Event The Mask Slips

quirbles

quirbles

on smoke break, bother somebody else
Staff member
M.I.R.A. TerminOS version 0.62b
Secure Distribution - North-Atlantic Bureau A4
TerminOS kernel 40406 [build 40406 OEM 8eXD]
Running TerminOS as current module . . .
Press DEL to run Setup
                                                                                        
                                                                                        
`7MMM.     ,MMF'           `7MMF'           `7MM"""Mq.                   db             
  MMMb    dPMM               MM               MM   `MM.                 ;MM:            
  M YM   ,M MM               MM               MM   ,M9                 ,V^MM.           
  M  Mb  M' MM               MM               MMmmdM9                 ,M  `MM           
  M  YM.P'  MM               MM               MM  YM.                 AbmmmqMA          
  M  `YM'   MM      ,,       MM      ,,       MM   `Mb.     ,,       A'     VML      ,, 
.JML. `'  .JMML.    db     .JMML.    db     .JMML. .JMM.    db     .AMA.   .AMMA.    db 
                                                                                        
                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                                                                                                                                   
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SITE-WIDE NOTICE: PASSWORD ROTATIONS IN EFFECT AT 1500 HRS.
CURRENT CLEARANCE LEVEL: RED-9
CURRENT AGENCY-WIDE STATUS: BLUE

FETCHING INCIDENT INFORMATION . . .

INCIDENT ID: I-212255087-ADI-C
LOCATION: MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, NEW YORK - CENTRAL PARK
INCIDENT STATUS: ACTIVE
INCIDENT DESCRIPTION: POTENTIAL SUPERFELON(S), ASSAULT WITH DEADLY FACTOR, ARSON

THREAT-STAKE ASSESSMENT: RED-3

FETCHING DISPATCHED AGENT LIST . . .

[ ALL AVAILABLE OPERATORS ]




"THE MASK SLIPS"
CENTRAL PARK, MANHATTAN, NY - 1533 HRS


All active Jurors on-call, we have multiple reports of assault with a deadly factor and potential arson in the southwest sector of Central Park. Be advised that eyewitness reports have detailed two suspects, male and female; no positive ID. Incident Response Task Force is currently being formed at Bluebird; should you be in the area, please detail alias and specialty, over.

Typical incident response protocol mandated nearby on-call operators to respond to active incidents at or below their Threat-Stake level; a RED-3 event was not entirely threatening. It was par the course for most active incidents, especially in a city like New York; everyday crime was elevated in severity by the presence of PMPD-affected individuals, but the breadth of coverage by MIRA served as a thorough means of disincentivizing any illegal activity-- in broad daylight, at least. Every now and again, though, there was a criminal that used their powers as a means of spectacle-- not quite hurting anyone, but attempting a robbery, ransom, or some sort of greater institutional attack to send a message. Good for the cameras, and good for MIRA-- and any detractors saying that the fights were staged, or greenlit by the agency were thoroughly drowned out in a carefully-engineered media blitz. The Myth was preserved, the Jurors would prevail, and criminals were given scathing rebukes in court before being locked back up. There were rumors that some prisoners played the heavy-- arriving at some sort of agreement to take the fall and fail in exchange for financial support to families, better living conditions in PMPD-friendly incarceration centers, or image rehabilitation. All rumors, though, of course. Nothing provable, and never anything on paper.

But then there were the outliers.

Arson in Central Park was an outlier. Assault with a deadly factor, too, was not under the purview of The Myth-- extensive bodily or mental trauma to innocent civilians was clear grounds for a measured, but fierce, response from the agency. Still, cloaks were always advised to take the high road; pursue incapacitation if possible, and neutralization as a last resort.

Central Park S and Central Park W have been cordoned off and available officers are looking to contain the media response; civilians with cameras are still in the park, however. You are redlight for lethal engagement. All responding Jurors are mandated to respond at 59 Street, Columbus Circle, for delegation. Incident Response will be executed at 1536, T-Minus 3 minutes.

 
Last edited:
3:33 p.m.

Hovering over the cloud cover, arms splayed, black cloak billowing, was Monsoon, accompanied by the MIRA-NASA Joint Division commentating idly in his ear. He was creating a sunny day for New York City, casual practice in using his power that brought a side benefit to the city below. They'd been cleared for weather alteration in advance, a compromise that would allow him to conduct his training without loading onto a plane for shipment to a desert.

He opened and closed his hands, squeezing the clouds in his mind. All indicators were green - high conscious synchronicity rates with the meteorological patterns, minimal psychological contamination, so nothing was happening that he didn't directly command. This was a large-scale wind redirection combined with temperature adjustments. He was, effectively, practicing creating ideal weather.

Then - the tell-tale chirps of an active MIRA Incident alert. The Joint Division relayed new information to him - not the training coach, but an ops head. Southeast Central Park - assault with a deadly factor, and potential arson. As a Flex, he had a little more discretion with this kind of thing. He was not technically On-Duty for patrol; this was a training exercise. He was very far from Central Park...vertically.

"Copy. Joint Division, be advised that I am redeploying. Please connect me with the response comms."

Weather stabilization exercises could wait. He was good at this, too, and it'd been a long time since he'd been local for a battle incident.

He heard the click of the comm switch. Joint Division would still be in his ear for weather data, but now, his words would carry on the main channel. He followed the response guidelines to the T.

"Monsoon. CONSPEC. Over."

Now watch this dive, he almost added. His wasn't a power that was sensible to show off with. But what he was about to do was a matter of personal discretion, and getting to the incident scene faster. It didn't require a tremendous shift in the weather.

