Genosha - Stemming the Tide: Attack Part 5
Jun. 2nd, 2012 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsOn the ground, Emma, Fred and Jean-Phillipe are pushing back the Genoshans, but then they made their own shocking discovery.
The Magistrates had come practically on the heels of Wade's warning, and the camp was in chaos. Children screaming, the sharp controlled bursts of gunfire, and the occasional sound of a mutant power being used. Jean-Phillipe had managed to link up with Fred and Emma, and the trio was able to make headway against the attack in a way that they might not have individually. Fred's invulnerable bulk shielded the Frenchman from gunfire, and Jean-Phillipe would pop out at random intervals to return bolts of electricity at the Genoshan forces. He had the vague mental image of a tank, with Fred as the armor, and himself as the turret.
Fred almost felt guilty, having wanted a fight and having his prayers so gruesomely answered. He'd decided to just go with his current default plan of blaming the Magistrates and attempting to beat them to death. Fred covered Jean-Phillipe and stayed near Emma after she'd barked an order at him to do so; she seemed like one of the types that was probably better at being in charge than he was. Fred stepped between the nearest outcropping of soldiers and the electrical mutant, and with a shout threw a large piece of a destroyed lean-to at his very not-invulnerable assailants.
"Oh, this isn't good," muttered Emma, as a wash of pain registered across her mind. Serious pain, blossoming. Turning off the switchboard for a moment, to keep the sensation out of the loop, Emma reached out and searched for the source of the pain, tracking it to a small group of refugees not that far from her current position. Her mind skittered across that of their attacker, unable to gain any lock on it. Reverting to the switchboard, Emma reached out and grabbed at the two minds closest to her. ~Fred, Jean-Phillipe. Someone's after the humans. Two o'clock. Twenty yards. We've got to get there.~
Thankfully, practice with the 'switchboard' meant that Jean-Phillipe's natural shielding from telepathy due to his powers weren't an issue. Learning how to accept the tactical link from a telepath while still maintaining his resistance to a hostile mind had been the result of many long sessions with Charles, and a number of very severe headaches. He let out a piercing whistle to be sure he had Fred's attention, then indicated the direction they needed to go.
At least with Fred breaking trail, they could go in a straight line and not even worry about any underbrush in the way. ~En route, Mam'selle Frost,~ he replied, somehow managing to convey his French accent to the phrase that had been stolen by English long ago.
Fred looked in the direction Jean-Phillipe indicated, and gave a small nod. Covering his face with his forearms, Fred barreled forward, trying to draw as much attention as possible to keep stray fire from Jean-Phillipe or Emma.
On the other side of the brush was a clearing where several of the refugees' make-shift huts stood, housing two families. Only the day before it had been the scene of children playing, the adults preparing the evening meal, welcoming the strangers into their midst.
Now it was a scene of horror.
One of the adults - a man who had introduced himself as Ben, father to rambunctious twins around eight years old - lay at the edge of the clearing, a gun still clutched in his severed hand, his throat opened from ear to ear. Beneath him the ground had become sticky red mud. HIs wife lay a few meters away, blood staining her clothes, large rents in her chest exposing bone and muscle. Beneath her, a small bare foot could be seen, slick with red.
Then a whimper caught their attention, drawing it to a tree where the other twin was clinging desperately to a branch. Four long gashes had been carved into his thigh, as if he had been grabbed at by some kind of beast.
"Nom de Dieu..." Jean-Phillipe breathed. Even though he considered himself about as far from Catholic as could be, the habits and teaching of childhood tended to come back in times of crisis. He trod carefully forward, toward the abattoir in the clearing. This was
certainly something other than the Magistrates and their guns. It would appear they had brought their mutates in to press the attack. And this one was clearly clawed and vicious. As he got closer, and saw the depth of the cuts, and the way a claw had even scored the gun in Ben's hand, he was reminded of nothing so much as...
The barest hint of blue eyes in the underbrush registered, and Jean-Phillipe was diving sideways even before his brain had finished screaming a warning at him.
The creature that leapt out of the underbrush was barely distinguishable as human. Dressed in a skinsuit in shades of black and purple, all exposed skin had erupted in spikes and jagged edges. Her features were barely visible, hidden by crags of facial armour and where there had been hair was now stark ridges of razor-sharp skin. The usual tattoo on the forehead was obscured by protruding brow ridges, but on the breast of the skinsuit was a number: 105.
