The system had not seemed compromised, yet what is and what appears to be are not always related; the Commander realized he had made this oversight when, one by one, each of the monitors he was viewing switched of their own accord from a view inside the complex to cartoons from the 1940s. He tried the controls and found them unresponsive, moving on to try his radio next:

"Huxley, report. We have lost visual confirmation, what is your status?"

"I'm inside tha' henhouse lookin' fer tha' fox, Chief. Lights are out, usin' ma rifle mounted."

The Gifted gave a nod of approval to himself over what he was told, a barrel mounted flashlight gave away one's position of course yet night vision goggles could get a man blinded if and when the questionable lights came back on. The voice continued;

"Layout looks ta' be intersecting tunnels, I ken see sum doors visible. Checkin' one, it's not locked and there's...

"There's what? Finish your report, man."

"Gloves."

The Commander blinked as he pressed down the talk button again.

"Repeat that."

"Gloves Chief, but they ain't no good kind. Jest them fancy white ones like what tha' rich wear to tha' opera and such. There's three pair of them out on a table, but there's a gap like a set's missin'."

"Acknowledged, continue with sweep and primary objective."

"Roger."

As soon as Huxley was off the channel, the Commander swiveled in his chair to look at Orwell. The Gifted did not like working on less than complete available intelligence, a fact that was expressed by the sour look on his face as he spoke to the other man.

"I wasn't told about the clothing angle, I want to know yesterday. Dieter has turned paranoia into an art form, the system might be down but there'll be paper copies somewhere. Get to hunting."

"Sir, yes Sir!"

Ten minutes later, Orwell's CO was finishing up on the contents of a file folder handed to him. After several hours of observation, the Rogue Protector had failed to manifest a single power he was shown to have used previously thanks to not only a trustworthy eyewitness account, yet by way of numerous cell phone videos as well. It was theorized that perhaps this fellow had no true power, instead making use of prestidigitation to mimic having a Gift. To that end, all of his clothing was taken to be carefully examined, the mask being returned to him before he awoke from a head injury sustained in an earlier conflict. It, and every other article of clothing, was found to be benign with not even a signal lock pick hidden anywhere. Since no satisfactory results had been manufactured, parts of the costume were placed in various rooms of the testing facility; each item had been mixed in with duplicates to see if the man could tell the difference, and all of the rooms were monitored by live camera feeds and electronically locked doors. The reader smirked to himself on that last part;

'The best laid plans...'

He brushed the thought easily from his mind as his radio once more crackled to life;

"First sweep completed, Chief. No sign of tha prisoner. Commencing second sw... AH!"

There was a thud and rush of air combined with a clattering sound, several seconds passed as the Commander waited in silence. He never saw the sense in the movies and TV shows when someone would keep yelling 'Report!' into a radio, since that would be common sense overall and especially to a well trained soldier such as Huxley. His trust in his man was rewarded when his underling's voice, though winded, was once more heard.

"Why that little... Sorry Chief, the ceiling of tha hallways have pipes running along 'em, an' he was hidin' up there. Must 'a been followin' me tha' whole while, then snaked himself up there when I stopped ta' report. He got tha' drop on me, didn't do more than knock me down though and get me a touch winded. Don't fret none Chief, I'mma still gonna bring him in alive, though not all his bones might be whole..."

"Understood, just make sure he's still able to talk and not in a coma; you know you tend to get a bit 'excited', and the promotion is meant for someone who can keep their head."

"Ten four Chief."

The Commander turned back to Orwell as he once more flipped through the pages provided by his man.

"It says here as a safety precaution not all of the hero's clothing was placed for the test, namely his cape is kept elsewhere with only red herrings for him to currently find. As far as we currently know, he somehow can tell what's his and what's fake so he might well not fall for what they put in there for him. I want you to go get the real one, if he can so easily surprise Huxley we might need some bait to bring the target to us."

The villain wrote down the location and gave it to his man, who gave a smart "Yes, Sir!" before heading out to the Hummer they had been granted for on-base travel.

Another ten minutes clicked by, and the Commander found himself wondering when Dieter's men were going to get their system up and operational again. It would be nice to have control over the facility and know what was going on in there, though he had to admit to himself his team had so far only discovered that this individual could hide in the dark and get in a quick surprise attack he didn't even follow up on proving either he was soft or not military trained which applied to many heroes. Nothing groundbreaking, to say the least. Huxley's voice, a harsh whisper this time, cut into his boss' revelry;

"I found 'em, Chief. He's in a little room, looks like he's working on some kind of' electrical panel or the like. He don't know I'm here yet, I'm gonna cut my light and get up good and proper 'fore I sack em."

His CO didn't respond, normal operating procedure to cut down on all  possible noise in attempted stealth maneuvers. As Brett awaited confirmation of the objective, he found himself pondering the wasted effort of the target. From what he had seen in the details provided before coming to the monitoring station, the man didn't do things when they served no purpose; in an exaggerated style and with flair granted, but not pointless. Yet now he had, using up a prime chance to subdue his enemy even without the use of powers with the end result of simply winding his opponent who would now be alert for any like attempts. Add to that Huxley's training and personal experience fighting gifted, along with his assortment of weapons that ranged from rubber to real bullets, a good variety of grenades, and even a stun gun plus of course his pet knives, and there was no clear way the naked figure stood to get the upper hand.

'Stun gun...'

That word unbidden singled itself out in the soldier's mind, and the pieces started to fall into place; Huxley had been attacked, not hurt but it had made this mission personal for him and now he wanted payback. Of all the arms he had with him, he would choose his favorites, the knives, and use them to damage non-vital areas of his enemy's body. An opponent who was waiting in plain sight, in front of an electrical panel; a giant stungun. If this limber and flexable stranger faked not hearing his foe and timed it just right... In a rush, the Commander thumbed his radio on again;

"Huxley! Pull back! It's a trap! Do NOT engage. Repeat, do NOT engage!"

There was a response, no more than a weak whisper.

"Too late, he tricked me into hitting the panel and giving myself a nasty shock. He pulled some grenade pins too on his way past me, but I managed to get my mask on and toss one he missed after him. I'm pretty sure I knocked him out."

The transmission was broken by a fit of wheezy coughing.

"Understood. If you can, make your way toward the outer gate for extraction and medical treatment. We'll mop up here."

"Got it, Chief."

"Orwell, you copy?"

"Affirmative sir, I have located and collected the requested item, and am currently inbound."

"I'll need you to get close to the gate, our target is craftier than he was given credit for and put a hurt on Huxley. I want him loaded up and on the way to a medic asap."

"Will do, Sir."

The Hummer came to a stop where requested as the rest of the squad got the heavy door opened, their eyes falling on a staggering figure who managed to make it outsider under his own power. Orwell put an arm around his injured man and got him swiftly to the vehicle he had left running, and they were a fading memory in under two minutes. The Commander meanwhile positioned his troops, then entered the facility to collect their target. The group was efficient and worked as a well oiled machine; Brent would stand for no less. The lights came back on just as the prisoner was found, prone and silent on the floor.

"Place your hands over your head, interlock your fingers!"

There was no response, prompting one of the men to move up to the body and nudge it hard with a boot toe; stillness and quiet was the only response. At a nod from the Commander, the trooper grabbed one shoulder and turned the naked form over on its back. They were greeted with the face of Huxley...

---

The Hummer was traveling swiftly toward its destination, then suddenly it shot forward with an added burst of speed only to roll to a stop seconds later. The driver's door was opened, and Orwell's unconscious body rolled out to the pavement with a bit of assistance. The vehicle resumed moving, only now to was heading for the nearest fence and following it to the first gate found. One of the guards there signaled for a stop, yet the only response was acceleration. The driver smashed thorough the gate as a woman came out of the guardhouse, holding a LAW for use in just such circumstances as unwanted visitors or guests checking out unannounced. She fired, yet her target swerved causing her to miss. She said some very unladylike things under her breath for anyone who ever made a war video game or movie at that point, her partner already back inside their enclosure pressing a button. There was no blaring alarm, in fact no sign anything had happened; it had though, every single Schwartze Augen received an automated signal about the escaping transport. In apartments and homes, TVs were turned off and knitting abandoned in favor of weapons and armor piercing ammunition. The entire length and breadth of Gaultown was locked down, in such a way that an outsider would notice nothing unusual at all.

White hands held a steering wheel as a polished shoe controlled a gas pedal, switching immediately to the break when a distracted woman on her phone pushed herself and a baby carriage in the path of the oncoming Hummer. Before Peter could do anything else, the lady in question dropped her cell and reached into the carriage to pull out an assault rifle. He barely got his stolen wheels into reverse and ducked his head before he heard metal impacting metal. He blindly got the vehicle moving backwards, then pulled a turn after which he peeked over the dashboard and tore off down a side street.

Until that moment, Vargus had not realized the scope of the trouble he was truly in. Whomever had captured him, he understood they did not simply control his cell, or the complex it was in, not even only the soldiers he had tricked; all of this was at their beck and call, this entire area. Even now clad in his familiar attire, if he vanished from the Hummer and reappeared anywhere around here, he might well get killed before he was even aware of any danger. He took a breath and leaned back, forcing himself to try and relax; an action that saved his life as a bullet punched through his side window and sailed into the space just before occupied by his head. He knew he needed to act, and fast if he ever hoped of getting out of this alive. To that end, he turned on and off roads until he saw what looked like a way out of this death trap. After several seconds, the machine took off gaining in speed as it neared the outskirts. Bullets pinged into it, but it continued unheeding of such things. It almost reached the limits of Gaultown, almost. Victory was snatched away at the last second as an explosion erupted from below, tossing the Hummer up in the air like some cheap child's toy and engulfing it in unforgiving heat and flame.

Only a few minutes passed before people in orange vests began to approach the wreckage, cones and cloth signs placed that cordoned off the street and warned of a busted gas main. Every road into or out of Gaultown was mined, nothing had been left to chance including a cover in the event a device went off. A fire engine pulled up, several persons made their way to the twisted metal and used high grade extinguishers to put it out. Inside no body was found, just the remains of some gear not common to the Schwartze Augen. It looked as though it had been laid on the gas pedal save for a knife, which was still jammed into the dashboard through an opening in the steering wheel preventing the last from turning. The driver was nowhere to be found.

This was reported to Deiter, who calmly instructed his underlings to search and use any recourse ant their disposal to find the missing hero. Then he poured himself a brandy, chopped off the end of a hand rolled cigar with a gold cutter, lit the latter and let out a puff of expensive smoke before sipping the former. He leaned back, thinking over how long it had taken to get this base of operations up and running; how much time and effort, how many resources, how many favors given and paid. It had been worth it, very much so in the long run; a state of the art facility not only on American soil yet publicly in the open for any and all to see. Many secrets had been unlocked here, numerous mysteries forced to give up their secrets with an unbroken record of success, until now. Within short order, his systems had been successfully hacked, compromised by a virus, the person responsible not yet apprehended while a prisoner managed to escape from the Gifted testing facility. That equaled two possible leaks that could tell of this location, and though in times past they would have been thought to simply be imbalanced in the head, the Wave was such a threat someone would investigate no matter how superficially. That would put Gaultown on the radar, defeating its main purpose and giving weight to any future claims or rumors about the place. It was very likely this location would have to be scrubbed, and a new hub formed.

Dieter was not angry though, not in the slightest truth be told; he had learned long before now that nothing lasts forever regardless. One could knit a sweater that became their favorite and would last years, yet eventually threads would start to come free and snag until it all became unraveled. There were other sites set up, plans and back up plans and back ups of those. Moreover, next time his systems would be guarded against such an attack and security measures stepped up to not depend mainly on computerization. The German never suffered losses, he only gained opportunities to learn and adjust.

He did not fault the hero, he did what was expected of him; also, no fault was found with the Commander. He had used sound judgement and reasoning, brought short by a weakness of caring about the men under him. Dieter of course had no such issue, yet honestly he approved of weakness in others; it could be used against them later, and allowed control if used properly. On top of that, his cohort now owed him big for this and Sievold could collect at his leisure. The crime lord issued needed orders to have his agents on standby to scrub the base, and awaited word on either the possible fleeing hacker or the missing magician.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:21, Mon 17 Aug 2015.

Huxley pulled open the heavy vault-like door that lead into the west aisle of Prison Durin and carefully pulled it shut behind him where it locked shut with a heavy automatic *thunk* of titanium deadbolts. With electronic systems potentially compromised, The Commander had entrusted Huxley with a metal security key that he wore on a chain around his neck and tucked under his bulletproof vest. It could be used to manually force open the prison's sealed entrance. If the facility entered lockdown the key would be useless, but for the time being the small piece of metal represented the only means for either Huxley or his prey to escape. Huxley also wore a little trinket under his glove; a little white glove another one of The Commander's lieutenants had given him to wear "for good luck (boss's orders)." Already his irritation with this insane test was building, he needed to let it out. Maybe ripping the organs out of a naked, cocky fool would help with that! His teeth clenched together in an insane smile.

