ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Preparing

Vignette - Preparing
Dramatis Personae Peter, Hank
In Absentia	2013-08-08 '
Location <XS> Danger Room
Two of the six-man SWAT team took a position behind the columns that flanked the entryway to the parking lot; the other four crouched beneath vehicles at either side of the entrance, two to a car. "Come out with your hands up!" one of the men shouted. Peter replied by throwing a motorcycle. It flew through the air precisely like one would /expect/ a motorcycle to fly; that is to say, it didn't fly so much as lurch. When it hit the car two of the men were crouched behind, the force of impact was sufficient to crumple the car's flank inward -- blow out both passenger side windows and a windshield -- and force the car back by a foot. The officers opened fire in the direction it had been thrown from -- but no one was there. Peter was already on the ceiling, crawling; dressed completely in black, he was hard to make out in the flickering flourescent lights. When he descended behind one of the cars, the SWAT were still firing at where they imagined he was. Peter landed just behind them. He gripped one of his fists in his hand and used it as leverage to deliver a rising elbow to the center of one man's back; even through armor, it was enough to send the officer lurching forward. By the time the second was turning, Peter had already swept his legs out from under him and snatched his rifle out of his hands as he fell. The gun became a club; Peter slammed it into the first officer's solar plexus, threw it aside, and took /his/ gun, too. Then, while the officer struggled to recover, Peter seized hold of the nape of his neck and threw him around, turning him into a human shield. By now, the rest of the SWAT team had realized where Peter was -- and were swiveling to take aim. Peter slammed his foot down into the stomach of the man on the floor and threw the other man at the team. Rather than open fire, they hesitated -- which gave Peter the opening he needed. He released a barrage of web-lines -- THWP, THWP, THWP THWP -- flaring out in a series of silver strands. Each one struck its mark; one of the assault rifles pointed in his direction. With a single, powerful /pull/, Peter clenched his fists and yanked all four guns out of their hands, sending them clattering to the ground. Peter started to lunge -- just as he felt his danger sense /scream/ behind him. An instant later, there was a gunshot -- and the world froze. Peter turned. The soldier on the ground -- the one who's stomach he had kicked -- had yanked his service pistol out of the holster and fired. An explosion of flame was now frozen around the barrel; the bullet -- freshly ejected -- hovered, motionless, about 5 yards from Peter's chest. Peter stared at the bullet mutely. Then, he reached up, grabbed the back of his black mask, and yanked it off. "I would have dodged that." "Unlikely," Dr. McCoy admitted. The furry blue doctor was now standing beside the car Peter had wrecked, clad in his labcoat and glasses. He ran a clawed finger along the massive crater the motorcycle had left in the car. "But that isn't why the simulation's stopping." "It would have been /fine/," Peter said, with just an edge of indignance. "I would have--" "You turned your back upon an enemy that was not incapacitated," Doctor McCoy replied. Peter sighed. "/Fine/. What should I have done? Killed him?" The indignance swelled. McCoy's face scrunched up into a mixture of disappointment and frustration. "Goodness no, Peter. You're more creative than /that/. When you've gotten them on the ground," he added, "glue their hands and feet." "...okay," Peter said, his tone and body posture taking on a more subdued tone. "The motorcycle," McCoy soon added, "was a very -- interesting touch, however. Excellent distraction. And initial analysis indicates that so far, you've been responsible for no major injuries -- fractures or otherwise. You're getting better, Peter," he admitted, with a fanged smile. "It's not good enough. And the ones in the sewers had vinegar grenades," Peter said, walking toward the soldier who had fired on him. He peered at the bullet -- reached out and touched it. His hand passed through it, as if it were nothing more but a hologram. "I won't always be able to web them." "Ah, yes. That /is/ problematic," McCoy agreed. "As your tactics evolve, so do the enemy's. That is but one reason why it is so imperative you learn to fight without them. But I believe the twins are helping you with that, aren't they?" "--that thing we talked about. The other day," Peter said, straightening. He turned to Dr. McCoy. "Have you thought about it?" McCoy's face immediately darkened. "--yes, Peter. I've given it a great deal of thought. And I must say, while I understand your reasoning, I think this is something you should discuss... with the twins, first." "It wouldn't matter," Peter said. "They wouldn't -- say no. They'd just..." He sighed. "It would just make them sad, I think. I don't want them to know I'm doing it, okay?" McCoy frowned. His head cocked back; he looked to the ceiling. "Computer," he said, "load Shark Week." The parking lot -- and all its accoutrements -- vanished. It was replaced by a simple, gray room; McCoy and Peter stood alone in it. An instant later, and visual copies of Shane and Sebastian appeared on either side of McCoy. They were nearly indistinguishable; both wore black khakis and nothing else, their faces neutral. "...I've compiled an extraordinary amount of data on both Shane and Sebastian in the DR," McCoy said. "I've collated that data with the video tapes from the -- incident. With help from our computer, I think the DR can, indeed, simulate reasonable approximations of their fighting style, both independently and as a group. I've compared their abilities with your own..." Peter watched the two simulations warily, stepping back; he was bobbing back and forth, apprehension writ on his face. "...and from what I can see, against /both/ of them -- without your webshooters? -- ah, to put it somewhat crudely," McCoy said, removing his glasses and rubbing them against his labcoat, "you'll be sharkfood." "But I could /learn/ to beat them. Couldn't I? In case--" Peter's lips drew thin. "--in case they needed me to." "Maybe," McCoy admitted. "But I'm not comfortable helping you accomplish that, Peter. Not without their consent. I already feel as if merely /compiling/ this data without their direct consent is, in some way, unfair," McCoy admitted, gesturing to the two images. "Computer, unload Shark Week." Both of the twins vanished. "I understand your reasoning, Peter. But understand what you're asking of me: You're asking me to help you learn how to beat up your friends. /Without/ their knowledge." "If I asked them. And they said yes," Peter said, his tone much softer now, "would it be okay?" "...I'd still have very deep concerns about putting you in that situation," Dr. McCoy said, replacing his glasses. "But you /have/ come a long way with your therapy, and--" McCoy paused, then, frowning at the place where the two images had once laid. "--and I cannot deny," he said, "that in a case where they both... lost control, it is advantageous to know someone present could stop them." "I'll talk to them," Peter said. "--eventually."