ArchivedLogs:Sanctuary

Sanctuary
Dramatis Personae Briar, Kay, Munch, Ion, J.C.
In Absentia	2013-08-12 (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> Harlem
Harlem's gritty reputation has become less and less earned over the past decade or so as gentrification has set in. Its reputation as a hub of jazz and culture, however, is still very much earned -- throughout the years Harlem has been renowned for its contributions to music, from its swing dancing and jazz culture back when speakeasies were prevalent to the many hip-hop artists with Harlem roots in modern day. The sound of wailing sirens floods the streets of Harlem. Not all that unusual, really, for the city at any time of day. Some people look up; some people ignore. Some people are currently /bolting/ at high speed down the streets of Harlem. Well, not some people; only /one/ person. A thin woman with a spiky shock of dark hair and -- it's /almost/ easy to overlook the light trailing of yellow-green scales that ripple down her back and arms, or the yellow tinge to her eyes. Strangely slitted pupils. She's dressed kind of shabbily, old faded khakis wearing through at the knees, a gauzy-light long-sleeved shirt over a blue tank top; both look in bad need of a wash. /She/ looks in bad need of a wash, slightly grubby, more than slighly /panting/ as she careens down an alley and out onto the next street over. Making for the subway at high speed, only barely managing to dodge around other pedestrians as she zooms. There are two police officers running after her, one of the two of them looking a little worse for the wear themselves, panting with a red face. Too many doughnuts, perhaps, and not enough exercise sitting in the front of a patrol car. "Dispatch, I need backup here! She's escaping into the subway. Tell the MTA to stop all the trains at the station, now!" The police officer pants into the microphone at his neck. Another police car pulls up not far from the two running officers, and another officer gets out. "Which way did she go?" "Towards the station!" The officer joins in the persuit, navy uniform crinkling and the metal sound of handcuffs clinking in their leather holster sounding over the siren and the sound of boots on the pavement. One of those pedestrians is Briar. She isn't really pedestrianing though; it's more a casual loiter, back leaned up against a NO PARKING sign next to the road-dusty hog parked in that forbidden spot. Even the sound of sirens isn't enough to budge her. She stands casual, hands in the frayed pockets of well-worn jeans, a toothpick twitching in the corner of her pierced lips. Chains criss-cross her torso, concealing some of the leather vest and dull white t-shirt worn beneath. The sirens /do/ cause her to turn her pale head. The movement is slow, practically bored--she has the air of someone waiting for others. But when the cops begin piling out of the cruisers and the woman, with her especial details, are spotted. Well now. For that she will straighten up. Even spit the toothpick off to the side. Beside her, an overflowing garbage can shivers...then topples as the woman passes. It rolls towards the pursuing officers without a care for things like gradients or other people on the sidewalk, spewing noxious city garbage everywhere. Parked beside Briar like a steel-toothed viper-child left in her care is a second Harley, tricked out real pretty with a low slung seat to accommodate long legs and a decal that matches the depiction on the back of Briar's vest. Kay's sleek mechanical baby. Kay himself is crossing the street towards her, two hotdogs tucked under an arm like a football. As he draws up on her, dirty jeans on his long beanpole legs and a pair of reflective sunglasses, his head is already rotating to watch the girl pass by. He props a knee atop his bike's seat, without a word to Briar spoken. Just kind of absently setting the hotdogs on the seat as well and flexing open his fingers with a quiet crunch-crunch of knuckles. "She's not gonna make it," he mutters. This is a very likely true observation; the young woman looks like she has been fleeing for quite some time, her skin far too flushed, her stride flagging. For a moment she turns, eyes sweeping to catalogue the various police that are closing in. Through her panting, it's also easy enough to see the slender sharp fangs in her mouth. The forked tongue that intermittently flicks at the air. Her running continues -- down towards the subway, for all the good it will do her; she doesn't seem to have heard the officer's panting into his microphone. She /does/ emerge again only a moment later, though. Wide-eyed and oh, yeah, subways have transit cops. Her teeth bare, the back of her hand pressing