He tucked his arms in, drawing the cloak tight around his body, and dropped line a stone, hurtling face down towards Manhattan. Then, right as the buildings came up to greet him, he flexed and opened his arms wide, a roiling gray cloud condensing around him and behind him like a menacing dark contrail as he glided towards the incident area. His jaw was tight, but the adrenaline rush was phenomenal. An excellent approach.

Overhead, the sun retreated, and more dark clouds filled the sky. It started to rain, and rain hard.

Whoever was in the woods out there might know what they were up against, and know it was a good idea to surrender.
 



"Of course you can have a picture." The juror knelt down next to the young girl and smiled towards her phone. This was what patrols were like for him. On paper they were meant to sell the illusion that MIRA actually gave enough shits to stop snatch and grabs or get cats out of trees. The reality was three hours of roaming photo ops around Manhattan.

The crowd was growing denser by the minute as more people noticed he was stopping for photos and decided that they might as well get in line. Occasionally someone would ask to throw a rock or pencil at him to see the barrier in action. Even now, a thousand times later, people were still in awe of his 'Absolute Defense'. Social had wanted to call it his Divine Bulwark but, he knew that would only make him sound just as pretentious as he looked. As much as he enjoyed his thrice a week publicity walks he couldn't help but find himself frustrated by them. He had a goal to accomplish and this wasn't going to help him do that. He needed something big to finally make his move. Up until now he had been building a reputation worthy of being able to make a claim for the throne....all he needed now was a big enough/
quirbles said:
All active Jurors on-call, we have multiple reports of assault with a deadly factor and potential arson in the southwest sector of Central Park. Be advised that eyewitness reports have detailed two suspects, male and female; no positive ID. Incident Response Task Force is currently being formed at Bluebird; should you be in the area, please detail alias and specialty, over.
Click to expand...

"Sorry everyone, duty calls" One by one their phones began getting the emergency notifications. Like a herd they cleared him a path and he took off running.

"Gilgamesh. SHOCKSPEC. Enroute." He was close to the designated meeting location, only a 2 minute sprint. The sky began to grow dark and he looked up to see Monsoon flying in like Zeus with a cape made of literal clouds. "Since when does Monsoon give a shit about presentation?" He grumbled, under his breath, as he ran.
 
"Six hundred twenty-one. Six hundred twenty-two. Six hundred twenty-three."

Beads of sweat poured down Damon's face- but not as much as one would expect for someone currently bench-pressing about a thousand pounds. The weights had been custom-made for him, and shipped all the way from Chicago to New York, because nothing in the central East Coast Jurors facility's admittedly impressive gymnasium posed much of a challenge for the Dragon. After all, he was something of an anomaly among those metahumans with superhuman strength. They had no need to work out, because their enhancements were 'static,' neither growing nor diminishing. Damon, on the other hand, was growing stronger by the day, and he'd long since outgrown any class of weights an ordinary human could hope to lift.

The relentless beat of the Swedish power metal blasting in his earbuds was such that it took him almost a full minute to notice that his pager was buzzing. Setting the weights down- and feeling the ground shift just slightly beneath them -he took a moment to wipe his face off before retrieving the device. Though seemingly antiquated by modern standards, it held a few advantages over a smartphone. Namely, it would still function perfectly when out of cell service, and apparently, had been designed to keep working even amidst the sort of intense electrical storm that Monsoon could create. Thus, it was possible for MIRA central command to reach its operatives at any time.

Each breath still a herculean labor, Damon the message, then reread it three more times before the words fully sunk in. Reading between the lines of the tactical jargon, he got the gist- a supervillain attack. Here, in the middle of New York City. A brazen challenge to the Jurors' authority, and one that would not go unanswered. According to the notifications that popped up on the pager a few moments later, two members of the local team were already responding. Gilgamesh, who Damon had found to be something of a showboat, but undeniably effective, in their brief time working together- and Monsoon, who he'd almost never seen around the Bluebird facility. Always away on one Dagger mission or another, keeping the country safe from the shadows. Or from the center of a storm cloud, in his case.

Nobody had ever raised the possibility of doing Dagger work to Damon. He was probably a bit too loud.

Removing his earbuds, the Dragon replaced one with his MIRA-issue comms device, which was linked to the pager, and used the same hardened tech. Not that he had to worry about losing his connection in the middle of New York, of all places.

"This is the Dragon. ShockSpec. Please be advised- I am responding."

There was no time to clean up after the workout, but as Damon grabbed his signature jacket and pulled the mask down over his face, the heavens opened, and a deluge began, informing him that wasn't a concern- he was about to get a free shower. Thankfully, his clothing was all water-resistant as well as reinforced, all in the name of keeping him clothed while on missions. Being able to walk through a wall of flame was nice, but less so if it left you naked afterwards.

Contrary to his instincts, Damon didn't sprint through the halls of the Bluebird facility. By the sound of things, the situation was urgent, but stable, meaning he could afford not to run so fast his feet left imprints in the ground behind him. And he'd already been lectured about doing that once. For much the same reason, he'd been asked not to simply run to every incident location, if he could avoid it. Instead, they'd provided a motorcycle- in the classic crotch-rocket mold -and told him to use it. To make the offer more tempting, they'd even had it airbrushed green and yellow, with a dragon decal on the side. The merchandising potential was, no doubt, a side benefit.

Few people passed Damon in the halls as he made his way down to the motor pool. No doubt most of them were at, or headed to, their station, ready to run support for the ongoing incident.

Swiftly locating his vehicle, the Dragon hopped atop it and gunned the engine, taking the briefest of moments to enjoy how it hummed and purred beneath him, before peeling out of the garage. With the flick of a switch, he activated the special siren the engineering team had installed, which- like the unmistakable whine of a police car, ambulance, or fire truck -told commuters to pull over and let him pass. Not that he needed the extra space. Since receiving the vehicle, Damon had swiftly become adept at weaving in and out of traffic, never so much as scratching another driver's paint.

