ArchivedLogs:Vector (Prometheus Raid, Team 2)

Vector (Prometheus Raid, Team 2)
Dramatis Personae Ash, Dusk, Hive, Jackson, Malthus, Flicker, Vector
In Absentia	2013-10-16 (Concurrent with chaos and drones.)
Location Prometheus Facility, Virginia
Things around Prometheus have been exceptionally quiet, lately. Though the labrats have received no explanation for the change, it's not all /that/ unusual for any individual to go for weeks at a time without being selected for experiments; still, for /all/ of them to be dormant at once is an oddity. Not that most of them are talking to each other; with a skeleton crew of security, social time has been eliminated, and though they are all still being fed as per usual other routine has ground to a mind-numbing halt. Nothing to do except eat and pace their small rooms. Read books, when the orderlies bring them. Stare at the walls. Talk to their roommates, if they're lucky enough to have one. Talk to themselves, if not. For the inmates, things at the moment are much as they have been. At the moment. The breaching of the facility with its skeleton-crew of guards was easy, with a Hiveminded guard to let them in. Hive's initial reports would have turned up this: three floors of labs, offices, operating rooms, all currently deserted save for a pair of staff in the kitchens getting ready the next meal; 13 prisoners on the east wing of the third basement floor, fifteen prisones in the west wing; under normal circumstances the west wing would have been the more-secure labrat housing, but with security slimmed down it mostly means heavier doors and heavier locks but not actually an increase in staff. A floor below that, five more prisoners, though per capita these seem to have commandeered more security than the rest. Jax's team has been split up. Liam and Jane and Ryan to the secure housing, Ash and Joshua and Xiao-shan to the east wing. Which leaves Dusk and Jax here, heading down a stairway to the less-populated floor below. This floor of Prometheus is different than the ones above it, more heavily reinforced by far. The stairwell opens out into a hallway where there aren't many rooms, and the ones that there /are/ are spaced far apart; one at the end has an entire decontamination room and airlock to navigate before getting through to whoever is beyond. A day ago, Hive would have been able to see through his borgnet that security down here was minimal, though still more heavy than the other floors above. Today? Today there seems to have been a small change in staffing. Three men wait for Jax and Dusk. Two, Hive can tell, are career soldiers, armed to the teeth in a room on the left -- waiting for orders. They are dressed sharply in uniforms unusual for this place -- dark, crisp black body-armor. The distinct markings of HAMMER operatives, complete with face-plates and assault rifles. They are fanatics, and their minds are buzzing with the intent to do violence to anyone who enters this place. A third mind, some distance away in another room, is... fuzzier. Harder to get a grip on. Like catching a blurry, unfocused shot of the sasquatch. But through the blurriness, something sharp and honed stirs -- a mind like a knife, ready to strike. The thoughts of the two soldiers in one room often drift to the third; a knot of worry, concern, and an edge of suspicion. << Stop. >> This is all that comes to Jax and Dusk before they head through the door. Just that, while Hive takes a long moment to assess. A bit later, though: << You've got HAMMER down here. Not the regular guards. Be careful. I'll try and take out the guards for you, these guys are serious. >> With as many minds as he's eaten lately, the touch of his mind to the guards is hardly a touch at all, a barely-noticeable whisper of mental contact, silent fingers reaching out to explore. Jackson freezes outside the stairwell door. His hand lifts, making the sign of the cross briefly. He doesn't look much like anything, today, bright hair hidden beneath a dark knit cap, piercings hidden behind a cheerful sunshiney-yellow bandana, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Bulletproof vest, comfortable cargo pants, heavy boots. To Dusk he only holds up one hand -- wait -- and stands by the door. Waiting for Hive's signal. Dusk can't really do much by way of disguise. Covering his face is hardly likely to help with the enormous dark wings that he can't do anything about. And so he just looks like Dusk, his cap more for /warmth/ in the brisk autumn day than for concealment, his face uncovered and his wings pulled in /tight/ against his shoulders. He doesn't quite twiddle his thumbs when Jax says wait. But he waits. << HAMMER? Flicker'll have to get these kids out fast. >> Hive's mind intrudes into the minds quickly, slipping into their thoughts like a warm knife through melting butter. At once, he feels the buzz of their reservations, their apprehension. Called here on short notice. Fanatics; they'd follow their Captain into hell. But their Captain has recently committed himself to something... unusual. Something that makes them deeply nervous. There's also the matter