multiversallogs | movements come and movements go

Entry tags:

movements come and movements go

Who: Bruce, Logan, Jason, and some friendly NPCs (no).
What: The Militia enacts a brutal raid, and your friendly neighborhood wanted terrorists interrupt it. This goes about as well as it sounds like it would.
Where: Flag Hill (west side)... for now.
When: A few days after the Militia announcement.
Notes: This is another one of those incidents that's going to get snagged by the media blackout and never reported on, but we're well past the point of no return with word-of-mouth about civilian-Militia skirmishes.
Warnings: Violence, police brutality. Samm's icon choices.

It becomes apparently not long into his searching that whatever's going on is probably a trap.

There's a “college group” that meets in a cliffside pub biweekly in Flag Hill, and with minimal digging, the fact that it's a local anti-Militia activist group is easy to uncover. Mostly young people and a few mentors who've seen and heard it all, they're passionate, edgy, but mostly peaceful – more bark than bite. With far more than minimal digging, barely-there rumors can be sifted up through the dirt suggesting that the Militia is going to be in the area that night for unrelated reasons – though what reasons, no one knows. Making an arrest? Making a buy? Meeting with informants, meeting with their mysterious, anonymous suppliers?

It's kind of an obvious trap though, Bruce thinks. All it would take is someone figuring out that those dates and locations overlap to deduce that the Militia wants to smash-and-grab both the kids in the bar and whatever vigilantes or fearless journalists show up to cash in on the rumor mill. But, he doesn't discount the notion that it might intentionally seem obvious.

Which is why he's here now, hidden in an otherwise alarmingly unsafe alcove against the cliff wall, watching the bar in question be swiftly surrounded by hooded agents. There's too many of them to do much of anything about at the present time, and besides, there's always the chance they're just going to go in there and scare people instead of making mass arrests – bursting in trying to help might just do damage. So he waits.. and then spots a familiar silhouette and gait: the telekenetic woman responsible for his smashed ribs the week before. Hm. He thinks – well, he'd better be pretty damn sure, huh? - that they found him last time by tracking the radio signal, even though he'd been certain they didn't have that kind of tech (and demonstratably hadn't, before). He's changed it up for now (obviously), but he knows after this he'll have to keep changing it every time. Even with sabotage, they're keeping up. And quickly.

From inside the bar, someone screams. A heartbeat later, a hooded man is dragging out a boy who can't be more than eighteen by his hair.

Well. Shit.

Bruce adjusts the catch of the sword across his back, and starts to move closer along the cliff wall, high above the action.

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It has been a complete hassle in the kitchen with one of the stoves mysteriously out of order and the guy they sent to fix it taking his own sweet time to figure it out. He's very apologetic, a little on the clumsy side — seemingly one of nature's large but gentle bumblers, with thick glasses and a shy disposition. Possibly the kitchen staff's faith in common decency takes a temporary hit when, as the militia start to drag out the young activist group, their supposed repair man takes his hat and glasses off and drags a silver hood from his pocket over his head.

They're distracted and he moves fast. There's no time for them to see that the hood is not quite right, and maybe some of them have never had the dubious pleasure of seeing a militia hood up close and personal anyway. As far as Jason's concerned, the hood will serve the purpose of getting him close. The real militia have to know they don't have anyone stationed in the kitchen (and if they did, they're awful slow, since Jason waited to be sure no one else whipped out a hood) and other ways of determining he's not one of them.

When he enters the main room, what he wants and gets is that second of confusion from the other militia agents. That's enough time to hit one in the face with a truncheon. It's a less lethal weapon than he prefers, but from experience, he thinks his guns will be wasted on militia body armor. By the sound, that blow from the truncheon broke more than a few things. Jason grabs him on the way down, using the agent's body with its superior armor as a shield and helping himself to the agent's superior firepower. The monetary hand up from the masked guy had been very helpful, but whatever he can get his hands on, Jason reasons, the militia probably has something better. He tests that hypothesis by shooting at the other agents with the downed agent's gun. They know he's a fake, but now the friendly fire is legitimate. Hopefully that'll cause more confusion and draw militia attention to him, allowing the activists time to escape. He's sure he'll have to cut and run very soon.