It took mere minutes for the Dragon to arrive at the designated rally point, just after Monsoon had touched down and Gilgamesh arrived on foot. The downpour had made driving somewhat more dangerous, but as long as he didn't hit anyone, Damon wasn't overly concerned about crashing- what was the worst that could happen, when he was virtually invulnerable?

Even before he dismounted the vehicle, Damon was already soaked, but for once, that was a good thing, as he'd have no doubt reeked of sweat otherwise. There was no time to waste on pleasantries, so he simply gave Gilgamesh a friendly nod, and Monsoon a more professional one, before turning to the MIRA dispatcher.

"Here to help. What's the situation?"
 

"Alias 'Cyclic' responding-- en route."

As each responding Juror grew near the incident site, the sound of sirens grew louder and louder; first, the general noise of police car horns, followed by the droning, clarion blare of trumpet-like sirens from the fire engines on-site. At the corner of Central Park West and Central Park South, a small triage center had already been set up; officers rushed between cars and kept the perimeter sectioned off from the gathering crowds, who watched the responding agents with a measured awe as opposed to emboldened applause.

Maybe it had something do to with the raging fire within the park, and the plume of smoke that billowed up into the afternoon sky.

The smell of cinder and ash was thick in the air, even from a distance; a woman clad in a bulletproof vest and relatively normal civilian wear-- save the gun hanging in a sling from her chest-- greeted the Jurors as they touched down.

"Blair Novak. Lead On-Site Analyst. Red Room's on the line," She stated, tossing specialized earpieces to agents that didn't happen to carry one at the time of response. A moment later, there was a thunderclap of sound as an armored suit adjusted for landing; Cyclic had finally arrived, touching down into a run as his boots slid along asphalt.

"Hell happened here-- barbecue gone wrong?"

"Unsure." Blair replied, shrugging her plate carrier and pressing a finger to her earpiece; a moment later, she nodded, moving towards the armored SUV that she had presumably driven to the incident site. The vehicle was currently parked on the grass proper; set up on the hood was two laptops and a police scanner. "Fire started maybe twenty minutes ago. Reports were two suspects, looked like they were in medical gowns. Seemed agitated. Police report came after one of them reportedly lit a tree on fire with-- allegedly-- their eyes. Civilian presence is unclear, probably between ten to twenty. Police presence was heavy--"

As if on cue, there were a series of pops from deeper within Central Park, hidden by the treeline and rolling smoke.

"Don't think you're going to fully extinguish the fires, Monsoon, but you can help delay the wildfire until the incident is neutralized. Can't get FDNY in there otherwise. Plan is to get you in the air and minimizing smoke drift, keeping winds from spreading the fire," Blair stated, looking to Gilgamesh and Dragon next. "Gilgamesh, Dragon, we want you on bystander recovery unless a qualified DEFSPEC is reporting. One they're secured, engagement will be spearheaded alongside Cyclic."

"Wonder if I can adjust my sonic cannons to try and extinguish--"

"Keeping the two suspects busy is a priority. Gilgamesh, Dragon, help with engagement as needed. Break. Freestyle within those boundaries; more orders to follow once we get a positive ID. So get us that ID. Can't help you unless we know what you're up against. We in alignment, agents?"

 
Damon shifted uncomfortably as he listened to the briefing, adjusting his soaked-through undershirt, which clung to his body uncomfortably. For the most part, he was happy with his powers, but right now, he envied Gilgamesh, whose personal force-field was keeping his tailored suit nice and dry right now.

By the sound of it, the perpetrators of this incident were of the variety of metahuman people colloquially termed 'blasters,' the same way people with strength and durability like Damon were 'bricks.' And since they'd set part of Central Park on fire, that meant they were shooting heat beams. That necessitated a different approach to engagement. The Dragon had been inside of burning buildings before, and managed to get out without any burns, so his unbreakable skin was also flameproof, but that didn't mean these people couldn't hurt him. A blast straight to the eyes could leave him blinded, and if they had a high level of fine control, they might even be capable of boiling the very blood in his veins- sure to be lethal.

For the time being, though, it seemed like Damon would be on search and rescue. That was to be expected. Saving lives was the top priority- but he couldn't deny that he'd be a little disappointed if he got through this mission without cutting his teeth against a metahuman opponent. Fighting alongside Cyclic would be good opportunity to learn, too. He was an experienced, well-regarded hero, considered the leader in all but name of the New York 'Premiere Team.'

"Understood," the Dragon responded, trying to summon as much professionalism as possible. "But if I see the guys behind this, I'm taking them down."

Without waiting for further confirmation, Damon ducked underneath the police cordon sealing off this section of the park. Underfoot, the dirt, rapidly turning to mud under the relentless assault of Monsoon's downpour, squished and squelched uncomfortably. His shoes were going to be ruined before the day was done.

Banishing those pointless, material concerns from his mind, the Dragon cracked his knuckles and took off into the park, heading straight for the sound of gunshots.
 


He returned Dragon's nod just in time to catch Cyclic's landing. Despite his own opinions of the guy he had to give credit to his social media team for managing to make him look good. He wondered how many times they'd rehearsed that landing during his first year. Cyclic being here made infuriating sense. With the group that had assembled he had a feeling that his job wouldn't involve being sent into combat right away. A suspicion that was almost instantly confirmed during their briefing.

"Copy that" Gilgamesh responded, doing his best to hide his lack of enthusiasm and infuriation at Cyclic who he had half a mind to call out for his complete lack of focus on the task at hand. Then again, if this joker was the best the NY premiere team had than it wouldn't be too difficult to surpass him.

