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 the pinnacle of chore-chart communication.)

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 the 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!)

 

[HighVoltage]

Whisper had killed before. It was, after all, his primary source of work. And while his abilities tended to lend themselves towards more cloak and dagger affairs, there were times when a simple knife in the back wouldn’t finish the job. Even when fighting someone head-to-head, invisibility was usually enough of a thumb on the scales to shift the balance in his favor.

So it wasn’t necessarily the metal-clad fist smashing into his midsection that surprised him, pain shooting through his stomach as he damn near doubled-over, rippling back into the visible spectrum. Nor was it the heavy boot that did it, a follow-up that hit Whisper like a concrete-encrusted dagger; pointed, yet dull. Breath was forced out of his lungs, the blow taking Whisper’s feet out from under him and launching him backwards.

The crunching sound that followed was either the crates beneath him giving way or some of his bones cracking. Whisper wasn’t sure which it was, as most of his brain’s processing power was devoted to trying to breathe again. Judging by the splinters and jagged pieces of wood digging into him, it was most likely the former. Judging by the throbbing in his chest as he tried to pull himself upwards, the latter couldn’t be entirely ruled out.

Whisper fumbled, one arm throbbing dully as he raised it to his ear, pressing it to the earpiece he had in. He ignored the single beep, keeping the button pressed until it spat out two in quick succession before letting his arm flop to his side. Nek and Brock would get the notice, hopefully they wouldn’t be long. If Brock could ignore his stupid honor fight bullshit, then Nek could get Still Water active and hopefully kill this fucker.

Who were they, anyway?

The thought surfaced like a popped bubble as the figure made no move to press their advantage. Instead they stepped between him and the bloodied corpse he’d made, posture clear that they weren’t stepping aside. How the fuck did they hit him? Fuck, it would be just his luck that one of the few times he had to get his hands dirty, Whisper ran into someone with the power to fucking see invisibility. But they hadn’t looked at him, and that wouldn’t explain the sheer power they’d hit him with.

Fuck this. Whisper drew two knives and flung them at the figure, one high one low, before prying himself out of the man-shaped indent that had been his crash pad. He wouldn’t hit any vitals, that was for fucking sure, but the blades would serve well enough as a distraction. Enough so he could slip back into the shadows and regroup, perhaps strike again while they were distracted.

As Whisper called the light to shift around him once more and slunk away, footsteps muffled even against shards of shattering wood, his skin crawled. With each step that took him further away, the masked figure turned to follow him, blank gaze never leaving until he slipped around a corner. Yet even as he broke line of sight, Whisper could still feel those white eyes on him, and couldn’t shake the feeling that the mask itself was laughing, reveling in his pain.

 

[HighVoltage]

Necromancer wasn’t sure why it had decided to go along with this job. The money was nice, sure, Whisper had a knack for squeezing every last cent out of whoever was foolish enough to contract the three of them, after all. But after a handful of jobs, it had been satisfied with the money. Whisper wanted to continue this work to amass more, a hole that could never truly be filled. No, Necromancer felt there was something more it wanted. A chance to test its power, perhaps, or just looking for something more interesting in its last contract before it retired.

Whatever the case may have been, it was enjoying the quiet that came after Whisper went out to answer the call. He was more than a little impatient, and had yet to learn the intrinsic value of silence. Necromancer was slowly working its way through its book, occasionally casting glances at the third member of their merry band to ensure that he wouldn’t run off.

When the beep came again through the earpiece, it ignored it. After all, it simply could’ve been a repeat of the order that Whisper had already gone to answer, presuming he didn’t get lost between here and the actual warehouse. Then the signal came, two rapid beeps. Necromancer let out a sigh as it closed its book, turning to find Barricade staring at it expectantly, head tilted slightly as though he were a dog asking a question.

Necromancer simply nodded as Barricade bared his teeth in response, a malicious grin that bore no levity. It picked up its mask from the table and donned its disguise, a silver skull coated in gold filigree, splashed with red and black. It rose from the table, gesturing for Barricade to follow. As Necromancer walked, it sunk into the depths of itself, the pool of dusty gray power that lay within, oft left untouched.

