X-Men Mission: Town Called Malice - Log 8
Oct. 22nd, 2022 04:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsBevatron and Wildchild are forced to retreat from the Marauders.
The bright haze of pain ripped through Kyle's senses, and he raised into a crouch, a dull growl slipping from between his teeth. He shoved at his teammate, pushing the other man towards the wall, and then leapt at the man holding the spear, moving in a blur of motion almost too fast to be tracked. He hit feet first into body armor, claws barely scraping the tough material and then rolled to tackle the attacker to the floor.
If Jean-Phillipe hadn't already been turning away from the sizzle of the energy that passed by, Kyle's shove might have knocked him even more for a loop He kept his feet mostly through sheer contrariness, trying his best to cover the way his body wanted to waver like a sheet of loose-leaf paper in a stiff breeze. He faced the other figure, by process of elimination assuming the flechette/dart items had come from him. Bevatron swept his arm outward, throwing a cascade of sparks to make himself less visible as he moved sideways. This was a fight where staying still clearly would mean death.
There was a high whine, like a jet engine powering up, and suddenly a figure came into focus. The man's head seemed to be floating at the top of a khaki green and black tornado of blurred motion. For a moment, the perverse comparison to the Tasmanian Devil from the old Warner Bros cartoons was all that came to mind. But the whine increased, and the air hissed again as the tiny flechettes ripped out. They were small, sharp and fast enough that when they punched through flesh, it took a moment for the pain to kick in.
Kyle didn't even notice the punctures until blood ran down into his eyes. He was too busy clawing, biting, kicking, avoiding being stabbed with a harpoon that seemed to be as often made of energy as it was of some kind of metal. He got his teeth into the man's hand, biting down hard through heavy gloves and was rewarded with profanity in a harsh language he didn't recognize, and a biting pain to his leg. He glanced down, head swiming with pain and stumbled back to pull the flechettes out of the back of his thigh. "Bevatron, retreat! Go go go go." He yelled. "Bug out. Now."
Merde. Kyle had taken a number of the flechettes, but Jean-Phillipe had taken several as well, blood starting to ooze through the side and shoulder of his jacket. Retreat sounded like the proper idea, but how to cover a retreat from these two culs who could clearly strike from range and chew them up at will? As he pulled at one of the flechettes and did his best to stanch his wound, a voice spoke sternly in his head. Magneto, the teacher, as often seemed to happen in times of stress.
Hemoglobin. From the Greek for blood and the Latin for ball or sphere. It is the iron-containing oxygen-bearing metalloprotein of red blood cells. The emphasis, of course, on 'metallo-', given his and Erik's powers. The flechettes were some manner of resin, but if the other mutant was extruding them from his skin, then perhaps...
It was his turn to shove Wildchild behind him as the low hum from the tornado-like figure began to increase in pitch, signaling that another volley was imminent. With a hoarse yell of exertion, Bevatron dug deep for every last bit of charge within him. Tendrils of energy lashed out, striking light fixtures and pulling a few extra joules from the shielded system by brute force. And as the riptide of spikes shot out, an answering sheet of electricity came from Jean-Phillipe, arcing faster than the eye could trace between individual pieces of resin, knocking them astray as they hopscotched their way back to the source.
Not even looking to see the result, he pulled Kyle around a corner with him. It might the briefest of head starts, but they would have to make the most of it.
"Riptide." They heard behind them. "Boss says time to pull out. Let them limp home. We'll take them next time." And the sounds of them slipping away behind them were all that was left.
The bright haze of pain ripped through Kyle's senses, and he raised into a crouch, a dull growl slipping from between his teeth. He shoved at his teammate, pushing the other man towards the wall, and then leapt at the man holding the spear, moving in a blur of motion almost too fast to be tracked. He hit feet first into body armor, claws barely scraping the tough material and then rolled to tackle the attacker to the floor.
If Jean-Phillipe hadn't already been turning away from the sizzle of the energy that passed by, Kyle's shove might have knocked him even more for a loop He kept his feet mostly through sheer contrariness, trying his best to cover the way his body wanted to waver like a sheet of loose-leaf paper in a stiff breeze. He faced the other figure, by process of elimination assuming the flechette/dart items had come from him. Bevatron swept his arm outward, throwing a cascade of sparks to make himself less visible as he moved sideways. This was a fight where staying still clearly would mean death.
There was a high whine, like a jet engine powering up, and suddenly a figure came into focus. The man's head seemed to be floating at the top of a khaki green and black tornado of blurred motion. For a moment, the perverse comparison to the Tasmanian Devil from the old Warner Bros cartoons was all that came to mind. But the whine increased, and the air hissed again as the tiny flechettes ripped out. They were small, sharp and fast enough that when they punched through flesh, it took a moment for the pain to kick in.
Kyle didn't even notice the punctures until blood ran down into his eyes. He was too busy clawing, biting, kicking, avoiding being stabbed with a harpoon that seemed to be as often made of energy as it was of some kind of metal. He got his teeth into the man's hand, biting down hard through heavy gloves and was rewarded with profanity in a harsh language he didn't recognize, and a biting pain to his leg. He glanced down, head swiming with pain and stumbled back to pull the flechettes out of the back of his thigh. "Bevatron, retreat! Go go go go." He yelled. "Bug out. Now."
Merde. Kyle had taken a number of the flechettes, but Jean-Phillipe had taken several as well, blood starting to ooze through the side and shoulder of his jacket. Retreat sounded like the proper idea, but how to cover a retreat from these two culs who could clearly strike from range and chew them up at will? As he pulled at one of the flechettes and did his best to stanch his wound, a voice spoke sternly in his head. Magneto, the teacher, as often seemed to happen in times of stress.
Hemoglobin. From the Greek for blood and the Latin for ball or sphere. It is the iron-containing oxygen-bearing metalloprotein of red blood cells. The emphasis, of course, on 'metallo-', given his and Erik's powers. The flechettes were some manner of resin, but if the other mutant was extruding them from his skin, then perhaps...
It was his turn to shove Wildchild behind him as the low hum from the tornado-like figure began to increase in pitch, signaling that another volley was imminent. With a hoarse yell of exertion, Bevatron dug deep for every last bit of charge within him. Tendrils of energy lashed out, striking light fixtures and pulling a few extra joules from the shielded system by brute force. And as the riptide of spikes shot out, an answering sheet of electricity came from Jean-Phillipe, arcing faster than the eye could trace between individual pieces of resin, knocking them astray as they hopscotched their way back to the source.
Not even looking to see the result, he pulled Kyle around a corner with him. It might the briefest of head starts, but they would have to make the most of it.
"Riptide." They heard behind them. "Boss says time to pull out. Let them limp home. We'll take them next time." And the sounds of them slipping away behind them were all that was left.
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Date: 2022-10-22 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-10-25 12:52 am (UTC)