He took off running, letting rain that had formed within his field spilled out onto the ground, and kept his eyes open for civilians. The roaring flames and torrential downpour mixed together to create a symphony of chaos that drowned out cries for help. Instead he kept his eyes open while moving away from Dragon to cover more ground.

 
Cyclic was on scene, along with Dragon and Gilgamesh. Monsoon, impassive, only gave the trio a curt nod. The rain ran down his jaw that looked cut from stone. The everpresent frown was subsequently obscured by his high-altitude mask. His monotone reply crackled across the comm line.

"Roger. Wilco."

Monsoon raised his arms to chest level and rose upward as if plucked by some unseen force, set free from gravity by an invisible alteration to the air pressure around his body. He floated upward, the nimbus coalescing around him as he pushed into the sky. He could control the weather with much more accuracy and range when he was higher up. The heavy rain he'd created in the area gave him more to work with in terms of manipulation. A sunny day was less potent than a downpour, and the Joint Division along with Tactical had assured him on previous occasions that being able to use his powers to his fullest was well worth the environmental hazard he posed.

Monsoon curled his fingers into fists as he rose higher than the rooftops, mindful of the thunder crackling overhead. The lightning was kept to the clouds. Taking a deep breath, he pushed outward, fingers splayed, and connected with the immediate atmosphere. It thrummed in response, and he began twisting the air around the blaze. From up here, it looked ugly. Man-made, and spreading.

As a CONSPEC, this was his bread and butter. Far easier than a precision strike. He began to slow the spread, the heavy rain pattering over his billowing poncho.
 

With the fire momentarily contained by Monsoon's efforts, the exterior threat to civilian life was pacified. However, the interior threat still persisted; with the incident still active, there was no telling what metahumans had caused this, nor was there any particular number or even description beyond vague testimonies within the 911 calls delivered to the emergency services of NYC.

"Can't see shit on an aerial," Cyclic stated over comms. "Touching down for investigation."

The world felt odd, here. Wrong. The roar of sirens and the murmur of the crowd at the police gate had all but faded, now; despite the distant ghostlike wailing, the world was surrounded by ash and smoke, blocking out the midday sun with the summoned rainstorm to create an almost dusklike atmosphere. Gilgamesh and Dragon had all but run into purgatory, now, and the first evidence of life would soon reveal itself.

A woman carrying a child.

She was covered in ash, one side of her body smoldered; the child she clutched was alive, but staring blankly over her shoulder as she clutched him close, stumbling along the path along with a few others. They were equally as disoriented; blood leaked from the ears of some. They all seemed distant-- shellshocked.

"There's-- two. Two of them," The woman mumbled. "Police are-- they're-- are you..."

More gunshots ahead. Here, the active wildfire was roaring-- the ashen grey and darkened tones of smoke were traded for flickering, brilliant shades of an inferno, heat tickling at the face and building into a searing discomfort. It was the remnants of some sort of burning gazebo, or restroom hut of sorts; a man crawled out from beneath the wreckage, coughing. Nearby, a police officer stumbled towards the pair, hand still on a raised gun that he haphazardly pointed towards Gilgamesh.

Once he realized who it was, his gun lowered, eyes blinking to clear the dust and smoke from them. An arm wiped at a reddened, bloody face, ash smearing with crimson along his sleeve.

"Fucking-- I don't know. I don't know what happened. He just..." The man muttered. His pupils were dilated; his ears, too, were bleeding, leaking warm and clear fluid alongside the crimson. "... you're MIRA. Right? You're..."

A moment later, he collapsed. More gunshots echoed in the distance-- and then--

KRAKA--THUMMMMMMMM.

Monsoon, be advised, LARGE flareup and detonation in quadrant A3. Unprecedented. Divert rainstorms and lower temperatures; contain. FDNY can start working on whatever you abandon. Repeat, LARGE flareup in A3.

"Whatever's making the fire-- it's moving."

 
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The inferno blazed around the hero as he maneuvered through the smoke. He watched flames lick against his barrier and fold around it. The actual plasma that made up the flames would never touch him but, the heat still found its way through. Beads of sweat traced down his face and oxygen was getting thin. Given his barrier's relative ineffectiveness against gasses he had underwent training to hold his breath and work within low oxygen environments. He still sparred with an airflow restricting mask on to ensure he would be able to fight in those conditions. Thanks to that he could operate at maximum effectiveness for 5 minutes and 11 seconds off a single breath. After that his performance would rapidly decline and within 60 seconds he would fall unconscious. Thankfully, with powers like his, he only needed 5 minutes to end a fight. This wasn't a fight, yet, so he opted for a medium pace that would allow him to extend the duration his breath lasted by another 2 minutes.

"Dragon I need a hand with an evac. Over." '-30 seconds. 3 minutes remaining' The hero thought while swiftly adjusted his watch timer. There were four total civilians. He knew he wasn't strong enough to move the rubble and still have enough oxygen to save the rest of them. The officer as well, given his passed out state, would prove too heavy as a third person to have to carry. It would be best to leave them to Dragon. He would handle getting the woman and her child out of the inferno.

"I'm with MIRA. Lets get you out of here." He said as he scooped them into his arms. '-30 seconds. 3 minutes and 15 seconds remaining.' He made a break for the tree line. Carrying the two in his arms and weaving through the blaze. Ahead of them he heard a loud CRRAACCCKK. At first he thought it was just a branch until he noticed the blazing body of a tree collapsing. At this pace they would end up directly under the falling forestry. He could feel their bodies tense up with fear. The tree fell and was met with the soft electrical hum of his polarity field pushing against it.

