he wouldn’t have had a chance, but against the river’s current even swimming in his clothes was a pain. The cable and trailing tendrils of steel ribbon dangled just above the water, just beyond his reach as he kicked and slapped against the river’s steady force.



Black edged his vision as his screaming lungs choked in air and polluted spray desperately. Each time his head would clear the water he would search, for the Councilman, for rescuers, for anything recognizable but most of all for his lifeline. It would be an unimpressive end to an unimpressive career if the Wolf were to drown. He almost chuckled at the thought, almost sucked in his last breath and gave in, when the tips of his fingers brushed the cold wire.



He didn’t have the strength to pull himself up by hand. The moment he brushed against the cable it rippled with his power, the ripple reaching even to the bridge though he could see no further than each inch that coiled around his arm. His shoulders cleared as the cable shortened and thickened, water coughed up and returned to the river below him. Against the reflected lights of the bridge shadowed shaped bobbed in the water he had escaped from, unidentifiable from the distance and gloom.



He had made a pretty horrible showing of heroism throughout this mess, but his intentions were still the same. It didn’t matter who was down there, only that no one else died. The material from the van had given him length enough to reach the water, and though his entire body felt like a wet noodle Nat lowered himself back to its surface. ”Over here,” he called as he waved, hoarse voice probably too weak to carry. Another ripple ran through the cable, an impulsive decision that turned the black steel of the van in upon itself to reveal a mirror-like sheen. Dangling as he was, with flashing tendrils of reflected light waving below him, Nat felt very much like a cricket on a fishing hook.
 


MIKE ROBER - NEUTRALIZED


CARMINE MORETTI - NEUTRALIZED


KIERAN BELL - NEUTRALIZED



"MR. PINK" / WILLIAM LAVERNE

The fingers that clutched slate-grey metal adjusted their grip, slightly, as the Glock 26 remained pressed into the side of the woman's head. The whine in his ears had long since been replaced with a marching, discordant heartbeat that felt as if it were to burst his chest open; the seconds that passed in between the officer's ultimatum and William's response felt like an eternity in its own right. He kept his gaze trained on the rifle aimed at him, only sparing the briefest glance to the woman he'd taken hostage.

Please, he heard her whimper. Barely audible. Something unintelligible, something pleading.

"You'll shoot me the moment she leaves my fuckin' hand," LaVerne spat back, spittle catching on his ski mask beneath the ballistic faceplate. "Not stupid." Fuck. He could hear sirens in the distance, drawing closer and closer; he blinked to clear his blurry vision and ducked down a bit, looking over his shoulder to the rear window. Sure enough-- a kid. Still in a booster seat. Cop was right; he'd be fucked if he took them both. He lowered the woman to the ground-- an inch or so of cover lost-- and leaned down, eyes still trained on the cop.

"If you move, I shoot you. Do not move. Hands on your skull." He growled, gun shifting to the back of her head as he stepped back and reached blindly for the rear door handle-- succeeding after one miss, his fingers locking around the handle and pulling it open. Every time he felt his attention shift purely away from that fucking barrel, he wondered if that'd be it-- if his last moments would be a split second of recognition, or just simply being unaware. His free hand grabbed the woman's shoulder and pulled her back, positioning her in front of the door as he ducked half of his body into the car-- pulling (or borderline ripping) the booster-seat out and setting it on blacktop with one hand. The pistol, while wavering slightly in position for the majority of the maneuver, didn't deviate from the woman's body.

With the kid on the ground, William led the woman-- still behind her, like an accented shadow in his all-black suit-- back to the open driver's side door.

"She comes with me in the car until the end of the bridge. Insurance." He paused. "Will have her leave then. Unharmed. Your word means shit; mine does too. Impasse."

 
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This was a bad fucking idea.

Ava felt various parts of her suit rip as she pulled herself to the surface. The tiny threads that held her clothes together just weren't designed to handle the amount of force and moisture they'd suddenly been inundated with. At least she wasn't wearing shoes right? The bitterness of her night clung almost as tightly to her skin as the cold ass Allegheny River did. Unluckily for her, the three-ring shit circus of a night just wasn't done with her.