As the soldier paced the prisons circular outer ring in a full circuit, he began to feel his boiling impatience bubble up to the surface. Not yet, he couldn't let loose just yet; The Commander was watching. Once or twice he attempted to radio his Commander for a confirmation of the prisoner's location, but he was only offered static noise as a response; either the concrete was thick enough to disrupt his shortwave radio, or The Commander's test included making his job harder than necessary. He wasn't fully certain which one it was. He completed another circuit of the complex and loudly growled. The sound's echo was short; the hallways weren't that long! Where the hell was Peter hiding?!

Before he could dwell on the subject any longer, something pricked the edge of his hearing; there was the slight scrape of metal on metal coming from the section of corridor behind him! As he sprinted back the way he came, he ducked under a panel of rusted metal grating that he'd missed on his patrol. He finally found Peter Vargus, hunched over the West Door's keyhole, frantically working an improvised metal tool into the door's mechanism as he tried to force the lock open.

"Howdy, bud!" Huxley called out brightly, a satisfied smirk etched across his face as he saw a look of panic flash across the prisoners eyes.

"I shouldn't try that if ah' were you." he slapped a hand over the section of armor where his key was concealed. "Without tha' key it jus' takes one false move for tha' door to lock down tighter than tha' skin on ah' grape."

Huxley drew his Kabar knives from their sheathes with a pair of long, deliberate scrapes. His target had been clever to avoid him for this long, and had even had the ingenuity to try to force a way through the one path out of the prison that wasn't locked down, but now that he'd been cornered it was time for the soldier to vent the frustration that had been ready to go nuclear throughout this short game of cat and mouse. The two heavy knives spun in Huxleys palms and sung in the air as he performed a complicated series of flourishes designed to intimidate and impress.

"Ah'm gonna' hurt you, now. Y'h should have stayed in your cell."

"My dear man." The prisoner spoke with airs that seemed oddly out of place when paired with his unclothed body and unfortunate situation "Just because your jailers had the better of me for a few short hours, and that I chose to make my escape through stealth and not through force, do not presume that I'm of little threat. Rather, putting hooligans such as yourself in their place has become a hobby of mine."

To Huxley's surprise, the under-armed and thoroughly underfavored prisoner raised his fists as though preparing to spar. Two knives in the hands of a skilled master against the bare fists of a fugitive Gifted with no apparent abilities was not an even match, and Huxley recognised the false bluster for what it was.

"Whatever you say, bud."

Unable to contain a trace of the excitement in his voice, the psychopath sprang forward to do battle without so much as another moment's hesitation.

As Huxley dived forward, he danced his knives between his fingers to strike Vargus with the butt of his handles; his mission, after all, was still to take the man alive. Both his arms snapped forward in a shockingly fast whiplash designed to crush both of Vargus's temples and end the fight in a single strike, but before the attack could connect the prisoner pushed his weight off his front foot and darted back a step to safety. Being both a dancer and a staff-fighter, Vargus was no slouch when it came to footwork, and he managed to avoid Huxleys follow-through and redoublement attacks by ceding yet more ground. But at his fourth step, Vargus felt his back press into the still-sealed prison exit and realised that he had nowhere left to run. When the point of his enemies knives slashed a thin wound across his chest, he knew he only had an instant to act. And with no other option, he pushed his weight forward and attempted to land a punch on his assailant. Vargus drove one fist high to divert Huxleys attention and jabbed the other below his vision in an underhanded gut punch. The punch was only rewarded with a mild grunt of discomfort as his fist impacted harmlessly against Huxleys bulletproofed vest.

"Unf! Right! Ah' was trying to go easy on y'h!" the attack seemed to annoy the soldier rather than injure him.

Before Vargus had a chance to press his assault, the elite assassin kicked him backwards with a stomp of his heel, raised his rifle, and pulled the trigger. The movement was a single, efficiently drilled CQB technique. Vargus had less time than concious thought could provide to respond to the attack. He dove at his opponent, grabbing Huxley's arm just as the bullet rocketed toward his face.

*BLAMNN!*

The gunshot echoed down the hall with a deafening ring, and in the comparativly stark silence that followed, both men stared at each other with a look of equal shock.

Vargus had caught Huxley's "non-lethal" rubber bullet between his teeth.

"...Tha' fuck?!" Huxley managed. His face was grappling with itself, trying to settle on either a scowl or a fearful yell.

"M' dea' m'n. Tha's Neva'h 'appen'd 'efore." Vargus mumbled around clenched teeth, his expression just as surprised as his foe's. He'd never managed to perform an "actual" trick without his costume before! It was impossible! Or was it...?

Vargus' eyes then fell on to his opponent's arm; a wide, earnest smile grew on the showman's face. The thug had his glove; in hoping to beat him at his own game, these novices had given him the chance to prove his skill!

Peter jumped at Huxley's throat (best not to give the game away yet). As the two wrestled, they exchanged a furious set of punches, kicks and grapples that would decide the battle once and for all. Peter had a few years of practice as a vigilante, but none of that experience compared to the regime of strict combat training that the soldier had endured under The Commander's leadership. Peter's choke attempt was met with a knee driven into his groin, the desperate elbow he threw at the soldier's neck was caught and used to hurl him into a corner, and his attempt to wrestle Huxley to the ground was met with a loaded punch that left blood gushing from the magician's nose nose. A final attempted kick into Huxley's side was countered by a roundhouse that left Peter staggering back beaten, bloody, and winded.

"Ha, ha!" While the severely injured magician stumbled back from the uninjured mercenary, he started to laugh.

"My dear man, I really must thank you for being such a terrific assistant -unfortunately I must begone now. Perhaps we will meet again, but for now it's adieu and au revoir!"

Huxley tilted his head and regarded Black Magic with a confused grimace.

"You're full of y'hself all of ah' sudden, did ah' hit y'h too hard on tha' head? Just because y'h managed one little trick doesn't mean y'h suddenly stand a chance."

"On the contrary! 'One little trick' is all that it should ever take to leave a crowd breathless -" the magician enthused. Even undressed and with blood pouring from his busted nose, it was obvious something had changed in the desperate prisoner; Huxley suddenly felt a pang of fear that the man wasn't merely bluffing. "- and you've fallen for the oldest trick in the book! Classic misdirection!"

Peter raised the now-gloved hand that he'd been neglecting during the fight and opened his palm dramatically; every one of Peter's fingers had a grenade pull-ring wrapped around it!

Huxley barely had a second to realize his mistake. But instead of running, the psychopath let out a war cry and tackled Black Magic to the ground, engulfing them both in a quintuple explosion of teargas, flashbang, and smoke grenades.

The Commander sat up at his monitor. Orwell, his close lieutenant, looked over his Commander's shoulder. A thick, black smog and a waning flash completely blinded their cameras.

"Backup 1, Huxley is down! Assist him at once. We cannot afford to lose visual contact."

"Sir!" responded three of his officers, all of them offering their Commander identical salutes before racing off with their assault rifles at the ready. Orwell simply tapped the chin of his helmet with his finger in a thoughtful gesture.

A few minutes of tense silence passed before one of the cameras caught the small squadron entering the prison. Suddenly, Huxley emerged from a blind spot the camera's couldn't quite reach, limping and coughing. Two of his comrades moved to help him up, while the third ran past him, covering the hallway.

"That's not Huxley, take him alive!" shouted The Commander over his short-wave radio. He had realized it in a microsecond, even if Vargus had taken the brunt of the attack, Huxley wouldn't have walked out of that blind spot. He actually knew how to position himself when wounded.

The Commander was too late. The two men approaching "Huxley" fell to the ground with loud thuds as his hand expertly threw several Makibishi (Japanese caltrops) near their feet. Just as the third man turned to face the impostor, Black Magic wiped his hand across his body and disappeared.

--------------------------------------------------

Unbeknownst to any of The Commander's men, Black Magic reappeared in the Hummer they drove to the prison. In the blink of an eye, the magical hijacker took off toward the nearest fence and followed it to the first gate found. One of the guards there signaled for a stop, yet the only response was acceleration. The driver smashed thorough the gate as a woman came out of the guardhouse, holding a LAW for use in these kind of circumstances. She fired, yet her target swerved causing her to miss. She said some very unladylike things under her breath for anyone who ever while her partner, already back inside their enclosure, pressed a button. There was no blaring alarm, in fact no sign anything had happened; it had though, every single Schwartze Augen received an automated signal about the escaping transport. In apartments and homes, TVs were turned off and knitting abandoned in favor of weapons and armor piercing ammunition. The entire length and breadth of Gaultown was locked down, in such a way that an outsider would notice nothing unusual at all.

A single, white hand held a steering wheel as a naked foot controlled a gas pedal, switching immediately to the break when a distracted woman on her phone pushed herself and a baby carriage in the path of the oncoming Hummer. Before Peter could do anything else, the lady in question dropped her cell and reached into the carriage to pull out an assault rifle. He barely shoved his stolen wheels into reverse and ducked his head before he heard metal impacting metal. He blindly got the vehicle moving backwards, then pulled a turn, peeked over the dashboard, and tore off down a side street.

Until that moment, Vargus had not realized the scope of the trouble he was truly in. Whomever had captured him, he understood they did not simply control his cell, or the complex it was in, not even only the soldiers he had tricked; all of this was at their beck and call, this entire area. Even now, with his glove returned to him, if he vanished from the Hummer and reappeared anywhere around here, he might well get killed before he was even aware of any danger. He took a breath and leaned back, forcing himself to try and relax; an action that saved his life as a bullet punched through his side window and sailed into the space just before occupied by his head. He knew he needed to act fast if he ever hoped of getting out of this alive. To that end, he turned on and off roads until he saw what looked like a way out of this death trap. After several seconds, the machine took off gaining in speed as it neared the outskirts of town. Bullets pinged into it, but it continued unheeded by such things. It had almost reached the limits of Gaultown, almost. Alas, victory was snatched away at the last second as an explosion erupted from below, tossing the Hummer up in the air like some cheap child's toy and engulfing it in unforgiving heat and flame.

Only five minutes passed before people in orange vests began to approach the wreckage and place cones and cloth signs that cordoned off the street and warned of a busted gas main. Every road into or out of Gaultown was mined, nothing had been left to chance (including the cover in the event a device went off). A fire engine pulled up, several persons made their way to the twisted metal and used high grade extinguishers to put it out. Inside, no body was found, just a knife that was still jammed into the dashboard through an opening in the steering wheel and preventing it from turning.

This was reported to Dieter, who calmly instructed his underlings to search and use any recourse at their disposal to find the missing hero. Then he poured himself a brandy, chopped off the end of a hand rolled cigar with a gold cutter, lit up, and let out a puff of expensive smoke before sipping his drink. He leaned back, thinking over how long it had taken to get this base of operations up and running; how much time and effort, how many resources, how many favors given and paid. It had been worth it, very much so in the long run; a state of the art facility not only on American soil yet publicly in the open for any and all to see. Many secrets had been unlocked here, numerous mysteries were forced to give up their secrets in a long chain of success that had just been broken. Within short order, his systems had been successfully hacked, compromised by a virus, and the person responsible had evaded apprehension while a prisoner managed to escape from the Gifted testing facility. That equaled two possible leaks that could tell of this location, and though in times past said leaks would have been thought of as simple maniacs, the Wave was such a threat someone would at least superficially investigate their claims. That would put Gaultown on the radar, defeating its main purpose and giving weight to whatever future claims or rumors about the place sprung up. It was very likely this location would have to be scrubbed, and a new hub formed.

Truth be told, however, Dieter was not angry, not in the slightest; he had learned long before now that nothing lasts forever. One could knit a sweater that became their favorite and would last years, yet eventually threads would start to come free and snag until it all became unraveled. There were other sites set up, plans and back up plans and back ups of those. Moreover, next time his systems would be guarded against such an attack and security measures stepped up to not depend mainly on computerization. The German never suffered losses, he only gained opportunities to learn and adjust.

He did not fault the hero, he did what was expected of him; also, no fault was found with the Commander. He had used sound judgement and reasoning, brought short by a weakness of caring about the men under him. Dieter of course had no such issue, yet honestly he approved of this weakness in others; it could be used against them later. On top of that, his cohort now owed him big for this and Sievold could collect this debt at his leisure. The crime lord issued needed orders to have his agents on standby to scrub the base, and awaited word on either the possible fleeing hacker or the missing magician.

--------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Orwell finally broke the contemplative silence that followed The Commander's issuing of an alert to Dieter and an order to his men to retrieve the wounded.

"Commander, why did you give Huxley the man's glove? What purpose did it serve?"

The Commander turned to face his most trusted man, pulled out a tablet, and began to type out a long sentence.

"Orwell, that glove did not belong to our subject. It was a perfect replica, but a replica nonetheless."

Orwell smiled at his Commander's brilliant bit of deception. The Commander continued typing, sending out several minor orders at the same time.

"Though we were unable to contain him, we have certainly learned a great deal about his Gift's psychological component. And that, my friend, was our mission."

Orwell laughed. He wondered if the German would see it that way. Who knew with these men? Maybe he had planned for this all along... It was always wheels within wheels with the Namidian leaders; and it was always a marvel to watch.
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 05:04, Fri 21 Aug 2015.