He broke free from the fire and placed the two in the care of the crisis response teams that had gathered around the park. "You're both in good hands." He took four deep breaths and reset his watch timer to 5 minutes and eleven seconds before breaking to a full on sprint towards the large flare up. "This is Gilgamesh, I heard gunshots from A3. I'm heading towards the location now. Requesting greenlight for Lethal Engagement should the need arise." By the time he arrived he would have four minutes of optimal performance left.

 
"Copy on A3. Diverting."

It was an explosion, in the heart of New York City. Beneath him, citizens he'd sworn to protect scrambled for safety. Dragon, Gilgamesh, and Cyclic were in there somewhere, doing whatever they could to mitigate the damages. Gilgamesh and Dragon were SHOCKSPEC, first to breach, the vanguard of their efforts. Cyclic, a TECHSPEC, would provide versatility. But Monsoon was the only CONSPEC to have arrived. A lump grew in his throat as the weight of the responsibility began to build.

Floating up above the tallest buildings now, he couldn't make out any details, but he could see the expanse of the destruction. Suspended in mid-air, like a balloon unmoved by the wind.

They needed him disconnected, up in his own little world, for him to function effectively. Better that he not see what was going on down there, and just respond to what was needed.

A concentrated downpour would begin over A3 as the temperature began to drop. He was manufacturing an isolated downdraft, rapidly cooling the atmosphere in advance of a macroburst of rain. Hopefully - as directed - it would help put out the fire and stop it from catching.

He toggled his AR view with a press of a button on the side; the whole city was bathed in green, the previously effervescent quadrants now illuminated in his line of sight. It was bright down there, but it helped him with targeting. Everything suddenly looked unreal.

Think of it like a video game, he remembered one trainer telling him, years back.
 
"Copy that," Dragon replied, turning on his heel and breaking into a full-on sprint towards Gilgamesh's location. Their communicators had a built-in positional tracking system, allowing the Jurors to transmit their coordinates to one another rapidly, without having to waste time giving directions verbally. Fortunately, for as much as he'd pegged the well-dressed hero as a glory hound, Gilgamesh wasn't so hungry for press attention as to attempt a rescue he wasn't suited to accomplish alone. And Damon was happy to play second fiddle if it meant saving lives.

It was a good thing the Dragon's mask protected his eyes, otherwise the smoke would have made it difficult for him to see. Things were difficult enough having to hold his breath as he closed in on the location of the remaining civilians, having not been provided with breathing equipment before heading in. Maybe the first responders had just assumed he wouldn't need it, what with being a metahuman- or maybe he'd run off into the event zone before they could give him a mask.

Vaulting over a collapsed tree, its leaves still aflame, though the pouring rain was sure to extinguish it soon, Dragon soon reached the location Gilgamesh had indicated, finding one man caught beneath the rubble of a small building, another passed out on the ground, uniform identifying him as a police officer who- like Damon himself -had gone into the inferno without a mask. Carrying two adult men would be a difficult prospect for most people, but the Dragon had a distinct advantage. Clearing away the fallen stones that had the first man pinned, Damon slung him over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, before doing the same with the cop. Then- taking care to ensure they both remained secure in his arms -he took off at a sprint again, now heading for the park entrance once again.

As soon as they were clear of the smoke, Damon took a breath, gasping in lungfuls of precious oxygen. The need for it was one of his few vulnerabilities, given the general physical invulnerability he enjoyed, so having a way to deal with it would be useful. As soon as he'd set the two civilians down on stretchers, the Dragon made sure to grab a spare mask from one of the ambulances. Then, a bright idea occurring in the heat of the moment, he put a finger to his earpiece to contact Monsoon.

"This is Dragon. Is there any chance you could whip up some kind of air funnel, maybe suck up some of the smoke? Would make it a lot easier for those of us down here on the ground."

Without waiting for a response from the high-flying hero, Damon turned back towards the park, muscles tensing as he prepared to take off into a sprint again. Then, he paused. Gilgamesh hadn't taken a mask either- and if it turned out Monsoon wasn't capable of clearing out the smoke, he'd definitely need one. Hoping he wasn't depriving the emergency response crews too badly, the Dragon grabbed another mask and clipped it to his belt, before launching back into action. They'd saved lives- now it was time to confront whoever was so intent on taking them.
 


The journey to A3 was an intense flurry of smoke and heat from the encroaching wildfire. The closer Gilgamesh drew, the higher the strength of the surrounding inferno-- until it felt like he was sitting in a God-damned oven.

Agent Gilgamesh, be advised, we are detecting extreme temperatures for human habitation from your earpiece tracker. You are advised to proceed with caution.

Another silhouette stumbling through the smoke-- up ahead, there was a stone bridge, the surrounding river and surface of the pond steaming with the runoff heat from the wildfire. Something was wrong-- they never burned this hot. More variables entered the equation once another police officer staggered out of the blackened clouds towards Gilgamesh-- the sounds of gunshots close enough to hurt the ears.

The officer in question was missing half of his face.

As he turned, the evidence revealed itself; half of his face was practically melted, singed and boiled over with third-degree burns. His eye was swollen shut; his hair had singed, then entirely burned away on one half of the head, his jaw clenched in a rictus with teeth and molars revealed beneath reddened, crispened sinew.

"... ahead. He's... it's..."

The man collapsed. Ahead, on the bridge, two officers sprinted through a wave of roiling smoke-- one of them fully on fire, with the other smoldering as he leapt into the pond. The horror in question revealed himself, finally, to Gilgamesh.