to her mouth; it comes away stained, not red, not blood, but something blue-black. She subsequently spits out a mouthful of the same; it hisses where it hits the asphalt, starting to etch its way in. Distracted, perhaps, by catching his breath - or by the acid spitting of the person that he's chasing - our friend the doughnut officer doesn't seem the trash can until his legs make contact with it. The arching movement that his body makes through the air is almost graceful, twisting once and landing solidly on his back with a groan. He makes to stand up, but this seems to be rather difficult for him, wind knocked out of an already breathless man. The other officers see the acid spit and glance at each other, drawing the tazers out from their pockets even as the transit police begin to close the thick wrought iron gates of the subway station. "Easy, now," One of them says, almost gently. "Easy. Don't make this harder on yourself than it already is. Just put your hands behind your head and get on your knees, and we'll take you into custody nice and gentle. Don't make us use this." A grunt answers Kay. Briar isn't really big on talking. Nor does she pay the fallen officer much heed. It's those still standing that concern her. She tilts a significant look at her companion--and the corner of her mouth twitches, then draws up in a ghostly half-smile. That's all the reply she needs. Then the tall woman is sauntering towards the officers. There are plenty of lookyloos to this little drama but none so determined to plant themselves directly behind the pair. A flick of her thumb undoes--without touching--the bike lock holding the chains shut around her torso. Their ends lift like disturbed snakes peering over her shoulders. Just before she speaks, to say, "You boys don't play nice," they shoot forward, looking to curl around wrists and yank upwards. Pat-pat! Kay pats on his helmet as Briar moves. BRRRRM!!!- BVRRMMMM!! A wet throaty PURR ripple-roars through the air as he comes down hard on the kickstart of his bike and burns rubber - /rreee!/ - jumping the curb to roar in towards the cornered girl. The front half of his bike stops first, letting the back wheel skid a half rotation to pull up alongside her with a second torture squeal of rubber. Spectral trails of blue exhaust smoke curle slowly over the pavement, encircling the girls feet, and Kay is yelling at her, "GET ON! LET'S GO! MOVE MOVE!" It's at this point that there's a low, /slightly/ ground shaking WHUMP. Accompanied by the dinging of a bell. Enter MUNCH; a giant hunk of greyish-brown muscle with a black bandana over his head and a slurpee in his hand (straw in his mouth). The quiet giant's clad in a white tank-top and blue-jeans; the unusual scuff-like patches of metal-gray gleam in the light against his skin -- he's emerging just as Kay's launching his vehicular assault against the officers, moving to snatch the girl. It takes all of one and a half seconds for Munch to react -- he /throws/ his slurpee aside. Like it's promptly offended him; blue slush proceeds to WHACK down across the sidewalk. And then he's lumbering forward, asphalt and concrete whumping behind him. Moving straight toward Kay, Briar -- and those officers. Arms open wide. Intent on /clotheslining/ some mother-fuckers. The girl's slitted eyes widen; there's a brief startled moment where she stumble-steps backwards. The first look she gives Kay is blank, like she hasn't fully comprehended his words -- a moment later, though, a quick look at his /face/, and she is clambering hastily onto the back of the motorcycle. One arm wraps around his waist; her head turns to hawk a heavy glob of the blue-black acid. Not towards the actual police officers, but towards the tire of one of their cars. The chains yank one of the officers in the air, tazer darts flying off into the air uselessly, fired more out of surprise than out of any target as the captured officer struggles uselessly against the chains. "Fuck! Get this fucking mutie off of me!" He shouts, fear written plainly in his voice. The other officer spins and fires the tazer towards the fugative, as the sound of sirens herald rapidly approaching police cars. In the distance down the street, one of them can be seen approaching - black and large, the size of an ambulance. An NYPD ESU truck, filled with three SWAT officers. The transit officers, too, have come out from behind the wrought iron bars of the subway station. They are armed with something quite more significant than the tazers from before, and their approach is wary. "Get /down/, now, or they'll have to scrape your fucking brains off of the sidewalk!" "I don't think so." Briar still sounds calm. Detached, even! It's possible she's