The ITSDA First Response Team's "Songbird" finally reached Highway I-70at the turn of the hour. Once there, they began using their advanced radar systems to map and track the speed of all the cars on the highway. Upon identifying several suspicious cars by their speed and driving patterns, Jill ordered the Songbird to fly ahead of them.

"Vandal, Whisper, intercept and identify. Go!"

With that, Vandal fastened a small, very compact parachutes to Whisper's back. The pair then marched, side-by-side, to the back of the plane. In seconds, the plane's back door opened, Whisper wrapped his arms around Vandal, and the two elite agents jumped without a moment's hesitation. As they fell, the pair aimed themselves diagonally at the ground and Vandal began kicking the air behind them as Whisper released his parachute.

In less than 10 seconds, the pair crashed down in a ball beside the Highway, but immediately rolled out of their ball and recovered. Whisper then began listening to the inside of each car that didn't slow down and try to investigate, hoping to find some sonic clue that would tell the ITSDA which one of these cars was on the run from the Namidian Wave. He wasn't sure, exactly, what he was looking for. However, experience had taught him that something would present itself in a few moments... if he listened hard enough.

Dieter puffed his cigar and grunted and his mind slowly processed the string of events. This would have serious ramifications. There was so many permutations and alternates that spidered out from this. Still,there were certain actions taht needed to be taken to prune off the more disastrous consequences. He leaned forward and punched a button.

Throughout the base, klaxons went off and alarums sounded. The base exploded into animation as men were roused form their sleep cycles and those awake moved to emergency positions. It had been quite some time since a large scale confrontation between Namidian forces and ITSDA. Chicago had been close but spread out and diffused. Also, Dieter had been in more control of that situation. This, well he was in control but there were too many possibilities. He thought through a few possibilities again.

He could cut ties with the Commander here, but that was discarded almost as fast as it was thought. The man was useful, had done his work, and Dieter admitted he ahd his own weakness in regards to certain people. Cimmeria had been one he was fond of as was the Commander. Dieter would not hesitate to sacrifice either to the greater good of his organization of the Wave though. He radioed into the Commander's frequency, "Excellent if unforeseen consequences Commander. Your payment awaits you. Contact this source for access to your satellites. However, could I ask you and your forces to assist me in what will shortly be a defense of this location? If you follow your liaison's lead, she will lead you to a hangar with a fleet of the APCs used by my Ghouls. Please, take the red one. It is a command vehicle."

He checked the progress of the burn. Of course, no chance could be taken in this endeavor and all facilities and files were being purged. Digital copies were not okay, so hard copies were made and loaded into three vehicles, two normal looking sedans and a helicopter and sent out to various alternate locations. The vehicles took pains to not act suspicious. Each was also rigged to detonate violently if the ssecure hidden compartments were compromised. Dieter dialed a number, spoke a few words then added, "Gaultown location, compromised. Fire sale in progress." He grunted and hung up the phone even as some initial reports of a strange craft being monitored on the far edge of their sensor sweeps. Dieter need to call in more favors and fast. He checked and saw that his resources were below average. Even with the Commander, should he stay, it was a risky prospect. He sighed and told his communications staff to contact potential support close by.

The Magician slipping out of Commanders control had been galling, particularly so because it had ultimately been his own orders that'd let it happen. He'd expected Black Magic to regain some of his powers during his fight with Huxley, but he'd never expected that the one fake glove would have returned enough of his strength to let him take out the backup squad- much less teleport out of the facility!

His self-proclaimed tactical genius had fallen short, and given the other difficulties the Gaultown facility was suffering he doubted it could have happened at a worse time. Although Dieter was known to be a cautious man Brett didn't believe that he'd throw his entire Gaultown facility to the fire over a five-minute old security breach- No, something else had forced his hand.

Commander consoled himself with the knowledge that a Gifted with Peters skillset would have escaped sooner or later anyway. In retrospect it had been psychological bonds and not physical ones that had kept Peter imprisoned in Durin for this long, and if the man had the right mindset he could have theoretically escaped at any time.

For now The Commander didn't have time to dwell on his own frustration. Failing a mission, especially infront of other Namidians, always made him want to lash out but now was the exact time when a clear head was most needed; if he let himself get riled up he was likely to compound his mistakes, but if he restrategized and made the right decisions he could still regain some face.

Commander made up his mind, and spoke directly to the liaison Dieter provided.
"Tell your master that we will be joining this battle. We should move to the hanger immediately."

Mentally he started to draft a plan... then he drafted a better plan...

"Once we're in position I'll need access to new information as soon as it becomes available. I can't make bricks without clay."
"Dieter will also want to know that I'm likely to fly in my own troops if the situation escalates. I'll pass along codephrases and fire controls to Augen's CO, should that happen."

Brett resisted the agitated urge to drum his fingers over his weapon holsters. He would put an end to this farce of a situation, and with the right tools and preparations he was confident that there wasn't a battle that he couldn't win.

Dieter sighed as the first okay came in in the form of Commander being on board. It was hard for him to strategize without knowing what tools were available. He knew the base and its resources extremely well. However, his own personnel were sparse at best. Three of his military teams had gone down in Chicago, Cimmeria was beyond contact for some reason, and his lieutenants were scattered. Lady Crimson was on her way to the Caribbean facility for rehab, Mr Green and Mr. Black were with her, and his other lieutenants were not exactly at his disposal. He had located one Vincent Lee nearby and commandeered his assistance. The man was already on his way to a strategic resource.

even as he was checking the two boxes and overlooking the dossiers on Commander and Vincent, his personal assistant came in with a file-folder of dossiers on five local Namidians that had responded to his call on the dark net and other channels. He glanced over them: he knew Redcap and his gang of thugs as well as Scrap. He'd worked with both of them before. He blinked at seeing Emily Nigma's name and tried to guess what the genius girl would want. As for The Smith and Destroyer, they were well known brutes for hire. Not the usual type for Dieter's plans but they would do for the pinch.

He grinned and spoke instructions, "Get Commander to the resources he needs and tell him he is free to launch that little toy of his into my airspace. It was dreadfully useful in Chicago. However, tell him to calculate a flight pattern that will set these coordinates as its center but still cover the airscpace necessary to watch our backs. Synch him into our comms network." It was a strange command but the lackey did not even hesitate to tap away at his tablet to send the instructions. Dieter's plans were never questioned and not because he was terrifying, but because he was rarely wrong. Dieter stood and punched the cigar out on his desk as he downed the last of his drink. He paced his office, a sign that he was thinking harder than eh ever had before.

"Patch me to Commander now... shshshkkkCommander? Dieter. It is suspected that we will soon need to deal with ITSDA after a fashion. I was already tracking an external hack on my infrastructure when Black Magic escaped." Dieter planned a bounty and was happy with the COmmander's work, but that had already been said and did not bear repeating, "There will be a bounty on his head. My base CO is Captain Greystoke and he can already hear us. You are being given Violet level security clearance for the duration of Operation LookAtMe-LookAtMe. During a a previous incident, it came to my attention that a certain government lab was also operating within Gaultown. A lot of secret places for one little town, but there you go. Once known about, its location was easily tracked though an incursion was not advised at the time. We need this base to be targeted by ITSDA. They do not operate within US purveyance but as allies, so this could be an excellent opportunity to throw smoke on this facility as well as damage US/ITSDA relations. I have contacted and am seconding to you three Namidians in the area and under my current employ. Files are being uploaded to your tablet of all personnel currently under my command." No reason to voice an expectancy of reciprocity. They were both professional.

---

Vincent Lee had been a Triad enforcer a week ago. Now, he was in the employ of Dieter Sievold and knew how puny the Triads had been. They were bent to control and manipulate neighborhoods or cities, but Dieter thought at an international level. his organization was everywhere but quiet, silent, deadly. As he came to Gaultown city limits he glanced over at his tablet. The first image was of a nearly naked man in a mask; a target. He swiped and saw information on a security leak that made no sense to him. He swiped again and saw a profile he misliked about a man named Redcap. A white pale European with hair stained red that seemed to leak down onto his scalp and then run down his face. It was like someone had poured red motor oil on the guys head. The guy had some followers who, ingested the shit from his hair and got mad, super, crazy high off of it? The fuck kind of sick weirdos you hire boss?" he swiped again and an image of a massive white man with slabs of muscles, networks of scars, and a look in his eye that Vincent knew. This man was called The Smith and he was a killer, like Vincent. Supposedly super strong and nigh invicible.

He sighed and slowed then pulled into a Denny's parking lot. Several white vans and a beat-up, silver Ford Escort were waiting. The big guy in the duster with the hammer would be The Smith and the gang of red-heads crowded around the tall, maniacal looking albino would be the Redcaps. Vincent sort of liked it better when he didn't make decisions, but he got out of his car and approached them to make introduction and start laying out the plan.

---

Commander checked the shared files again and found three files marked as assets for his part of the plan: Emily Nigma, Scrap, and Destroyer. Emily Nigma was able to absorb and integrate information from nearly any source into her knowledge base. She was an expert hacker, intelligence officer, techie, martial artist, driver, and anything else someone could teach themselves to be, Scrap was a techno savant capable of making a device for any problem and carried a wide array of things he had concocted in the past but none of the devices worked without him nearby, and Destroyer was a barely human monster who could bond with machines and use them as extensions of its own body. There was also a list of assets Dieter was using for his won part of the operation.

 Brian merged onto I-70 moments ago, leaving the town of Zanesville behind him. He was doing his level best to make sure he didn't draw attention to himself, since he was sure that they would be searching for him or at least attempting to find out who he was, he hadn't left Gaultown very inconspicuously so he suspected he might have a tail or a satellite looking for him. By the time he had gained I-70 he was not so sure he had shaken a tail but the freeway was busy enough to be useful in that regard and would make pursuit more difficult. So before he left the city limits he thought he should take advantage of the high speed cell towers nearby to dish out his watch-dog programs. So a burst of information went out from his vehicle, the frequency of high pitched signal sounds would not be audible to any human, but one with a wider range might be able to pick up the electronic cell-signal bursts.

 The watch-dogs themselves were incapable of much more than reporting their findings to his darknet host, which he could check when he dared do so. Though they would pack a punch for any system that attempted to track them, either by crashing the computer they were on(which would make following the trail much harder, or by actively throwing false trails.

 Brian himself was unconcerned, he knew enough to keep himself focused on the road thereafter, but he silently hoped that he could get out of harms way sooner, rather than later, there were too many variables to account for...control of the situation was untenable, and he hated untenable situations...

Commander placed a finger to his ear as he listened to Dieters update. His expression stayed constant throughout and he finished with nothing more than a brief acknowledgement.
"Understood. I'll notify you when my pieces are in place, and once again after I settle on a plan and move out."

As he'd suspected, his mission in Gaultown had come at an inopportune time and he'd have to resolve a few speedbumps- even if those 'speedbumps' were something as disastrous as finding out that there were multiple secret facilities in the tiny suburb, or that the ITSDA were already cracking their knuckles for a full scale invasion. The more Commander thought about his situation the less he liked it, so he focused on his mission instead.

"Have the Command APC continue to wait in the hanger, it won't be necessary to move out for a few more minutes."
He took a moment to assimilate the dossiers on his fellow Namidians and all the pertinent data that his new Violet security status had cleared to him to see and began to draft new plans in his head. He started tapping out orders onto his tablet and directed a few individuals around Dieters compound to subtly shift supplies around, direct his own personnel, and parley with transport drivers.

---

True to their efficient nature, a Shwartz Augen drone arrived at the Crimson APC only thirty seconds after the orders went out with a portable armoury rack filled with five spare 'Banshee' combat cloaks. The technology differed from the photoreactive colouring that Commanders 'Numbered Brethren' used, but with some tweaking it would fulfil a similar function.

Three minutes later the driver from Commanders van, Orwell, and his four soldiers, were escorted to the APC by a contingent of Augen menials. Huxley was still combat-incapable, but the driver had a pair of supply-bags from Commanders van slung over his shoulder which would be vital to the next stages of planning.

---

The Namidian reinforcements he'd been assigned had a fearsome reputation, and Commander appreciated that he'd been given leadership over some competent and undoubtedly powerful allies. They were all aware of the current need for secrecy, and they made individual travel arrangements to arrive at the complex one-by-one...

The first to arrive was Jesus Jovellanos, AKA 'Scrap'; a resourceful technopath/reality-warper who could fashion electronic waste into almost any tool, impossible or otherwise, which would only function correctly in his presence.
The man was dressed in a large duster that Commander knew would be lined with internal pockets stuffed with gadgets and loose components, he spoke with a curt and tired manner that suggested that he'd far prefer to be in a basement somewhere tinkering with his tools rather than getting involved in a Gifted feud- Commander guessed that Dieters recruiter must have dug deep to pull him out of hiding.
"Thank you for joining us, Jesus- or do you prefer 'Scrap'?" Brett greeted him with an extended hand.
"'Scrap' will do, 'Commander'." Scrap sighed as he pointedly ignored The Commanders handshake as though disinterested. "...What did you need?"
Small talk was moot when faced with a man with nothing to say, so Brett simply took one of his supply bags and tore open it's zip; it was filled with burner devices, tasers and communication equipment.
"We may have a hacker watching the Augen networks. I need a device that can communicate with my Headquarters that's portable and completely untraceable."
Brett then jerked a thumb to the rack of Banshee cloaks.
"These will also require an upgrade. I want the wearers to be undetectable to infrared, electric pulse and echodetection. Can you do this?"
For the first time the becoated man showed some interest, he looked over the supplies waiting for him with widening pupils.
"I can do this, child's play. Give me some space."
-and without another moments hesitation the inventor of the impossible dived into his work with eager gusto. Commander grinned. Scrap was a one-of-a-kind tactical asset that he intended to fully exploit.

