Closed No Shelter

[Dragon]

Once, patrols had been one of Damon's favorite parts of the job- second only to taking down bad guys, of course. Now, he could hardly walk down the street without seeing his face. Chris Hartford, the man he'd failed to save. Not that he'd gotten a good look at the man's face in person. His body had been too horribly mangled to identify properly. The coroner had fallen back on dental records. But once he'd been positively ID'd, they'd been able to pull up pictures of what the man had looked like prior to the... incident.

On the news, they'd identified him as a middle-aged bus driver, a New York native, just a poor soul in the wrong place at the wrong time. So far, MIRA had been successful in suppressing Damon's involvement in the situation. He'd been spared having to meet with the dead man's family members and apologize for the fact that his negligence, his incompetence, had gotten the man they loved killed. Damon didn't know how he would have faced them. He could barely face himself, for the first few days afterward.

They'd sent him to mandatory counseling, meant to assuage him that none of it had been his fault. The psychiatrist's words had barely registered amidst the whirlwind of self-recrimination raging in Damon's head. He'd requested an early transfer back to Chicago, hoping a more familiar environment would help clear his head, but all the people on the street seemed to radiate contempt and judgement just as much as they had back in New York.

Manowar had stopped by to give Damon some words of encouragement, but even a pep talk from the city's top hero hadn't improved his mood much. So now he was stalking the streets with a chip on his shoulder, looking for a shot at redemption.

Despite being authorized to use his motorcycle for patrols, Damon had always preferred to get around on foot, in order to remain more approachable to ordinary people. He'd been a local hero before he was recruited to MIRA- most of his tips came from people in his own community. Tonight, nobody seemed to want to say a word to him, though. Maybe they could sense the blood on his hands.

Usually, Damon patrolled the area in and around 'the Loop,' the area in downtown Chicago surrounding a section of the city's iconic elevated rail network that looped around itself, where more than five different train lines intersected. Not the kind of place where you saw much crime, aside from criminally high prices at trendy tourist-trap restaurants. It had been chosen for him by the MIRA higher-ups, as a high-visibility location that would be good for his PR metrics, Q-score, and favorability rating. Back before he'd joined MIRA, he'd operated in crime-heavy neighborhoods like the South Side, but the brass typically preferred to keep him away from those areas now, citing 'optics concerns.'

Right now, Damon was getting increasingly fed up with the agency's obsession with optics, image management, and public relations. Most of what they'd said to him after the Central Park battle hadn't been about the man who died, or even making sure an accident like that never happened again, but rather coaching him on what to say to the media if he was approached for an interview. Chris Hartford's death had barely registered to them, except as a problem that needed to be solved.

As far as Damon was concerned, he was the problem- his lack of experience, discipline, and rigor. If he'd been able to take the rogue metahuman out faster, a man with a family would still be alive. As soon as he'd gotten back to Chicago, he'd thrown himself into training. Not just hitting the gym to get stronger, but studying martial arts, something he'd vastly neglected in favor of over-reliance on his superior strength. Whether it was natural talent, furious determination, or something else entirely, he'd proven a quick study, impressing even the trainer that MIRA had brought in at his request with the speed at which he began to pick up the various disciplines he was now practicing.

Of course, martial arts weren't actually meant for use in a real fight, any more than an Olympic sharpshooter could be a designated marksman in a military unit. It was all for sport, Damon knew that perfectly well- which meant that his newly-awarded brown belt didn't actually bring him much comfort. But it was something, at least. Some tangible reminder of his vow to always improve, not just in terms of physical strength, but in skill and discipline.

A voice interrupted Damon's silent spiral of guilt and anger, accompanied by a crackle of static over his MIRA-issued earpiece. Not the standard dispatcher- this was a police broadcast being patched into his channel.

"All units, all units- we have an eight by eight ongoing in an apartment building near Adams and Wabash. Repeat, that is an eight by eight, violent crime, possible metahuman involvement. Requesting immediate deployment of any available MIRA operators."

Adams and Wabash- that was nearby. As the police officer read off the exact address, Damon felt himself beginning to move on pure instinct, stepping into the street as he picked up speed until he was able to keep pace with cars. Unbidden, his hand reached up to the earpiece, activating his mic. The words came out of his throat before he even had a chance to consider them.

"This is the Dragon. I am responding."

