ArchivedLogs:The Assault (Pt. 2)

The Assault (Pt. 2)
Dramatis Personae Howl, Masque, Jim, Doom, Hive
In Absentia	2013-07-24 Part 2 of the Morlock Raid.
Location <MOR> Welcome to the Freakshow
Wider and more spacious than many of the surrounding nooks and niches, this chill cavern is the central hub of the Morlock's underground network. With tunnels branching off in many directions, it takes a while to learn to /navigate/ from here to where you want to go, but there's generally plenty of more experienced people around to teach newcomers the ins and outs of the pathways. Here, though, is a safe place to come and relax, for what value of relaxation can be found among moss-covered walls and the occasional stagnant puddles on the floor. There's been furniture brought in, a mismatched assortment of crates, mattresses with busted springs, a few broken and subsequently repaired chairs, a folding table in a corner. Shelves along a wall hold entertainment; books, a smattering of board and card games, sometimes snacks. There's even electricity, wiring none too safe and visible in places where the wall has been broken open; the naked light bulbs flicker often and the lone outlet has had so many power strips attached it is undoubtedly a fire hazard. Morlocks, you have aggro'd the gov't. INC MALTHUS. Perhaps breaking from the other two-man squads patrolling the sewers, this is a /three/ man squad -- a trio of black-dressed soldiers, dressed in body-armor -- their faces obscured beneath metal helmets that include a set of viewing goggles that provide both HUDs and excellent low-light vision. Two of the men are armed with assault rifles and a small array of flash grenades; the third individual behind that forms the tactical triangle comes equipped with a more non-lethal array of weaponry, including a bulky weapon reminiscent of an assault rifle yet not readily identifiable. The men are also accompanied by the sound of steady buzzing overhead and behind -- a set of three OSCORP drones -- or, as the troops refer to them, OSBOTS. The Osbots are more or less the size of a basketball, bristling with an array of communication and jamming devices -- bringing limited communication to the teams down here. Theyre suspended in the air by a set of four internal, pivoting propellers; theyre also connected to a network of bots down here feeding the troops a steady stream of relevant intel. The unit moves through one of the tunnels, approaching just the /fringe/ of Morlock territory. They're just brushing up against it when suddenly -- NOX THROWS THE ALARM. Alerting every Morlock in the area: POSE AS A TEAM, BECAUSE SHIT JUST GOT REAL. The closed in narrow halls bank and divot through the bowels of New York, lined with pipes and wires, closing in tight for long stretches and then belling out into wide underground chambers. Cement floors lead to brick floors lead to a few places where gravel has eroded into a dry dirt. Stepping up into flat platforms and then down into strange underground worlds. It's an eerily enchanted chamber; a perfect, deep, circular pool - stagnant, dirty water, so still its surface is silky slick - is situated to one side, built up a few feet above the ground. It rises up from a lush solid carpet of kudzu vinery that ripples and across the entire floor and climbs the walls. If feet step on it, they'll find the ground is erregular, like a forest floor that's been overgrown with knuckles of plant roots. Jim is already pulling himself forward, out of his place half grown against the walls - a horror movie apparition of gnarled tree parts and leaves and overgrown vines, partly man-shaped under his kilt, arms crossed and not in any state to /uncross/, his blue eyes are suddenly stabbing around in the dark. In infrared, he probably is barely a faint blue. From his NAP. Masque hasn't aggro'd shit. He's one or two bends away from Jim's hangout spot, an occasionally limping collection of old man under a red coat patrolling a pathway in near complete darkness. He stops, then, to look up and around from under his drawn up hood, but though the lack of light may not get in his way when it comes to finding his way around, it does not exactly do him favours when it comes to keeping an eye out for danger when it DOES crop up. So he does the next best thing. Move for another noise. When he hears the planty noises of Jim detaching from a wall, Masque's eyes narrow in /that/ direction instead, and starts walking a little speedier than before to reach it, grimacing. Calling, meanwhile, in a voice easily denoting tired annoyance, "You know anything 'bout this?" Until lately, and save for the occasional guard duty, Howl has seldom been out of his own makeshift den, such as it is, but meeting Peter and the Holland twins the other day has prompted him to expand his comfort area a bit! As such, he has been EXPLORIN'. He is, in fact, not terribly far from that mystical chamber, drawn perhaps by the magic produced by floofy tails, but more likely by the fact that it just happened to be next on his list of places he hasn't investigated yet. Of course, before he can actually enter to /appreciate/ the place, there's that warning alarm going through the tunnels, a noise he is most decidedly /not/ familiar with-- and then angry /voices/ up ahead, oh my. But -- well, given that he ALSO isn't familiar with Masque -- rather than move /away/ from the room ahead, he strides into it, a bit cautiously, ears perked, majestic tails puffed out a bit behind him, cautiously looking about for the source of that admittedly angry voice. "...I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid I'm not sure what's going on." His accent is ridiculously Welsh, and other than the foxy ears, tails, claws, fangs, and /such/ he does look rather like a farmer; plaid button-down shirt, suspenders, heavy work pants and boots. And a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights expression. The trio of rousing Morlocks would soon have an answer to their curiosity -- it comes with the sound of distant gunshots, echoing down the hallways of the sewers like a series of popping firecrackers, muffled through God knows how much sewage and bouncing off of fuck knows how many concrete walls. But the distant gunfire is probably not what immediately concerns them. No, that honor likely goes to the sudden sound of buzzing that fills the roomy interior of the edges of the Morlock caverns -- buzzing produced by the three Osbots, now plunging ahead of the three-man squadron -- little more than basketball-sized silhouettes in the darkness, swinging forward as they investigate the area that the three Morlockians stand in with a quick sweep of thermal vision. And proceed to report their findings to the three-man team behind them. At which point, there would be voices coming from that tunnel -- well, a voice. As the three soldiers step forward. The two in front with their assault rifles poised and aimed -- notably, both of them aiming at SWAMPTHING over there. "Hold! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS! NO ONE MOVE!" The one behind seems to be concerned with the fallback plan - the unidentified weapon is deftly rotated between the visible, sewer-dwelling targets in a non-stop cycle. << Jesus Christ. >> This surfaces in Jim's mind almost as though he were thinking it himself. Almost as though he were thinking it in Hive's /crankyface/ voice, irritably roused away from the explosions he's currently watching on-screen, somewhere in a movie theater far distant. << Two soldiers. -- Searching. For Nox. Couldn't you motherfuckers have waited till my movie was done? >> He's got giant robot porn going on. And then, a little more /puzzled/: << -- Three men? >> This doesn't sound very /certain/; in Jim's mind there's a brief confusion at faint echo-images gleaned from the rather psionically-/polished/ minds of two of the soldiers; there's definitely a third /with/ them. And the drones! But -- no mental reading from the third man. There's a quiet rustle of other /voices/ suddenly augmenting Jim's Hivespace. Moviegoers SLURPED up while they enjoy robot porn so that Hive can try again? But still no mental reading from the third figure. << -- I can take the soldiers but you're on your own with the fucking drones, man. >> << Jesus Christ. >> Is in Jim's mind simultaneously as Hive's - maybe from Hive's own suggestion, or maybe just simpatico crankiness. "Big brother's come for a visit," Jim grunts at Masque and Howl, wordlessly shoving his melted arms at Masque. "They're looking for Nox." Kudzu is a remarkable plant; in nature, it's able to grow over a foot in a single day. Under Jim's control, it begins to writhe, thicken and interbraid into slowly forming ropes that twine around the armored legs of the men in the chamber with quiet slithering sounds of leaves on leaves. "I haven't /got/ hands, cockrag," he answers the guards flatly, his eyes following the drones. His body can somewhat be heard reforming further and further from fauna to flora, thin wood-creak noises deep in his chest while slipping to put the other two Morlocks behind him. Bullets are more cruel to flesh and blood than bark and branch. << Guess I haven't been /shot/ yet this season. >> Since Howl's tone of voice makes it clear enough he's not one of the enemies, Masque appears to... completely ignore him, for a moment. At least until he's managed to make him way to Jim - urged on by the the new noises - and done what's currently his top priority. Which is to make sure he's got a bit of a shield between him and whatever's coming. Namely: Jim. Whose arms are grabbed and yanked free from the plantman's chest, with very little grace. Finger-width grooves and misplaced /bits/ from one arm to the next remain, but at least he's got most of the use of his limbs back. Only then does Masque turn to Howl, looking him over for a moment, face twisted in an ugly sneer that is probably more just his /face/ than an actual expression. As for Howl not knowing what's going on? "Great. That makes fucking three of us." It's not long before he's back to looking aroud. For a way out, likely. Drones are eyed, the three individuals ahead /noted/ but little more. He does not plan to stick around, much less /listen/, impatiently curling his hands into fists at his sides as he backs slowly away. Toward... a crack in one of the walls? Might be big enough to slip through. Not quite astute enough to notice the creepy kudzu, Howl /does/ notice the sound of gunfire -- which only serves to have those tails fluffing out even /more/, slowly wagging from side to side. It'd almost be comical, if not for the situation. Folding his ears back, he steps a bit further into the cavern, away from the tunnel he'd entered from, and turning just slightly to face. THE SOLDIERS. For what it's worth, he doesn't seem terribly offended by Masque's demeanor, but only because there are slightly more pressing matters at hand. And, being as fairly terrified and not really sure what's going /on/ as he is, /this/ fox's instinct is to comply with the orders given, his face making a slight D: expression even despite other signs of irritation. Tails still all wavey! Ears folded back! But hands are brought up to the back of his head. Because he is a good boy. The two soldiers in front step to the side, taking point, assault rifles swiveling to keep a bead on the moving mutants -- when Howl submits to their demands, only Masque and Jim get targeted. The drones overhead continue their incessant buzzing, but briefly start to move forward -- toward Masque -- as if preparing to /cut him off/ before he gets a chance to leave. But they havent darted forward just /yet/. "GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!" the soldier that shouted about hands proceeds to yell -- to Jim, apparently? But also, to Masque: "HANDS ON HEAD! KNEES! Now, or we /will/ shoot!" The drones continue to bustle, swinging this way and that, apparently /desperate/ to just charge forward into the room and... do whatever the hell it is they do. Until those vines start to entangle around their legs. At /that/ point/, the two soldiers upfront proceed to curse -- and step back as the brambles twine around their ankles and calves. "--th fuck--" "OPEN FIRE!" The command is followed through -- not by the two soldiers in front, but by the drones. They /swoop/ forward -- and suddenly, there is a THWP THWP THWP -- as tiny glueballs fling outward toward Jims feet. Or his... tendrils. Tendril-feet. Apparently intent on GLUING HIM TO THE FLOOR for this sleight. Really, it looks like they're just /presuming/ hes responsible for the kudzu. Because he looks kind of planty. Arent people terrible? The soldier behind the other two finally decides who to fixate his sights on, and that happens to be Jim Morgan. It may just be a case of flora-based prejudice, but the truth is much simpler. It has been filed as 'arboreal manipulation' ever since the train derailment incident. This particular soldier has very little patience, because the moment his comrades finish exhaling the breath when shouting the word 'fire', the man's own futuristic gun fires with surprisingly little sound and absolutely no flash of light. The projectile that escapes it is roughly the size of a USB stick, claw-like prongs facing outward as it speedily darts forward and toward Jim. Its speed is not slow enough to make evasion feasible, unless the plantman decides to dodge immediately after the gun is fired. Failing that, Mister Morgan will be subject to a thorough electrocution, roughly equivalent to a tazer a police officer might carry. << -- gh, >> is all that Jim gets from Hive, prickly-irritable. Prickly-irritable-/protective/ though maybe mostly frustrated at his -- lack of ability to /do/ anything about robots. There's a quiet /push/ of power; it's definitely noticeable, to the two /actually/ human soldiers, though not nearly as painful as it often is. Just a very odd disorienting /squeeze/ of -- rather inexorable mental pressure, digging mental claws prying down to lock firm /grip/ on their minds. << -- please don't kill the fucking humans, >> comes as request now not out of any mercy but out of the /incredible/ unpleasantness of dying-hivees. << We'll see. >> As soon as Jim /has/ hands he's shoving one into a small pocket on his kilt, fishing rapidly without taking his eyes off the intruders. << Listen, if I get too plant-brained, Hivey, I'mma need you to drag me back. >> Solid greenwood to the center of his torso, he lacks lungs, esophagus, a rib cage, and thus the ability to breath, speak, gasp or /pray/ as he yanks out a handful of - small rocks? Pebbles? No, they're plant seeds, and he tosses them out across the ground. Then he clenches clenches his jaw, curls hands into gnarled fists and the room, very abruptly, begins to /change/. The kudzu vines instantly shrivel, deflating and curling in on themselves like dying spiders, all the life force sucked from them - and instead, there's the sound of tearing dirt and a sudden roar of squealing, creaking plant fiber as suddenly a thick /hedge/ is shooting up like a twisted miniature forest, rising towards the ceiling. It's fast, this bizarre fast-motion rise of spears and points- fast enough to be slopped with some of the goopy glueball MESS, leaving strings and trails of white goo on their course. Less impeded is the small prong that sinks home in Jim's chest and delivers its charge. A wet squeal and the rising of smoke rises from the site. The quiet 'pop' of heated greenwood comes from it, before Jim just rips it out with his teeth bared - plants and electricity have a different kind of relationship than plants and