The second Namidian reinforcement to be escorted to the Crimson APC was Emily Nigma, before Commander could greet her properly she interrupted him.
"Mister Gondry, I thought I might meet you here. I've just learnt about the Durin fiasco, and it's sloppy handiwork had your name all over it."
They narrowed their eyes antagonistically towards one another.
The two had an abrasive relationship; in the not-so distant past they'd both been hired to consult a mission, the Gifted Analyst and The Commander had started to butt-heads over tactics almost immediately and had never really stopped. Commander recognised that he couldn't compete against her Gift in terms of sheer knowledge accumulation, but he refused to believe that anyone could ever outpace him as a military leader.
"Miss Nigma. I'm so glad you decided to join us. You're absence from Chicago was conspicuous- you were invited, weren't you?"
She sniffed derisively. "Well, I'm here now. What do you want?"
Back to business, then. Commanders favourite subject. He handed her a burner tablet that Scrap hadn't yet had the chance to cannibalize.
"Two things: There's a second hidden government facility in Gaultown, look over S.A's data and deduce weaknesses, points of entry, etcetera- also, we may have ITDSA inbound, cross-reference known first-response teams with Gifted that we know are still in Chicago and decide who we're lightly to face off against. You should have access to all the information you need within S.A's files."
Nigma didn't deign to give a response and simply started on her tasks, despite their differences The Commander knew that she could be depended upon to give solid work, and If he could avoid provoking her ego she would prove invaluable to the mission.

The last member to arrive was the only one to give Commander serious concern. Almost all Namidians were considered monsters in some regard, but 'Destroyer' was one in the literal sense; her ability to integrate herself into technological systems had distanced her from the rest of humankind and others found it hard to empathize with her inhumanly focused need to voraciously consume whatever technology happened to catch her interest and to lay waste to anything preventing her from doing so. Commander had no idea how she'd been convinced to join this mission, but he suspected that he'd been given command over her because his Gift was one of the few ways to guarantee that she wouldn't turn rogue.
"Destroyer, glad to have you. I need you to merge with the computers in the van, S.A will be making their own preparations and the APC's communication systems will let you monitor everything at once. Let me know if they make contact with the ITDSA or the escaped prisoner."
For the moment Destroyer looked not unlike a regular woman, but noticeable distortions pushed subtly out from her flesh which gave her a uncanny-valley like 'rubber costume' quality. She never stopped smiling madly, or twitching.
"Goo-d..."
she hesitated, as though struggling to remember what order she was meant to place her words in, and her insane twitching redoubled.
"...MeetYOU!"
Destroyer's gaze drifted past Commander and stared with hungry intent at the vehicles networked communication systems. As she move into position she passed by Scrap, who covered his current project protectively with his arms. Instead of taking a seat at the communication arrays stool she simply pressed her face into the monitor and pushed her hands into and through the terminals keyboard, and like a scene from 'The Thing' her flesh grotesquely split apart and wormed it's way into every crevice of the electronic device. All three other Namidians watched in fascination for a moment before nausea turned them away.
"Ugh, It's like watching a butcher refuse bin suck face with with HAL9000." Scrap complained.
Commander had to agree, but putting up with Destroyers eccentricities would be worthwhile in the long run; not only did her gifts make her a versatile technopath, but her ability to absorb and reform large amounts of weaponry would make her the groups heaviest-hitter if the worst came to pass. Despite her apparent insanity it was well known that she was perfectly capable of rational thought, and was in fact disturbingly intelligent, the only issue was that her motives were hopelessly distorted beyond comprehension. He'd given her a temporary task to keep her occupied, but her true purpose in his plans was to counter whatever unforeseen snags came up during the course of his mission- and he expected there to be quite a few.

---

Commanders tapped a few keys and activated his second tablet, the one that Scrap had put together from one of his burner cellphones and a laptop computer. The device was apparently capable to connecting to the main control room within commanders headquarters, and did so directly without re-routing through the vast network of nodes, relays and servers that compromised the internet- making it effectively uninterceptable. When Scrap enthusiastically explained his concept E.Nigma flew into an argument that such a device would need a building-sized transmitter to function, but quickly realized her mistake in that it was pointless to apply mechanical logic against Scraps creations.

He sent a single message to his base, which explained his current situation and unusual method of contact. He downloaded an information packet to his own servers that detailed the flight plan that Dieter had outlined for 'Leviathan'. Once a conformation had been received that the unmanned robot was armed, fuelled, and airborne he clicked the laptop shut and sent out a new notification using his original- non-'Scrapped'- system that was addressed to Captain Greystoke.
[Drone airborne. Will enter airspace within twelve minutes on prescribed flightpath, Camera stream and ordnance list attached. All my pieces are in place.]

Peter looked around is new surroundings, lit by a single bulb hanging naked from a cord; the glass was so filthy, not much illumination was provided. However, it allowed him to see he was in a square room, a yellow plaque affixed to one wall with a black radioactive warning symbol stamped on it. He had concentrated on teleporting into a building's basement, but blind luck landed him in an old fallout shelter. By the copious amounts of bric-a-brac he found himself surrounded by, this former bastion of safety had been repurposed as a storeroom; if the thick layer of grime and abandoned cobwebs were any indication, a disused storeroom at that. He could see there were no cameras in here, which served as no surprise; the only way in was a single door, one would have to get into the building above to get where he was by normal means, so there was no point in wasting resources monitoring a reminder of history long past. Add to that the likely presence of lead paint being popular at the time of construction, and he was safe from detection of various forms; at least for the moment. He knew they would no doubt be actively looking for him, and all it would take was one person to come down there and look around for his hiding place to be at risk. He could not give into a sense of security, for it would be false and possibly fatal. Vargus needed to think of something, a hand absently going to the blood on his face before he realized he had used the gloved one. He yanked it back, and tried to see if he had stained it with blood; then he realized something. The fabric, it was not right somehow. The costume he wore as a super hero he knew as well as his own name, and this piece he now possessed was not part of it.

Yet, somehow, he had managed tricks previously only done while clad in full attire; first the bullet between his teeth, then an illusion followed by manifesting weapons and topped by teleporting himself, twice. Stopping the bit of rubber he would have accounted to the mask he still wore, yet he could not do his other tricks until he got what he had first thought of as one of his gloves back. It was a fake, though with it he could do real magic. He began to wonder just what else he could do, and an idea came to him;

Peter closed his cloth clad hand, opened it again, and in what had seconds before been an empty palm there was a wad of white fabric. He extracted this, held it out to see it was indeed a glove like he was trying for, and put it on. Next, using both hands now, he made appear a flat, black circle; a flick of his wrist caused it to pop out into a top hat. He kept this before him, reached inside, and pulled out a pair of pants. He kept this up until he had recreated his whole outfit, then provided himself with a towel and summoned water to fill his head gear so he could clean up. Several minutes after, the performer/superhero adjusted his cloak clasp, gave himself a final visual check, and in a proper flourish Black Magic vanished once more just as footfalls could be heard.

His good fortune seemed not to have run out just yet, as he reappeared in the woods around town in a place already searched. He popped up again ahead of one of the search parties, and using his maximum range started to leave Gaultown behind him. He was, of course, ignorant to the fact more Gifted lay ahead of him on the lookout for anything out of place.

On a remote street on the outskirts of Gaultown, there was the faint sound of clattering rock moments before a sharp crack shattered what little quiet there was. Jump fell from nearly 6 feet up, barely managing to avoid landing on the bike that appeared on the ground right below him. Frank appeared nearly 20 feet in the air with some forwards momentum, tumbling into the middle of the street. Jump clambered to his feet, groaning and brushing at his shirt. "That went well, I think." He said, grinning weakly. "Sorry about the misalignment. The whole point of bungie-jumping is just to get us there." He saluted half-heartedly before taking a step back. "Enjoy yourself, Frank. You'll get directions from Captain Jill to meet up with her once she and her team get here." And with that, Jump disappeared with another loud crack.

The shocked gasp of a driver who saw him crash to the ground. Loud, sharp college rock. A man screaming obscenities at an imagined target (his boss, his wife?). The frantic tip-tip-tip-tap of a stressed driver's fingers on her car's dashboard. Whisper's "mind's ears" forced their way inside each car as it passed, but found nothing of any use for the first minute or so.

"Don't hide from the good guys," said the psychic under his breath. He took a deep swig of the air around him, held his breath, and mashed his fingers deeper into his temples. His display turned up the volume. He seethed as the heartbeats became sledgehammer blows and the chatters became howls.

Vandal stood behind the listening man with her fist curled into a ball and her arm around his shoulder, cheering him on all the while.

"Keep on 'em, Whisp! Just a few more seconds..." said the jabbering speedster. A moment passed. "Just a few more..."

Between the crying child's howl-like cries and inelegant gasps and the earth-shattering thud of a tire going over a bump, Whisper barely even heard his partner speak. Yet he knew she was speaking; unlike Captain Irvine, that woman could never stop herself from meaninglessly interrupting the silence.

The very last suspected car entered the picture, providing Whisper with nothing but normally-spaced, regular breaths and the occasional lip smacking. No music or unusual sounds could be heard, but his ears pricked up at the sound of his nearly-muted cell phone's ringing.

"That them?" asked Vandal. Whisper, unaware that his comrade had spoken, kept listening. Could that be the target? It had to be; there was only one suspect left. And while the call could be anything, it was probably a Namidian threat or the informant himself! Fortunately for the would-be target (and unfortunately for everyone around him whose lives depended on his paying attention), the man answered his phone. The caller was merely his friend, asking him for some money.

"Look, I'm driving, man," said the motorist. And, Whisper thought angrily, that's all he was doing.

"C'mon, Whiz. Is it? We don't got long!" Whisper simply shook his head back and forth, as if shaking off a thought. Vandal radioed the Songbird.

"Bad news boss, they're all clean."

Jill Irvine gripped her console tightly as she responded.

Damn! This has got to be a trap. Keep moving. Reposition yourselves up the highway every thirty seconds and keep your ears open. If we can't get ahead of them, we'll have to meet halfway. Over?"

"On it!" the Ravaging Racer slammed into Whisper from behind and dashed up the road, her feet slicing through the tarmac of the road's shoulder the whole time.

"Hey! I need focus; don't just pick me up like I'm some ragdoll puppet!" said Whisper. Before he finished speaking, he looked out at the cars passing by the exit they were now standing near. All around them, drivers honked their horns and swerved out of their way. Yet the pair, ever the fearless, feckless professionals, simply continued their mission.

"Don't waste time, man." Brash as she was, Whisper knew that Vandal had a point. He listened up and down the road. All clear. Up and down the road near the next exit? Nothing. The next one down? It was the same. Target # 5? No. Where was this car?!

After they were had finished covering over 60 miles of road, Vandal was just about ready to give up hope when Whisper's ears picked up an incredibly high, incredibly soft sound.

"Secret signal? Interesting..." said the psychic. Vandal threw her fists up into the air with delight.

"Yes! We finally--"

Before his associate could finish speaking, Whisper turned the dial on his hidden communicator and pocket confidently delivered the good news to his Commanding Officer.

"Possible target sighed. Moving to intercept."

"Proceed with caution! There's quite a crowd there and we can't have more blood on our hands. Not after Chicago..."

"We're on it, boss. This ain't our first dance!"

Vandal and Whisper followed their objective up the highway, sliding through the path her feet had made on the way down even more easily than they had moved through the tarmac. As they tailed the vehicle, Vandal watched the road ahead of them, waiting and waiting for what seemed like hours (but was really only mere seconds) to find the right instant to cut in front of the car without hurting anyone. 3, 2, 1, now! Vandal ran ahead of it and jumped up hundreds of feet into the air! In an instant, she landed only a few hundred feet in front of the automobile, giving it scant seconds to stop before crashing into the crater her feet made when they hit the ground. And stop it did. The driver just barely managed to stop in time and left his wheels dangling over the crater's edge. Whisper listened to the man inside the car, trying to see if he was loading a gun or preparing a bomb. Since he wasn't, he gave Vandal the signal and the Light-speed Lady began her approach.

Meanwhile, Jill radioed Agent Jackson, who had just arrived in Ohio via agent Jump's teleportation abilities.

"Agent Jackson, we've got a possible situation on I-70, over. First Response Team's got an alleged informant who's on the run from the Wave. Got time to lend a hand?"