of the mutant inside of that airlock -- /that/ makes them even more apprehensive than their Captain's recent changes. Something about... a mutant carrying viruses? Diseases? Serious 'Bubonic Plague' shit. And then there's the third mind -- that fuzzy one. It's slippery, avoiding immediate grasp; like water flowing between fingertips. Also, it's beginning to stir -- as if Hive's presence was enough to rouse it from a long, restless sleep. Or maybe something else. Hive slips into the guards easily, not moving them, just letting them -- stay. Right where they are. With no more intention to attack anyone. << I have the guards, but there's someone else there. Fuzzy. It might be a captive, I can't tell. Stay alert. >> He's reaching out, to the other minds down there /in/ the cages. Quietly conversing, quiely alerting. Jackson hits the cuffs and collar he wears, turning their lights on bright though outwardly little shows past faint beads of colour in their black not!leather. He takes a deep breath, and it takes a long time before he moves forward -- time spent in very /careful/ construction of illusion. There's a soft noise of opening door, when they head out into the hall, but to all appearances the door stays shut; the men who come through it can't be seen, as he surveys the hallway. << OK. Get Flicker down here, now. >> He keeps a hand on Dusk's arm as he moves, since his teammate can't see him any more than anyone else can. Dusk follows, slowly, steps quiet as he surveys the hallway. The doors beyond. << Who's down here? >> he asks Hive, puzzled by this security; though he doesn't specify his mental connotations implies, who's in the /cages/, not who lurks outside of them. << Flickerbusy, >> Hive's mind comes pulsing in with an uncomfortable /squeeze/ of pressure, << fuck >>. That is all, for some while. As Dusk and Jax proceed forward, a man steps out of one of the rooms at the side -- 20 yards ahead. Dressed in charcoal black, wearing an expression of Buddha-like serenity. His head is shaved smooth as glass; across his right brow and eye, an angry snarl of scar tissue tears down -- meeting his lip. Twisting it into an upward sneer. In addition, Malthus' skin is currently a stark gray -- and both his eyes a pure, jet-black. He does not see the invisible duo as they move in. Instead, he seems intent on inspecting the troops in the other room. As he walks, there is a slowness to his gait -- as if he was made of glass, and is taking great care not to shatter himself. Wisps of ink-black smoke lift from his skin. << Busy? With what? We need him down here ASAP. >> Jackson stops, though, when he sees Malthus his breath catches -- audibly, in the seemingly deserted hallway. << Nox? >> It's immediate and puzzled, as he scrutinizes the other man. Kind of /experimentally/, the lights nearer Malthus start to brighten. << Woman. Woman -- fucking with powers. >> This comes to everyone in the building, not just Hive's team anymore; it comes in a sharp snap of kind of /panicked/-sounding mental voice. << -- ngh Josh -- /stop her/. >> Flicker appears down in the hallway -- if only for a second. Then vanishes again, without the protection of Jax's invisibility. Then appears again, then vanishes. Hive manages to trim his focus down enough to center on /this/ floor, at least, though still rather untargeted it goes to Jax and Dusk and Malthus all at once: << Plague. Plague -- fuck. >> And then, less panicked but more grim, to Jax and Dusk alone: << The man in the last room creates diseases. Has enough potency in him to wipe out -- probably everything. >> He makes no recommendations here or there, as to what to /do/ about this. Just relays the information as steadily as his fluctuating powers can manage. The sight of the shadow-man draws a wrenching ache from Dusk that he stifles almost as soon as it's risen. << Nox. Is she here? What have they done? >> The information about the last inmate draws nothing from him but a flat bland resignation. His arm stiffens beneath Jax's fingers, only tensing further at the brief sight of Flicker. << If you can hold him off I can get the people Flicker brings. >> "...ssst." The sound is soft and sibilant; scarcely more than a whisper. Malthus' eyes widen; a hand lifts toward his head, arching back to stare at the lights... and then his gaze narrows. What began as a painful sigh becomes a slow, lingering hiss. His eyes swivel away from the lights -- sweeping down the hall. Over Jackson and Dusk, unseeing. And then... there is that flicker. Of a Flicker. Followed by Hive's psychic presence, hammering outward. Malthus turns. Wordlessly. He moves back toward the security station, wisps of smokey shadow trailing behind him. And reaches outward, into the room -- flipping off the light-switch. At once, the hallway is bathed in darkness; scarcely more than Malthus' outline can be seen -- and the vague, orange glow of the exit lights. His voice is nothing more than a whisper -- a whisper that seems to extend outward, a blanket of coldness spreading around him like a cloud. "Mr. Holland," Malthus whispers. "A pleasure to finally meet you." Jackson