vertibrates. It's easy enough to see Masque tense up, even under that red coat covering nearly every inch of him, hunched and twitchy as he backs away another step. But look who's making a good distraction. It's Jim! As planned. Well, that, and hedges. /Hedges/? There's a brief look of bemusement on Masque's face, before it just flows right back into irritation. Freakin' /hedges/. "Hey, IDIOT. What'syername! Fluffy. With /your hands on your head/." Masque's voice grates with an equal mix of disappointment and disgust, past the THWP of glueblobs and the brief sizzle of electricity attempting to buzz its way through greenwood. "What can you /do/." From the way his voice drags its way out of his throat with anticipation for the worst, he may as well have said 'are you useful, Y/N'. So, that pool of stagnant water over there? Not that anyone particularly /cares/ but it's starting to drain up and along the wall. Which is kind of strange! But that's gravty for you, never working the way it's supposed to. The water is forming a kind of steadily snaking line that trails its way up the wall and along the ceiling, forming a moderately sized /sheet/ that's steadily getting thicker as the pool emties. Isn't that weird? It's kind of weird. Probably unrelated to that! Howl is kind of. Completely terrified, at the moment! Chewing on his lower lip, he's whimpering quietly to himself, a repeated litany that doesn't really sound like /words/ so much as a lot of /vowels/. Even though the command wasn't shouted at /him/, he's pretty much down on his knees immediately, eyes squeezed closed for a moment, tails not doing that slow wag anymore but instead brought to gather around himself. Sort of like a skirt. Still all puffed out. Of course, when there's suddenly a HEDGE where there was not, he just kind of-- blinks at few times, head whipping from side to side, confusion expressed in Welsh. "{What is that, what's happening?}" With his concentration broken, the water that had accumulated on the ceiling falls onto any soldiers still below it with an audible /splash/, water kind of going everywhere now that he's stopped manipulating it. Masque's question is just met with a bit of a flabbergasted stare. "{Is this /really/ the right time to be discussing /hobbies/?}" It's. Entirely possible he doesn't realize he isn't speaking English. "--holyshit what the /fuck/--" one of the soldiers starts, at the sight of -- Oh, /SHIT/, look at that fucking HEDGE, and is the WATER CRAWLING UP WALLS, and WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT TREE MAN CHANGING INTO HOLY SHIT IT'S FUCKING /NUTS/ DOWN HERE-- But then, suddenly, the second soldier stiffens -- his hand darting to his helmet. That psychic /pressure/ felt by both of them. Immediately: "HOME BASE! TELEPATH! TELEPATH! THI TEAM IS COMPROMISED--" ZZZZT. Funny how that works; no sooner have two of the soldiers reported themselves as compromised then are they tumbling to the ground, inexplicably incapacitated -- dropping unconscious. Leaving only the Osbot drones and the lonely third soldier standing. It takes a surprisingly short amount of time before the literally absent-minded soldier shoves the weapon back, its band keeping it secured to his shoulders while it swings back to rest upon his armoured back. One gloved hand moves to the handle of the custom-looking nightstick on the lower back, while the other shifts to a flash grenade. Once it is detached from the belt, it loses its ring in the process, and the man swiftly arcs his torso to... aim, it seems. Movement is frozen for a delicately measured amount of time. Then, the grenade is flung up and over the hedge /just/ before it reaches the ceiling, hitting it first with a noteworthy clunk. Should anyone actually look up for the source of the sound, they will be treated to a terribly blinding white light. Regardless of the outcome, the weapon is back in the man's hands. This combatant seems completely dismissive of his fallen comrades, steadily advancing forward. Strangely enough, however, during this march he changes his mind - that weapon is once again slung onto his back, and there seems little to explain this sudden change of heart. On the other hand, he's still approaching the hedge. Two of the three drones buzzing overhead are also rushing to fly over the hedge, and while one of them manages to slip past, its siblings are less successful. One flies straight into the hedge, tangled inside of it; the only reason it manages to brave through is due to accumulated momentum, although it /does/ mean it harshly hits the ground, sending sparks flying before it clumsily tries to take off. Instead, it zigzags straight into the water, for now seemingly taken out of the fight. The third one seems to hover in the back. << I got you, >> murmurs to Jim; it's a little /strained/ with the sudden unconsciousness of his recent hivees, there's a distinct mental /clench/ from the telepath segmenting his mind off to spare /Jim/ the worst of this wrench. << Help you find your way back to a fucking real boy again. >> And then silence; a tense /expectant/ silence that is Totally Not Fretting At All. The rising hedge, hitting the ceiling now with a crunch and crackle of foliage, changes the