 

[quirbles]

"PUPPET SHOW"

0045 HRS - DOWNTOWN CHICAGO

The last few days had been a blur.

"... have determined, after careful review of operational testimonies, eyewitness reports, and available evidence recovered by post-incident investigatory agents, that the death of Chris Hartford was wholly caused by the actions of a rogue FLI. Experts from the team we've assigned to the case have theorized, to the best of their knowledge, that..."

An accident. Really, that's what it'd been-- the wrong maneuver deployed at the wrong time, in the wrong place. Or, perhaps, it was entirely the right thing to do-- they'd saved countless lives by stopping the threat, regardless, and it was a miracle that only one person had been killed. Who knows how many more would've died, if Dragon hadn't cut off T-03; anything beyond acceptance of reality, however, was mere conjecture. Which was the point that was constantly hammered home by the professionals at MIRA. The analysts he'd debriefed with; the psychiatrists that had evaluated him post-incident.

"You did your best. And that is more than enough. These things-- they happen. They're an unfortunate byproduct of the world we live in."

That was the response, in the big leagues. These things happen. So he'd been given the care he had needed, with regards to relevant psychological analysis, and had been reassigned back to Chicago; vacancies had been filled in the patrol routes and coverage of New York, after all, and the last thing Dragon seemed to need was lingering around the city he believed he'd killed someone in. They'd quietly moved him back-- routine press updates suppressing any conspiratorial response the change might've spurned-- and left him to his own devices, with the expectation that he'd be taking it easy.

"I understand that taking it easy might be the last thing you want to do right now. But lower-pace activities are going to keep you out of the limelight, and make sure you can keep helping people. Decompression is the name of the game. Meditate. Work on yourself. Reflect, but don't let any guilt keep you from realizing you do good out there."

And Harold Print had been his usual clinical self-- reserved, cautious, ever-careful of what to say. MIRA, as a whole, extended every courtesy to help him with the transition, but it was forever under the guise of impersonal, government benefits. Filling out forms to receive pay under administrative leave, should he want the option. Contractual waivers, non-disclosure agreements. When they finally pulled back, it was a week post-incident. Leaving him to patrol. Leaving him to do as he usually did best.

Most nights were quiet. Chicago's mayor had taken a tough-on-crime approach that was targeted towards individuals with PMPD; after the business with Oracle and Mister Midwest, there was tact to approach these sorts of initiatives with. Tonight, though, was far from the placid nights that've been common in the Windy City.

It was a property that was decidedly neighboring the L; the call had come from staff, who had reported sounds of a struggle and odd noises coming from one of the upper levels. Review of security footage showed a masked figure entering the elevator maybe ten minutes prior. Police hadn't made their presence known, out of fear of making the target flee or do anything rash from police presence-- thus, the call for a Juror had been made out.

This is Sophia Hawkins with the Chicago P.D., Dragon. Glad you're with us-- suspected meta got caught on CCTV going to room 1022. Hasn't left. Put out a soft call in case it is a meta, but might not be. In any case, handing it over to you; we've secured the lobby and elevators, as well as the stairwells. Ready to move in on your call.

 

[Dragon]

Cops outside the apartment building had the door held open, which saved the Dragon the trouble of having to kick it down. He wasted no time with pleasantries as he sped past them, ignoring the elevator and heading straight for the stairwell.

Police sometimes gave Damon the side-eye, considering he was quite a bit younger than most of them, and his 'costume' wasn't quite as super-heroic as most Jurors. Even Gilgamesh, who merely wore a tailored suit, exuded a level of professionalism that the Dragon eschewed. But whatever they might have thought about him privately, they were always more than happy to let him go first in a situation like this. Always better to be standing behind the bulletproof guy.

Knowing full well that every second counted, Damon paused for a moment, bent his knees, and then jumped straight into the air, achieving a seven foot vertical leap with ease. Then, in a display of acrobatic grace, he kicked off the side of the stairs to rapidly ascend to the tenth floor, the movements coming with practiced ease. Once he'd reached the right floor, he vaulted over the railing and burst into the hallway, the sound of his thundering footsteps drawing the attention of the cops. One of the uniformed officers drew on the Dragon, only just managing to keep from squeezing the trigger as he realized it was a friendly. It wouldn't have been the first time Damon got accidentally shot by a cop- fortunately, the stray bullets never left more than a light bruise. Someone else might not have been so lucky.

