Logs:Vote of No Confidence

Vote of No Confidence
cn: violence
Dramatis Personae Akihiro, Ion, Regan, Scramble
In Absentia	2022-02-14 "See? America. Everybody got a fucking voice."
Location <VA> Arlington
Cracklehiss. It's just about the only sound on this sleepy suburban block in the wee hours of the morning, nobody out on the road just yet, just cookie-cutter McMansions with their multiple-car garages and neat-trimmed lawns. At the end of one cul-de-sac a car has just popped wholesale into view, a bland and unobtrusive silver Nissan Quest. The minivan may or may not have survived Ion's unique mode of transportation functionally but he isn't trying to turn it on, anyway, just drumming his hands cheerfully against the steering wheel as he gestures expansively out the windshield ahead of them. "BAM. How's that for aim, huh?" He's unobtrusive today himself; black jeans, grey sweatshirt, balaclava that's currently rolled up half over his face though the exposed half his face, here away from New York, is conscientiously covered with a black KN95. The house in question that he's gestured to doesn't have much to make it stand out from the others. Black SUV parked in the driveway outside the garage. A Big Wheel tipped over on the front lawn. The large house itself seems to be built in at least three distinct architectural styles but then again, so are the rest on the street. "You have been improving." The quiet impressed note in Regan's voice will have to do by way of accolade for getting so close to their target. She's been tucked into a back seat of the minivan; her attire, like Ion's, similarly unembellished. Black jeans, plain black sweater and boots, hair tied up under a black cap, black facemask. Her eyes linger on the tricycle as she gets out of the car. Her hand falls to a pistol holstered at her hip before simply crossing over her chest. "You could get us closer." “It’s definitely more convenient than walking twenty miles through the sand and rocks.” Akihiro chimes in, tugging his own mask down and hiding his grin. Likewise he’s dressed in dark clothes and steel-toed combat boots. “I’m feeling nostalgic, it’s been a while since I killed anybody important.” He leans over to fish a pair of gloves with odd metal guards between the first and last set of knuckles from a duffel bag next to him and slips them on. “We ready?” "That was beautiful, Hermano. Ionno why we even bother traveling any other way." Scramble pulls her own mask down over her face unfolds herself from the passenger seat as the rest of her team disembarks. She's also looking no-nonsense in almost entirely black, a pistol at her right thigh and a wicked combat knife at the small of her back. She shoots Akihiro an opaque look made more opaque by the fact only her eyes are really visible, but all she says is, "Ready." Ion shoots Akihiro a look as well, similarly hard to read. He's much more verbose, though, sucking hard at his teeth. "Important, tss. Motherfucker got himself a demotion from the Secret Service, pretty sure. Still getting a fat payday to monitor us freaks, though." His touch comes with a jolt as he rounds up his Siblings -- it spikes higher into a brief blinding flash of pain that lasts, thankfully, only a second before they're dumped out into a living room that looks like it could be in a model home, immaculate leather sofas that look un-sat-on, glass-topped tables, no clutter. The pair of U.S. marshals sitting on the patio outside, in clear view of the wide glass-and-screen doors, don't seem to have noticed them just yet, but the Guardian stationed beside them is turning clunkily their way. Regan's head cocks slightly to the side when she spies the trio sitting out on the patio. She doesn't reach for her gun, just regards the robot and oblivious marshals with steady blue eyes. "Hungry, Scramble?" She's stepping toward the door to unlock it, calmly asking the cops outside: "Excuse me, but is Mr. Fagan in? We don't have an appointment." “Eh, you know what I mean. The Tyr don’t have robots.” Akihiro half whispers, motioning towards the Guardian. “You wanna fry this one?” His hand falls to rest lazily on the hilt of his combat knife, not seeming to be taking the situation as seriously as he should. Scramble shakes off the jolt of their trip inside via Ion. "Nope, but I am a greedy ho." She slips out the door onto the patio and past one of the marshals, who staggers to his feet, eyes bulging as he casts around in evident confusion, unable to focus on any of the Brothers. The other Marshal is quicker on the draw -- maybe they'd cottoned on