dynamic of the rooms - potentially complicating the air traffic for the drones, where branches expand out in tectonic unraveling forks that open up like spun skirts fringed in leaves, and limiting visibility between Morlock and the remaining invasion. This also means Jim doesn't /see/ the two soldiers collapse. Not that he can /see/ much at all once the flashgrenade goes off. << /SHIT/, my EYES. That came from /your/ guys, Hivey, the fuck is happening over there? >> He has a cheatcode, however; rapid plant regeneration drags him back a few steps towards human-made, giving him just enough lungs and repaired eyes to turn and hiss, "Was that water trick you, Shaggy?" Schlorp-crunch-slurp, he's pulling in his rooted feet - probably /some/ glueball managed to strike him, clung about on barky skin that he /yanks/ loose, surrendering the bark-layer and exposing a curious sub-dermal layer of pale green plant fiber ribboned with a slow beading of human blood. OW GOD DAMMIT, he reaches down to try and /yank/ Howl back to his feet, hissing into his face. "Dude, I swear to god if you wanna live a single fucking day more as a free man on god's green Earth, I you're gonna pull on your bigboy boots and focus everything you fucking got on those flying nutsacks. Or you're gonna /wish/ you were dead. -- Masque?" You ALIVE? "GGRNGH!"Is the answer to Jim's question, followed by a dry, crumbling sound of cloth bashed against wall. Masque's backed away as most he could (now /blinded/ because why wouldn't you look up at something that comes flying the hell your way from over where people want to quite possibly KILL YOU), smacking the solid wall next to him with the back of an arm and a fist in what looks to be pure frustration. "/Blinded/." He hisses shortly afterward, through gritted teeth and with his head dipped down low, one hand now mushed up against his closed eyes. It only just now starts to occur to Howl that it's /probably/ okay to push himself back to his feet-- just in time to look up at the sound of metal hitting the ceiling, and let out a surprised yelp when he's suddenly BLINDED. Pretense at standing upright abandoned, he sets about to rubbing his eyes, but they whip open again when Jim is grabbing him and hauling him up. By then he can at least mostly /see/ again, through fuzzy bright patches that are very gradually fading, and teary eyes. He's not /crying/! ... Probably. The bonus to this temporary lull, though, is that despite flashbombs and Jim-rage, he's collected himself enough to consciously switch back to English. "I don't /know/," he hisses, "what to /do/ against /Daleks/, and you don't need to /threaten/ me." Cracking knuckles, he shoves himself /away/ from Jim, running a hand over his head and sighing out a breath. This is followed, soon enough, by an oval-shaped ball of water, about twice as large as one of those drones, coalescing-- well, around one of the drones, and invading any crevices the machine may have. << My guys are down, >> Hive relays to Jim after a heavy pause. << -- That last thing has -- no brain. >> Perhaps Norman Osborn would be disappointed if he found out that the only reason that one drone crashed gloriously through the hedge was, in fact, to create an opening for the last man standing, who is rapidly accelerating so as to avoid the chance of the hedge being manipulated while he's rushing through the wall. By the time the flash grenade fulfils its duty, the man is on the other side, holding the nightstick firmly against his right forearm. The drone behind the wall remains out of sight, while the one buzzing in dangerously close vicinity to the trio of Morlocks is hovering above them, sinisterly monitoring and observing. That changes when water envelops it; although for a while it looks as though the attempt has no effect, soon enough the drone simply malfunctions and drops dead to the ground with a resounding clunk. "{Pretty good.}" Hungarian is not spoken within the chamber, but rather in a room some distance away from where the action takes place, within a security room. The handsomely dressed yet incredibly ugly man decidedly adds, "{Which one's the telepath? The old grandpa over there?}" A thunderous electronic voice manages to momentarily penetrate monotony to sound almost bored. "{Perhaps. I am more interested to evaluate the unit's melee combat capability.}" Indeed, the last soldier is now steadily marching towards... Jim, it looks like. "Citizens," /it/ shouts out, offering only a brief pause after adressing the Morlocks. "You are given. one-time. permission. to /not/ submit." The hedge /rushes/ to try and close before the soldier's through, an instant too late - the seat of his armored ass just barely got by un-snagged. Down Jim's leg, the little windows where he'd torn loose of the glue and his surface armor of bark it was stuck to are starting to knit back together in that same unpleasant speed-motion plant growth, leaving a warping of scar behind. "Guess it's not gonna be any other way, huh?" He grumbles, sounding neither shocked nor resigned - it's just fact. His body is changing again; his arms thickening, a sharp half-foot of lance-like spear pressing forward at a fork from the end of either messily half-melted