Edited 2012-09-24 02:34 (UTC)

Some of the more savvy participants are already moving as soon as the heat begins to dial up. One of the older members, a young woman with both a severe ponytail and disposition, has her hand clasped around her friend's and trying to push and duck and weave for the bathrooms where she remembers a heavy wooden door bolted shut. Her fingers feel weirdly fragile and bony against stiff metal and creaking wood, before managing to wrench it open and shoulder her way out--

Some added chain snags, the door juddering open a few inches and nothing more.

Suddenly, three blades seem to appear out of nowhere, slicing through iron and raking inches from her face. She screams and startles back even as the door slams wide, and screams again in the face of the huge flannel and leather wearing hairy claw-hands guy on the other side of it. He isn't gentle, grabbing her arm and hauling her outside, her more mousy friend inching his way after her to slink around the door frame.

"That way, fast as you can, don't look back," the man growls out, before he's moving into the bathroom after her. In the direction he isn't advising, there's the crumpled figure of a militia agent that will probably see back up in a fraction of a second, but he isn't looking back to see if the kids make it. They might not.

Inside the pub, the door to the ladies bathroom cracks open under a kick, Wolverine one of the more surprising things to come out of it, claws out and teeth showing.

Lacking x-ray vision, Bruce is not entirely sure what's going on in there, but he can make a few educated guesses based on experience and the fact that everything just pitched into complete chaos in the span of thirty seconds.

Which means reinforcements - the ones he suspected of waiting in the wings, and were - are on their way; the sound of boots and the wheels of a heavy armored wagon begin to close in from the opposite direction. Bruce falls back, still hidden, so that he can get a better look. Once he sees the incoming squadrons, he arms two small frequency grenades and hurls them over. There's no impact, no explosion, but as soon as they touch down, Militia weaponry and teach in a three meter radius immediately fails, glitching and sputtering, fried from the inside out. Their progress halted for now (and at least some of their teeth and communication capabilities mitigated), he moves back in the other direction.

Just in time to see two agents hauling the bar's shell-shocked proprietor out, and the telekinetic rip the entire front wall of the bar off.

From Jason's point of view, nearly everyone with a weapon simultaneously jerking around to point it at the guy who just burst in borders on comical, but of course, he's the only one who immediately turns back and shoots another agent in the head. That brings everyone back around to general chaos. The guy with claws bursting out of the woman's room was, well, completely unexpected, though perhaps less personally offensive than the guy with the fake militia hood. For now, anyway.

And then the entire goddamn front wall comes off. 'Should leave very soon' becomes 'must leave now' in Jason's mind. He does, however, have some qualms about tossing down a hypothetical smoke bomb and ditching the other guy. (This is not an actual tactic he's ever used.) (The exploding helmet thing doesn't count.) Jason takes a firmer hold of his living shield and ducks around him, using the twist of his body to really send the guy flying at agents coming in from outside. From there, he rolls to the cover of the bar. The primed device Jason has at hand is a distant, less effective cousin to the frequency grenade used outside, causing three to five seconds of painful feedback in devices with audio output. The proximity is wider, too, but he shouldn't catch anybody outside the bar — not that it'd work on anybody there, thanks to Bruce. He doesn't want to use it until he knows claws guy is on board with leaving, though. And he might not be, given the manner of his entrance.

Bullets bite into Logan's body, becoming tiny penny dots of embedded silver before they're squeezed out again. He is loud and big and an easy target to hit, and this is okay with him -- he is also smart and attentive and sees that one of the militia agents has apparently turned rogue in a stunningly useful way, or rather, he's not alone. Except he is, because he can't die, and tends to be the last one on the retreat. He hears, too, the angry crackle of audio feedback, and can make a guess.

For the next few seconds, Logan has his claws full with militia agents. Claws slice through protective armour like its nothing and come away ruby red. They're smart, though, and they start attempting distance -- the mundanes back up, give way to xenian and magic, and then the front wall comes off.