"You should stay back unless I call for you," Damon informed the gathered officers brusquely, as he sized up the apartment door. "It'll be safer that way."

Normally, the Dragon wouldn't have been quite so short with them, but he wasn't in the mood for niceties today, and these trigger-happy badges were probably more likely to hit a civilian than their actual target. Of course, he didn't have any actual command authority over them, but by and large, cops didn't like to involve themselves in metahuman conflicts if they could avoid it. In Damon's experience, they preferred situations where they were the only people in the room allowed to kill with impunity.

Cracking his knuckles, the Dragon drew his hand back, ready to bash the door down- then thought better of it, and simply thrust two fingers straight through the lock, destroying the mechanism and allowing him to quietly open the door and creep inside. Subtlety wasn't his usual M.O., but in a situation like this, it might be necessary to save lives.

 

[quirbles]

The deadbolt clattered onto carpet-- pushed out in one fell swoop. The apartment was a new-modern aesthetic; the type that was so ubiquitous across newer units, and borderline sterile in its presentation. Faux-granite countertops; minimalist furniture; monochrome color schemes and plants, though the latter might've been the result of the tenant's personal choice.

Though the combined kitchen area and living room was unoccupied, there was the sound of wet choking that drifted along the hallway to Dragon's right. At the end of the hall, there was a door opened a crack-- the bare vestiges of outside light illuminating the room, should he creep closer to it. If he opened the door, an office would be revealed to him, modest and similarly clinical in aesthetic. At the desk, though, sat a woman-- rigid, and gasping as she twitched in her chair. She was spun around to face the room, as opposed to her monitors-- and standing before her, hand carving at her throat, was a silhouette wreathed in a heavy coat and what appeared to be a baggy, sackcloth mask.

The woman gave another pained, gurgling noise. Her eyes flitted to Dragon. The figure appeared to pause in his carving of the neck, and looked over his shoulder-- two darkened holes in the mask locking with the Juror's own gaze.

Silence.

 

[Dragon]

The Dragon remembered his training better than most- better than just about anyone, really. In much the same way as his body didn't atrophy or age, his mind remained perpetually sharp, memories retaining their clarity when they'd have long since faded into a haze for anyone else.

So Damon knew exactly what he was supposed to say here. "Halt- you're under arrest. Place your hands behind your head, and get down on the ground, now." But that wasn't what he did. In fact, the Dragon didn't say anything at all. His mind was racing, as he scanned the apartment, searching for anything he could use, considering all the options. The woman's face, contorted in a mask of pure terror, was already etched into his mind- if he failed, he'd never be able to forget that expression, neither the fear, nor the glimmer of hope in her eyes, that a hero was here to save her.

He had to save her. There was simply no other option. No matter what he had to do to this man, this thing, that had her life in its hands.

There were a handful of items in arms reach that could have been decent improvised weapons. An unopened can of beer, a TV remote, things of that nature. But if Damon went that route, there was no guarantee the rogue meta wouldn't be able to finish his grisly work before he hit the floor. This was no time for restraint, or half measures.

Setting his jaw, the Dragon surged forward, becoming a blur. His right arm was drawn back behind him, and as soon as he was close enough, he'd bring it up in a single, furious motion, so fast that it'd create a blade of compressed air around his hand. His intent was to sever the rogue metahuman's wrist, disconnecting the hand that had been carving at the woman's neck. It was a technique he'd never attempted before- the idea had simply come to him, like a bolt of divine inspiration.

If this was all a mix-up, some kind of misunderstanding, the guy could file a complaint- but he was going to have to do it one-handed.

 

[quirbles]

In a flash, Dragon struck true.

The angle of the Juror's hand struck just below the ulnar styloid process-- shattering bone and messily carving into the metahuman's arm just adjacent to the wrist. cutting through the thick cloth of the overcoat proved nearly unsuccessful-- and while it managed to tear through the fabric proper and dig into the man's forearm, it did not sever. Instead, Dragon's hand bottomed out about halfway through-- and successfully pulled the metahuman's own hand back, preventing him from carving any further into the woman's throat, and ripping sharpened nails free with a wet tear of flesh. Non-lethal to the victim, but otherwise extremely painful.