Realising it had missed its target, Mutate 105 spun, faster than its increased bulk would have allowed, and snarled. Long taloned hands, each 'finger' close to a foot long, dripped blood in the dirt. And neon blue eyes glowed fiercely at them.
Emma swore loudly as she thought she recognised the base form that underlay this travesty. She swore even louder as the mutate moved faster than seemed possible and talons scraped over diamond skin, leaving not a mark. Emma's invulnerability seemed to confuse the mutate for a moment, for it continued the turn it had started and made as if to attack something that had fallen at its feet. Emma took the opportunity to dodge wildly behind Fred, hoping invulnerable bulk would prove nimble enough to protect her.
Dropping diamond form, Emma reached out with her mind. Again, her telepathy skittered across something almost impermeable, but it was not necessary for Emma to get in. Shields and minds had certain shapes and even the mutate process couldn't destroy some of the essential markers. Emma knew this mind and knew it well.
~It's Yvette,~ she broadcast to Fred and Jean-Phillipe. ~And it's not. I can't get in - whatever it is they do, mutates are immune to telepathy. We'll have to find some other way to take her out of the fight.~
Fred narrowed his eyes at the heaving, snarling Mutate, shaking his head slowly as he moved to put himself between it and the others, "Nah....nah nah nah....no way..." He leaned in, trying to get a better look at what was supposed to be Yvette...
Mutate 105 took the opportunity of Fred's momentary distraction to launch herself forward against, this time scrabbling up and over his bulk to fly at the vulnerable Emma, somehow sensing it might be more effective this time. Deadly long fingers aimed directly at Emma's face, intent on impaling her.
The instinct to protect Emma won out over the instinct to not attack his friend and fellow resident adviser. He sent a bolt of electricity at the...larger form of Mutate 105. Clearly they had done something else to her in amongst whatever process they used to break mutates to the will of their 'masters'. Not that he expected the electricity to have any effect on...he couldn't think of her as Yvette, not right now, if he was to survive.
And indeed, the electricity spilled harmlessly over the carapace of Mutate 105. But the intent was to gain her attention, and keep her from pressing the attack against Emma. And that succeeded. More effectively than Jean-Phillipe thought, as the deep-red form pivoted, unbelievably quickly, to launch herself at the energy projector.
It as all Fred could do to get between the Mutate and Jean-Phillipe. He leaned forward and tried to get his arms up and say something, but neither happened by the time the large, sharp, metallic mutant slammed into him like a freight train...
The Magistrates had come practically on the heels of Wade's warning, and the camp was in chaos. Children screaming, the sharp controlled bursts of gunfire, and the occasional sound of a mutant power being used. Jean-Phillipe had managed to link up with Fred and Emma, and the trio was able to make headway against the attack in a way that they might not have individually. Fred's invulnerable bulk shielded the Frenchman from gunfire, and Jean-Phillipe would pop out at random intervals to return bolts of electricity at the Genoshan forces. He had the vague mental image of a tank, with Fred as the armor, and himself as the turret.
Fred almost felt guilty, having wanted a fight and having his prayers so gruesomely answered. He'd decided to just go with his current default plan of blaming the Magistrates and attempting to beat them to death. Fred covered Jean-Phillipe and stayed near Emma after she'd barked an order at him to do so; she seemed like one of the types that was probably better at being in charge than he was. Fred stepped between the nearest outcropping of soldiers and the electrical mutant, and with a shout threw a large piece of a destroyed lean-to at his very not-invulnerable assailants.
"Oh, this isn't good," muttered Emma, as a wash of pain registered across her mind. Serious pain, blossoming. Turning off the switchboard for a moment, to keep the sensation out of the loop, Emma reached out and searched for the source of the pain, tracking it to a small group of refugees not that far from her current position. Her mind skittered across that of their attacker, unable to gain any lock on it. Reverting to the switchboard, Emma reached out and grabbed at the two minds closest to her. ~Fred, Jean-Phillipe. Someone's after the humans. Two o'clock. Twenty yards. We've got to get there.~
Thankfully, practice with the 'switchboard' meant that Jean-Phillipe's natural shielding from telepathy due to his powers weren't an issue. Learning how to accept the tactical link from a telepath while still maintaining his resistance to a hostile mind had been the result of many long sessions with Charles, and a number of very severe headaches. He let out a piercing whistle to be sure he had Fred's attention, then indicated the direction they needed to go.
At least with Fred breaking trail, they could go in a straight line and not even worry about any underbrush in the way. ~En route, Mam'selle Frost,~ he replied, somehow managing to convey his French accent to the phrase that had been stolen by English long ago.