A table is thrown, interrupting progress towards the bar as it catches and breaks on two militia agents. There's a tense break in chaos, a break defined by Logan not getting shot and him not committing murder. He does not actually expect to take down everyone, free the innocent, and walk away humming a jaunty tune; he is going to have to run at some stage, and he can hear the sounds of reinforcement wagons encroaching even as the communications are scrambled.

But thoughts about exit and maybe he shouldn't leave that guy behind the bar are nixed by the time invisible force suddenly throws him-- into the ceiling, bringing him crashing back down onto the ground with the pinwheeling claws of angry cat.

Well. At least he was right about what's going on down there.

Logan has a healing factor so he doesn't need any immediate help (and he can't see the other guy in there yet - sorry buddy), so instead Bruce decides to forestall the progress of reinforcements further. In a move that would break the legs of anyone else, he drops from the cliff wall and lands in between the scrambling agents and the prisoner wagon. Some of them have already moved forward despite tech failures, but the ones that have remained while attempting to figure it out have limited time to be conscious left.

Seconds after disabling the third, a voice gets his attention from inside the wagon - "Hey! Let us out!!" - and he stops. Huh. Bruce jams the blade of his sword into the magicked lock, snapping it open. Three prisoners scurry out, and the last immediately transforms into a hulking bear creature that turns, lifts the wagon over her head, and smashes it.

...All right.

(Sometimes, Bruce misses being shocked by these things.)

That counts as enough chaos to keep the Militia permanently split for the duration, and he re-engages the stealth wards on his armor and makes his way back towards the bar - which is an all-out, completely insane standoff at this point, with the telekinetic on a rampage, Logan caught inside, unsure crossfire, and civilians caught everywhere, screaming or pinned down. Ahead of him, a huge humanoid man in uniform is shouting orders that are going ignored - until he pulls his hood off to reveal the stone-faced, blond-haired man from the Militia announcement weeks ago. Argo.

"Subdue them, and STOP DESTROYING THE BUILDING!" On hearing him, the telekinetic agent turns her head, distracted for just a moment.

Reinforcements are not coming as quickly as they should, which encourages Jason to peer out from behind the bar. He can see that there's shit going on out there, and manages to catch a glimpse of the bear before ducking down again. Friends of crazy claws guy, maybe? On that note, however, someone is bouncing crazy claws guy around like a rubber ball. Leaving is clearly not going to happen for a while longer, and as ruthlessly efficient as it would be to leave right now, Jason won't. God knows he doesn't owe any of these people anything, but he just won't — there's no time now to analyze why, and nobody cares, including himself.

He slides further down the bar and pops up again, shooting at multiple militia targets in quick succession. Sure, he's not Deadshot, but he's well trained, certainly handier than his 'siblings' with a gun — these are all fast, precise chest and head shots. The final one he takes before dropping back down is at the shouting guy from the CiD broadcast.

This is very unpleasant! Hissed curses and wordless growls can be heard from Wolverine at each shove of telekinetic force. Healing factor doesn't mean this shit doesn't hurt, but he'll walk it off once he's on his feet.

By the time he gets there and he launches himself at her with the persistent determination of someone literally too angry to think, he is then sent crashing through a wall by the time gunshots from the bar are popping off and the militia body count continues charming. The telekinetic, impatient with his persistent consciousness and needing to focus on the fact her people are dying, waves a gloved hand to send bullets going wild, not the least of which protects the shouty leader. The one that's telling her she can't simply rip up the bar and beat the shooter to death with it.

Redirected gunfire finds purchase in the walls, the ceiling, the floor, splintering furniture and increasing the frightened wails of civilians still scrambling for cover and exit. Chaos at least means that the orderly march of people being arrested has broken completely, focus turned on the-- two? Three? Vigilantes currently making mayhem.

Two people inside, then - Bruce can see some of the civilians scrambling behind the bar towards wherever the shooter is. He hopes that isn't someone he knows, half over his kneejerk hatred of guns and half over the thought that projectile weapons in a city where just about everything can be bounced back is not productive in any way.

