Closed RP T-Minus

[HighVoltage]

It was an easy job. Well, easy was relative in their line of work. Spork had finally agreed to some simple jobs once she’d been deemed “death-free” by whatever arbitrary standard they used. She hadn’t argued with them like that in a while, but with things smoothed over, Mari had found a couple jobs to help them both ease back into things. While they didn’t scratch that problem-solving itch that was the whole reason she did this work, it helped to prove to Spork that she was fine.

It also helped prove to her that their teamwork was still solid. That had been her biggest worry since their argument, that some part of their bond had been irrevocably severed, that she and Spork had become a pair of mismatched gears, grinding and grating against each other before one of them broke. Mari had been relieved to have that question answered on their first job back, reassuring her that they were just as effective a pair as they always had been.

Eventually Mari had figured they’d be ready for something a little more complicated. She’d floated the idea to Spork, perhaps downplaying a bit of the complexity, but dammit she needed something to challenge her mentally, otherwise this was just shooting people for money. They’d agreed, once she’d told them about some of the work their target had been doing, and unfortunately that’s what led them to be in this situation.

It was supposed to be an easy job.

The information had been straightforward: military tech was being smuggled into the city by an unknown party, and there was currently a stockpile in one of the city’s seemingly endless abandoned warehouses. Mari had received the address and scouted the area, both in the light of day and the dark of night. Security presence didn’t seem to change with the time of day, but based on the numbers she saw coming and going, it shouldn’t have been a problem.

Someone had fucked with her plan. Now they probably didn’t know it, being the asshole of a vigilante they probably were, but something had spooked the targets and resistance inside had been a lot heavier than expected. They’d attempted to slip through a side entrance after taking care of the exterior guards and had found another pair waiting for them. After that it hadn’t taken long for the alarm to be raised. She’d gotten separated from Shiba at some point, although Kitsune could tell they were still alive from the quips and sounds of violent melee combat. At her last glance, they’d been in their element, gauntlets dripping with red, darting from cover to cover, and just being a general menace.

The sound of shots ripping through the air shoved a cold dagger into Kitsune’s heart. “Shiba, status.” She growled, gaze flicking to the vitals display she had running. They were still going, which meant they weren’t dead, but they could be in the process. Shiba’s response took too long, but was no less relieving when she heard it. The sharp crack of gunpowder now added to the general din that filled the space, and Kitsune knew that a single well-placed shot could- no.

Focus.

Kitsune felt the world around her slow for a moment. State, analyze, plan, execute. Targets: gunmen. A quick scan of the space and she found them, perched on the catwalks up above, raining lead down on her and Shiba. Analysis: they could see almost the whole space, and Shiba had been the one carving a trail of red while Kitsune had picked off some of the targets that had been too far off the path. She inhaled sharply as it clicked in her brain, Kitsune’s blood turning to ice.

Shiba was their primary target.

Plan: change that. Kitsune ducked down behind her stack of crates, reloading her pistol and pulling a few components out of her pouches. A handful of moments later (every second was precious why was she wasting time she had to move dammit) and Kitsune held a rifle in her hands. Spork’s jokes about her shit throwing skills echoed in her head as she pulled out a flashbang, taken from Shiba’s stockpile when they weren’t looking, activated it, and tossed it behind her, over the crates, and into the unknown.

The deafening bang drowned out all other noise, and through the ringing Kitsune couldn’t hear the crack of gunshots. That was her cue. She darted out from behind cover, lined up her first shot, and squeezed the trigger. A gunman fell, she moved to another pile of crates. The sound of bullets smashing into the concrete where she’d been before signalled that the gunmen had recovered their sight. That was fine, it had gotten their attention. She ducked out again, took another shot, and took cover in a new spot. Move, shoot, move, shoot. She got into a rhythm, and a certain warmth filled Mari as she drew attention away from her partner. She could do this, she could keep Spork safe.

That warmth turned into a burning sensation as the air was shattered and something ripped through her torso. Mari glanced down at the golf ball-sized hole in her chest and felt her legs give out. Her gun slipped from her grasp and her head smashed against the ground. She would’ve seen stars if there was anything to see. One thought went through her head as darkness claimed Mari, another life expended.

At least Spork knows this time. They’ll be safe until I get back.