Still Water was a simple thing, and yet it required hours of preparation in order to be somewhat useful. One did not create an army without proper preparations, of course. It had found that most mercenaries were rather receptive to a free shot of whiskey on the job, especially if it was delivered alongside Whisper’s easygoing smile. The man had his uses, it had to admit. Primarily dealing with the ordinary people that it would rather avoid. The alcohol - cheap of course, it would never waste good liquor on these plebeians - ensured that the few milliliters of Necromancer’s saliva went unnoticed. Once it was properly integrated within their bodies, then they were within its power.

It felt them now, the tiny little specks of dirty gray that matched its own pool. They sung to it, like calling to like, and it answered. Darts of ashen light spun from its fingertips, seeking a connection as they darted through the hallways. The first one found its target, diving into the bloodied corpse with a whisper. The rest followed suit, each dart finding its own.

It clenched its fist, tugging on the power, bending it to its will as Necromancer lived up to its title. The bodies shuddered, eyes sliding open to reveal dusty ashen sockets. It strode onto one of the many catwalks in the warehouse, somewhat aware that it had lost track of Barricade at some point. No matter, he would sniff out his target in due time.

The dead rose to their feet, movements far too smooth to be considered remotely human, as Necromancer issued a command. At this scale, it could hardly exert fine control on the various corpses under its control. It could, however, plant a single directive into what remained of their minds and let them carry the order out.

And so the dead began to move, abandoning their firearms as they shuffled towards their destination. Other than the sound of boots on concrete, the army was eerily silent as they sought to follow their command with hungry jaws and desperate nails. They sought to kill the masked mercenary who stood over their comrade’s body.

 

[Katpride]

The guy doesn’t try to get close again. Smart of him, really. Miku beeps, one high tone and one low, and they lean out of the way of the upper knife, let their shinguards take the lower one so they don’t have to worry about it hitting Mari. There’s a tiny, fabric-dulled metallic clang when it hits them, then a louder clatter as it falls to the floor. Spork doesn’t even pretend to ‘look’ at the weapon - they kick it away without breaking their staredown, tracking the man’s position until Miku stops giving them updates.

Once he’s out of range they drop out of their ready stance, hurrying over to Mari and kneeling beside her. Their voice sounds steadier than they feel, but rings like an off-key note in the quiet buzzing of the private channel. “Alright Miku, what’s the damage?”

They wait for it to finish its scan with grim patience. They have to know - (Are they gonna hurt her if they try to move her? She was fine last time, but what if it’s different, for different injuries? (What if she doesn’t-) No. She’ll be fine. (They have to believe that.) And besides, they can’t just leave her out in the middle of everything. What if that guy comes back?) - what’s going on. So they can be informed.

(Even if they don’t know if they want to know.) (They don’t. Miku lists her injuries in the same voice it uses for targets and positioning and everything else, and they feel (nothing). (They let the gray settle over their thoughts, because it’s better that than being (useless), and reach with static-numbed fingers to-)) pick her up. (-familiar-) corner, where they can defend her (-cold-) kill the guy, if he-

T-07 (-wait, what?-) jolts them out of autopilot. They backpedal, shifting Mari closer to their chest and tapping their fingers together so that Miku will repeat what it said. (Because that can’t be right. They already took out 07. Is this a glitch? Does it think the mission is already over? Why would it start at seven if it was reassigning the numbers?)

T-07, unarmed, 9 feet, 4 o’clock, deceased. They relax minutely, readjust their hold, and turn so that they can give the glitch a wider berth. (Weird. Or maybe it isn’t a glitch; maybe it’s an update, so they can keep track of the-?) 8 feet. (Fuck.)

They jolt back into motion, hurrying away from the maybe-zombie. Their bootfalls sound horrendously loud against the concrete floor, burying the soft shuffling sounds behind them. Trying to listen for it only makes them aware of a buzzing in their ears, cut only by the harsh rasp of their own breath. (Only theirs, because Mari isn’t-)

4.5 minutes remain- T-10, decea- T-10, unarmed, 5 feet- They turn down a different aisle, skidding a little with the suddenness of the pivot, but only travel a few feet before Miku hums in sudden warning, its elaboration of ‘Dead End.’ hitting too late for them to avoid banging their knee on the crate that jumps out at them. They fumble and drop Mari atop the offending crate with less care than they should, and waste a second or two checking on her before Miku beeps at them again and a body gracelessly collides with theirs just as they start to turn and-

“Fuck- OFF!” The scream tears their throat raw, pure frustration edged with something just this side of (-rage-) (because god, they don’t want to fight, they want to go home and sit in silence until this (stupid fucking) headache goes away, but they can’t because Mari- (needs them) and they can’t just leave her-) tear the zombie off their arm, fling it away (-breathe-) another, nails like claws across their shoulder (-hurts-) just keep coming, and they’re glad they’re silent because they don’t think they could stand (-loud-) tries to lunge around them, and something (snaps.)