The rogue FLI grabbed the Dragon's hand with his other unmaimed appendage, looking at him for a moment-- the hood betraying no emotion, no reaction. Nails, sharp as knives, cut through the Juror's cloth and sunk past flesh-- and in that moment, there were pins and needles, a numbness, and a sluggishness.

And then, he acted.

The man brought his knee up-- hard-- against Dragon's chest, and then used his other hand to rip the Juror's arm out of his own shredded wrist with a spray of blood and sinew. The maneuver was coupled with a follow-up kick from the same leg that'd delivered the knee, aiming to push Dragon back with a surprising bit of force as the hooded man backed up a pair of steps. Head tilted. Examining. Almost as if he were looking inside the Juror himself.

"You're the first one they've sent." A voice finally croaked from beneath the baggy hood. "They found all the others after I was finished." He turned his head as he spoke, back to the woman. "Which means... naughty, naughty. Was it through the floorboards, or the walls--"

KRAKA-THRRMMM.

The woman lifted up her tied legs and kicked from her chair-- sending her slamming backwards into her dresser as a burst of sound energy erupted from her legs, sending the FLI through the wall of her bedroom and back out into the hallway. Falling onto her side, she looked over to Dragon with a pleading look-- gesturing with her head to the hole.

"... vvvvhh... venom. In his fffingers... c-can't..."

The numbness crept along where he'd been grabbed. How long would it take to spread further? Was it lethal?

Footsteps thudded down the hallway towards the kitchen. The perp was running-- and would likely make short work of the police.

 

[Dragon]

Damon winced as the rogue meta's nails pierced his flesh. His pain response was muted, but he knew it was significant that this man was strong enough to penetrate his nigh-unbreakable skin, even by millimeters. More significant was the fact that he'd used it as a vector to transmit some kind of toxin, the effects of which the Dragon could already feel starting to take effect. Immediately, stopping the hooded killer took on an even greater urgency- they were now on a clock.

A pair of powerful blows sent Damon flying backwards into a dresser, the lacquered wood splintering on impact. He was moments away from leaping to his feet and launching a counterattack, when the killer's would-be victim took matters into her own hands, channeling a sonic blast through her legs that launched the hooded man into the next room.

So- she was a meta. That was an interesting twist. Had she been targeted specifically for her powers, or was this just some strange coincidence? It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but Damon thought the woman's face looked familiar. He wasn't cleared to know the secret identities of everybody he worked with, so it was very possible she was a member of the Jurors, although there was every chance she was an independent or unregistered meta as well. Maybe even a criminal, although that hardly made a difference right now.

"I'm on it," he replied brusquely to her half-slurred plea. The Dragon stood, brushing wood splinters off his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he stretched his wounded arm experimentally, attempting to gauge the extent of the symptoms he'd been subjected to. His reaction speed, normally lightning-fast, was severely impaired, at least in that arm. His ambidexterity was some consolation, but if he got tagged like that again, he'd be in serious trouble.

The only solution- make sure it didn't happen again.

"Dispatch, this is Dragon. In pursuit of a rogue FLI. One... civilian, wounded at my location." He paused for a moment, at the sound of a cop howling in pain just outside of the apartment. "Likely several CPD downed as well. Requesting backup ASAP."

The words grated- Damon would have liked to take this guy down himself -but if nothing else, he needed someone else to take care of this woman. He couldn't spare a moment to help her, not when the target was on the verge of getting away.

Without another word, the Dragon burst into action again, pursuing through the very hole that the killer had been launched through. The Juror made only one brief stop, in the kitchen- to grab a brace of steak knives, sharp and jagged-edged. He'd sworn off his coin-shot technique for the time being, but this guy wasn't going nearly as fast, and a pair of knives would do a lot better than some loose change.

The moment he had the rogue FLI in his sights, Damon hurled the silver blades, with enough force behind the throw to send them straight through an ordinary man's chest. Given that he'd managed to keep his hand, this guy wasn't going to go down as easily, but a pair of knives lodged in his back was certainly going to slow him down.

 

[quirbles]

A hailstorm of gunfire ensued, for a few moments, and then fell quiet.

The hallway that T-01 had moved into was somewhat of a massacre. Cops littered the ground in a distinctly brutalized fashion. Claw marks along the face that dug a good few inches deep. Flesh that lay ribboned around the arms, blood coating the floor around turned-over bodies and blank, departed stares. One man clutched at his throat, thumbing his radio and choking out a gurgled noise-- and then relaxed, staring up at the ceiling.