Jill never liked relying on Jackson, but, when push came to shove, there was no one better at soaking up damage on the front lines. Not even Knight could match him in that regard. She hoped she wouldn't have to put him back in that role, but she was prepared to do so. The Wave had to be stopped, and everyone, everyone, in the ITSDA knew that pain was a small price to pay for security and freedom.

Ugh, thought Jill. Don't dehumanize him, Jill. He's invincible, but he's not your personal bullet sponge!"

Jill hoped the man would respond soon. She was fairly certain, by now, that her failures and dozens of sleepless nights were driving her to the point of insanity.

Black Magic had been teleporting in a roundabout way, worried that a straight line would be expected and planned against just like with the Hummer. Thus was he present to watch two men come from nowhere, one of which was tossed through the air yet turned his impromptu landing into a controlled and smooth roll that ended his him on his feet. The first fellow was not as graceful, resulting in him dusting himself off while the big and clearly older newcomer picked up a bike that had likewise crashed down hard. In that moment the younger figure said something, then vanished as abruptly as he had appeared. Yet his stay was long enough for Peter to place him; he was one of the Gifted teleporters from Central Park, who had been fighting the woman with a love of weapons and keen disregard for life. The remaining male said something out loud as though speaking to someone not there, pulled out a cell phone which he looked at for several seconds before putting it away, and took off.

It looked to the Magician that these two were on the same side, and the one left behind had been talking on a communicator before looking at a GPS app which would mean he had been ordered go somewhere. Did that mean there were others waiting for him? Other Gifted heroes, like the one whom had brought him here? Maybe it was trouble, and Vargus could lend a hand. Either he would find help, or provide it, yet either was better than hopping around trying not to be found in some place where everyone seemed to want his blood spilled. Having made his decision, Black Magic resumed teleporting while keeping bike and rider in sight.

Dieter left Commander to his work. The man was competent and the aid he ah secured for him was excellent. he knew that Emily and Commander had butt heads in the past and they sort of hated one another, but their skills were compatible on a ridiculous level. If those two could not formulate and execute a plan, then hardly anyone could. Dieter was humble enough to think that their combined strategic skills exceeded his own considerably. On the battle-field they would be scary. Then, giving them the human toolkit and the ultimate weapon were good decisions.

He stood slowly and moved from his office and down a long corridor into the nerve center of his facility. Banks of monitors, computers, switchboards, and other devices lined the walls and filled the room. Five people occupied the room: Loralei and Laura were Spectres or Combat Analysts, Peggy was a liaison, Kevin and Bob were techs. Of course, Captain Greystoke occupied the central position and this was his team normally. "Peggy, Loralei, Laura, Kevin, Bob, enter into Restricted Tactical Mode. This base is locking down. I want it running on minimal powers and with even less comms chatter. Use hardlines and old hacker satellites whenever possible. Contact Gates if you need access anywhere. We have a mission to operate here. Give me a rundown on Ghoul Assets on location." He knew that Squads Annie Lennox, Lemmings, and Bananas were KIA, but Squad Link was still active and he learned that Squad Nookem was on site. That was a limited resource to be used lightly. That was why he had jumped to contract the Redcaps. loons though they were, they were good shocktroops.

All through town though, Schwartze Augen's eyes and ears began to report in. Nothing much at first, but soon news of the arrival of Frank Jackson came in via eyewitness followed soon by a disturbance on I-70 by someone with Speed Manipulation powers. Peggy soon confirmed the identities, stolen from a police officer's dash camera, as known members of ITSDA's First Response team. Dieter clucked hi tongue and grunted.

"shshshkkkCommander, tactical operations are up here. We have confirmed reports of Frank Jackson and the ITSDA First Response team in the area. It doesn't appear they have identified our location yet. Jackson is an extremely dangerous individual with unregistered high regenerative capacity. First Response team's personnel are vague, but what we know is being made available to you. Your mission is still to set up the decoy. I will create some diversions." Again, why he did anything he said he was doing, he left to Commander to assume. The man was brilliant and could figure out why moves were made, thus leaving more time to discuss the following move rather than explain the previous. Dieter radioed out to Vincent.

---

Vincent listened closely to his radio then grunted in acceptance before facing his ragged band of associates. Right, we got orders. Redcap, take your lot to this location near I-70, cause a ruckus, get some attention. Do not stick around for a long fight. Use camera phones to record whatever happens and send the video files to the normal dropboxes. If possible, cause skirmishes at these three locations and act like you are looking for someone named Black Magic. Smith, you are to come with me."

The group nodded and all mounted up. Vincent eyed the madman and his lackeys as they divided into the three vans and set off to the three locations. He unlocked his doors as The Smith got into his rental and left his car behind. "So, we're diversion?" Vincent pressed his lips together, "If there is one thing you learn about Dieter Sievold, he values his assets highly. The Redcaps are diversions. You and I have a job. There is a man we have to see..."

---

At three locations near I-70 in eastern Gaultown, three white vans pulled up and a group of red-headed gangsters rolled out of each. The leader was nowhere to be seen at this point, but the three groups began each picked a building: an apartment building, a suite of offices, and a supermarket. Across town on the police band, news began to spread of the robberies as the criminals were violent and obviously hopped up on something as they were throwing around heavy appliances, tearing doors off cars, and other feats of strength and stamina. Police reports implied they, too, were looking for someone. They were harassing and harming citizens rather callously.

Even as the messages went out on the police band, Dieter had them marked on tactical map. The Redcaps tactics were not standard fare for S.A. and Dieter grimaced as one maniac tore someone's arm off and beat him with it. Nope, not okay but it had to look like something other than Schwartze Augen for this to work. If ITSDA suspected he was here, their view on the fight would shift from tactical to strategic. They knew enough of Dieter to know he was a strategic player.

In another part of town, even as Frank had manged to get two blocks away on his bike when a rental appeared from nowhere. Vincent's hands were gripping the wheel and his forced his jaw to loosen. Beside him, Smith was braced against the dash and giving Vincent a severe look. There abilities allowed them certain attitudes in the punishment they dealt their bodies, but to do so deliberately seemed stupid and it still hurt like mad. Still, the behemoth had been briefed on this Frank Jackson, who was their target, on the short drive here and knew that the stops had to be pulled out. Vincent aimed the car, his the accelerator, and barreled toward the bike from a side street.

The crimson Command APC purred into life and carefully weaved it's way through one of several hanger exits. The Gaultown facility had several discrete points of entry, and the APC chose to emerge in the distant wooded wilderness ringing the suburban town. The 'Leviathan' drone above them would coordinate with the conspicuous vehicles driver to ensure that their path wouldn't take them past any inconvenient bystanders, fortunately the Redcaps distractions and the hundreds of S.A informants made the task laughably simple.

The Armoured car rumbled along with it's cargo of four gifted and five soldiers, and as the driver carefully brought them undetected to their destination The Commander finalised his plans with Dieter.
[Understood. I've read up on Jackson, and if there sending him in it should be safe to assume that they're not planning a quiet investigation mission. That's unfortunate.]
'Unfortunate' had been an understatement, Commander thought. It was a known fact that Jackson had been in Chicago, which meant that the ITDSA were actively pulling agents from other missions to respond to Gaultown- whatever tip that'd alerted them to Dieters location had apparently been taken very seriously.
[Expect your diversion within thirty minutes. Entering radio silence now. Talk to you after we've either won, or once this blows up in our face spectacularly.]

"Talk to me, 'Nigma. Who's on the menu?"
The Commander glared down the van, since her first set of orders Emily Nigma hadn't stopped tapping through S.A's files for so much as a second.
"There are over two dozen possible agents we might run into, assuming that the ITDSA haven't added any rookies to their known response teams..."
The Information Analyst looked over her files and whittled down her information to the barest essentials. Even S.A's meticulous bookkeeping and her own genius could only extrapolate so much from the information that was available.
"We're likely to run into Thunderclap; We expected her to show her face in Chigago, but it seems she didn't make it in time- our latest intelligence also suggests that she isn't in NewYork." E.Nigma scratched her head frustratedly. "...Still, there's every chance that she might be responding to some other emergency, or that our Intel is off. I can't suggest more than a 20% chance that she'll be here tonight."
Commander knit his eyebrows together in an irritated gesture.
"I can't act on a 20% chance. If we knew we were going to face Thunderclap it'd be worth building some countermeasures- but jumping to conclusions is not a winning strategy."
Emily grunted something unintelligible, which could have either been agreement or indifference.
"If they're planning a raid, the ITDSA usually fields teams of three to ten Gifted." -'Nigma handed her tablet to the Commander- "I've compiled a list of the top twenty agents they're likely to send out: Knight, Protean, Glitch, Euclid, Vandal, Artificer... the usual suspects are all there. I recommend reading up on all of them."
Commander looked over the information as bid, and his face set into a hard flat scowl as he read each agents list of abilities. He considered how each of them could disrupt his plans, and how they might work together. By the time he'd finished his research he'd come to the solid conclusion that the best way for him to win this engagement was not to get involved in a fight at all. Stealth, speed and guile would be their most reliable weapons.

---

With a sudden jerk the APC stopped dead as the driver keyed off the engine and shut down the vehicles electronics. They'd parked under a dense outcrop of foliage where they could stay hidden from prying eyes as they made their final preparations. The disembarkation ramp smashed into the forested ground and the vehicles occupants left to gear up and receive orders.

"From now on I want absolute radio silence; if the APC and Away teams need to communicate do so only through indirect channels, such as the 'scrapped' communication tablet. If the away team needs to communicate only do so vocally, or with hand signals. If either team uses direct radio both teams should assume that the plan has failed. If either team uses the phrase 'Stage two' in any kind of communication it should be interpreted as 'I have been captured, and am speaking under duress'. If you ever suspect that one of your teamamates is not who they appear to be demand a codephrase, which is 'Feliz Navidad'. Following these rules is our first line of defence against techopaths, telepaths and shapeshifters- so don't forget them!"
Drafting plans against Gifted was always a headache, which was why Commander tried to have as little to do with them as possible. Even the precautions he'd put into place wouldn't be 100% airtight, but it was significantly better than nothing.
He pointed to Huxley, the driver and his own three men, and grouped them with a broad swirl of his fingertip.
"You five are 'Team APC', you will guard the vehicle and set up a scouting perimeter. You cannot use any engines, electronics or lights that may give away your position- but at the same time you may be relied upon to act as a getaway vehicle at an instants notice- so you'll need to keep yourself highly strung. If you're discovered the mission is considered a failure."
He turned to the others; Orwell and the three Namidians.
"We are 'Away team'. We will be making our way to the government Gaultown facility under the cover of modified banshee cloaks. To prevent any chance of detection we will be making the last eight minutes of our journey on foot. 'Nigma has deduced that the nearby entrance to the facility was compromised after one of their recent prisoners managed to escape- and is therefore vulnerable. We will enter the facility, hack their communication systems to send out a series of incriminating messages, and leave Orwell behind as a plant to ensure that the ITDSA and Jailers get their claws into one another."
Commander turned to address Orwell directly.
"As you lack a Gift, the odds are that the ITDSA won't have any records affiliating you with Namidias, and even if they successfully storm the facility they won't know you by looks alone- unless they brought an agent with Eidetic Memory who you've met before, in which case stay discrete. We will provide a false identity as one of the facilities guards at the same time as we hack their communications- it's certain that they'll have hired more guards since the last prisoner escaped, so blending among the actual staff shouldn't be an issue. You will be extracted at a separate time once the heat has died down, after a few days."
Commander locked stern eyes of each of the men and women arrayed infront of him. The mission had been planned to the minutest detail, but with so many variables at play and absolutely no room for error he had to be sure that everyone was unwaveringly confident in their roles- and the defiant glares he received in reply convinced him that they were.
"Right! Suit up, lock and load. We move out immediately."

The APC team checked their weapons and magazines with a series of efficiently drilled actions that were practically second nature to the career criminals, the driver fussed around his vehicle and disabled any remaining electronic systems before dragging a portable fire extinguisher out of storage and huffing freezing nitrogen over the vans exhaust and engine block, the precaution would render the getaway vehicle invisible to anything short of the most sensitive EMP and heat detection systems. By the time he finished the other soldiers had blended into concealed sniper positions.
The 'Away team' had donned their camouflaging cloaks (or in Destroyers case had absorbed the technology into her skin) and had quietly begun their long trek to the mysterious government base which they knew practically nothing about, save that everyone associated with it was about to have an unbelievably crappy day.

---

Half a mile out from the concealed Armoured Car the undeveloped land surrounding Gaultown was broken by a squat rectangle of concrete protruding from the ground. An uncritical eye might suspect that it was a utility building; perhaps an electrical relay for the nearby town. A more suspicious observer, however, might ask why an isolated and deliberately drab-looking building would need to be ringed with an excess of security cameras and three-inch thick blastproof doors.
Five nearly invisible blurs of motion crept toward the building and flattened themselves against it's grey walls. Seconds later a powerbox on the buildings exterior hissed and spat a volley of sparks, the reinforced blast door slid halfway open, and then inched shut again. There was no further commotion.

