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| Slavery to a Pattern | |
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| Topic Started: Jul 3 2014, 07:13 PM (677 Views) | |
| Jean | Aug 30 2014, 05:55 AM Post #16 |
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Telepathy, Telekinesis
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JP Jean and Scott Jean didn’t flinch as the blur passed before her face, close enough to the wind of its passing to ruffle her hair, and dispatch the pirate and go whirling back to her husband. She smiled to herself that Scott’s sharp reflexes and accuracy hadn’t dulled, even though his mind and thoughts about himself were confused. She looked over to Scott as he talked with his father. “Lead on.” he ordered, he couldn’t really help himself from doing it. With a secret smile and a wink, Jean slid down the ladder. “Down this way.” Scott caught the wink, and wondered at the smile. He could almost feel her amusement through their rapport, but with something extra on top of it. He didn't understand exactly his own feelings at the moment, so trying to figure out Jean's was beyond him... even more so than normal. He loved his wife with all of his heart. Didn't entirely understand her. Following close behind her, he slid down the ladder, glancing upwards to check that Joseph stuck close to them. Then, they moved forwards, slowly, quietly. From below the sounds of screams, and clanking metal, and the sudden shuddering stop of the ships engines alerted them that Ch'Od and Quicksilver were doing their jobs with efficiency and a not a little pleasure. For the StarJammer this was revenge, for the speedster it was righteous fury, for the Shi'Ar, it was pain. "Jean, don't actively use your powers, but do you feel anything ahead of us?" he asked, quietly. Jean nodded and opened her shields enough to sense the minds around her. She lightly touched those of the Starjammer and their small team, all doing well and going about their tasks. Then she focused on the others, the slavers’ minds were an angry red, scared and nervous. “There’s a small group of four waiting to ambush us the corner to our right,” Jean replied, her whispered, half-turned to see Scott in the gloom of below decks. “Remember to share; you can’t take more than two,” she admonished him in a whisper. Looking at Jean, completely deadpan, Scott said, "I thought you wanted me to have fun." But he nodded, "Sharing is caring, honey," Then, he turned around to look at Joseph, whispering, "This is it. You get in over your head, you call for help, immediately. Immediately. Don't stand on bravado. Call." Stepping in front of Jean, he was going to go first, take the first attack. He was trying not to lead, trying to be what she needed him to be in order to get better, but this was who he was too. There was no way Scott Summers was going to allow his wife, his one true love, to step into danger ahead of him. "We ready?" He stepped around the corner. She let him have his way, being protective was who he was, as part of who Scott was as his confidence, and goodness, and honor. Raising the weapon she’d taken back on the Starjammer, and slid around the corner after Scott, taking aim on the slavers Scott hadn’t gotten to yet. They didn't expect to be confronted like this, clearly. They were the bullies, they were the power. They were exactly the kind of people that the X-Men had fought for so long, and it didn't matter if it was humans against mutants, villains against heroes, or just criminals against the law, these were men who thought that might made right. They had no idea that in this case, they most definitely did not have the might. The men shouted something in their language, and Scott didn't need to speak Madripoori to get the gist of it. His innate understanding of spatial geometry instantly filled his mind with angles and ricochets, and his tactical genius burst forth with plans of attack and strategy. Whoever he was going to end up at the finish of this journey, there were parts of him he could never change. As they charged, his throwing clubs arched out through the air, and cracked the skull of the furthest Shi'Ar. But before he could retrieve his club, the other Shi'Ar that was his opponent leaped through the air, in the tiny enclosed space, flipping in martial art-y attack, to kick Scott across the face, driving him backwards. When Jean rounded the corner, her two were already moving in to triple team Scott. Jean pulled the trigger and in a pungent burst of energy, one pirate made a startled croaking-gasping noise and arched his back as though every muscle in his body was on fire. Before he could collapse to the floor, his friend grabbed him. For a moment, Jean wasn’t sure what to think as the other slaver put the one she’d shot into what looked like a chock-hold. When they started rushing toward her, then she got it; he was using the one she’d already shot as a human-shield, he was already unconscious and flopped along as dead-weight. She tried to back up and dodge as the slaver threw the other slaver at her. The corridor was too tight really maneuver and the