difficult to excite. The saunter begins again, this time to make sure she is WELL CLEAR of Munch's charging path. Have at 'em, big boy. In the meantime, the biker chick begins to make little tapping movements in thin air, with two fingers. Each tap has an effect--the successfully fired dart is struck down, one gun is yanked, another gun is yanked, a transit officer is /thrown/ backwards into the gate. Tap, tap, tap. One would think there weren't yelling and squealing tires happening so close to where she stands. Tap. Tap. The back of Kay's battered (and yes, if you look close, /singed/) denim vest is patched with the words Mutant Mongrels, bearing a modified skull and crossbones beneath with inhuman teeth and curled horns and a crowning wreath of flames. Even through his clothes, an infernal /heat/ can be felt radiating from his body, rising up in shimmers around them like a barbecue pit. The bike beneath the girl lurches to life, sending up another plume of smoke when the bike's back end spins in a half donut to clear the way for Munch the same time Briar does - they both /know/ what that heavy-weight thumping /means/ - and he guns it. "Hang on!" This sharp bark excited, larkish! As the motorcycle kicks into life and accelerates right up the god damn sidewalk. Meanwhile, Munch is going on a full on /charge/ toward the officers surrounding Kay's squealing motorcycle -- arms extending to sweep into their backs and attempt to full on /swat/ them to the ground, those powerful appendages like living trunks of iron. If he succeeds, he doesn't even slow down as he charges full on toward the transit workers -- attempting to bull-doze right into them and send them pounding down the stairs, arms jerking close as he aims to SHOULDER-CHECK them back to the subway from which they came. At which point, presuming the iron man is successful, he'll turn his eyes to the arriving ESU wagon -- then start up in a whole /new/ charge as it swings to a stop. If Munch reaches the truck before the SWAT team starts coming out, they're going to have a problem -- specifically, the sudden CREAK of that door in his hands as he proceeds to /mold/ metal as if it were mere clay, twisting the doors down upon themselves into a horrible, snarled knot of mutilated steel. The girl hangs on! Tight. Possibly kind of nervous; she is not as sanguine about the police officers surrounding them. "-- Thank you," she finally manages; there's something odd about her voice, words a little thick-slurred, formed with apparent difficulty. 'Thang -- goo', more like. She turns her head in passing, another spit-gob of acid lobbed towards the front of the ESU truck. And, "-- Need help," as though that were not already abundantly clear. Transit officers go flying, guns one way, bodies the other, as they are battered and tossed to and fro. It is, to be certain, not one of their better days, and when they hit the ground they do not get up so readily. Doughnut cop, it seems, has got it in mind to make up for his earlier patheticness as he carefully, slowly, takes aim at Briar from his half-lying position on the ground. Bam, bam, pop the reports of the pistol, as he pulls off two shots in Briar's somewhat general direction - landing on your head is not a great way to have good aim. The ESU officers have their own set of problems, bashing uselessly at the rear door in their attempt to escape. The two in the driver's cab, at least, are able to make it out of the truck, and when they do they are not so nice as to give a warning before they open fire with two submachine guns, burst-spraying a hail of bullets towards the back of their truck and the mutant messing with the door. Bullets! Briar hates bullets. So small. So fast. One richochets off of brick near her head, the other grazes her bicep, tearing a hole in the sleeve of her t-shirt and staining the dingy fabric crimson. She doesn't notice that so much, being far more concerned with the rapid-fire ratta tat tat going on near Munch. The first burst of bullets see their way through. Those that follow just...stop as the blonde woman turns towards the street. Her eyes have gone unfocused by now--proving the truth of the cause of her lackadaisical behavior--as she has to concentrate. It becomes easier though, every successive wave of projectiles. Oh, and those guns she'd pulled free? Yeah, they're turning on the ESU guys as well. Triggers are squeezed by invisible fingers, even as their /own/ submachine guns are tugged hard to try to free them from gripping hands. "We got you," Kay crows to his passenger over the roar of his engine, "You're with /family/ now." As they whips past the ring of cops, hunkered low, he kisses his fingertips and drops one hand to nearly