may recognize the voice. Somewhere buried in the pit of his memory -- the same voice that, so long ago, calmly ordered his execution across a radio. In the darkness, Flicker has disappeared and reappeared, disappeared and reappeared; there's a thin young woman suddenly placed behind Dusk, a young man who seems nothing but startled to be there. Vanish again, leaving Dusk with Vector and the other labrat behind his invisible wings in the darkness. << What. >> Jackson's mind is oddly calm among all this. Listening to Malthus with a quiet coolness belied by the chill creeping up his spine. There's a moment of silence, conversation audible only to Hive before his unhappily relayed order comes: << You need to put him back. >> The darkness is met with a sudden catch of breath, audible in the gloom. /This/ Jackson has to battle to stay calm through, moreso even than Malthus's soft voice. He focuses on the light still flooding from his collar and cuffs, on the stores built up within him in preparation for this. "Where's Nox?" is all he says, soft in the darkness. << Put him back?? >> Dusk sounds like he doesn't really comprehend this order; Hive needs to repeat it to him before he acknowledges. In this time Flicker's returned another one of the five down here; his wings uncurl to shepherd them in the darkness towards the stairwell just behind them; with the opening door, light briefly floods out to bathe them, seemingly brilliant in contrast to the dark hall. << Can't put him /back/, >> snaps back, uncertain and un/happy/, a brief flare of anger in his mind. << You know what they do to people down here. Jax we don't /leave people/. >> "She is dead." The response is instant. Soft, perhaps. With what might even be a hint of sympathy. Though, all in all, not a great deal. Malthus' expression retains that sense of ever-present calm -- even when Vector appears in the space behind Jax and Dusk. The coldness that surrounds him expands outward -- shadows are solidifying around him. Thickening. Reforming. Hard edges emerging from them; Malthus' figure is beginning to extend outward -- upward -- into... what appears to be armor. From his left hand, a narrow blade of darkness extends, its edge steadily sharpening... "The mutant male behind you. He modifies diseases; he carries plagues within him capable of wiping out millions -- mutant and human alike. Return him to his cell immediately. And then we shall settle our accounts." The whispering echoes down the hall, as calm and steady as an expanding wall of frost. << /Put him back/. >> This is firmer, this time, from Jax. << Hive, make him if you have to. >> In his mind there's -- a storm. Guilt, /sick/ unhappiness, but over it a grim resolution. << We are not equipped to deal with -- >> This cuts off, when Malthus's words register. "Dead." The light /flares/ around Malthus, sudden and fierce and sunlight-bright, with a memory of the cages at Fight Club and the sad pale ghost of a woman Nox became under their bright lights. "Did you kill her?" Another shimmer in the gloom that lingers around Jax, and the last of the captives from down /here/ are deposited by the stairwell door. Flicker vanishes again. << Get them out get out get /out/ -- >> Hive's voice is clipped. And /angry/. "Tssssszz..." Malthus grimaces; the halo of light that sheathes him eats through the armor -- holes appearing, like acid gnawing its way through paper. As the holes and tears expand, Malthus is exposed beneath -- tendrils of ink-black smoke curling up from the widening crevices. Inside the rapidly degenerating armor, Malthus is grinning -- or grimacing. It's hard to tell the difference. "Would that make this easier?" Malthus asks, his voice still a hissing, steady whisper. His hand moving beneath his coat, into the shadow; hidden beneath the darkness -- which gathers around him to cloak his movements. Squeezing the hilt of his holstered pistol. His eyes quietly scanning the crowd, the sound of Jackson's voice. "Give you a face to blame?" << Ffff -- >> is the last thing that comes from Hive. And then quiet. "Go, go, /go/." This is quiet, from Dusk, wings appearing as they shift out of Jax's cloak of invisibility. Spreading out to shepherd the people up the stairs, with an unhappy riot of thought in his mind. << Hive? >> This doesn't make him any /more/ happy. The stairwell door clangs shut behind him, cutting out the light from the stairs. << Hive /get him back/. >> It's not angry, in Jax's mind, it's just -- resolute. A little bit clenchy with dismay at the sudden quiet from the telepath. << Hive. Hive we need to put him back. Where's Flicker? Get him back, now. >> "No. The light stays bright around Malthus. "This is never easy." A thin glimmer of shielding shimmers into place around the stairwell door, protecting the others' retreat even through this silent call to have Flicker take the one captive back. "What accounts do you an' I got to settle? I don't remember owin' you nothin'." "Nnssss..." The armor continues to evaporate; Malthus' grin/grimace deepens. The shadows remain deeply gathered around his right arm, even as the 'sword' begins to