unconscious slaver hit her legs, knocking her off-balance and down. The other slaver, taking advantage of the situation, rushed in, his boot flying toward Jean’s face. She knocked it aside and his foot hit the steel wall with a clang and scream of pain from the slaver. Jean sent a strike to the nerve cluster in thigh, right next to the groin. With another scream, his leg buckled and his hands instinctively clutched himself. A right-cross put him out of his misery. Scott's hand shot up as his head rocked, and he captured his glasses before they were sent careening across the hall and his optic blasts sliced this boat in two. Touching a lip that had split beneath the Shi'Ar's boot, he could see the black smear on his finger tips that translated as blood to his scarlet hued vision. Looking up at the Shi'Ar, he said, "That was extremely stupid." Then, the two men launched into a hand to hand fight that was almost choreographed. There were far too many people that assumed that Scott was merely a range fighter. But no, he had trained himself to fight without his powers in cases just like this, and like everything Scott did, he had practiced until he was perfect. Of course, if Jean paid attention, she would see that his fighting style had subtly changed, that his time as an undead ninja had influenced the way he moved. Scott was a mutant, and as such he believed in evolution. In moments, his attacker was down, and Scott glanced over at the others, "Let's keep moving." “I don’t sense any other minds in this part of the ship; none within fifty feet.” She continued to scan, “Then we’re at the slave cells.” They’d barely gone a dozen steps when Jean frozen and eyes widened. “Pietro’s gone,” she gasped. “Not dead… just… gone.” Scott turned to his wife, "What? What do you mean gone?" He put his hand out, ostensibly to stop Joseph from moving forward, but mostly to ground the boy. As a clone of Magneto, Joseph had a connection to Pietro that was deeper than their own, and a strange older/younger brother relationship had developed. The last thing they needed was the boy to panic and start ripping up this metal ship to find his kinfolk. "Unconscious? Nulled?" Jean searched the minds near where Pietro had been; she found one. He was a miserable wretch crying and shaking on the floor, his mind awash with misery and guilt, his thoughts hard to sort out but one word screamed out more than all the others. “Trap,” she said through numb lips and instantly sent the warning to the rest of the Starjammer crew – :: Trap! Pietro has been teleported away! :: "Son of a bitch!" Scott swore, uncharacteristic of him, "Move, quick, powers up. I'm not leaving slaves behind but I'll be damned if..." And then just as quick as that, the hatches on either side of them slammed shut, locking them in a space no bigger than a phone booth. Scott's hand shot up to his glasses, but he would have no time to fire, because just as one of the hatches locked into a place, a device was kicked into the space with them. Energy of a color that was no color and all colors at once to Scott's rose tinted eyesight, exploded around them. "Jean!" he shouted, and he grabbed her hand. "Joseph, stay close!" And then, the energy output became too much to handle and it exploded like a balloon pumped with too much air. |
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| Ch'Od | Oct 7 2014, 04:21 AM Post #17 |
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NPC: Amphibian Characteristics
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"Come on, birdies, can't you do more than peck at me?" Ch'Od was probably enjoying this more than he should have, honestly. If he thought about it logically, he supposed he should have moved past the way the Shi'Ar had treated him, had treated him and his friends, his companions, his partners. It was a long time ago, after all. But some scars ran too deep, so he supposed he would always harbor resentment for Shi'Ar slavers. Helped that their weaponry was subpar, substandard. They didn't have the skill or the resources perhaps to do proper maintenance on their guns, so they didn't have the power to pierce his hide. Stung a bit, getting shot, but none of it was enough to cause him any significant injury. He charged forward through a trio of them, a swing of his right arm batting them aside and sending them scattering like pins struck by a well-thrown bowling ball. They were practically nothing to him. It was almost a shame, really. Poor, miserable emaciated slavers were in no condition to put up a worthwhile fight against a man with superhuman strength, invulnerability, and a relatively decent level of speed (though nowhere near that of his partner here...). Speaking of which... Ch'Od glanced around in the lull in the chaos created by his thorough trashing of the slavers that had been attacking him. Now that he thought about it, these last few moments of combat had been without the distinct rushing of wind generated by the superhuman speed Maximoff generated. No fists breaking the sound barrier. No skidding of rubber soles on metal floor. "Corsair," Chod asked as he raised a hand to his ear to activate the comm unit within, "You got eyes on Quicksilver? He seems to have vanished from my location." |