"C-confirmed-- mutant--" Another man groaned out successfully to dispatch, making his way to his feet as Dragon rounded the corner. He looked to the Juror and backed up against the wall, allowing him a clear shot of the fleeing FLI-- who was now making his way down to the far end of the hall, towards a closed window that glimmered with the nighttime lights of Chicago. The knives were thrown with precision, finesse, and both slammed into the back of the metahuman with a distinct, wet noise of contact. He staggered, a moment-- nearly stumbled-- but kept his stride, ultimately making it to the window and crashing through it with the crescendo of shattered glass.

The sound of the CTA's Rapid Transit Line-- a recent addition to the L, in recent years-- screamed in from the night air of Chicago. The entire building shuddered, for a moment, as it approached and passed... with the FLI upon its roof, claws digging into the metal with a deafening thud of body striking cabin.

 

[Dragon]

"Target is mobile, hitching a ride on the El," the Dragon narrated aloud, doing his best to keep the MIRA dispatcher informed as he pursued the FLI, leaving the broken bodies of half a dozen cops behind him. He hadn't been able to save everybody, but at least these were people who'd known the risks, signed up to put their lives on the line, And if they survived, they'd likely be retiring with a generous pension. The people on that train, however- coming home from work, or heading out for an evening on the town -were entirely innocent, and vulnerable.

If Damon couldn't get aboard that train, they'd be alone with the monster. He was fast on foot, but not fast enough to keep up with a subway train. Already it was speeding past the window, down to the last few cars. He couldn't be certain he'd make the jump, but there was no option now except to try.

The Dragon threw himself through the window, aiming not to land atop the train, but to hit the side, where he dug his fingers into the steel exterior of the car, producing the ear-piercing screech of rending metal. The train's momentum was nearly enough to dislodge his iron grip and send him tumbling to the street below, but Damon held on, gritting his teeth and summoning all of his strength.

Pulling himself atop the train car would have been an immense feat, while they were still in motion. While it might have succeeded, doing so risked being tossed from the train's surface and left behind. Instead, the Dragon clawed his way towards the nearest window, and began pounding upon it- gently, at first, to alert the train car's occupants to his presence. Then, he started slamming against the reinforced plexiglass harder, until it finally broke- not shattering into a million jagged shards, but falling inwards intact, as it had been designed to do.

Pulling himself into the car, Damon paused for a brief moment to catch his breath, then spoke up, addressing the passengers who hadn't yet fled.

"All of you- get to the next car down. Now!"

Snapping his fingers twice to make sure they got the message, Damon watched as the frightened passengers made their way into the next car- then he began to listen. Specifically, for the sound of footsteps above him. The FLI was moving around up there, heavy footsteps audible even over the cacophony of sound that was the train system.

Once he'd ascertained the rogue metahuman's rough location, the Dragon would attempt to thrust his fist through the rough of the car, and grab the FLI's leg, before pulling it down through the hole he'd created- leaving him trapped there, one limb pinned down, the rest of him stuck atop the train but unable to move.

Damon was under no illusions about this little trick keeping his foe in place forever, but it might at least buy him a little time. The train was completing its circuit through the Loop, and would soon be heading out further into the city, away from the densely populated downtown area where they were currently situated. That meant a reduced chance of casualties and collateral damage.

The train car was already badly torn up from the Dragon's efforts at hitching a ride and getting inside- any further damage was just icing on the cake. At least, that was how he justified it to himself when he took one of the poles in the middle of the train and snapped it loose, freeing the thick metal rod to use as a makeshift weapon. Ironically, the metal was probably less durable than Damon's own flesh, but it would afford him extra reach in combat, which would be necessary to avoid getting hit with that numbing poison again.

Now armed, the Dragon exited the train car as well, bracing himself in the narrow space between cars before he pulled himself atop it, now placing himself on even footing with the FLI- who was, hopefully, still stuck with his leg dangling inside the now-empty car. It took a moment for Damon to find his balance, before he began advancing towards the rogue metahuman- dragging the metal pole along behind him, causing sparks to fly as it scraped along the steel exterior of the car.

"You have a name, dirtbag? Better tell me now, before I hit you so hard you forget what it is."