wrist. "You two think you can get outta here once you take out the flying testicle twin over there?" << What the fuck does no brain mean. >> The drone dropping floods him with... something too braced to be relief. Two soldiers down, half the drones depleted. One of each left standing. The odds are looking better -- which electrifies his his mind with flat suspicion and a nameless dread. << ...This is too easy, Hivey. Something's wrong. >> Masque stands, just /stands/, for a moment. When he's finally able to /see/ something again, he squints around. At the drone first, then at the last soldier (?) left standing. And then-- around. Looking for something, anything. In the walls, the hedge, across the floor. Instead of answering Jim's question, there's a brief silence from the hooded Morlock, followed by, "... Little spy's been taken already. They're /playing/." His tone could be taken as acceptance of defeat. But really, it's just logic - after all, Nox should be here by now. She would be. And Masque? Refuses play the puppet, and - like a tired old dog unwilling to let his owner lead him home nor to his destination - goes absolutely /nowhere/. So he just stands. Howl didn't actually-- expect that to be so easy. However, that last drone being out of sight, he's not really. Sure where to send that water, next. He's flicking his gaze back and forth between Jim and the last soldier, that water ball making its way over /to/ said soldier, with some of the water left over in the pond floating over briskly to join it. He's also doing his absolute best not to make it /obvious/ that he's the one doing it, and in between concentrating on maintaining that effect, he's creeping back towards Jim and hissing, "I can't /see/ the other-- /thing/." Meanwhile! Water is spreading out to sort of wrap itself around the soldier's /head/, assuming that it is human, just to maybe. Drown 'him' a little. At least, that's the plan at the moment. "What does he mean-- not submit?" << No brain. I don't /know/. Not human. No mind there. >> Hive pauses, before: << -- /Citizens/ what the fuck who says that. >> There is a startling lack of yelling warnings or predatory circling. No, the armoured entity decidedly marches towards Jim with unmistakeable determination to battle him. It's hard to tell where the soldier's attention exactly lies, due to the obstructive helmet it is wearing, and so it is hard to tell exactly how many of the three targets present this unknown soldier is observing, or if it is even registering their interactions. Greatly coordinated movement is accompanied by speed and agility. It is as fluid as you would expect a human individual to be, but /something/ is off about it. Something is not right the way it moves, something unnatural and iffy, an effect that can only be described the effect of the uncanny valley. The water bubble around its featureless helmet head doesn't seem to bother it at all. The nightstick is spun a few times with deft movement, before it is promptly tightened against the forearm again. That arm is swung in an angular downward movement to obstruct the potential rise of one of those wooden spears; the other hand is kept pulled up to the torso to prepare for the other impromptu lance. Simultaneously, the step further forward is translated into a kick toward Jim's right shinbone. Should any hits connect, the force felt /and/ observed can be concluded to be beyond human capability. "S'like Masque said," Jim answers Howl, scared face expands with a hard tombstone smile towards the approaching soldier. No mind, submerged in that bubble water without reaction, that unpleasant /correct/-ness in the too-human manner of its gait. He takes in a breath, lets it out. "They wanna show." The hedge rustles, and begins to collapse in on itself down a single unzipping chain, dying down the length of a tree and then collapsing into loose leaf dust. - An opening made. Which is how Jim uses his last free movement. The soldier is kicking for his leg and Jim shoves down roots from his bare feet to take the blow. He draws back an extended spear and, rather than attack the soldier's body, he rotates his torso and spears DOWN to stab into the ankle joint of the foot kicking him. Howl does not seem to /grok/ this concept of there being any sort of 'show'. If nothing else, hey! now he knows Masque's name!, not that that really. Matters at the moment. He actually does start to ask, "Show?", but about halfway through the word realizes it's. Kind of a useless question (he CAN learn!), and kind of edges further away from Jim, /particularly/ now that that soldier is approaching. Just sort of. Scatters! And now that Jim's hedges have fallen and that last drone is exposed, the waterball zips over that way -- actually overshooting it for a second before making its way back -- and follows the same tactic as before; creeping into crevices in search of circuitry to fry. Should the machine try to evade this, he sends the waterball after it, stubbornly refusing to let it escape even as the man is starting to tense up a bit from /intense concentration/. The thick military-grade boot tears some as the spear is mercilessly plunged at the calf. Rather than being mutilated, however, it is simply