 

[Katpride]

Spork doesn’t know what Mari’s freaking out about. Sure, there are a lot of guys in this warehouse, but it isn’t, like, an unreasonable number of dudes. They’ve totally got this.

Beep beep. Something’s coming at them from above. Spork lifts their latest dance partner so that he’s between them and whatever it is, just in time for the pop of gunfire to reach their ears. Oh, shit, are there people in the rafters? That’s annoying.

Mari’s message comes through just as they’re taking strategic cover behind a new stack of crates, but Spork is a little too busy to respond right away. It’s only after they throw their dude-shield at the mook trying to sneak up on their right, kick a stray crate at him to trip him up, and deck the henchman on their left that they have enough breathing room to make the gauntlet gesture that switches them over to the private channel. “Fine and dandy. Fireworks are annoying, though.”

Beep beep. Speak of the fucking devil. Miku’s timing must be a little off this time, because even as Spork throws themself to the side they swear they can feel the bullets whizzing just past their frame. “Shit.”

Oh, wait, they’re still on the private channel. “Uh, disregard. Or don’t, I mean, you can regard all you like. But maybe regard the snipers before the- uh- me. Whatevs. Shiba out.”

It’s harder than it looks, thinking up witty banter while staying one step ahead of the snipers. They switch back to the public channel before they can keep rambling, because if they’re shooting at Mari too then they don’t want to be distracting her, and keep running.

“I’m fast as fuck boi,” they mumble, just for the fun of hearing the vocal filter turn the meme into a growled threat as they crash through another knot of henchmen. It’s the simple things in life, really. Then there’s a loud as fuck noise that, for once, they aren’t the cause of, and they pause for a moment, turning in the direction of it even as Miku fights to be heard over the sudden ringing in their ears.

“Kit?” Gah, they can barely hear themself. They make a sharp gesture with one of their gauntlets, and Miku stops warning them about the guy approaching at their four - they stick an arm out, and he clotheslines himself - and gives them an update on Mari’s position. She’s still up, and moving fast. They can hear the distinctive sizzle of her laser pistol, if they concentrate.

And they haven’t sprouted any new holes, despite their pause. Alright. That’s fine, then. Seems like she’s got it under control. Silly of them to worry.

Spork keeps moving. The rhythm sweeps them up like they never left, and soon they’re smiling again, cracking jokes and cracking heads, enjoying the fight more now that they don’t have to duck and weave all the time.

(A crack, like pool balls clacking against each other, and it doesn’t sound like any of the gunshots sounded before but Spork doesn’t turn, just finishes putting down what should be the last of the nameless mooks scattered around the area. It’s fine. It wasn’t directed at them, or Miku would’ve warned them. They just need to finish this and then they can go watch Mari's back properly. She'll be-

K-01, deceased. Time to revival: 5 minutes.

No. Not again.)

 

[HighVoltage]

Supply and demand was a funny thing.

With the rise of metahuman vigilantes sticking their righteous noses where they didn’t belong, the arms race of organized crime versus the law had needed to escalate further. Thus went out a call, to any metas willing to lend their skills to the poor, vulnerable criminal enterprises. Whisper had answered that call, and had netted himself and his crew a handful of lucrative jobs.

It was easy money, in the end. Most of the time they were just a deterrent, preferred to be kept on hand than be found wanting when the time came. So they’d spent several nights just sitting in the back room of different warehouses, waiting for a call to join the fray that didn’t come.

Tonight wasn’t much different. He, Nek, and Brock were waiting in the back, bored out of their skulls. Well, he and Brock were at least. Any time either of them tried to talk, Nek gave them a glare that could dry an ocean. Whisper didn’t know what was up with Nek’s eyes, strange things that looked more like chips of pale jade than flesh and blood, but a stare from them withered the bowels.

The signal had come; a crackling, panicky voice in his earpiece that ordered him to come up. After draining his tankard, offering Brock a ‘better luck next time, big guy’, and dodging another punishing glare from Nek, Whisper sheathed his blades and slipped through the door.

The faint sounds of battle could be heard coming from down the hall, and he quickened his steps to join them. Nobody left alive meant nobody to pay him, and then this would’ve all been for nothing. Stepping out of the office hallway, Whisper surveyed the scene that stretched out below him.

