Open RP Mary's QUEST!

[Ira]

The pain had addled Mary's mind, turned her vision red and caused her to act entirely irrationally. Would she have attacked two uninvolved parties for no reason on a good day? Certainly not! Of course, today hadn't been a good day.

As the Shrike leaped off of the ground and made his attack on her, a piercing bolt of clarity struck the warlock. To Mary, it was as if she was watching the man move in slow motion. He twisted in the air, aiming to chokeslam Mary into, well, into whatever was closest. Options presented themselves to the warlock, she could take the hit and lose her own throat in the process. Of course, she could then transfer the pain into energy. Another set of twin blasts at point-blank range into the man's neck- instant obliteration of the windpipe and jugular. Like a sledgehammer swung full force into this poor sap's throat...

That'd certainly kill him.

And Mary wasn't ready to kill. Not yet.

So as Shrike came in, mere milliseconds before his attack would have connected, Mary disappeared. Today was not a good day. Mary hadn't done anything productive, she broke her own codes and violated the sanctity of a man's private residence, then, after finding the super-powerful crystal, broke it. If that was bad enough, the breaking of her target item had nearly turned her into a paraplegic, and she wasn't even really healed!

But as bad as the day had been, it didn't need to end with Mary crossing that final line. Not yet, not today. So she had concentrated her energies into casting a new spell. All that would be left of Mary's presence was a gentle, silvery mist as she 'stepped' from this position to another thirty feet away outside. Then, taking the pain of her legs trying to stand, she misty stepped again, and again, and again.

Until she was gone.

 

[Shrike]

As the Shrike soared through the air, claws outstretched, time seemed to freeze. As he brought the talon down on Mary's neck, he was surprised to come up empty-handed, having struck only open air. Merely the faint silver outline remained, naught but insubstantial dust that covered his hand, then faded entirely. He finished his aerial maneuver with a three point landing, perfect in poise, but internally uneasy. With a grunt, he pressed his palm over his chest where the blast had struck him. He had affected an air of imperviousness to the strike, but in truth, pain emanated from his chest. He could feel where the beam had torn through the reinforced kevlar over his breast, and the impact had carried through into his pectoral.

Cracked rib. Gotta be.

It'd heal shortly. But for now, he felt the ache of exhaustion. There was shrapnel still in his abdomen, and when he looked at his hand, he could see blood seeping from the palm where he'd caught the tip of his own blade, redirected at him by Arlecchino.

The Stockbroker was long gone in the hands of his cousin, and it was an open question whether he'd survive the trauma that'd been inflicted on him tonight. Some might say it was no less than he deserved - but he had his uses still. The ill-fated confluence of the Shrike's raid on the house with whatever had transpired below had rendered the mission incomplete. Not a failure - he didn't think in those terms - but unfinished.

He'd pay him a visit in the hospital, if he survived.

Reflecting on the preceding events, there was a grim irony, the Shrike thought, in the fact that Giancarlo might have perished without his being here to lift the rubble off of him. The explosion, presumably, might still have occurred.

Sirens cut through the air outside. The roof was blown off the extravagant home, giving the Shrike an excellent view of the police and news helicopters that now closed in, a bookend to the chase he'd led them on earlier. Perhaps he'd be blamed for this as well, though he was no serial arsonist. Bombs weren't his M.O., just as firearms weren't.

He was in no mood to do battle with law enforcement.

Grunting, he hurled a miniature spear into the sky with a flourish. Affixed to it was a monofilament wire not unlike that of Arlecchino. Angling a shot on the underside of one of the hovering helicopters, he felt it land, silently fired into the night air and punching through the underside of the craft. Hoisting his weight upward, he allowed himself to be pulled along - a mere shadow darting through the air over the ruined mansion, eluding the sight of those beneath.

 

[quirbles]

Giancarlo seemed to like his cars; there was a Porsche in the garage, along with a Jeep Grand Cherokee and an older Bronco. Arlecchino chose whichever car's keys he could find on the wall-- the Bronco-- and opened the garage door with the clicker on the keyring, shouldering a heavily-bleeding Giancarlo into the backseat and stepping into the driver's side at the front.

He had never driven in America. It was the same side of the road, however, so it would not be difficult.

"Eh, a-stop... bleeding, sì?"

He twisted the keys in the ignition. Sirens caught his ears, and he floored it out of the garage, slamming through the gate of the property in the process before the cops could arrive. Last thing he needed was being undocumented in a house-bombing.