Now, it's important to note here that Ava Hunt did not see the criminal underwater. She probably would have if she'd opened her eyes underwater, but who in their right mind was allowing this disgusting sewer and industrial runoff Pittsburgh called a river get anywhere near their eyes? What Ava did see was a sudden blur of a semi-humanoid trailed by a spray of water, noise, and red and pink flecks that she'd later realize upon recollection of the event as the remains of the man's legs. This was immediately superseded by a wave of force and pain racking her body.

Turning away from the source, that was when she saw them: the councilman and the masked woman trying to save him. They were just below the surface. She could almost reach them...and then suddenly she had a grip on the councilman's arm. The woman had thrust him towards her. Ava's mind was suddenly awash in icy clarity as she pulled the man to the surface. He was still breathing.

Move, Grandma.

Willing her body forward with powerful scizzor kicks, she placed the unconscious man atop her chest, holding him with her left arm while pulling water with her right. The river was not helping, but it wasn't exactly raging either.

God help us all...you're out of shape. Alright, first thing Monday, we're joining that Spin Class Mom keeps trying to get us to join.

Lungs burned, but the shoreline was close. Hey...there was someone there. They were waving, but the tinnitus defeated any and all other noises still.

You're embarrassing us, lard ass.

Angry determination vs. a flowing river and some exhaustion. Which side would win? Well, those descriptions weren't quite accurate.

One side had angry superpowered determination. Slowly but surely, her body forced itself against the slow current back towards the bridge. Ava only belatedly noticed that the figure seemed to be hanging from the bridge. And was wearing a mask. Shiiiit oh wait...different mask.

My luck had better be improving.

Reaching the dangling-man, Ava pushed the councilman up to him, asking "Can you lift him out?" before letting him go. She barely bothered to see whether or not the masked man responded as she swept her eyes back out towards where she'd left the other woman. The one who had saved the councilman from the van.

There. There she was. Not dead. Fantastic! Her luck was improving!

Yeah! Well...maybe don't think about the fact that your shirt is...gone...well, at least this bra's holding strong! Gonna buy more of these bitches. Like three more...yeah

Ava's mind refocused as she realized that the Hero Woman wasn't moving right in the water. Revitalized by her success with the councilman, Ava Hunt, Assistant District Attorney, unleashed a burst of aquatic speed towards the possibly drowning woman, ignoring the fact that her pants were disintegrating as she swam.

Well, the world needed its heroes...even at the cost of somewhat expensive pants.






Pittsburgh, 2023
 
The six and a half foot monster of a man was knowledgeable about his position, at least. They were at an impasse, one that Matt wasn't quite sure how to fix. While the thought of shooting him as soon as she was clear had crossed his mind, his position on the passenger side of the car meant that his backdrop wasn't nearly as clear as he'd like, not when there was a kid involved. Matt had also thought about lighting the car up as Pink drove away, especially considering it'd be a much better shoot than one that unnecessarily endangered the hostages. Both were covered by case law, of course, but he could live with killing Pink as he drove away. He could not live with the thought of hurting the baby or, more importantly, her kid if his shot overpenetrated, ricocheted, or missed.

"Take me. Let her walk away with the baby. If you really just want her until the end of the bridge, I'm more than enough insurance. No reasonable police officer is going to take a shot at you if it risks another officer." Matt started walking slowly towards the car, keeping his rifle raised just in case he needed to engage Pink but otherwise moving slowly and making sure that Pink didn't start yelling demands at him. As he neared the car, Matt held up his left hand, taking it off of his rifle to do so.

"If you're worried about me shooting you when you drive away, I can fix that too. Let me take her place and I'll clear my rifle. I obviously can't use it inside the vehicle but you'll be long gone before I can grab a mag, chamber a round, and get a good sight picture. We're both hopped up on adrenaline and I can't justify a shoot when you've started speeding off because my backdrop becomes half of Pittsburgh. You let me take her place and I won't take another shot at you."