It's a brief thought though, because he has more pressing concerns. Quick, he darts through the line of agents - hard to see but nowhere near invisible, he passes someone who shouts in alarm - up behind the telekinetic. He wraps one arm around her throat from behind, and jams a device into her ribcage with his free hand. Normal tasers don't do anything against Militia armor, but he's been working on this one for a while and - she convulses immediately, the disembodied grip she has on Logan immediately vanishing, before going limp in his arms. In an instant, a beam from an agent's laser gun hits him in the shoulder, killing his stealth capabilities and forcing him to stagger forward.

Argo immediately screams for a cease fire, and everyone freezes.

Apparently the telekinetic hadn't been that distracted, even with her leader shouting at her and throwing around a guy. He's annoyed at the ricochet, not so much with the genuine concern of someone who doesn't want to see bystanders injured or killed as a more generalized 'well that was shitty and ineffective' reaction; the potential casualties are a part of that, certainly, but not one which he prioritizes, not even when frightened civilians are trying to hide with him. They keep their distance, some more angrily than others.

Ignoring their stares, Jason loses the fake militia hood and the side-fastened coveralls, the layered body armor and street clothing beneath a plain ensemble of dark colors. Right then the lead militia agent yells for fire to cease. Jason hesitates, then flings the audio feedback device over the bar. Like Bruce's frequency grenade, it shows no sign of activation. There's just a few seconds of shrieking distortion from every militia agent's headset or earpiece, barely audible to baseline level hearing, but possibly startling to Logan.

There's an augh of complaint from way over there at that second hit of audio weirdness, but it's the least of Logan's worries. Getting up and speckled with loose plaster, bruises and scrapes colouring his flesh are busy dwindling, leaving behind smears of blood on whole skin. His shoulders roll back, a sickening and vaguely metallic crackle sounding up and down his spine. A stray flattened bullet from earlier rolls out of a sleeve and bounces against the floor.

He turns to look at Bruce, a shade of a nod of thanks, before he turns towards the current onslaught. Last to run, and he's abruptly a lot more dangerous without a handsy telekinetic to keep him at bay.

Overarm, someone throws a canister over the heads of their colleagues, already leaking a smoke that might be designed to knock them out as much as it might sting eyes. Not a particular threat to those of us immune to chemical, its on the receiving end of Logan's boot toe as he rounds on the hooded agents.

The second the audio feedback causes most of the agents in range to flinch, Bruce leaves the unconscious woman where she is and bolts into the bar, intent on getting the remaining civilians out. It's (darkly?) funny for a moment, with Logan and Bruce essentially trading places after that split-second of recognition. Hearing the tell-tale whistle of a gas canister being thrown, he grabs the nearest civilian once he's inside the wreckage of the bar and starts shoving them towards the back. "Shirts over your face, move." At least the voice distortion is still working - and even though the gas never hits, that doesn't mean they won't try again and just not aim at Logan.

One of the girls huddled near Jason gasps "It's you!" when the masked figure is in her eyeshot, but Bruce doesn't slow down manhandling people up off off the floor, behind an overturned table, then shoved towards the kitchen exit. It's a labyrinth of dead end alleys and warning fences about the cliff edges back there, but locals should be able to crawl through a window or down a sewer drain, and there's little to no way that the Militia has a blockade up in an area they wouldn't have been able to get to except from this direction.

A previously KO'd agent groans, pushes halfway up, hand scrabbling towards the nearest blunt object - Bruce kicks him in the head, and he slumps back to the floor.

Not at all to his credit, Jason is much less proactive about herding people. Once he'd tossed the device, he'd started towards the kitchen exit before yelling and gesturing at people for them to go. He's not going out of his way to grab or drag anyone; the most he'll do is make those nearest to him go first.

And it's funny. There's nothing in his experience directly analogous to what's happening right now, but when the girl recognizes the masked guy, he has a deep and terrible suspicion. Her tone of voice — no, it is an irrelevant and irritating suspicion, so he pushes it aside. Fuck it and fuck everything. The thing is to get out. If he 'follows' the masked guy, it's because that's the nearest exit. It has nothing to do with anything and the masked guy cannot possibly give a shit if he does or doesn't.