place a blessing on the ground as it whizzes by. From this site erupts a dry /snarl/ and red fire crackles a black trail towards the nearby police's pantlegs, leaping up the cloth. Donutnut Cop, being already on the ground - or, perchance, for grazing /Briar/ - is given no such low-blow treatment. His sleeves and shirt catch as well. Stop, drop and roll boys. "Let's get outta here!" he hells over his shoulder at his comrads, a bit more /urgent/ now. Still grinning, all his nasty stained teeth, slowing once he has the girl outside of the direct line of fire, he slows again. It's that same break-neck control that once again sends the back end sailing around the front end in an orbit, to get a clean eye on the situation. And his people. And the odds. "Nngh," is all Munch manages as the two officers with submachines guns swing around and unleash a barrage -- he grimaces, turning and taking the shots /head-on/ -- and there's a faint sound of *CLUNKING* as those bullets slam into -- flesh mismatched with a horrible blend of metal. Some of them dig into skin; most of them don't get past the surface. Those that do are flattened to nothing more than clay the moment they penetrate his shirt. His arm lifts up to guard his eyes as he /wades/ through the gunfire; when it ceases, he's already reaching -- for the door of the ESU truck. *CRRRRKT* goes one door... and then he's quickly swinging 'round to do the same to the opposite door. *CRRRRKT*. And then... he's booking it, for his hog. Waving an arm to Briar -- if she's too busy playing POLTERGEIST, he'll just sling an arm around her waist and /carry/ her to her hog. "Mongrels." This word is spoken with a more deliberate care over the roar of the motorcycle engine, the rat-tat-tat of heavy gunfire. "You're all. Mongrels." This sounds a bit warmer. The girl's arm stays tight around Kay. "Sorry," she adds eventually. "Ruined. Your hot dog." Though this just elicits a sort of /ragged/ laugh, possibly edged with a hint of hysteria. "-- Hot dog." A firm /pat/, at Kay's overheated back. "Mongrel." And then quiet -- a wide-eyed tense quiet as she clings tight, hunkers in and -- prays. Bullets and fire. Not a good day to be a police officer, as doughnut cop rolls on the ground trying to get the fire out, and both of the SWAT officers take bullets to their chest plates. The force of this knocks them down - and one of them unconscious after his head slams into the steel plating of the side of the vehicle - and yanks the wind out of the other one's chest. Transit officers, too, are on the ground. One of them manages to key his radio open, though, groaning out, "10-13... suspects heading west away from the station. Ambulances and backup needed." But playing Poltergeist is so much fun! All of those guns in the air, all of those triggers to pull, and the spraying bullets, the screaming bystanders... Wait, what was she doing again? Briar blinks as Munch plucks her from the sidewalk. Just yoink! and off she goes. It's a bouncy ride, bouncy enough to be echoed in the up and down yo-yo of the weapons she's currently holding aloft. Their aim? They'll be a little off, until she's deposited on her bike. "Why are we running, again?" she asks, voice still far too dreamy for her to be entirely /here/. Nevermind that, regardless of the answer, she's kicking the bike into roaring life. Behind her, the guns fall one at a time from the air, clack, clatter, BOOM (oops). To pedestrians going about their lives, the trio of Mongrels pass by in a three-fold wave of sound: VRRM! VRRM! VRRM! In the yawning silence after they pass, the wail of sirens is eerie and ominous. They sail on and off the sidewalk, in and out of lanes, banking sharp turns west, then south, then east again leaving a wake of people scattered out of the way, hugging walls and reaching out to collect up the purses and groceries and briefcases they'd dropped. Pulling even for a moment with Briar and Munch as they wen their way through a parking lot, Kay grits, still perma-grinning. "We're not gonna make the bridge." Munch's response -- as his own hog makes a dull roar betwixt his legs, having hopped atop of it immediately after getting Briar mounted on hers -- is a noncommittal grunt. Wheels drag across asphalt, popping pebbles underneath his treads; he jerks his head off to the sound of distant sirens -- then back toward Briar and Kay. And then he shrugs, before SMACKING his fist into his palm. It makes a loud, almost metallic /thwunk/. Meanwhile, his eyes drift toward a nearby dumpster. You can almost /hear/ him mentally licking his chops. "Too many." The girl's voice is a strange slurred monotone, as she looks -- back at the police they left behind, ahead at the road. "Not