If Pink allowed him to do so, Matt would get into the passenger side of the vehicle at roughly the same time that Pink did, helmet scraping the car's frame as he lowered himself into it. Careful to keep his movements slow and talking his way through them, Matt would press the ambidextrous mag release and replace the magazine into his plate carrier before pulling the charging handle back to eject the chambered round. For added insurance, he flicked the fire selector to safe and adjusted himself slightly in his seat.

The car's radio, tuned to 102.5, was playing Back in Black by ACDC, though Matt turned down the radio somewhat. He didn't worry about buckling his seatbelt. If Pink was being truthful, he wouldn't be in here long enough to need it and he fucking hated having to buckle a seatbelt with his SWAT plate carrier on. It always complicated everything and almost always snagged on a magazine or his admin pouch and he didn't want to have to deal with that when it was time to exit the car. He wanted to be able to get out and provide a good license plate, vehicle description, and direction of travel. He might have put himself in a bad spot but he was doing his duty to protect the citizens of the city and he'd want someone to do the same for Cecelia if she was ever in a similar situation. He might have put himself in a bad spot but he was going to do his damnedest to bring Pink to justice. He might have put himself in a bad spot but that didn't mean he was going to lose.

"So how about the Phillies? Think they'll win the World Series this year? I'm planning on watching their game against the Diamondbacks on TV but that's only because I couldn't get tickets before they sold out."
 


MIKE ROBER - NEUTRALIZED


CARMINE MORETTI - NEUTRALIZED


KIERAN BELL - NEUTRALIZED



"MR. PINK" / WILLIAM LAVERNE

William considered the cop's offer for a moment, gave a heaving sigh, and nodded, watching his approach like the cornered animal he most certainly was. Not your friend. Not your friend. He'd put a bullet in your head if he had the chance. Not your fucking friend. Once the officer moved into the car, William finally let go of the woman and motioned with his gun to the booster seat. Kid had calmed down, somewhat, but the mother looked like a wreck. "Get your kid." He muttered. "Go."

And then it was into the car. William slid the seat back and kept one hand on his pistol, but held it in his lap. A wary, predatory gaze was given towards the officer, but he kept his eyes on the road once the woman cleared away. Having been towards the midpoint of the bridge, there was still moderate traffic behind the car-- though it was easy enough to throw the car in reverse and weave around the abandoned or standstill vehicles. While the sedan backtracked along the bridge to the opposite end the van had crashed into, Will flicked the safety on his pistol and left it in his lap, using his free hand to switch the radio to an AM news radio station.

-- active shooter threat, leaving multiple potentially dead at the David L. Lawrence convention center. Suspected targets include the political debate between incumbent candidate Carter Wynn...

"Maybe." Was all Will said, for a moment. "Don't watch sports much anymore." Once they were clear enough down an open stretch of the bridge, William floored the car a moment and spun the wheel into a J-turn, seamlessly skidding the car in a 180 as his foot pressed upon the brake and he swapped from reverse, to neutral, to drive. They were driving in the wrong direction, now, but that would be easy enough to fix once they reached the end of the bridge.

"You have kids...'M. Jones'?" He muttered, looking over to the metal tag on the officer's uniform. "Family?"

The end of the bridge was nearly there. A few more moments of driving, if even.

 
Matt's hazel eyes darted back and forth as they fought to take in every detail. The sweating McDonald's cup in the cupholder; that could be important. The air freshener hanging from the dash; that did nothing to help him here. The OnStar button on the rearview; that was it, the single-most important thing in the car. Having the plate and the OnStar information would let him track the car if Pink evaded the airship that was, based on the radio traffic in his earpiece, less than two minutes out. It can't get here fast enough, thought Matt, his eyes darting to the pistol in Pink's lap. He was careful to keep himself relaxed and breathed deeply, rolling down the window to get some fresh air.