The last those one the way out hear of Logan would be the sounds that come from close-contact battle, wood chips flying as claws injure furniture over flesh. This one has an irritating ability to dissolve into ashy vapour and resolve again immediately, avoiding the bites of adamantium that would otherwise rend him to pieces, and they trade blows until Logan wins out on timing and buries claws through his torso, and looks to who next thinks it's a good idea to either square with him or chase the civilians.

Murder is easy, when he's like this. Which isn't an excuse, because however much of an animal he is when he fights -- animal had always been the word, not monster -- is negated by how infrequently he backs down. Human stubbornness, human negligence towards his own survival instinct, doesn't matter how tough he is.

But still. It's easy to lose track of time, at least.

Everyone here signed up for this.

Bruce is - not shocked; shocked would imply a level of naivety beyond even his most fragile idealistic moments. Resigned, maybe, to the hole this entire thing is eating open inside of him. He is against killing when it makes him judge and executioner, when it would be an act that would nullify the system he strives to reform. To kill a criminal in Gotham would campaign against the city -

- yet he knows the power of death. He knows the added terror on the streets now that Batman has killed half a dozen corrupt cops, killed Harvey Dent, killed Ra's al Ghul. And he knows half of that rumor is true. Something deep inside of him will always flinch with every kill Logan makes, even if he knows that there's no system to respect here, that there's no other way, that hesitating would only hurt the cause.

He doesn't have to like it.

An agent, sneaky little thing, manages to shimmy in from one side of the far, launching himself towards Bruce. He jams the heel of his palm against the attacker's chin, then yanks him forward by one arm, twisting around and slamming his other hand into the backside of his elbow while driving him to his knees. The Militiaman screams, ragged, hovering there in excruciating pain facing Jason - but Bruce doesn't do anything further yet, instead looking out into the clearing.

"Logan." It's barely audible even in the bar, but it's not meant for anyone in the bar. His tone, even through the distortion filter, is both an attention-grab and warning. The civilians are clear, and there's no way anyone without a healing factor can get out there next to him and do any good. Is he staying or going?

In the particular mood he's in, and impatient as he is to get out, Jason does something even he considers rude, which is kick the militia guy in the throat so he'll stop screaming. The rudeness is not towards him but towards the masked guy, who had the opportunity to kill the agent but clearly chose to disable instead. Given Jason's suspicions, the potentially fatal kick (it could have crushed the trachea) is probably even more rude. He acts, however, like it was something he did out of pragmatism. Technically it was, but it wasn't necessary either, and even if he's blank faced and not even looking at Bruce — he's staying alert, he has the truncheon out again and is hurrying the last people out and on their way — there is a tension to his jaw that he won't bother to hide.

Anyway, it's not like the kick was worse than anything Logan just did.

His name. Logan, wired, whips around, teeth bared, but he is not-- unstable? Jury is out and it depends on your definition of that, but there is adrenaline and momentum and his task is killing so expects that he's being urged to do more of that and--

Sees that the civvies are clear. Right. Claws do not snikt back up his hands and wrists, left out, but Logan ceases fire enough to think, especially now that another lies dead at his feet and no one is eager to be the next.

He turns, and will follow, and fend off those that may try to pursue.

Edited 2012-09-27 02:34 (UTC)

If Jason looks long enough, he'll see the masked figure turn his head slightly to observe that debilitating kick - faintly incredulous, and not in a 'How dare you potentially murder someone I've got a hold of' way, but in a very distinct, 'Excuse you, I was using this person's shrieking to cover the fact that I just said somebody's name' way.

Alas, the effect is diminished by his entire face being covered.

But that look is all there is, and it's over in a heartbeat as Bruce drops the now-prone man and steps back, keeping the remaining Militia agents in sight. Argo's looking right at them, but he's noticed the same thing - that the civilians are all clear - and apparently that means he's done caring about collateral damage. Bruce pauses for one moment to nod at him.