shoved back whence it came. It smashes onto the ground with a hint of substantial weight, visibly upsetting the assailant's balance. It is restored by a swift reallocation of the hand free from any weapon - those gloved digits soon find themselves wrapped around Jim's throat. Further pressure applied to the ankle joint will reveal that whatever is below that boot will not give. "Offensive capability falling. thirty. seven. percent. below expectations," announces the soldier. "Subject neutralization estimated at. forty. nine. seconds." After that comes a fairly straightforward attack - that helmet comes rushing forward to meet Jim's rugged face, threatening to make him marginally less handsome and potentially in a lot of pain. In the meantime, the drone is assuming flying patterns that a drunken fly would make. It tries to evade the water bubble around it rather stubbornly, but ultimately it gives way, smashing against a wall in a downward arc, before sliding down to the ground lifelessly. All that's left is the mysterious combatant. << -shit. >> Jim's throat is solid as a pillar, no exciting squishy give of veins or folding trachea. It's a hardness that shoves north, lips going rictus like a carving, the whites of his eyes darken to a strange, wet blond-green color as he twists the plant-fiber ever deeper. Into his brain matter, solidifying his head to something harder than a coconut to take the impact with a wooden KLOCK of forehead against forehead. Then one of his hands lock onto the soldier's arm, the other reaching out to latch a handful of the soldier's /face/, and he stoops over to shove in his shoulder against his opponent's waist to make fulcrum over which he seeks to - HE HEAVES - /overturn/ the soldier onto its back, looking desperately up mark where the other two are. "/Go!/" For a little while, it appears Masque's simply watching Jim and the intruder fight. Perhaps his brain has simply given out, because his expression shows little past its usual diapproval of the world as a whole. But then... he starts to move again. Whether or not in correspondence with Jim's suggestion to leave, the hooded Morlock takes a few slow steps... and then returns to a more determined pace. To exit? /Toward/ the exit, certainly, but he stops before he reaches it. Because there are two people there, suddenly, at his feet. Two people who have invaded his tunnels. He plants a boot down on their shoulder and leans down to /grab/ - time to see how easily those helmets come off. Once that last drone is taken care of, Howl sort of. Pauses a moment, to catch his breath. A hand running over his hair, scritching at one of his ears idly, and just sort of gently rubbing his head for a moment. He's not really inclined to try and intervene with the Jim/soldier?? battle, but does watch it for a moment to try and get a read on things. If not for Jim's sudden shout, he may have just /stayed/ there for a moment, but being told to go leads him to realize-- "{Oh god, the /children/--!}" /This/ thought has the fox turning on his heels to run back the way he'd come in in the first place, folded over to avoid any low-hanging ceilings as he runs, best he can, back to the central area of the Morlock hideout. The way the soldier is successfully shoved back is eerie, to say the least. Initially, Jim only manages to shove the upper body and the upper legs back, leaving the rest temporarily firmly planted upon the ground. For a brief moment, it looks like the soldier isn't going to give way. Fortunately, however, it does. It collapses onto the damp ground with a sound that may very well relay what kind of an opponent this is. The weight is remarkably disproportionate to its ostensibly athletic built, and despite the rustle of clothing and armour, a heavy metallic echo may very well confirm that the soldier is a machine. The force with which the following punch arrives is great enough to stir the entire chassis. One fist arrives along with the added punishment from the nightstick, aiming for the side of Jim's waist; this assault is a part of an attempt to roll over and turn the tables, so that the lifeless soldier is straddling the plantlike Morlock on top. If that critical endeavour is successful, what comes next would look rather painful, and one could only take solance in the fact that the arboreal surface would not have nerve endings. The machine will start pummeling with enough strength to send splinters flying - if the chest maintains its wooden properties - and enough strength that, if Jim was unfortunate enough to have been born with a different ability, would have his ribcage broken into little pieces. Jim doesn't notice Masque's silent activities. Jim doesn't notice Howl's escape. His arms are thrown up to protect his face, the hard impacts sending splinters and shreds flying make deep hollow 'thunk' sounds, like smacking a tree trunk with a hammer. << Oh. >> Somewhere beneath the jumps of impact, this is flat. << It's a fucking robot. >> Suspicion pays off, doesn't it. It's not a bright dawning, just a sinking of something falling into place. As does the following: << I dunno if I'm walking away from this. >> And then a sudden, thick branch spear /shoves out/ of his abdomen and