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| Corsair | Oct 8 2014, 06:29 AM Post #18 |
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NPC: Baseline Human
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Corsair moved through the ship, quickly, heading for the bridge, knowing that the commotion the others were making would be enough to make his passage relatively stealthy... at least until he got to the wheelhouse. It was too easy though, as if he was being allowed to pass... why? He didn't know, but he would make these Shi'Ar birdies regret underestimating him. Reaching the wheelhouse, he pressed his ear to the door. There were voices inside, a woman, probably the captain that Jean had detected, and a man she was arguing with, a crewman, a first mate, something. "Corsair," Chod sounded over the comm, "You got eyes on Quicksilver? He seems to have vanished from my location." Corsair narrowed his eyes and spoke into his comm, in a low whisper, "Ch'Od, he's quick, he's probably gotten to the others already." He switched frequencies, "Scott, Speedy with you?" No answer. Chris's frown deepened, and he keyed the comm again, "Scott, come in..." He pressed his fingers to his head in the way that he'd seen Scott do now and then, thinking very hard, "Jean... location?" Still no answer. "Jean..." And, then, he knew, knew for sure. Whatever had happened to Quicksilver, it had happened to his son and daughter-in-law, and likely the boy too. This was a trap. This was a trap to grab the mutants. Readying his sword, Corsair raised his foot and kicked out, smashing the door open. Once upon a time, he had been a different man. Once upon a time, he had been a soldier, a pilot, arrogant, a bit neglectful, and while not a push over, much less inclined to fight offensively, bar fights and self defense more his speed. That was a long time and many lifetimes ago. The soldier was gone, but then, so was the drug addled slave. All that was left was the Pirate. The flash of his blade, and the speed of his rage, brought him like a whirling dervish into the wheelhouse., but true to his word to his son, he killed no one. But blood was spilled and none of it his own. Before Ge could so much as draw his gun, he was on the ground, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood from the stump where his hand had been, and Mykla, the captain, stood, hands raised. "So, it's true," she said, "a sword. Not a gun. D'Ken's sword at that." "You people made me use a gun," Chris snapped, "I prefer my trophy." "Poor broken Corsair," the woman mocked, "the Majestor still owns you, even after so many years." Corsair smirked, "You can keep trying, Captain. If D'Ken owned me, you'd be dead right now." Without lowering her hands, she nodded to Ge, "Like my first mate? He will bleed out soon. Let me tourniquet his arm if you are such a free man." Checking to see that there were no weapons accessible, Corsair nodded, "Do it then, and we can have a little talk while we wait for your Majestrix to arrive." Mykla looked up, startled, but she quickly covered her moment of fear, and muttered, "She is not my Majestrix. She is unworthy of the name of Neramani." Corsair gestured with his sword, "She's not really who I'm interested in talking about. What have you done with my son and his people?" "He's been delivered," Mykla said, "and you'll never see him again." |
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| Ch'Od | Oct 27 2014, 08:29 PM Post #19 |
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NPC: Amphibian Characteristics
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"Hell," Ch'Od muttered, heading out of the engine room and up a deck. He'd have a look around, see if he could find any trace of Maximoff himself. The birds were neutralized, taken down and no longer an immediate threat. He had the time now to go on a manhunt. Starjammers don't leave anyone behind, that was the way they lived. And he wasn't about to start violating that way of life here and now. So far, though, his search was coming up fruitless. Every area of the ship he came across, empty. He saw the evidence of fights, scattered unconscious Shi'Ar, disabled and busted weaponry, scorch marks on the walls and skid marks on the floor. Plenty of fight, but no fighters. With Corsair on the other lines, trying to get a hold of Scott and Jean if he had to guess, that left Ch'Od to call the 'Jammer. "Hey, Zee," Ch'Od grumbled. "We've got some trouble over here. Yeah, might be big, not sure yet. Yeah, just have Sikorsky send his drone over for a sweep. We're missing people out here and I'm pretty sure I heard Jean shouting in my brain about a trap." If they were lucky, Sikorsky's high tech flying bug could find a trail. Energy signatures, heat signatures, something. If the others were hidden away somewhere on this ship, they needed to find them. And if they were somehow taken off the ship... They needed to find them all the more badly. |
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2:42 PM Jul 11