See you again.

Then he's gone, out the back of the bar, assured Logan his on his heels, and - goddamnit, that had better not be the sound of winged or flying or gecko-handed agents back there--

Edited (i accidentally a word) 2012-09-27 02:44 (UTC)

Oh but it is. Jason, by virtue of being behind Bruce, feels it necessary to react even though Logan the razor-clawed killing machine is also there. It is tempting to think of him as an impassable obstacle, but given the weird noise he heard the guy make after the feedback device, he's sure the militia, of anybody in Baedal, can find ways. So the truncheon gets ditched and he goes for his own gun this time. The bullets are unlikely to pierce armor, but flight armor should be lighter and configured to allow the agents maneuverability; there will be targets. Those that look like they're going to bypass Logan will be shot at.

It's pretty difficult to run and fight at the same time. It's why they are so often painted as binary oppositions. Logan shifts his focus to this former thing, staggering only when projects try to land themselves in his back and even the back of his head and don't appear to slow him when he is this amount of riled. Things that get close are backhanded with sharp metal.

But then something manages to get ahead of him, bowling him over and leaping forward in pursuit -- its shape is twisting and leathery wings make it a perfect predator up here, and though Jason's bullets are aimed truly, they find armour and armoured flesh both.

It's like a fatal and bloody game of leap frog. Before it can get close enough to kick someone down a ravine, Logan is back up and leaping, an arm wrapping around what approximate's the agent's throat, the other hand using claws through ribcage to anchor himself in. He is not only strong and fast, but he's heavy -- momentum slams both himself and the shapeshifting, winged agent aside, and a split second later, there's a crack as rickety wooden support rails are shattered, and both disappear suddenly over the edge.

Later.

His first priority is to scan and make sure he doesn't see any remaining civilians - or their bodies - but it looks like they've all managed to get away or get hidden, and the only agents who've made it back into the dangerous dead-end labyrinth of Flag Hill alleys are ones who don't need to walk. One throws itself at Jason, flickering in and out of having a present mass, though the rest seem to be stalled by bullets--

--Until that one, and then Logan is over the side, into a ravine. Bruce has a moment of pause that's barely noticeable: not mourning, not panic, just the noting of something extremely inconvenient, considering the potentials, then deciding that the ravine is no place for anyone who can get their limbs broken. He knows Logan will survive, but he can't guess at whether or not the other man will be able to get out. Not that he has any room to worry about it now, as someone is attempting to tackle him.

Bruce knocks back his attacker and immediately draws his blade crosswise from over his shoulder, swinging it across and throwing it - it lands with a sick noise, harpooning the agent through high on his clavicle, where the joins in the armor are, and veritably pinning him against the looming wall of rock and dirt. His hand is on the tang to rip the sword back out when he's suddenly hit with something that leaves him reeling.

He isn't in Flag Hill. He's not even in Baedal. He's in Tibet. He's in the monastery, and everything's on fire, and this man before him is the one that Ducard tried to make him execute and everything feelslookssmells the same. From behind him, a familiar voice slips in: "Well, are you going to come around, this time?"

It snaps him out of it. In his head, anyway, it still looks-- something makes a noise behind him and in an instant Bruce is furious like he hasn't been since he was last in Gotham, and he rips his sword out of the Militiaman's shoulder and drags it across in a stroke of such brutality and speed that the blood spray from the agent's throat being cut is almost comical. Or would be, if it wasn't real, and if he didn't slump over dead after.

When he turns he's disoriented, free hand twitching like he's about to grab his head over it, but he masters the unease as reality slams back into his senses and takes stock of the situation. Jason didn't follow Logan, did he?

The agent is a shapeshifter, but not one so crudely confined to human structure. A small, slim man in his raw form, he can be anything - and his favorite is this, claws and scales and wings. They protrude from specialized holes in his uniform, unconstrained. He shrieks, an animal war cry, before sinking teeth into the target's shoulder. This is good. It's fun, this heated battled. The Militia took him on long ago, and fed all of his desires. He enjoys being loyal to people such as these.