slams into the soldier's stomach to shove him off. "How you doin' over there, buddy." This question comes between CLUNKS and THUNKS, to Jim from Masque, who's made quick work of yanking the two unconscious soldiers' helmets off. They may have some /scrapes/ from him being none too kind with that, when they awake. But it's unlikely this will be their top priority in the grand scheme of things. One of the two soldiers promptly gets a KICK in the side, regard for his ribs being left whole presumably deemed irrelevant. Masque shoves at the body with a heavy boot, as though it were a particulary heavy trash bag he was looking to add to a pile. Until both of the unconscious soldiers are lined up. Next to each other. Then he simply bends down, grabs both of the exposed strangers by the hair, and proceeds to... make their heads one in a few practised movements of his eight-fingered hands. Joining the invaders messily by their very skulls, chin to temple, ear smeared across the other's neck, skin bubbling and folding around the throat and where the flesh of one meets the other, obscuring both of their vision in one eye each. For the first time in a long while, when Masque gets back to his feet, he actually looks... pleased. As ineffective as this offensive may be, the machine's durability allows it to provide it relentlessly. Indeed, the only thing that manages to interrupt its determination is Jim's successful measure to shove it aside with the emergence of a thick branch. Once knocked down some distance away from Jim - again heavily slamming against the ground - the android rises anew. Once it stands - a firm grip still exercised on the baton - the machine seems to do absolutely nothing. A few awkwardly long moments seem to last an eternity. "{Really?}" The non-modified voice doesn't sound too pleased. Doctor Doom seems dismissive of the change in plans. "{The unit is successful. They have had no chance in winning. The mission itself is a success. Further involvement and containment of additional mutants is unnecessary.}" Too arrogant to see his own creation fulfil the last stages of its duty, the monarch rises from the heavy-set steel chair, flicking his cape aside and wandering off towards the exit. The machine acts similarly, even if in a completely different environment and under wholly different circumstances. The half-baton, half-tazer is playfully tossed towards Jim, while the machine speedily begins to jog towards Masque and the two men that Malthus had now ordered to extract. The weapon on the android's back is hastily drawn. A single click switches the ammunition type, and a steady and painful stream of rubber pellets are fired at Masque's back. Playtime over. Ancient wall mortar crumbles under the impact, a quite merry bounce of pebbles that rains down as far above above, two monsters fight without a heart of living breath between them. Jim rains down blows on the androids face, pounding, pounding, pounding with every last twitch of that cold reptilian hind brain, the part that only knows BITE BITE BITE and CLAW CLAW CLAW, the primate that wants to grab and shake and rend. But his aim is shit, his vision focused feverishly on a single hairline crack on the ceiling and while nerves may not currently attach in his body the way they are in another man, they still depend on the brain. And the brain is sinking into a black and his knees, without further order from this higher power, decide 'fuck this shit' and give out to transform him into a loose pile of kindling limbs. The nightstick is spun nimbly in the android's firm grasp before it is gracefully sheathed in the lower back of its attire. As it straightens to stand to its full height, vacant hands reach up to remove the horribly dented and damaged helmet. Unsurprisingly, it reveales a terrifying mockery of the human visage, vague features coming together to resemble a nightmarishly lifeless rendition of man. The puppet spares another glance at the subdued mutant, before its attention swiftly shifts to the lurking figure in the background. The weapon is drawn. "Buddy. neutralized," the machine grimly announces, stepping away from Jim. Masque is given little time to react. A single click switches ammunition, and a steady, painful stream of rubber pellets ensures the remaining Morlock not only stays where he are, but crumples to the ground in the midst of his shuffling away from the face-melted unconscious grunts. Despite the gleeful opportunity that he has been given, he is granted no further luxury. When the machine arrives, that very same nighstick is drawn to give Masque the very same treatment - a dosage large enough until all resistance is sapped from the poor man. And for a short while, the battlefield is completely quiet. Both the puppet and its master keenly observe what has been wrought and what spoils have been claimed. Soon, however, echoes of additional hasty steps enter the chamber, along with urgent communication. Malthus' men. It's time for medevac and extraction of neutralised hostiles. The last man-- /machine/ standing is eyeing the tunnel entrance where the noises are coming from. The man behind the dead eyes is keenly watching the monitor, both he and his right hand fully silent.