A man; just a simple man. Crudely dressed in a hospital gown, a plastic band about his wrist that'd been seared and melted into the flesh of his arm; his entire body was covered in patchwork burns, bandages laying burnt about his head and chest. He wore one slipper, singed and blackened; his lips were reddened, eyes bloodshot, but that was hardly noticeable from the distance Gilgamesh was at. The way he walked suggested impairment, on some level-- he was slightly hunched, arms hugged tight to his chest. Mumbling something under his breath as he stumbled, clutching onto the bridge a good hundred feet away from the Juror.

"... n-no. Not... I can't... this isn't-- isn't real. Can't be." He muttered to himself. A ways away, his head lifted-- looking to Gilgamesh, barely visible through the currents of smoke and fire. For a moment, he almost seemed to lock eyes.

"... you aren't r-real. Are-- are you?"

Got a clean shot on him, Gilgamesh. Try and chat him up while I get a lock on an ID. Longer you keep him talking, the more complete the ID will be.

 



'Yeah, no shit.' He thought. The wildfire had grown so powerful his sweat was evaporating the moment it exited his pores. He breached another wall of flames as he approached the stone bridge. Steam visibly rose from the surface.

Across the bridge he made out a shape among the ocean of ash. A weaker stomached hero would've thrown up the moment they saw his condition; Gilgamesh was able to swallow it back down. There was no saving him which meant it wasn't worth using any of his 3 minutes and fifteen seconds of air on consoling him. The cops body collapsed against his polarity field and rolled off. Not even the drops of blood that splattered when he hit the ground would manage to get through and stain his suit.

'Another hero might've been able to offer you some comfort. Sorry about that.'

He didn't pay any mind to the two officers who sprinted past him into the river. His eyes remained locked on what he could only deduce was the culprit. The lack of urgency in his limp gave him away. Even the wounded officers seemed to be fleeing something where as, despite his burns, this man was just moving.

He was barely aware of where he was. Maybe he was an undiagnosed PMPD patient put on the wrong anesthetic or maybe someone didn't read his chart. Whatever had happened there were two things that rose to the forefront of Gilgamesh's mind. This guy wasn't actively trying to do any of this and Cyclic could go fuck himself.

"No, I'm not real"
He said as he kept walking towards the man. He was hoping to casually stroll past him and once he had, deliver a powerful punch directly to his Temple to induce a blackout.

 
"Negative," he replied flatly.

Improvising an aerial funnel to get rid of smoke ran too many risks. He needed to focus on diverting the heavy weather to A3. Doing more than one thing at a time could cause a meteorological cascade, and that was the last thing that New York City needed right now.

The wind whipped at his body, but he maintained his aerial position, the billowing poncho suddenly drawn in tight around his form. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead, and luminous flashes set his shadow against the storm clouds that surrounded him in his personal nimbus.

Was today going to be another one of those days, he wondered, when they greenlit a precision strike? Surely not in the middle of Central Park. That power was too terrifying. Whatever image they were trying to make of him, that kind of direct damage didn't comport with it. He went on the Today Show to talk about weather balloons. He made rain during droughts and pushed storms away from American shores. He had a dry sense of humor. He knew full well that he wasn't a popular hero, but he wasn't advertised as the harbinger of electric aerial bombardment.

It might come to that, he thought. There was always a chance. His PMPD mutation was a gun that was always loaded. That meant that any incident he was involved in had the potential to escalate. He'd just have to be sure he wasn't the one to start it - even though he could easily finish it.

It was a matter of costs.

Per the radio chatter, Cyclic was lining up a shot on the target. Once he was ID'd, this could all come to a peaceful end.
 


A torrential downpour cascaded around Gilgamesh and the lone man; whereas the rainfall simply sloughed off of the Juror's shoulders by virtue of his repulsion field, the droplets hissed upon contact with the unknown mutant's flesh. Steam wafted from him like water upon the scalding rocks of a sauna; the air grew hotter the closer Gilgamesh came, until it felt like he was about to bake in an oven.

The man backpedaled once, twice. Watching Gilgamesh as he walked by-- and flinching as a punch slammed into his temple, throwing him hard over the edge of the bridge as he staggered back-- an attempt at evasion translating into forward momentum as he tripped over himself and landed in the pond with a splash.

What the fuck, Gil." Cyclic hissed. "Command for an ID was from the Incident Room. He was passive--"

The murky water of the pond bubbled. A moment later, the man rose from it, giving a soft gasp as he stood at about chest-depth within the water-- staring up at Gilgamesh.

"... he said the same thing to me." The man murmured. "The one that did this."

The air around Gilgamesh began to turn scalding-- and then singe the edges of his suit, entire body feeling as if it'd been pressed to a red-hot iron--

VKKSSHHHHZHHHHHMMMVVVVMMMMMM.

-- only for the sensation to dissipate, the skin along his hands still reddened as if he'd been burned. A sonic blast struck the man in the pond and sent him hurtling back into the smoke, out of the pond and along the ground-- creating a ripped-up path of dirt and grass where he'd skidded along the earth. The air beside Gilgamesh was suddenly set alight-- a column of space flashing with ignited oxygen and the smell of lit ozone, a scorch mark along the superheated stone of the bridge. The flash seemed to drag along the bridge, for a moment, and dissipated a moment later. His ears would be ringing; his body would feel warm. Borderline feverish.

-- and now he's agitated. Focus up and listen to my fucking calls, Gilgamesh. I know what I'm doing. Cyclic's voice came over the radio, cutting through the whine and rush of blood.

The flare-up was detectable even from Monsoon's position-- a flash of light pulsing beneath the cloud cover and torrent of rain.