already to the alerting Guardian, and his gun is out as the Brothers appear in the patio doorway. "The fuck?" is his baffled spluttering, but he's squeezing the trigger without waiting for an answer, aimed directly at Scramble as she slips outside. The robot, meanwhile, has turned toward the group, faceplate placid unlike its human handlers. "You are trespassing," it announces, even as it's stepping forward toward the group. "On behalf of Oscorp and the U.S. Marshal Service you will be placed under arrest. Attempts to resist will be met with force." Ion claps a hand on Scramble's shoulder, extends his other -- there's a flicker of lightning that arcs through the Guardian and then he and Scramble are on the other side of it, the bullet whizzing through the open door and thudding into a wall of the living room. The robot's calm speech stutters for only a second before it switches gears, unleashing a pair of suppression-drug darts towards Ion and Scramble. The marshal's eyes have gone wide -- he lets off another pair of shots though these are wilder, less aimed as he fumbles for his radio. The radio is not apparent at his hip anymore. It's transformed, evidently, into a glowing-hot lump of coal, sizzling against skin where he reaches for it. Regan is humming an idle tune to herself as she scoots just behind Akihiro -- convenient meatshield! -- through this next round of bullets. "It was a simple question. We'll find him ourselves." With Scramble gone and Regan behind him, Akihiro tightens the grip on his knife and slings it towards the firing Marshall’s throat. “You know how hard it is to find good help these days.” He shifts back slightly, ready to intercept and darts or bullets heading their way and draws the matte black pistol from the small of his back. Somewhere between wrecking the first marshal's mind and landing on the other side of the Guardian, Scramble has drawn her gun. With the small delay as she recovers from her mild electrocution, she fires a split second after the robot -- three shots directly into its neck joint. In very nearly the same moment, the dart catches her square in the chest and she hisses a quiet curse. The marshal's eyes go wide and he drops his hot-coal-radio abruptly, the thing clattering to the stone patio. The scream that was starting to well up in his throat is cut short by the knife that's suddenly sprouted there. There's a skitter of sparks dancing over Ion's skin, bright and erratic as the Osbot starts to power itself down. He's hissing sharply, tugging a suppression dart out of his arm. "Best be through with this quick or we taking the long way home." Behind them, in the house, there's movement -- feet on the stairs, summoned perhaps by the sounds of scuffle, the gunshot. The man who appears is dressed in a hastily thrown-on bedrobe, barefoot, a pistol in his hand; familiar enough from their briefings even if he lacks his usual suit and tie. "Martin? Roger?" He's looking wide-eyed and bewildered at the guards -- one dying, one staring vacantly through the open patio doorway back at him. "Who are you people?" "Unfortunate," murmurs Regan as their target comes into view. The floor between them and the head of MAD is warping, shifting into a hissing writing pit of vipers that are starting to slither over each other towards the pajama'd man. The snakes melt back away to leave the living room quiet once more. "Here I'd hoped to have some fun. -- Can you make it out of here?" The question from their ill-fated host receives an irritable-dismissive wave of hand. "Your constituents, I suppose." “Yeah, no, I see what you’re talking about. If he was important he’d know better than to walk towards the gunshots.” Akihiro just sort of stares up at the man, holstering his pistol and instead letting his top two claws slip out. “You wanna run back up the stares, maybe try and hide?” Regardless he shifts, getting ready to pounce if he tries shooting instead. "This being a so-called 'democracy', I think constituents' s'posed to be able to vote their officials out. Not your kind, though." Scramble grits her teeth and pulls the dart out. "Frankly I ain't got much faith left in democracy anyhow. So." She levels her gun at the director of MAD. "Consider this our vote of no confidence." She pulls the trigger three times. "See? America. Everybody got a fucking voice." Ion's saying this through gritted teeth as he watches MAD's director crumple. And then -- a little wobblier, a little more intense than the way in -- he's rounding up his brethren, the world going briefly black as they vacate the premises.