crack -- shattering into a dozen pieces, which soon dissolve into nothing more than a mass of wispy, swirling tendrils of shadow. "May we die well, Mr. Holland." Malthus draws. A fluid, thoughtless motion; his hand snaps out from the darkness -- which explode around his arm in a flutter of shadowy moths -- as the barrel levels toward the space where Malthus has guessed Jackson to be. Three shots fire out -- three guesses. Each leveled for a man of Jackson's height, each intended to strike the head. "Khh --" It's a soft hiss, and Jax flickers back into appearance, one dark spot amidst the gloom. One hand is pressed to the side of his jaw; from beneath the bandana there's quite a lot of blood leaking through his fingers. Bright streaks of light sizzle through the air, searing heat aimed for Malthus's hands. Jax stumbles back against the wall just beside the stairwell door, a faint shimmer of light sprouting in a wall around him. "I don't --" His words are thick and slurred, and cut off shortly. "... intend. To." And then quiet. "--nngh," Malthus manages, the beam of light striking his hands -- a searing heat scorching his palms, his fingers -- at once, the dark gray skin becomes bright, vivid white -- a sharp cry of pain as blisters form across his skin. But rather than /drop/ the weapon -- which begins to glow with heat -- Malthus' palm squeezes it more deeply -- a fourth, a fifth, a sixth shot pinging off of Jackson's shield. The smell of burnt flesh filling the chamber. "The mutant," Malthus croaks, as loudly as he can. "--don't -- keep him." Blam. Blam. "We'll -- contact you." Blam. The light around Malthus dims, as the bullets ping off the shields, darkness enveloping him again as Jax's energy is diverted to supporting the shields. The shield flickers, when Jax tries to move; its brief fluctuation is enough to tear another bullet through his arm. His hand stays clamped to his jaw, blood still oozing through his fingers. "Where -- should we. Put --" His words come muffled through his teeth, his jaws not moving much with these words. "Sssssh..." Even with the return of shadows, Malthus is still wheezing; the damage the light has inflicted is done -- though the darkness provides succor to his injuries, his injuries remain. He limps forward, gun still clenched in his hand. Squeezing off another shot -- though this one is futile, fired blindly. "Isolation," he hisses. "/No/ contact. Keep unconscious, if possible. Do not. /Kill/. Will. Call you." At last, the gun clatters to the ground, dropped from Malthus' now-unfeeling hands, crooked and smoldering. "She died painlessly," Malthus lies. "Go." The pain Jax is in is clear, body hunched behind the shield; with the darkness closing back in his shield waves again. The final bullet shot is met with a soft hiss that suggests it's met /some/ target, though in the gloom it's hard to tell past a heavier slump against the wall as his shield strengthens back into place. "Call me." Jax echoes this with a hint of bemusement, one bloody hand clamped to the wall as he drags himself towards the stairwell. There is largely just quiet, from this level of the building, now. Darkness, down in the hallway below; here in the lighted stairwell, a constant flicker-shift of light. And a lot of blood, coming from where Jax has crumpled against the stairs, leaking from a hole torn straight through his jaw, dripping out below his shirt, sticking the leg of his pants to his skin. There's not much else coming from him but strained burbly breaths, whistling through the blood around his mouth. Wordlessly, Malthus follows his gun -- slumping to the floor. The blotches of white across him outnumber the stretches of dark gray skin, leaving scarcely an inch of him the pallor he began with -- his eyes closing as the shadows shrink around him, clenching into a tightening knot. His breathing grows steady; then it, like Malthus, vanishes into the dark. There is largely just quiet, from this level of the building, now. Darkness, down in the hallway below; here in the lighted stairwell, a constant flicker-shift of light. And a lot of blood, coming from where Jax has crumpled against the stairs, leaking from a hole torn straight through his jaw, dripping out below his shirt, sticking the leg of his pants to his skin. There's not much else coming from him but strained burbly breaths, whistling through the blood around his mouth. There is something vaguely familiar in the way the the light dances in the stairwell that catches Ash's attention from one floor up. The quiet noises and emptiness beckons him down the stairs, his weary body making a bit more noise than it should as he lumbers down the stairs. His eyes widen over the bandana disguising his face when he finds Jackson there and he barrels down faster, leaping to the bottom to avoid stepping on him when he looses control of his footing. He casts a narrow glare down the hallway to check for attackers before moving in and scooping Jackson up as carefully as possible, lifting him close to his torso before starting up the stairs, a second wind propelling him up and out of the facility quickly.