Detecting another signature making its way-- west, and-- upwards. Repeat, target is airborne. Airborne. Travelling at 200 knots and holding, most likely attempting touch-down near Gilgamesh and Cyclic. Divert rainfall in A3, Monsoon; self-conceal and gain altitude. Prepare for lightning rod.

 
The second target had been identified. Finally, something to do. Not that Dragon had any disdain for the task of saving lives- but there were trained professionals on-site ready to do just that. The Jurors were better equipped to do... the other thing.

"Copy that. Moving to intercept."

Nobody had ordered it- but then again, nobody had given Dragon much of anything in the way of orders. Maybe they figured he would be no good against an airborne opponent. But if that was the case, they were underestimating him badly.

Turning on a dime, Damon reoriented himself towards the indicated location of the flying target. The rain and smoke made it difficult to identify him, but based on the trajectory that dispatch had provided, and the Dragon's keen eyesight, spotting glimpses of the rogue metahuman in the skies, he was able to make an approximation.

Gaining speed was difficult, as the ground beneath Damon's feet was increasingly muddy and slick, but he made sure to push off of every stone and tree stump in his path, as they provided more solid footing, albeit only momentarily. As he ran, the Dragon began to speak, under his breath and with his comms off, so no other members of the team would be able to hear. He was far from embarrassed, but his fervent words in their ears might have been a distraction during a crucial moment in their battle.

"Guanyin, who swore by mercy."

"Zadkiel, the benevolent."

"Pallas Athena, of the Aegis."

"Saint Joan, who guides my hand."

"Forgive me for this violence I am about to inflict."

As soon as the final word had left his mouth, the Dragon leapt into the air, a triumphant roar bellowing from his mighty lungs as he emerged from the cloud of stifling smoke that had blanketed the park. With his vision clear, he scanned the skies, immediately locking on to the incoming aerial attacker as soon as he set his eyes on them. Then, as he began to fall, he turned his gaze down, locating the nearest tree that seemed sufficiently sturdy.

Once he was within range, Damon kicked off the tree, feeling twigs and branches snap off from the force, but propelling himself closer to the target in the process. Closer- but not close enough. Gravity began to drag him down once more, and the Dragon used yet another tree as a launching point, putting more force into the kick this time. It was difficult to tell, but he was rather concerned he might have managed to fell the entire tree- hopefully the New York Parks Department wouldn't be too upset with him.

Whatever the ecological consequences of his actions, Damon had managed to put himself on a collision course with the flying metahuman. Absurd as it might have seemed to an outside observer, this was a scenario he'd considered before. In fact, since no existing martial art accounted for individuals of his strength, he'd even come up with the concept for a unique move. It wasn't one he'd ever had the opportunity to test before... but what better time than here and now?

The Dragon's momentum was now such that impact was inevitable, so he shifted his posture into the required form for a flying kick- with a twist. And as he sailed towards the target, he let out a battle-cry.

"Cobalt Crane style: Screaming Skystrike!"

As soon as his foot connected- if indeed it connected -the Dragon would twist his foot, and his entire body, in a concerted effort to drive the flying metahuman down. They'd make impact together, passing through the thick layer of smoke blanketing the park, and crashing into any trees they might meet along the way. If Damon remembered right, they might have been headed directly for the lake, but if he was wrong, the mud and grass would hopefully make for a sufficiently soft landing. After all, he was only intending to disable the target, not kill him.
 


That should've knocked him out. Perhaps I miscalculated. Gilgamesh thought.

Given the burns across he thought he could rule out enhanced durability...clearly that was wrong. Cyclic was chirping over comms but the human kites opinion wasn't relevant given he wasn't the one carrying out the half torched corpses.

"You're gonna have to stop lighting things on fire sir. Then we can talk." He called across the blaze.

Faint wisps of smoke curled up from the edges of his suit. The air temperature around him was starting to rise independent of the actual wildfire around him. The soot soaked fabric was igniting from just the mere presence of the heat. A blast from overhead sent the man crashing deep into the smoke. Gilgamesh was about to follow when every fiber of his being screamed at him to get the fuck out of there.

He hadn't debuted this technique yet but, he had practiced it. It involved the manipulation of his field. Firstly he would direct most of it to his feet while still leaving some around his body and giving it a rough cone shape. Then he would turn the repulsion up to 11; preventing even air from passing through to create a frictionless environment. The repulsion on his feet would launch his body in a single direction, the cone would help with aerodynamics, and after the immediate burst of speed the field would be progressively reverted to its base state allowing friction to slow him down. It was something he had devised after studying footage of how Scramjet maneuvered. The result was supposed to be an insanely fast evasive dash. That wasn't what happened.

Instead his body reacted to the sudden increase in heat, almost on its own, and did his technique as best as it could. He hit the ground, hard. Any air he had was knocked from his lungs. He looked down at his calf. The fabric of his pants had been burnt away revealing his charred flesh. Panic began to set in. The last time he had been hit was when he was 10. Ever since then his field had helped keep him safe. Today was a reminder of what pain felt like. Cyclic's voice cut through his thoughts. Whatever words he said were irrelevant but, the idea of a hack like Cyclic gloating in any capacity at the 'untouchaboi' having been hit brought his own personal goals to the forefront. He didn't have time to panic, he had a job to do.

He took a deep breath. Hot air burned in his chest but, he didn't care. If Rocket's Red Glare could deal with this than he would have to as well.

"The incident room may have all day but, these people barely have a few minutes."

That flame seemed to come from the sky so either this guys powers involved calling in flaming air-strikes or the second playing was showing their face. Either way he made a break for the last known position while trying to keep aware of unnatural changes in air temperature that would warn of another strike.