good. Maybe hide." Though this only turns up worry in her expression. She glances around the edges of the parking lot. A tiny playground at one side, a little convenience store near by. A Catholic church, St. Martin de Porres. A Peruvian restaurant. Her arms stay tight around Kay, her eyes slowly closing. It's a church that has, currently, a motorcycle already parked just to its side. Its front door is currently DISGORGING a young man who, at this /moment/, does not look incredibly like a biker. Ion has only recently left work; he's dressed in khakis, plain white polo shirt, baseball cap (Yankees!) covering his dark hair, dark glasses on his tan face. He /is/ -- almost -- heading for his bike, but then just stops on the steps of the church, eyebrows /raising/ as he cocks his head, listening to the approaching motorcycles. Also-approaching sirens. His lips quirk upwards. His hand lifts, knuckles scuffing against the side of his face. Presumably, now he's watching; it's hard to tell behind the sunglasses. With the police officers down, more and more 911 calls are causing action all over the city.  Emergency call-outs are going out to SWAT officers left and right, on vacation or not.  That is not all - deep in the bowels of the NYPD headquarters, a call is going out on a bright red phone.  "Mister Mayor, we may need backup." Not far from the Church, though, ESU trucks are advancing, police officers blocking off streets with police cars, pistols drawn.  Strips with spikes are spread out on the ground, and a dump truck is commondeared to block a road from sidewalk to sidewalk. The wail of sirens is closing in rapidly behind the motorcycles, a new pair of cruisers chasing from behind as the others hem in the side streets. "Don't say 'too many' til you know what we can do." Kay turns his head to advise his passenger reflexively, brows raised over his own sunglasses. Her overlapped hands around his waist are given a nice pat-pat but he is... slowly turning his head, looking ahead of them, then behind. One thing you can count on, from the police - you can /hear/ them coming. /Damn/. Then Ion is coming out of the church, and Kay waves, "Yo, Sparky. Up for a little fun?" And just like that, with a slap of hand against his helmet to drag it off, he's decided. "Off-off-off-off," he's swings off the motorcycle and turns to walk backwards, shouting, "/Munch/. /Briar/. How fast can you get these cars up and blocking off the street? If they're gonna pin us in, I say we set it on our terms. Stack 'em high!" To Ion, he points right back up the way the good little church-goer has come. "How many people are inside." He's eyeing the church. Their penchant for big stone walls and obscuring windows is a prime interest. Briar, stoic as ever, nods, her platinum blond hair swinging. And the dumpster Munch had been eyeing begins to rattle against the ground. Building up momentum. Munch, for his part, is hopping off his hog -- his feet making a menacing WHUMP as he impacts the ground -- head cocked at the noise. He looks to the girl Kay's brought around, a frown settling over his face... before gesturing to her, cocking a thumb toward the church. Apparently, he wants her to hide. Then, rather suddenly, he's stomping his way toward the metal dumpster he had been eyeing previously. He probably heard Kay! But first, he's gotta get a little IRON in his diet. His hands reach out -- there's a horrible /CREAK/ as fingers sink into that metal, as if it were just clay -- and then his head is descending, and... CHOMP. CHOMP. CHOMP. He's literally biting massive CHUNKS out of the metal. Swallowing. Even as he pulls the whole thing along toward the street, like it was a snack-to-go. The girl's eyes widen, and she hops down off the motorcycle when it pulls to a stop. Her tongue flickers out into the air, her slitted yellow eyes darting between the approaching trucks and the group. She watches Munch's thumb-flick, watches the dumpster move. And then she darts, quick, to wrap her arms around Kay in a /brief/ but tight squeeze before skittering off! Rapidly. To dart around Ion and into the church doors. Ion turns his head, watching the hug, watching the girl dart past him into the church. "One more than there was before," he answers. His shoulders roll in a slow shrug. "Not time for Mass. Priest's hearing confessions. Five or six." He glances up the street, sunglasses rendering his expression strangely impassive -- at least for a moment before a /bright/ toothy grin spreads across his face. "Good thing I just made my peace with God." His arms stretch out, a languid slow motion, fingertips flexing in the air. And then he proceeds to look entirely unhelpful, leaning back against the church wall; in