They grab the questing arm and snap it between their hands, hauling the snarling thing back and throwing it into the next nearest body. Its flailing foot clouts them across the face, (catching on something that goes spinning off into the crates) but they don’t even blink before rushing forward to close the newly opened space, carving their way through the tide of claws and teeth with little regard for the increasingly torn state of their skin.

(Their mind is a buzzing blank.)

 

[HighVoltage]

Necromancer raised an eyebrow as a roar of fry echoed through the warehouse, standing head and shoulders above the shambles and various groaning sounds of the undead horde. Still Water had the unfortunate effect of compromising the body’s structural integrity, a catalyst needed to provide the energy required for movement. It meant that no body could be animated twice, and if it was in a rough shape to begin with, the resulting undead would be only slightly more useful than a mannequin on wheels.

It watched the ensuing carnage below with interest, eyeing the rogue mercenary as their helmet flew off from a lucky blow. It mentally noted the shaggy, sweat-soaked blonde hair that came free, although that was the only notable feature it could see from this position. They were actually proving quite the force, smashing their way through the undead horde while blind to the damage being piled upon them. Well, blind or indifferent. Necromancer wasn’t at liberty to say which option was correct, especially since it regularly associated with the oblivious wall of meat known only as Barricade.

Speaking of whom, where-?

Booted feet pounded against concrete, miniature cracks spiderwebbing out from each step. Barricade was taking care to step lightly, at least until he got out onto the warehouse floor proper. Nekro had snapped at him more than once for being “a big loud brute”, and while he couldn’t really find any fault in that statement, something in its tone had led to Brock spending the rest of the evening trying to figure out what it was trying to imply whenever it brought the comment up.

Bah, but now wasn’t the time for thinking! It was the time for fighting, for hitting, for smashing someone’s skull in with his bare hands! Whisper had said that Brock was a ‘best for last’ case, and now he was finally ready to go! He’d already gotten into his work clothes, which in this case actually covered less than his regular ones.

Ripped jeans that were more rip than jean, a sleek leather vest with nothing underneath, his trusty shit-kicking boots, and of course a pair of fingerless gloves were all he needed to go from Brock to Barricade, from ordinary citizen to certified ass-kicker. Something twitched in the back of his mind, a faint warning from Whisper about keeping their identities a secret in case the cops showed up. Brock had an easy fix for that. He snapped out a pair of sunglasses, dark triangular shades that came to a wicked point at the end of each lens. Now he was ready to party.

His footsteps echoed through the warehouse as Barricade joggedtowards the noise. He made no attempt to hold back now, evident by the trail of footprints crushed into the concrete floor. It sounded like Nekro had gotten a proper fight going, although it sounded like there were less zombies than he’d been led to believe. Barricade did wonder how it did that, especially since its only response had been to raise an eyebrow and offer him a filled shotglass. He’d graciously accepted, not one to turn away free booze!

These fucking crates were a maze, though. Brock had gotten turned around twice already, and had only realized he’d been going in circles the third time he saw a crate that looked like a bloodied hedgehog. Fuck this. He was Barricade, and nothing was going to stand in his way! He simply had to take the most direct route. Turning towards the wall of crates, Brock took a few steps back and charged. The crates gave, an avalanche of splinters falling around him.

Fueled by the destruction, Brock continued to charge, smashing through wall after wall until, with one last crash, he broke into the battlefield. His momentum carried him further along than he expected, trampling one of Nekro’s zombies underfoot. Oops. He hoped it wasn’t watching him, or he’d never hear the end of it.

“Sup.” Brock said, giving a little upwards nod at the cool dude standing in the middle of the gorefest, gauntleted fists caked in blood and viscera. “Nice mullet. What product do you use?”

Ah.