But then the swirling grey of his mind returned, this time with a vengeance. Here he was, sitting in a car with a madman who had killed multiple people, tried to kill him, and took an innocent woman and her kid as a hostage. This man who had helped get his friends killed. This man who was part of what was turning out to be a terrorist attack. This man who had no sense of honor, right or wrong, or the law. This man who was doing nothing but endangering the city. This man who, given the chance, would not only kill Matt but anyone who stepped in his way. And he had effectively disarmed himself by clicking that safety and setting the pistol in his lap. This man needed to be brought to justice and, failing that, needed to be brought to the morgue. Half of Matt wanted to let him escape, track him down with good old-fashioned detective work, and testify in court to ensure that he spent the remainder of his shitbag life in prison. The other half, the half that was rapidly winning, wanted to lash out at the man. He wanted him to suffer, to die. He wanted him to be an autopsy report to attach to an incident report. He wanted him to be a statistic.

Matt continued to look mostly forward, as if looking at the road or the radio, as he thought. Drawing his pistol would put him at a disadvantage. Pink's gun was easily accessible, all he'd have to do is pick it up and fire it. Matt might be lucky enough to survive a shot but it was too risky. Drawing his knife from his side would be too noticeable as there wasn't an easy way to hide his hands without making Pink nervous. Even using his OC would put both of them at a disadvantage and Matt wasn't even sure if it would work in enough time to achieve compliance or, better yet, in time to make Pink hurt. I'll have to do this the old fashioned way, thought the detective as he thought of a few swears to sprinkle in there for flavor. Pink was wearing a plate carrier and, while Matt could see that the ceramic was broken, it would still render any body shots useless. One of Pink's arms might be broken, though it didn't seem to be severe enough to stop him from grabbing a woman, holding a gun, or driving. Otherwise, he looked alright. A little worse for wear, of course, but alright. Even his face was covered by that fucking mask and it looked too well secured to be easily removed. That takes a good old fashioned left hook out of the equation, thought Matt. The only important exposed bit was Pink's neck and that would have to do.

The detective shuffled in his seat as if afraid of Pink's driving. He brought his hands toward him and repositioned his legs, bringing his left inwards towards him while splaying his right fully forward in the well-known style of 'oh no, we're about to crash' that scared passengers always did. When Pink asked about his family, Matt nodded. "Divorced," he started, raising his left hand to showcase the lack of a ring on his finger. "I have a daughter, Cece. She's been through a lot for her age but she's strong. She's smarter than I'll ever be, she gets that from her mom." Matt chuckled, partially in an attempt to calm himself down but partially in an attempt to mislead the man in the Pink mask.

In an explosion of action, Matt threw himself sideways across the car, head close to the driver's side door and his right side covering Pink's pistol. Matt's empty rifle was between them, sandwiched between the plate carriers of the two men. As he dove, Matt lowered his helmeted head towards Pink to protect it from defensive blows and brought both arms up towards the man's throat. His hands were splayed open, though lashed forward with as much force as Matt could muster. He sought to use the element of surprise to sharply strike the man's trachea with the webbing of his left hand while bringing the right forward to complete the choke. He hoped that the sudden movement, combined with a sudden strike to his windpipe, would startle the man enough to keep him from doing anything too stupid. At the very least, it would hopefully force his head back hard enough that he'd see stars for a moment. Regardless, he would work to position his hands around the man's neck and fucking squeeze. He wanted to crush the man's windpipe entirely, though his hands wrapping around Pink's neck would allow him to claw his fingers into his carotid arteries. He wanted Pink to die and he wanted to feel the life leave Pink's body as he did so. This was personal.
 


MIKE ROBER - NEUTRALIZED


CARMINE MORETTI - NEUTRALIZED


KIERAN BELL - NEUTRALIZED



"MR. PINK" / WILLIAM LAVERNE

LaVerne watched his passenger's movements like a hawk. Between the adrenaline running through him off of the multiple gunfights and his gift, the paranoia of sitting next to a man who was ready to kill him moments prior, and the encircling web of law enforcement that was undoubtedly closing in around him, he was on a hair-trigger; while his pistol was on safety as a gesture of good faith, he did little else to strip his defenses. One hand was kept on his thigh; the other drove. His gaze was cocked enough to keep his eyes on the road while keeping the officer in his peripheral.