his work-gear he might be any casual bystander. But there's a sudden ozone tinge to the air, a greater /static/ prickling at hair and clothes, and Ion draws in a long breath. The nearest of the incoming police cars and trucks are going to find their batteries very quickly going extremely /dead/ as they near, rendering them nice heavy chunks of barricade-worthy scrap metal. The barricade is almost starting to build /itself/, really; as one incoming truck abruptly idles and comes to a slow rolling halt, the one behind it crashes /into/ it with a grind of metal and shatter-sound of crackling window glass. It is quick to disgorge a quartet of officers in riot gear; the truck in front is slower to open as its occupants try to figure out WTF their truck just did. The pair of squad cars rolling up behind is having the same problem though at higher chase-speeds; the car behind swerves /sharply/ to avoid the car in front, slamming its way into a bus stop nearby with a CRUNCH. The police from the ESU truck are dropping to a cover behind the stalled truck in front. Semi-cover, at least; they are training guns on Kay and Briar. "Stand down!" comes a crackly blaring instruction from a loudspeaker on the truck. And then, "-- Put down the dumpster and kneel with your hands on your head." The voice sounds a little bemused, it's possible that the follow up, "-- /eating/ the fucking /dumpster/?" that comes bewildered through the speaker is not /intended/ to still be broadcast. With the girl heading for safety, the crackle of ozone in the air is joined by an undercurrent of brimstone. Kay's head turns, towards the loudspeaker, his body only slowly following. Around him, the air ripples with faint heat shimmers, floating up through his clothes and hair. Wordlessly, he grins. And shoves his hands forward, the heels of his palms slamming together and a sudden /shockwave/ of roaring flames rolls towards the vehicles. Briar meanwhile has worked up a good tear of weight now; random debris from nearby dumpsters, broken bottles and a small (?) dirty teddy bear, a stray windshield wiper and a MILK CRATE are all rising and orbiting the area at in creasing speeds. They slam into the windshields of parked cars, the cascade of breaking safety glass then rising along with it. The guns in the hands of the nearest cops are /yanked/ at as this hail of /detritus/ begins to pelt against the officer's faces. As if this wasn't enough -- Munch, pulling along the dumpster (still occasionally ripping off a chunk of metal to roughly shove into his mouth) has reached the street -- his dark skin growing even /darker/, with an unusual coarse texture of deepening gray to it. And is now, at the sound of that loudspeaker, starting to spin -- one foot /shoving/ into asphalt as he rotates once, twice -- metal twisting in his grip as the dumpster rotates with him, beginning to lift off the ground... ...until, FLING! Flying dumpster, /straight/ at the truck. You look anemic, boys; add some IRON to go with your SPICE. The ozone crackle in the air strengthens. Against the church Ion is still leaning back, brows /furrowed/ deeply and his arms crossed over his chest. There's nothing flashy happening, really, no dramatic arcs of SITHLORD lightning. Just that same static prickle and then the trucks that the police are sheltering behind are taking on a sudden strong electric /charge/. "-- gotta be fucking kidding me," crackles over the loudspeaker again. "On your /knees/, hands on --" "-- don't think they're gonna /listen/," another voice cuts in. "Oh my ggggaaah." One of the officers, leaning around the truck to aim his gun at Munch, is very suddenly /convulsing/ on the road beside the truck instead, jerk-twitching like he's just been tased. In retrospect, probably a /safer/ place for him; as the dumpster thuds into the truck (already /precarious/ after its crash into the other) it creaks, groans, squeals over onto its side. There's a loud pained cry from a second officer, both legs pinned beneath the truck. The other two from this truck, disarmed and /assailed/ with flying debris, are /fleeing/ for the first truck. The squad car that had crashed into the bus stand is creakily backing up, turning around, and rolling the heck /away/, with a loud scraping of metal as its front bumper drags on the ground. "-- Still have to ask." The voice in the loudspeaker is almost plaintive. Almost. Until the first of the fleeing officers reaches the car, reaching to try and tug the door open; his hand tightens around the handle, body falling unhelpfully against the truck as he convulses, too. "-- Fuckfuck what the -- teddy bear?" "Not listening. /Told/ you -- fff oh Jesus fire where's the fucking button --" The officer in