Minutes later something shifted subtly in the airwaves around the town.
Like all suburban villages Gaultown produced it's fair share lot of electronic noise, and both the Government experimentation laboratory and Dieters concealed Headquarters depended on regular communication channels to a small extent. Although they might employ more secure systems for exchanging sensitive information they could still opt to use the same internet hubs, phonelines and radio wavelengths that the rest of the world depended upon. Without warning several misplaced communications would begin to slip from the Gifted Testing facility and were rerouted through these unsecured channels- emails detailing immoral experiments and forced lobotomies against underaged children, notes on a hidden subterranean prison, and many references to the experiments the facility had performed on Gifted individuals.
The initial plan had been to fabricate incriminating evidence and use that as bait to close their trap, but a short hack through the Jailers records provided all damning documents the four Namidians could ever need.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:44, Mon 31 Aug 2015.

Vince had the bike in his crosshairs; it looked like the rider would be road pizza in a mere few seconds more. Then, without warning, the old machine shot ahead quickly and allowed the rental to rumble through the now empty space left behind. The figure astride the beast locked his brakes resulting in a slide of the back wheel which left the man turned in a 180. Before the motorcycle even came to a complete rest, one hand had pulled a gun from a hip holster and with an aim that was so practiced it was almost instinctual, an explosive round was sent toward the enemy vehicle.

Frank could not help grinning to himself; he had been fighting bad guys for well over half a century, and yet time and again he was viewed as an easy mark. He had noticed the rental easily, without needing to make it known, and the driver had obviously not taken into account Jackson had been traveling the legal speed limit as opposed to the Chief's top as well as the lighter weight of the smaller machine and the pickup it possessed. This was possible hostile territory, he had been alert and ready for a surprise or something out of the norm; this was by far not his first trip behind enemy lines. Now instead of prey he was predatory, unleashing as many explosive rounds as he could manage at his target before those inside could reach. Those who now challenged him were not facing a Gifted; they were up against Frank Jackson, and no matter what else may come of this day he would make sure they never forgot that truth.

((I'm fully willing to retcon if this grinds against anything you feel I've taken too much liberty with, so don't hesitate to let me know...I hope this injects some drama. ^_^))

Brian was thinking thoughts of traffic analysis of his own when a quick movement in the corner of his eye abruptly derailed all that. A gifted...and a woman, was running after ol'betsy the RV and his work vehicle, affectionately nicknamed, "the dog". Almost dispassionately he watched, pure analysis switching gears. She was ugly shaped, hunchbacked, no...it was a person she was carrying. Suddenly alarm bells began to go off as the static sensors sent blips to his hud that told him whether or not someone was breaking into the RV, but he quickly understood, his sensors were being bugged by the kinetic power of the woman running behind him. Fast wouldn't begin to describe her. The one along for the ride was fixated on the vehicle. Suddenly they flashed around the RV and truck and pounced high into the air before slamming down ahead of him...

Meta's eyes went wide as he watched the female agent crater before his RV and Truck.

He slammed on the brakes, even as he considered pushing the gas pedal and thought better of it. The truck screeched, sliding over the pavement with eleven hundred pounds of RV behind it. The agent was actually lucky, Brian observed as the agent held out a hand as if to ward him, that the truck's brakes were good enough to stop that fast at seventy miles an hour.

For a second Brian just looked at the agent dumbly, unsure of what the man was doing. He snapped back into his head a second later. His brain went to work. Obviously ITSDA. His HUD captured his image and began correlating. The second agent behind the man, suddenly burst through the door of the vehicle, the piece went flying. "Gotcha," she said and he was out of his belt and suddenly airborne as he was thrust to his knees before Whisper. Brian only had time to puzzle her congenial attitude as he was whipped out of his seat unceremoniously.

"Securing asset Boss," the man said into his subvoc before turning back to Brian who stared up at the man with pursed lips. "We've been looking for you. We got a tip that you would be here..."

Brian's brain dissected the statement, are these ITSDA working for the Schwartze? He brought himself to his feet and realized tangentially that state police were fencing the scene in down the roadway in what might be described as the fastest scramble ever achieved by the Ohio State Police and he suspected a similar roadblock being developed behind them. He looked the man squarely in the face and then cocked his head to the side, his HUD silently alerting him to a returned ID, "Agent Whisper right? ...and you're called Vandal? Yeah? Wha..."

The man's face blanked for a split second, the directness disarmed him and he interupted, "Who are you?...No, you need to come with us, we've got to get you airborne and into protective custody."

Brian nodded, they didn't know who he was, good, his face wouldn't show up on any tracking system for law enforcement anyway but confirmation was always nice. He had an upper hand here. It had to be Johnny's help at work here, good job buddy, he thought. Meta flicked some mental switches and he was into the local net created by their radios, a program similar to Gorbechev, but nicer and cleaner. "I'm called Meta, and I've got some interesting info I'm sure you'd like to have Jill," he radioed knowing she would be in on this conversation and breaking in easily. ITSDA, predictable and methodical, the chain of command, resilient, it was one of their strengths and weaknesses.

The pair of gifted agents drew weapons on him immediately. "No, wait," Jill crackled back a response, "you aren't attacking us are you Mr.Meta because that would be rather bad form..."

"No, I'm not attacking," Brian said flatly, impatiently, "I'm going to tell you where the Schwartze Augen are based..."

Brian tapped his computer's artificial memories, off-loaded from his own mind and filed away on Ol'Betsy the RV's server. Now however he organized and packaged the data, sending it to Jill's computers directly via their radio network. Her screens flashed with security data pulled from the communications systems, security apparatus schematics, everything that good old Gorbachev had gleaned. It had been a substantial amount of useful information: all of their digital sensor capabilities, the protocols of their comm gear, basic capabilities of their equipment that was tied to their networks...the list went on. Finally, Gaultown, the location of this secretive town, masquerading within plain sight, only pretending to be a sleepy suburban township. Lastly, the image of a young man clambering through the tunnels of the mysterious bunker complex...

"I need diplomatic immunity Jill, I need protection and I need someone to get me outta here while you all deal with that...whaddya say?"
This message was last edited by the player at 10:16, Tue 01 Sept 2015.

Moments later, Jill responded rather curtly.

"Can do. Preparing emergency recovery. V, can you handle the weight?"

"No problem! I got a new trick - don't tell me you haven't heard about it," said Vandal, wrapping her arms around both Whisper and Brian. Brian noticed exasperation on Whisper's face; what was he worried about? What kind of trick was this?

"Sorry,  it's been a killer week. Proceed with the mission, Agent."

At that, the speedster, carrying both her fellow agent and Meta, ran across the road, somersaulted over the guard rail, dashed up a hill at a rate of over 70 mph, and finally jumped up into the air. Like a bullet, her body made an insanely loud crack as it "fired" itself up toward the sky. Brian felt a tsunami of freezing air push his ribs back into his lungs and fling his limbs far back behind him. In moments, the air began to roast around them, and Meta felt like he was re-entering the atmosphere!

"Shield yourself!" shouted Whisper as he forced his windswept arms in front of his body in a "X" shape. Meta, barely conscious after his first experience with unprotected flight, managed to follow the agent's example.

"Hang on, boys!" screamed Vandal as her arms shook and buckled under the weight of the two fully grown men. Suddenly, she let go of both of them, letting them fall for nearly a quarter of a second. Then she thrust her palm into Whisper's back with just enough carefully-focused force to toss him back up in front of her. Finally, she grabbed Brian from behind, regaining a solid grip on the no doubt terrified man. Once more she repeated her process, then she reversed it, gingerly tossing Brian around (meaning that her fingers only felt like daggers in the man's back) as she pulled Whisper in. After a couple cycles of this, the Songbird came in to view. Brian's mouth let out an echoing scream as his warp-speed computer displayed the angle of the jump and the plane's relative speed; they were going to miss!

"V, you're off target! Adjust your angle, now!" were the words that came out of Thunderclap's mouth. The words that came out of Vandal's comm sounded more like "Voff-ust-ow!" Still, the rabid racer must have understood them! She turned her body on its side and threw her legs back with immeasurable force, rocketing the trio forward as if she had just kicked off the side of an invisible wall. As they all approached the back of the ship, it's cargo door slowly, slowly crept open. This gave Vandal just enough time to slam dunk her compatriots into the Songbird as she sailed under it.

As he hit the plane's interior knees first, Brian's heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings and his vision was blurred by blood. But, from what he could see, the woman was gone! No, where did she go?! Had she stupidly sacrificed her life for his, just because she missed a jump? Surely, there was a better way. Indeed, there were over 40 ways she could have decelerated and attempted the jump again. And that's not even mentioning the infinitely more conventional methods of extraction they could have used!

A long-haired, heavily wrinkled man in a bomber jacket picked Brian up off of the floor and dusted off his back.

"Knees first, no badly broken limbs. For your first landing, that was impressive. I wish mine was that clean," said the man, wearing a muted, yet unmistakably jovial smile. "Then again, those who travel first travel hardest."

"Glitch, give him some space. He's not ready to talk," said a giant of a 20-something, heavily-tanned young man. The giant knelt down beside Meta, put one arm on his shoulder, and took a loud breath.

"Breathe deeply, sir. We're here to help. That won't happen again." Truthfully, Meta wasn't stunned by the trip; he was worried about Vandal and overwhelmed by the data flashing across his HUD. Knight, the man before him, had once saved 20,000 lives by entombing a nuclear-powered Gift in a massive dome of shields. And the old man, Glitch, was the first man to defeat one of Namidias' key lieutenants!

Their powers, accomplishments, and combat statistics crawled down the screen of his glasses. The ITSDA had sent some major players after him; he knew he told them the Wave was after him, but this seemed like overkill. In fact, it seemed like it could be a strategic mistake... unless they were anticipating something bigger than a simple rescue operation.

Whisper stood up and grasped his stomach while Meta mentally unraveled the truth of his, and their, situation.

"You could help me up, too, partner," said Whisper sarcastically.

"Of course, my friend. I apologize."

"Enough talk," said Thunderclap, finally getting up out of her seat and taking a look at her new contact. "There's no time," she said, pointing her finger and swinging her whole body at a map that indicated a massive amount of movement and activity in a region just off of I-70. "They're not after you, why? What have you learned about the Wave? Is this a diversion? Answer me! Or by order of the International--"

Meta's periphery vision caught the cargo bay door opening ever so slightly.

"Tactical--"

The man jerked his head back just in time to witness Vandal literally diving back into the Songbird and rolling forward until she landed on her feet. The young daredevil started to take a bow, noticed Jill's demeanor, and immediately saluted her superior.

"--Superhuman Defense Agency, I will place you under arrest. Do you understand, citizen?"  Brian didn't need his HUD to tell him that her words weren't full of malice, but fear. He considered his options carefully before deciding on his next move...
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:11, Fri 04 Sept 2015.

Dieter was filtering incoming data as fast as he could. The staff in the situation room were rattling off messages and citing information and compiling footage then shuffling it across his "desk." Of course, his desk was the touch screen monitor in front of him about 30" across set up like the surface of his desk. His hand rested on one side and his perceptions were slowed considerably, allowing him to operate nearly as fast as the massive amount f memory allowed the computer to operate. The screen was almost unreadable as it blurred between various files on things only standing still in corners where short, VINE length, videos played. Longer videos were untenable in this mode.

Frank Jackson had been encountered by Vincent Lee and The Smith. The pair were moving to engage. Noted and filed away as a pending matter. Dieter read reports of a strange occurrence on I-70. The team had compiled several reports on the event and he watched a few short videos taken from cellphones, dash cams, and hacked GPS units. He read the report that confirmed the two individuals as Whisper and Vandal. Vandal was going to be a problem, Whisper wasn't much better. He groaned but forwarded the information to Commander's team via the secured "scrap" tablet.

He considered what possible resources to assign to the Response Team, especially as the reports indicated they had secured some person. It wasn't a half naked magician, so it must be the hacker. That was bad news; that man might blow the base's cover. He shot a short message to Commander about that situations, Commander, a serious potential leak in information exists. I am sending you relatively, though not exactly, accurate details on location of the ITSDA response team."

Dieter's assets were stretched thin right now but he needed to address that situation. Denying them access to the hacker was unlikely, and destroying the carrier seemed equally unlikely, but recovering the hacker would be useful. He considered the situation briefly but then shrugged, he needed to stick to his guns. Decoy base, apply pressure, don't allow for coordinated of planned actions for ITSDA. Commander, I need pressure applied to the response team, they need a target soon. ETA on base assault?

---

Non-Canon Battle Post

First, Vincent sighed heavily as he saw the motorcycle sprint out of the way and he jerked the wheel to move into pursuit, then he saw the handcannon and groaned because what came next was going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. This wasn't some fucking movie after all and cars don't actually explode. Gasoline didn't work like that most of the time. It might have been different if the vehicle was diesel, but it was just a regular sedan. So, as the round impacted and began to destroy the engine, all that occured at first was the vehicle went wildly out of control. It rolled and the maniacal immortal continued to plug it with rounds causing the vehicle to do its best impersonation of a string of firecrackers as it plowed into a brick wall and crumpled like a tin can.