The fall is thrilling, as is the blood in his mouth. He can devour this vigilante, and then crawl out of the ravine.

Claws sink further in. They ricochet off a rock outcropping, heedless, still tumbling. His wings slither closer to his back and transform into whip-like spines, all angles of him primed for gore.

The agent regains (is that really the right word, a distant part of his mind wonders) mass just in time to flatten Jason. It's not the same as being tackled by a persistently solid individual, because then he'd already be in the right position to throw or turn the tables; the intangible-then-suddenly-there agent catches him in an awkward, far more vulnerable position. It feels like one arm is fractured, if not broken. The gun skitters off somewhere else, possibly joining Logan in the ravine, which is just great because Baedal has so many modified glocks and there'd been at least 1/4 of a clip left. He really only has one arm free and he's pissed off enough to trigger the taser built into his glove. It doesn't have the punch of the one Bruce used, but it isn't to normal levels either. The insulation of his body armor also isn't as good, mostly because what he's wearing now are components that have been put together rather than being built to go together.

The insulation suffices, however, and if Jason triggers the glove after he's jammed a thumb in the agent's eye, well, he's pretty mad. This is not a worse team up than Kyle and Donna, he reminds himself as he kicks the agent off of him and gets up — just in time for that cinematic spray of blood and the ensuing, brief disorientation. It's... interesting. He knows there's absolutely nothing in his expression to give him away, but that that's also its own tell; he knows he could be wrong, or he could be right, but that it doesn't matter, it really and truly and for the last goddamn time, does not matter, not to either of them.

"Up?" Is all he asks, since he's never tried to truck with the Flag Hill cliff area before. It'd sure been an option when he'd first heard about the incoming raid and was looking at the area to figure out where he wanted to be, but he'd dismissed it as 'probably insane', which is the exact reason why he's sure this guy was there.

Edited 2012-09-27 20:19 (UTC)

Good and fun are not words that Logan banters around easily, especially not when it comes to this. It's the difference between himself and Creed. Which matters. It was definitely important at some stage. Right now, as quick-healing muscle and flesh is battered between rocks and the adamantium frame it's roped to, it matters fuck all.

Usually he doesn't bleed a lot, but by now his clothing is patched wet with it. Only really able to tell which way is up by the fact he is plummeting away from it at neck-breaking speed, Logan claws and tears and punches at the twisting form that changes and adapts around him.

Some ambitious structure of wood that might have made some sort of pit stop once is splintered as they both crash through it, but it's enough to shake them apart suddenly. Logan twists on instinct, hands and claws both reaching for the incline of jagged rock and finding handhold. The halt jars abruptly through him, saved from dislocation of-- every joint involved by virtue of metal. Claws find purchase in a crack in the cliff face, and his feet dangle, before a boot toe finds a place. Beneath his clothing, torn in places, flesh knits back together where a bite's been taken out of it.

A growl that is more animal than man reverberates from his chest, more concerned about where his newest friend has gone than he is about climbing up as he twists a look up, and then down.

Edited (NEEDS MORE EDITS) 2012-09-27 11:16 (UTC)

Up and over, anyway.

This'll be fun.

Bruce is still reeling a little bit, but they've got seconds before the Militia bursts through the back of the bar after them. He jerks his head in a that way motion that's either an agreement or an ominous declaration, then takes off. Fortunately he's physically trained enough to be able to function at damn-near perfect levels even if his cognitive perceptions aren't cooperating. There is only one small problem with that, but he's not there yet. He's got a minute.

There are rickety fences blocking off the sharp edged drop of the canton border - they don't bottom out into nothingness on the other side, but cordon off an expanse of craggy rock, dirt, limestone; it's a pain in the ass to get even there, but as he drops down over the first fence he hears the sound of approaching, pissed off agents from behind him. Not bad timing, even if they'll know there's only two ways out (down the ravine, over the side).

That one small problem is, of course, if in the dark and with his head swimming, he can remember where the only safe space down below - free of rocks peeking up out of the water - happens to be.

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