the truck evidently does not find the loudspeaker control. He does shove the door open, taking quick fire from behind the door, blam! blam! blam! towards Briar and Munch in turn. "/Fire/ get the fucking firebug." The other door is opening -- carefully, now, the officer inside this time taking care /not/ to touch the metal body of the truck. The last officer who /had/ come to take shelter is dragging her companion away from the electrified truck body, pulling him over behind the toppled ESU truck. Their riot-gear helmets and visors offer some small protection against the garbage-and-glass cyclone but none against the oncoming flames. Kay stands, back to back with Briar, the two veteran riders laying down cover with a deeply synchronized pattern. When she directs her assault west, he aims east, then they MIX IT UP and switch, throwing out short forcewalls of dryfire (and then /shaking out/ his singed hands afterwards). His frag shots snarl in brief amber glows and lick under cars - he's aiming for /gastanks/ when he isn't giving the popo a few really good reasons NOT to come out of cover. It's all so much sound and smell - Munch's squeal and crunch of metal, the pretty tinkling-rain sound of glass spiraling in cyclones, pelting against helmets and vehicles, the smell of baked asphalt and electricity. Melting rubber and singed clothing. The deafening pops of guns. Kay blinks hard when something spatters across the side of his - he looks UP, at the sky, absurdly expecting, what. Rain? Is someone spitting on them? Briar's weight slumps against his side and he shoves at her with an elbow to push her back to her feet. She responds by buckling at the knees. Suddenly, Kay is screaming, "Shit! Shit, Briar! MUNCH! Ion!" But - no orders come after that. He's thrown his arms around Briar, her kutte wet and red, and he's dragging her towards the church. "--!!" Munch's response is silent -- a swiveling of the head toward Kay, a /narrowing/ of the eyes... when he sees Briar in Kay's arm -- when he sees the red soaking through her kutte -- well, suddenly, red is /all/ he sees. That, and a couple of hunks of metal in front of him. Munch starts to move. Fast. Hard. Straight toward the collection of police cars. Munch tears his shirt torn off his chest with a single *VRRRPT*, exposing dark, blackened skin -- like burnt charcoal -- and that harsh landscape of masculine geometry. Built like a fucking brickhouse and coming in like a goddamn Sherman. When Munch's palms hit the first car, it's like an avalanche of rock smashing into a wall of snow. The car's side /ruptures/ beneath his palms, the whole thing /rolling/ forward with a metallic shriek; /shoved/ to its side, exposing its soft underbelly for Munch to seize hold of. His arms stretch -- grasping the car's back axle in one hand, arm sinking to seize hold of the engine in the other -- as he turns the entire thing into a massive metal plow, just /charging/ with it toward the nearest truck. Face twisted into an expression of pure feral rage. "-- Oh, Jesucristo, no --" The electricity charging the ESU trucks, the dumpter, the stolen guns, all /sizzles/ higher in a brief sharp flare that dies away as Ion races to Briar's side. He stoops to help, picking up her legs so that he can help Kay haul her towards the sturdy protection of the old stone church, shoving the heavy wooden doors open with his back once they arrive. "{-- They had a guy,}" starts out of stressed reflex in Spanish before he switches to muttered English: "Healer. Back in the Village. I can get past the cops --" One of the police radios is crackling; the officer is calling for medical help, /three/ officers down -- no. Make that five, as the gastank of one of the cars on the opposite side WHOOSHES up in a spurt of flame. The woman is dragging one of the fallen officers away quickly, eyes wide as she /drags/ her companion back as fast as she can away from oncoming Munch. There's still one terrified man holed up /in/ the truck, desperately emptying his clip at the oncoming Munch. There's a brief hesitation, the woman looking past the flames and debris towards the trio disappearing into the church, before she amends: Five officers and one civilian. Evacuating scene. Officer needs assistance. Just inside, Kay has gathered Briar into his lap, pressing a hand down against her bloody hair. The heat around him is sweltering, his breath short and sharp in the quiet of the church as, for a single long moment he's just hunched there. Then he nods. And, quickly shrugging out of his kutte, he wads it up and lays it down under Briar's head. He stands, and a visible ripple of heat rises with him. And he rasps out, "Yeah. Go. I'll cover you." And shoves back open the doors.