The vehicle rocked as a few more rounds impacted and erupted before Frank emptied the clip and stood watching the vehicle burn merrily. The old veteran smiled confidently. Overkill was a term for rookies, veterans knew there as no such things. You shot until the fucker was dead, and that was exactly how much you should have shot him. Still, his veteran instincts also had him reaching to reload instantly and automatically. He was just grabbing the ammo when the vehicle creaked and groaned. "The fuck you say...?"

Suddenly the door of car flew off and Frank was forced to roll for cover as it slammed into his bike. The veteran stared at his machine as it took a beating but saw that it was in one piece if a bit dented and scratched and glared at the mountain of a man who climbed from the car. The man eyed Frank for several long seconds then reached into the back of the car and pulled out a 50lb sledgehamer and swung it like a wood bat. The man had a few burns and cuts running over his hide but not nearly enough to believe he had just been in a serious accident. he ran a massive hand over his sleek silver hair and spat blood on the ground, "Been a while since I tasted my own blood. Fuck if that didn't actually hurt, old man. Let me return the favor, kay?"

Suddenly the guy was running... fast. Frank noted that when the man kicked off, the pavement cracked with the power of the man's step. It was a fact that Gifted with inhuman strength tended to have rather nasty sprinting speeds. Frank was fast and strong, but only as much as he was able to push his body beyond human limits but not beyond human strength. He threw up his hands to block the attack he could not dodge.

A massive, steel-toe booted kick sank into his forearms where he crossed them in front of his face. He felt his arms snap like twigs at the impact and lost his breath as he flew into the artificial paneling of the house behind him, through the wall, and landed on some family's abandoned dinner table. It had been spaghetti night. He idly slurped a noddle off his face and grunted as he felt his arms set themselves. His fingers twitched as he recognized he had lost his sidearm and he noted that the familiar weight of his second weapon was missing. It must have went flying during his last trip. He was just glancing around for the weapons when a creak registered on his ear. Only his decades of training and experience made him roll when he heard the slightest squeak of the floor. A massive hammer sank into the spot his head had been.

His instincts betrayed him then. It was an old trick to roll back and use the body's weight to disarm the opponent. Easy, Frank had done it hundreds of times. The hammer would be trapped under him, the opponent weaponless, and he could launch any number of attacks from the position, yeah? The man above him blinked and grinned as his Gifted strength meant his grip on his weapon was not shattered. Frank's considerable weight was nothing to the Smith's strengths. Before Frank could launch his attack, then man simply used the hammer as a lever to send Frank flying again. He crashed through another wall.

As Frank rolled along the family's back yard, he noted a 3' piece of glass lodged in his thigh from the window he had just crashed through. He was focused on it for a second then the wind left him as he crashed into some poor kids swingset. The structure remained standing but his weight bent the cheap metal support pole badly. He grunted as several ribs broke. Each blow this man dealt was like being hit by a mac truck. Frank oughta know, he;d been hit by several in his lifetime. Still, within seconds his body was doing its thing and he gripped the grass to haul himself up even as the backdoor exploded and the mountain stepped out swinging his hammer casually, "They said you were tough, old man. No kidding. Most men would be dead by now. I do not know if this is a good thing or a bad thing for you." The man cracked his neck and lowered his frame like a spring coiling. Frank knew another mad sprint was coming and he threw himself to the side. Super strong opponents might have a deadly sprint but it was usually straight line movement. Behind him, he heard the swing set squeal as it was demolished by the attack and spun to launch himself at the man.

Smith was just trying to wrestle his hammer from a knot of piping when Frank connected and wrenched to the side. If it had been a matter of brute strengths, Frank would be sorely outmatched. But, it was a matter of leverage and Frank used it to spike the hammer wielding maniac onto a corner of the kid's sandbox head first. Frank was atop the man and pounding the head into the wooden corner like a madman until the wood splintered and he was pounding the head against Cold dirt. Again his experience said the man's head should turn to mush. Instead, the head stopped mid strike. The man was staring at him with cold blue eyes. "Good show old man, but even if you are able to make that body do all that a human physiology is capable of... I am stronger than any human body is capable of." Then man's hand came up and grasped for Frank's wrists, but the wily Veteran sprang back, grasped the man's hammer lying on the ground now, and swung the maul. He connected to the man's ribs and felt them give just a little. The Smith glared and reached for his hammer, but Frank spun away and brought it around again to smash the man's knee. The man buckled and grunted but the knee did not give the satisfying crunch it should have. Frank didn't stop as he kept going, spinning, hauling back, swinging, and connecting. It was the first time Frank had fought someone who acted just like him. The mad Smith didn't even try to doge the blows but just kept trying to grasped the hammer, Frank, or stand. Frank's wounds healed rapidly but this man seemed immune to damage. Where gaping holes in his skin should have been were just bruises, joints that should have broken were a bit wobbly at best, ribs that should have been shards were cracked and the villain kept coming. Was this what others had felt like fighting him? It was infuriating; but Frank was a veteran of countless battle. he was War incarnate an.d kept calm as he brought the hammer around at the man's head. The blow connected and the man's eyes crossed, his form wobbled, and his considerable size sank just a few inches toward the earth. Then, the eyes snapped to focus and a hand shot up to grip Frank's wrist, snap it casually, then swing Frank toward the house again.

He was in that strange slo-mo time again as he sailed through the kitchen wall, collected a few more splinters of wood and glass in his form, sailed miraculously through the kitchen door while only catching and breaking one ankle on the door frame, noted a rather comfy looking lay-z-boy chair and nice couch as he fly over them, and even had time to spy his weapon in the folds of the couch before crunching into the family's TV. Frank had precious second to catalog his various rapidly healing injuries again and wondered when the last time he had taken so much hurt was. He lurched forward and fell out of the TV onto a rather nice throw rug and then crawled toward the gun. he fell back against it had time to put just a single round into the chamber before he heard the floors in the kitchen creak. He stood, swung around, took the long slow breath necessary to aim his pain wracked form and pulled the trigger. The man went flying as he doubled over the round exploding in his abdomen.

Frank sighed heavily and slowly limped after the man, reloading the gun as he went. He climbed out the wall, walked to where the man was groaning and trying to stand. Even his superior stamina had problems with an explosive round of this caliber. Frank noted the man's form was only badly wounded instead of human spaghetti though. He smiled as he noted he had finally put a good sized hole in the man's hide as he leveled his weapon at the head of the struggling villain and grinned, "Even a tough summabitch like you's gunna die with no head..."

"I really wish the same was true of you, but our files say otherwise, Mr. Jackson." Frank had a split second to look to the side before the man's 9mm glock emptied a clip into his own brain.

Vincent, for his part, had just been through his own hell. Trapped in a gordian knot of a car wreck, Vincent had spent the last several seconds breaking his own bones and tearing his own flesh to get out of the vehicle. The sounds of the fight were obvious and he had watched Frank sail out of and then back into the house as his own form slowly regenerated. No "stuck in time" bonus for Vincent though and an incredible amount of pain and his flesh and bones re-knit themselves before he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out his weapon. He then limped into the backyard even as the man was saying his last, walked calmly up to the man, and watched a man's brains turn to grey and red mist. He then looked at The Smith and raised an eyebrow as he reloaded the weapon, "Are you still an asset or a liability, Mr. Smith?" A lifetime of Triad contracts had made for plenty of his own experiences and hardening trials.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:23, Tue 08 Sept 2015.

In reply to Scripts (msg # 75):

Brian slowly and cautiously gestured to a terminal within the plane's bay. The high tech VTOL craft was a veritable wonderland for his analytical mind, but he ignored his curiosity and brought his focus to bear upon the situation at hand. His super human intellect worked actively and arranged a presentation in mere seconds, a step-by-step account of his time in Gaultown. He flicked a mental switch to send the presentation wirelessly to the screen there.

He walked the assembled team through what he'd been through, careful to leave his 'friend' Johnny as a disembodied informant only. He didn't care to let anyone in on his friend just yet, he had after all, spent years evading the ITSDA because of all the things they would be able to do with his tech. He had done his homework and while he didn't disagree with the goals of the organization, he wasn't sure that it was all that different than the DoD, which really meant he was in hot water currently and would protect Johnny with his life if need be, because he knew in his heart of hearts, that his friend was as alive as any human could be, which he was pretty certain was simply a protein based machine, a clever one, but just as valuable as his friend in every way.

When he had finished he showed them the specs he had gleaned. It wasn't much, it was an outline of security protocols, equipment and sensor information. It was however, with his supplementary analysis, able to paint a very grim picture. The Schwartze Augen was alive and well, and operating on American soil, this was the conclusion he had come up with and likely many had just returned from Chicago...

"I don't know for sure if I've been followed, but I'm in danger, that much is certain and if they live up to their reputation, they will have a tail on me, if not monitoring your movements..." Brian said at last.

He continued by telling them something credible about himself to show them that he wasn't a trap at all but rather that he needed them, "my call sign is Meta, and I can't really tell you that much about me, except that I'm a really good hacker. Firms I've worked for hold eighty-three patents that I've developed. I'm Gifted," he said, emphasizing the G, "and I will develop tech for you, if you in turn give me protection and immunity short term, but I want autonomy long term. I understand that I occupy a morally grey niche in society, but I promise you Jill, I don't hurt people and I won't hurt your teams."

Destroyer blinked her eyes, all fifty six of them. Fifty four of the nearest  security cameras scattered throughout the government facility flickered their feeds for a brief instant.
Camera '0074' watched impassively as a uniformed guard stood up from his post, scratched himself inappropriately, and walked off to take a piss.

"Is clear."

With a disturbing sound of tearing flesh Destroyer tore her face out from a jumble of network cables, strands of nerves and synapses unknit themselves from the tangle of wires. As The Commander replaced the panel of wall that'd she'd forced open Destroyers face reformed back into her usual bizarre leer.

The five Namidians had infiltrated deep into the heart of the enemy base. With their combined abilities, the Intel that S.A had gleaned from the recent escapee, and the element of surprise, infiltrating the hidden research facility had been surprisingly straightforward. Even with his own highly trained stealth teams Commander couldn't have expected the mission to have gone as well as the ragtag group of conflicting Supervillans had managed, and he began to understand why Dieter surrounded himself with so many gifted Lieutenants- despite the liability they represented their efficiency was beyond question.

"Great!" The cloaked figure of Scrap pounded a fist into his palm. "Invisibility cloaks or not, we're out in the open here. Let's get moving!"

Before the inventor could move another cloaked figure reached out, as 'Nigmas hand grabbed Scraps shoulder it left her own cloak and became briefly unblurred.
"Not yet. A gaurd patrol's due to pass by... this way."
The blur released Scraps shoulder and darted down a section of corridor away from their destination and into a quiet side corridor, the other concealed figures followed immediately behind her. Moments later a trio of armed men walked past them and through the spot where they'd been standing. The five stealthy figures followed behind them in synchronised step, only to stop and leave them behind as the group came to the unguarded door Destroyer had been stalking.

"The door still needs the guards keycard. Anyone feel creative?"
This time Commander spoke. Another great thing about working with gifted was not needing to plan around every minor detail; with his own teams he'd need to make plans to counterfeit his own keycard before getting this far, but with Destroyers technosympathy and 'Nigma's peerless hacking skills such things hardly even registered as an issue.

"Allow me. I've been itching to use this one for a while."
Scrap spoke out again, and a pair of arms uncovered themselves from his cloak to open a wallet, inside was a number of loose gizmo's, credit cards and keys. He produced a blank rectangle of plastic with a standard magnetic stripe down one side and jammed it into the keycards feed. The door duly buzzed open.
"Magnetic skeleton key!" Scraps enthused. "Works on any hotel room, office building or parking lot. Personal favourite."

They passed through to their destination; the facilities armoury. From here they'd be able to provide Orwell with his new identity and access any number of the bases electronic systems.
Best of all, their involvement would be completely undetectable. So long as the plan held.

---

The Commander paced among the armoury racks as the others worked. Orwell was getting suited up for his big role, 'Nigma and Destroyer were hacking the facilities records to include him as an active staff member, and Scraps was fidgeting with yet another gadget... the man was always fidgeting with something.
For his own part Brett was thinking over the troubling message that'd just been passed through his secured tablet.

"...Serious intel leak. Vandal and Whisper confirmed. Action required..." He muttered to himself, as he scrutinized a rack of carbine rifles distractedly.

His fellow lieutenants rarely used the word 'serious' lightly, Dieter least of all. If the escaped hacker had been intercepted by the ITDSA then all of 'Away team's efforts to put the heat on the second hidden base might prove to be futile. The development was a whole knot of loose ends. From his position, however, Commander couldn't help change that- his only hope was to perform his part of mission as smoothly and seamlessly as possible, and hope that'd be enough.

Learning that Vandal was on the field was a headache. The young woman was dangerous, and would make any attempt at combat or an escape extremely difficult.
More problematic, however, was Whisper: The man ranked very lowly as a direct threat, but his Gift was uniquely suited to uncovering and dismantling the shroud of confusion that Commander was poised throw over the battlefield. Something would certainly have to be done about that.