"Hmph." Was all he said, for a moment. His gaze moved to Jones as the car slowed, reaching the end of the bridge. "Good to know."

A moment later, the fucking cop was on him.

His hand went for his pistol-- but that was out of the equation. Fucker sat his body on Will's thigh, blocking it-- and with one hand clenching at his neck, LaVerne's eyes went wide. His body backed up against the driver's side door; his right hand instinctively thrashed upwards to block Jones' left, blocking the second hand from fully wrapping around his neck as the muscles under his chin tensed. Unceremoniously, and without so much as a choke, LaVerne's teeth clenched and he did the only thing that he could, in that moment.

He floored it.

With his foot stamping down onto the gas pedal, the hand that had moved for his gun rotated and grabbed onto Jones' plate carrier, yanking him forward a bit further into the driver's seat as the car accelerated-- going beyond the bridge, now, and speeding down into an intersection. The wheels of the car having a slight tilt meant they didn't make it far; after crossing the intersection, the sedan prompting jumped the curb and slammed head-first into a telephone pole, skidding out and then rolling bumper-first into the tree behind it at around sixty miles per hour.

 
It started as a fight to save the citizens in the convention center. It became a fight for justice and to save the young woman and her child. It was now a fight for life and death. The two men struggled inside the car and Matt's adrenaline was coursing through his veins, combining with his white-hot rage until nothing but seething hate was evident in his eyes. His hands fought with those of the man in the Pink mask even as the car sped down the road, one that Matt fully intended to win. He pushed Pink's head away from him with all of his might. While Pink was undoubtedly strong, his right hand blocking Matt's left, Matt hoped that the benefit of leverage would help make Pink's neck even more vulnerable to a strike if he could only get his left hand free.

When the hand reached for his plate carrier, Matt tucked his head in and, bringing his mouth towards the man's hand, bit down as hard as he could on the webbing of the man's hand. He didn't care about being grabbed. No, this was about making Pink hurt and Matt wanted to bite as much of the musculature out of Pink's left hand as physically possible. He tasted blood, though it was hard to tell whose it was because of the adrenaline and, more importantly, the collision.

The airbags deployed in the blink of an eye, stopping Matt's forward momentum enough that he wasn't impaled on the steering column, though the shocked inhale combined with striking the airbag resulted in a sharp pain in Matt's left chest. Matt felt himself slam into Pink, powerless to stop physics itself as he went from being thrown forwards to being thrown backwards. It hurt to breathe, though the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins moments earlier seemed to double in strength, as did the hate. Matt's head had been protected by his helmet, though that hadn't stopped it from whipping around as a result of the collision, striking either Pink or something else entirely, and the tensing muscles sent pins and needles throughout his body. He could still move, though everything felt weird.

Dropping his left hand to his radio, Matt pressed the orange panic button on the top. The GPS tracker, so long as it wasn't damaged in the collision, would immediately broadcast his location at the same time that the radio held the line open. Matt couldn't speak, at least not right now. Instead, he reached for his OC can with his left hand, popped the top on it, and, taking as deep a breath as his body would allow, sprayed it wildly into the air between himself and the man in the Pink mask. He had been pepper sprayed before and, while it sucked, he knew to fight through it. He didn't need his eyes right now, if only because everything he needed was right in front of him. He trained for this for a reason. He fought to control Pink's hands, wherever they were. He had momentarily lost them in the collision and in the resulting confusion, though Pink's own body would let Matt find his hands as, unless they'd been severed in the collision, they were still attached to his arms.

"JUST FUCKING QUIT!" yelled Matt. "IT'S OVER! YOU'RE DONE!" His yells were instinctual, almost guttural in nature. Remembering that he had hit his panic, Matt yelled the words that he knew would get every possible resource to him as soon as possible. Words that he'd never wanted to be the one to say. Words that, to this day, he had not yet had to say outside of training.

"OFFICER DOWN!"​
 
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