Fred looked in the direction Jean-Phillipe indicated, and gave a small nod. Covering his face with his forearms, Fred barreled forward, trying to draw as much attention as possible to keep stray fire from Jean-Phillipe or Emma.
On the other side of the brush was a clearing where several of the refugees' make-shift huts stood, housing two families. Only the day before it had been the scene of children playing, the adults preparing the evening meal, welcoming the strangers into their midst.
Now it was a scene of horror.
One of the adults - a man who had introduced himself as Ben, father to rambunctious twins around eight years old - lay at the edge of the clearing, a gun still clutched in his severed hand, his throat opened from ear to ear. Beneath him the ground had become sticky red mud. HIs wife lay a few meters away, blood staining her clothes, large rents in her chest exposing bone and muscle. Beneath her, a small bare foot could be seen, slick with red.
Then a whimper caught their attention, drawing it to a tree where the other twin was clinging desperately to a branch. Four long gashes had been carved into his thigh, as if he had been grabbed at by some kind of beast.
"Nom de Dieu..." Jean-Phillipe breathed. Even though he considered himself about as far from Catholic as could be, the habits and teaching of childhood tended to come back in times of crisis. He trod carefully forward, toward the abattoir in the clearing. This was
certainly something other than the Magistrates and their guns. It would appear they had brought their mutates in to press the attack. And this one was clearly clawed and vicious. As he got closer, and saw the depth of the cuts, and the way a claw had even scored the gun in Ben's hand, he was reminded of nothing so much as...
The barest hint of blue eyes in the underbrush registered, and Jean-Phillipe was diving sideways even before his brain had finished screaming a warning at him.
The creature that leapt out of the underbrush was barely distinguishable as human. Dressed in a skinsuit in shades of black and purple, all exposed skin had erupted in spikes and jagged edges. Her features were barely visible, hidden by crags of facial armour and where there had been hair was now stark ridges of razor-sharp skin. The usual tattoo on the forehead was obscured by protruding brow ridges, but on the breast of the skinsuit was a number: 105.
Realising it had missed its target, Mutate 105 spun, faster than its increased bulk would have allowed, and snarled. Long taloned hands, each 'finger' close to a foot long, dripped blood in the dirt. And neon blue eyes glowed fiercely at them.
Emma swore loudly as she thought she recognised the base form that underlay this travesty. She swore even louder as the mutate moved faster than seemed possible and talons scraped over diamond skin, leaving not a mark. Emma's invulnerability seemed to confuse the mutate for a moment, for it continued the turn it had started and made as if to attack something that had fallen at its feet. Emma took the opportunity to dodge wildly behind Fred, hoping invulnerable bulk would prove nimble enough to protect her.
Dropping diamond form, Emma reached out with her mind. Again, her telepathy skittered across something almost impermeable, but it was not necessary for Emma to get in. Shields and minds had certain shapes and even the mutate process couldn't destroy some of the essential markers. Emma knew this mind and knew it well.
~It's Yvette,~ she broadcast to Fred and Jean-Phillipe. ~And it's not. I can't get in - whatever it is they do, mutates are immune to telepathy. We'll have to find some other way to take her out of the fight.~
Fred narrowed his eyes at the heaving, snarling Mutate, shaking his head slowly as he moved to put himself between it and the others, "Nah....nah nah nah....no way..." He leaned in, trying to get a better look at what was supposed to be Yvette...
Mutate 105 took the opportunity of Fred's momentary distraction to launch herself forward against, this time scrabbling up and over his bulk to fly at the vulnerable Emma, somehow sensing it might be more effective this time. Deadly long fingers aimed directly at Emma's face, intent on impaling her.
The instinct to protect Emma won out over the instinct to not attack his friend and fellow resident adviser. He sent a bolt of electricity at the...larger form of Mutate 105. Clearly they had done something else to her in amongst whatever process they used to break mutates to the will of their 'masters'. Not that he expected the electricity to have any effect on...he couldn't think of her as Yvette, not right now, if he was to survive.
And indeed, the electricity spilled harmlessly over the carapace of Mutate 105. But the intent was to gain her attention, and keep her from pressing the attack against Emma. And that succeeded. More effectively than Jean-Phillipe thought, as the deep-red form pivoted, unbelievably quickly, to launch herself at the energy projector.
It as all Fred could do to get between the Mutate and Jean-Phillipe. He leaned forward and tried to get his arms up and say something, but neither happened by the time the large, sharp, metallic mutant slammed into him like a freight train...