Two targets it looked like, a double-pronged attack. One of them was at range, bursts of searing orange tearing through the air and filling it with the scent of burnt flesh. The other appeared to be a bruiser, throwing things and people with violent, brutal efficiency. Whisper grimaced. Hopefully he could clean up things here soon, otherwise Brock would challenge that one in single combat and he didn’t feel like scraping his crewmate off the floor.

Ranged first then. He’d need something of his own, though. Like against like, and all that. Whisper jammed the thin blade of his knife into the crack of the nearest crate and levered it open, the snap of wood lost in the din of battle. He had no idea what this was. But it was sleek, had a sight and trigger, and one end was very obviously meant to be pointed at the target. Perfect.

As he grabbed the gun, Whisper willed the world to shift around him, for light itself to ignore his presence and wrap around him. It was a bit odd, not seeing your body in your peripheral vision, but it no longer bothered him. Sneaking onto the strangely empty catwalks, Whisper set himself up on a railing, keeping an eye out for his target. They made themselves known quite quickly, stepping out and firing off a shot before ducking behind another set of crates.

They made a mistake though. There was a pattern to their movements, a method to their madness. As they squeezed off one last shot, Whisper pulled the trigger. Before the figure could dart back into cover, a massive crack echoed through the space, the sound of a frozen lake shattering, and a screaming white light. When Whisper regained his vision, his target was on the ground, surrounded by a slowly-expanding red puddle. One down, one to go.

He left the gun behind. As much fun as it was shooting fish in a barrel, Whisper enjoyed the more intimate touch of a knife slid between the ribs. The fact that he was invisible didn’t make the playing field much more even, but he felt it gave them more of a chance. Or at least, that’s what he thought as he slunk to the ground floor, both blades drawn and clutched tight in his hands. Two was better than one, in this instance. The first knife went in the side, the second came around for the chest. No chance of recovery from that.

The brute made his job easy, lumbering along on heavy-booted feet. They were running somewhere, and Whisper picked up the pace in order to catch up, the sound of his footsteps never even reaching his own ears. He had to slow, however, as they skidded to a stop, presumably taking in the sight of their partner's rapidly cooling body. Heh, go figure. Whisper drew back one blade, creeping closer, itching to bury it in their flesh.

At the very least they could die together. He could grant them that mercy.

 

[Katpride]

The warehouse is a maze of crates and fresh corpses. Spork hardly notices the collection of splinters and blood spatters they amass as they race through the stacks, bee-lining for Mari. (For Mari’s body.) (No, for Mari, because she’s still in there somewhere, and when she comes back they are going to- they are going to have words, dammit. They told her to stop pulling this shit, and instead of listening she gave Miku a fucking resurrection countdown?! Who does that?!)

(They wish they could say they expected any differently, but some part of them thinks they shouldn’t be surprised by any of this. Of course she would. She’s Mari. She thinks braille post-it notes are a good way to communicate whose turn it is to do the dishes.)

At least the countdown isn’t going second by second. They might have had to shoot Miku themself, if it pulled that. No, it’s quiet except for turning directions and proximity beeps when they round a corner too fast, and for that they can only be thankful.

One last corner - taken sharply enough they almost skid in a puddle of probably-blood, catching themself on the edge of a crate and using it to hastily course-correct - and they’re there. They pause at the edge of the relatively open space in the middle of the warehouse, tapping their fingers together in a quick motion. Miku obediently follows their unspoken directive.

K-01, 6 feet, 11 o’clock, de- Beep beep. This time, the proximity alarm sounds from directly behind them, cutting off Miku’s report, and Spork whirls around with their fists already raised, punching out into what would look to anyone else like open air - and hitting something solid. Someone solid. The look they give the criminal would be even more chilling than their follow-up - a standing kick aimed to knock him back into the row of crates behind him - if not for their mask hiding their features. As it is, the action speaks for itself, no holds barred as they use their enhanced strength to open some distance between the two of them.

They don’t move to close the distance, instead stepping between the target and Mari and waiting with their hands still curled into fists, half-listening to Miku and half seething, because how dare he. How dare he try to stab them while they were checking on Mari. (On Mari’s body.) (Shut up! Not thinking about it!)