'The incident room can ID him in the back of the ambulance'

 

Branches snapped; trunks cracked under the successive leaps from Dragon, traversal placing him closer and closer to the bogey that was collapsing onto Gilgamesh and Cyclic's position. In the encroaching moments of impact, it seemed as if he'd hit his mark--

DRAGON-- CONTACT, RIGHT--

-- only for a blindsiding force to slam upon the Juror's side, knocking his trajectory off-course and sending Dragon-- as well as whoever, or whatever, struck him-- careening through a batch of pines, branches crackling and leaves swatting at the body until the ground rushed up to catch them. Whether or not Dragon was able to catch himself, he now stood about a hundred yards away from what appeared to be a woman; her own body left a trench along the earth, dirt and rocks kicked up by the rough landing as her body turned over itself. Much like the firestarter, T-02 sported a medical gown-- now tattered at the knees, though the damage didn't appear to be purely from the landing.

The bottom of the gown appeared to singe at around the knee-- her lower legs mutated into multichromatic, borderline scaled things, structure warped to resemble something digitigrade and insectile. Her ankle and calf swooped back into a barbed, spiny foot, the toes congealed into an almost clublike appendage. Slowly, shakily, she rose to her feet, one eye missing as she grit her teeth and wordlessly crouched-- the sinew and muscle of her legs creaking as--

KRAK.

-- the tension released at once, gunshot-like, and propelled her through the air as her body twisted midair to turn her lunge into a kick-- aimed straight for the Juror's chest, and packing enough force to crack the ribs of any advanced physiology.

Blind to anything on the ground, Dragon-- what're you seeing down there? Do you copy?

--

Dispatch, get me an ID for a white male, late 20s to early thirties-- bald, medical gown, pyrokinetic. Seems to just... fucking-- ignite everything around him. Advanced durability.

Copy. Dragon's been intercepted. You're both on your own down there.

Hovering down to the ground, Cyclic readied another concussive blast on either gauntlet-- watching as T-01 began to slowly rise up from where he'd been thrown, the air between the Jurors and their target a mirage-like haze. The temperature was sweltering; luckily, Cyclic's suit was temperature-regulated to protect from things like this, but whatever Gilgamesh had almost been hit with would be enough to outright kill him if he wasn't careful.

We only have minutes, which is why we need to fucking ID him and not punch him if we don't even know how durable he is, Gilgamesh.

And yet, Gilgamesh was intent on rushing in. Not worth bickering over; Cyclic shot another two bursts at the man as he stepped forward, halting him in his tracks with a sonic detonation that'd leave him momentarily deafened. Usually designed for crowds, but perfectly acceptable on single targets. Might end up giving him hearing damage, but they were beyond those sorts of considerations right now.

As Gilgamesh moved forward, he'd feel his skin prickle and warm again-- this time, from the front, as there seemed to be a wave of heat that emanated outward from T-01's body. Grass wilted and seared into a fire in a radius around him, steadily growing outward towards the Juror and threatening to encompass him if he kept moving forward-- and who knows what the heat would do if steadily applied, as opposed to the brief pulse he'd been spared from.

Well-- he'd seen the officers that'd been retreating. He had an answer.

Try and-- occupy him from a distance. Either you or I need to get in close, put a conductive beacon on him to signal for Monsoon. Cyclic commed, rotating around T-01 in a wide circle to avoid the creeping oven that was beginning to extend outwards. Monsoon-- do you copy? Getting into position for the Lightning Rod.

--

MONSOON-- BOGEY APPROACHING YOUR POSITION, COORDINATES DUE SOUTHEAST, Y-AXIS -105.54, X-AXIS 25.7 AND CLOSING-- X-AXIS 10.24-- BELOW.

Beyond the hum of the storm and the comms in his ear, the world around Monsoon was eerily quiet. Thunder roiled to his right; upon his visor, the red dot signifying the bogey would have been closing in with remarkable pace. The Y-Axis and X-Axis coordinate readings were relative to his own position, rather than a static axis; as such, a negative Y-Axis inferred below him, while a positive X-Axis inferred to his right. The dot closed in faster, faster still-- and then disappeared beneath him. The inferred trajectory continued before the analyst removed the marking from his HUD.

Unsure as to current positioning; no signature. Keep your eyes peeled and your head on a swivel, Agent.

A moment passed-- and then another. Silence.

And then, there was the screech.

It was a thundering, shrill sound; audible even to Dragon and Gilgamesh, albeit distantly. For Monsoon, it was borderline deafening, starting somewhere below him and increasing in volume until a figure appeared to shoot out from a cloud cover beneath him like a bullet, appearing a few hundred meters away before disappearing into another batch of clouds. The shriek faded. The pattering of rainfall upon his poncho mixed with the rush of blood through the ears.

CONTACT. LEFT--

And then there was another shriek-- brief, staccato and in pulses-- as the source of the noise glided out to his right, attempting to slam into him at full force and knock him out of the sky.

 


If command had done the smart thing and Greenlit lethal at Jurors discretion, like he had asked, than durability wouldn't have mattered. Gilgamesh's punch would've gone through his head and all of this would've been resolved. Instead he had to listen to the flying Iphone explain everything other than why he didn't build a camera into his optics. There was genuinely no point in arguing with him here-maybe later though. Right now they had to focus on the situation at hand.

Two more sonic blasts tore through the smoke around him. They slammed into T-01's body but, the bastard didn't budge this time. On top of that the dude was radiating heat out like a furnace. The juror stopped in his tracks. It was like his body knew what would happen if he got too close. His mind connecting the images of what he saw earlier with the sensation he felt now without any real thought from him.

"Copy" He reached into his pocket and took hold of three marbles. The pressure in his hand building as he angled his thumb towards the man and began moving again. This time circling him while firing off shots.

 
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