He tapped out a brief response and fired it off.
[Base INFILTRATION is complete. Could neutralize base by force in aprox six minutes, if required.]
Commander made sure to stress that he hadn't assaulted the base directly. For one thing breaking into the base guns-blazing would have nullified the deception that he was trying to create. For another thing, it would have also been a hell of a lot easier.
[For plan to work ITDSA and Base must come to blows without obvious intervention. Uncertain ETA. Take risk and force conflict y/n?]

With a conflicted sigh Brett pocketed the tablet and picked a rifle off the rack. He shouldered it and looked down it's sights as he made his final decisions about how he should proceed.
Weapons always inspired him: They were singular and wholly functional in purpose, like he'd need to be if he wanted to succeed.
Weapons didn't care about risk, or ideals or even their purpose: They existed to fire lead downrange as quickly and accurately as possible, that was all and that was enough.
He made his choice and reracked the weapon.
"Destroyer! Can you patch my phone into the Goons tactical net? I need to send out some instructions. Scrap! I need a voice modulator whipped up. 'Nigma, I need personnel records."
Waiting around for the forces of justice to bump into one another wasn't going to work fast enough; It was time to play puppetmaster.

---

"Sergeant Marcus, there's been an altercation up on the surface- take your usual team and scout it out. If it could draw attention to us end it quietly." A clearly enunciated and efficient voice spoke through the G-mens tactical radio.

The demand was answered by a heavyset man with a no-nonsense glare. He was every inch the soldier, from his worn but polished combat boots to his regulation length crew-cut.
"Affirmative. Marcus out."
Marcus twisted a dial on his headsets ear and set it from receive to transmit, and he sent a broadwave message that resonated throughout the entire compound.
"Charlie division! Form up at the garage for inspection. We have a mission."

Minutes later Marcus was stomping his way back and fourth in front of his men, each was standing rigid at attention awaiting their orders. 'The Facility' was defended by a battleforce of ex-military and ex-law-enforcement mercenaries, each wore the same flecktarn camouflaged grey and black uniform and wielded a modern UMP machine pistol that had a reliable tradeoff between accuracy, stopping power and portability.
As Marcus passed the line he scrutinized the gear and appearance of each of his men, as usual they all satisfied him but the last face in line gave him pause.
"Private, you're not one of my men! What are you doing here?!"
"Sir!" The interloper responded in an automatic shout. "Private Gibson reporting for duty! -Recently transferred!" Orwell lied easily.
Marcus looked over 'Gibson' sceptically. It was certainly true that the Facility had taken on a lot of new staff owing to recent... events... which would explain why he hadn't been warned that he'd have to take on a rookie, on the other hand 'Gibson' was the least rookiest person he thought he'd ever met: Six and a half feet tall, sporting lumberjacks beard and absolutely slathered in functional muscle the man looked more like a hardboiled PMC, or a convict, rather than the bootcamp dropouts he usually had to deal with.
"Welcome to Charlie, Private. Don't fuck up first day on the job." Marcus replied cautiously, before turning to address his unit as a whole. "Get in the transports! We're moving out immediately- I'll brief you on the way."

As his men turned to break formation and began piling into the three transport humvees that'd carry them to the source of the alarm Marcus took a small PDA out from under his bulletproof vest and quickly checked 'Gibson's credentials.
Sure enough, the man was assigned to his squad and the records on the Facilities database correlated with what the man had said; Although something still felt off about the man Marcus couldn't find the justification to doubt his story any further than he already had.
-Besides-
He had his mission, and didn't have the time or inclination to second guess orders.

---

Minutes later three Jeeps of obvious military design roared their way down the I-70. Normally care would be taken to keep the vehicles discreet but Charlie's mission coordinator had been insistent, nay, adamant, that the Squad waste no time and that they should take the fastest route.

As the Jeeps rounded on the provided co-ordinates they found no trace of their (as of yet undescribed) targets, however they did find an abandoned Recreational Veichle. Tire burns indicated that it'd stopped in a hurry but it's occupants were nowhere to be seen.

"Marcus, checking in. We've found a suspicious vehicle at the site, but there's no sign of anything else out of the ordinary." Marcus paused as the wind carried the distant sound of gunfire from Gaultown. "-it sounds like there's a battle going on in town, Sir! Permission to investigate?"

"Permission denied, Charlie. Force entry into the vehicle and determine it's origin and purpose." The teams radio rebuked firmly before clicking silent.

Marcus sighed with restrained frustration, but orders were orders. He shouldered his weapon and put a bullet through the RV's exterior lock.
"BREACH!"
This message was last edited by the player at 20:48, Tue 08 Sept 2015.

The first round impacted the sedan, causing a shudder that had not yet passed when the second bullet flew home. The windows along that side shattered completely, while the back and windshields were lanced with jagged cracks from the force of the attack. The rental swerved wildly, in part from being shoved one way by the explosions and also the driver overcompensating; yet the assault continued. Paint burned off, rubber shredded and melted, metal crumpled until there was only one solid lump were lines defining doors used to be. The half mutilated car went fully out of control as the driver forfeited from a losing battle, the half dead beast bumping up a sidewalk and crashing into a telephone pole before echoing it's death rattle of a blaring horn. Only smoke came from a barrel now instead of more fatal flashes; the pin clicked on an empty chamber.

There was no explosion, but then Frank never expected one; electric cars had grown in popularity to the extent now he had trouble once in a while buying his girl a tank of gas. But considering he and she were in one piece and the sedan a sad impression of a car, he'd have to say American Steel one, imported tin goose egg. While entertained by this thought, he never took his experienced eyes from the wreck; he was here on a tip the Wave was in the area, and sending a car to crush him in a lame reenactment of a worn out action movie plot device would just be their way to say hello. He had taken out one of their top Agents, and eliminated a number of their high tech foot soldiers in less time than it took to get a pizza delivered; he was pretty sure they would throw more at him than a simple hit and run. There was the sudden and piercing sound of metal being torn, a definitive and irrefutable answer that proved his suspicion to be correct.

The passenger side of the car peeled outward as though giving to some incredible force, and a very large man stepped out as he wiped one wrist against the blood that trickled from a corner of his snarling lips. He reached back inside his former coffin with his free hand, pulling forth a sledge that at a guess weighted at least fifty pounds despite the fact its owner swung it loosely like a hollow aluminum bat.

"You made me bleed, you drive that museum reject like you got motor oil in your veins, and you've got a big ass gun that launches mini-missiles. Wait, don't tell me; you're Frank 'Who Gives a Fuck?' Jackson, an actual living war hero who's gotten so many medals, awards, and like garbage it could sink a cruise ship. Super soldier, super cop, one of the first founding super heroes; super lame. You catch your new nickname? I picked it out just for you, because I don't give a single fuck that you took a walk in some woods, or stuffed donuts in your face in some fancy room, or kept company with some dorks just so they could wear their costumes outside of their momma's basement.

"I did want to meet you though, even requested this job when reports of you in the area came in. See, you're the best your side has, no question. So, when I take you down and hard, your little Agent friends are going to wet themselves every time they hear the name 'The Smith'. Oh, don't worry, you're name will be around too; carved right here in the handle of my little toy right along with all the other has-beens and pretenders. So, before I pound you into paste that not even you can come back from, any last words?"

The entire time the villain had been talking on, Frank had pulled out a pack of smokes with his unoccupied hand and was enjoying a smoke when he was finally allowed to say something.

"Well for starters, your momma dresses you funny. Second, if we stuck you in front of a windmill, we'd have an endless supply of clean energy. Finally, you fill up a stick and I fill up bone yards, so trust me when I say I'm shaking in my boots over here..."

The evil Gifted had been sported a self-satisfied smile; now his mouth was twisted in rage as he bellowed and charged, shoving his empowered legs so hard the street beneath his steps cracked as he charged his current prey. He snarled and bared his teeth as his mad sprint continued, planning a look of triumph only to display shock as Frank simply twisted the throttle of his bike that was still running and rode out of the muscle mountain's way. The once and future dead man grinned as his lips parted around his cigarette.

"Olay, Meathead."

Vincent whirled around, and charged again only to miss a second time. He tried a third, only to end up by his wrecked car. Without a word this time, The Smith dropped his hammer and turned toward the telephone pole. Wrapping massive hands around it, the Gifted snapped the thick and stout shaft as though it were a cheap toothpick. Before Jackson could react, The Smith swung for the fences and Frank was the ball. The old fighter went high and long, the jarring impact of his landing adding their own injuries to baseline blunt force trauma. A lifetime of pain made it something that still registered in his brain but to the level of white noise, and his form recovered as it was known to do allowing him to stand in seconds. Despite this, the ex-cop knew things had taken a darker turn; the blow had not only knocked him off his bike, but caused him to let go of his drawn gun in transit. He quickly pulled the other one to check it, but found to his disappointment it had taken damage as well from the massive blow. The Devastators were extremely well made, but they didn't bounce back like their owner did. The former Captain's one remaining sidearm still worked, but the selector switch was jammed and couldn't be moved off of normal rounds. Yeah those were fifty cals, but with this guy that would be the equivalent of spitting on him. There was the sound of something scraping, nd a white head turned to see a very large form walking casually toward it while dragging the heavy sledge like it was a toy doll grasped by one arm. A broad face leered at the immortal;

"Up for more? Good, I was afraid this was over before I'd had my fun. Your little boom booms and trick riding were cute for the kiddie leagues, but now you've only got one gun left. Go ahead, Hero, fire away... Oh, what's that, you can't? Did something happen to your toy, like say, it got slammed by a big ass hunk of wood? Yeah, I knew you carried two of those pop guns; I read your file after all."

"I got that part, I'm just surprised the Wave had a picture book version."

This time, the grin didn't change.

"Go ahead Old Timer, yuck it up while you still can. Soon, you're not going to be able to do anything. They say you just keep coming back, but I think it's just because you haven't been pounded until nothing's left. See, I'm not just tough and strong; I can also keep going and going. So keep regrowing, and I'll just keep on pummeling you into mash until you don't come back no more."

Frank gulped, set his feet, and raised his fists which gained a bellowing laugh out of his enemy.

"Really? That's it? You've seen what I can do, and yet you actually want to try fighting me, The Smith, fist to fist? OK, sure. I'll count this as your last request, how's that Gramps? In fact, I'll even give you a senior discount and let you have three free shots. No vehicles, no weapons, no ITSDA or Wave; just one Gifted against another. Go ahead, I'll count..."

Vincent dropped the handle of his hammer, letting his arms dangle as he waited. Frank came in from the right first, slamming a fist that had broken many a jaw into his current opponent's face but only managing to get the younger man to turn his head slightly. The old fighter followed up a strong left, to no better results. The Smith snickered;

"That's two Father Time, one more and it's my turn."

Frank was panting, his head hanging as he gulped air but he managed to speak.

"It was a jungle."

The super powered thug looked confused.

"What?"

"You said before you didn't care that I took a walk in the woods, but it was a jungle."

The confusion continued.

"What the fuck difference does that make?"

"Not much really, I just thought you might like to know where I learned this..."

Frank suddenly stood straight up, his breathing normal, and brought both palms together on either side of Vincent's head. The villain cried out and grabbed his ears from the sharp and sudden pain, unable to hear Jackson's next words;

"Looks like I move on to the bonus round, extra free shot."

A polished black boot flew up hard and straight, making solid contact with something that suddenly removed The Smith's aching ears from his mind and brought the man mountain to his knees while instinctively occupying his hands.

"By the way, you forgot one. Before I was a soldier, I was a street fighter who was taught by life to do whatever it took to survive. Not only am I fine with hitting you below the belt, I'd steal and strangle you with it. I know, you misjudged me and now you feel like a heel; here you go."

Frank shifted his stance and snapped one muscled leg out in a perfect side kick, the heel of his vintage footwear smashing hard into the younger man's nose and drawing forth blood for a second time. He knew this guy could take a lot though, and instead of pushing ahead with more blows turned and ran toward the nearest house. Vincent hauled himself to his sizeable feet, a large hand reaching for his sledge as he tasted his own essence not for the first time that night; before he was jus going to pound the retired cop into paste, now he was going to rip his limbs off like a mean kid with a butterfly. The Gifted had recovered fast enough to see which way his foe ran, and walked in the same direction with murder in his eyes and hate in his black heart.

He noticed the garage door was open, and decided to look in there first. He refused to allow his actions to be marred by impatience, so instead of a quick glace he took the time to search the space and found the Greaser crouched by the hot water heater.

"The old war dog had a couple of bites left in him, but now it's time to put you down. If it means anything to you, this is the hardest I've had to work for a kill yet. But it's over, for all your tricks and training, you die cowering in the corner of a garage like a cockroach. Time to smash you, bug..."

The heavy sledge was raised up in the air over the head of the man who commanded it, a look of grim determination on his face. At the same time, Frank shoved the lever up he'd had one hand on while he shoved himself sideways. Boiling hot water gushed out and soaked The Smith's legs, gaining another cry of pain from him as he fell down into the torrent of scalding liquid. Frank again didn't want to leave things to chance, and ran to the door which led into the connected house; it was locked, but Jackson always carried two skeleton keys with him. Others called them legs, but the end result was the same. The old man was in and gone in seconds, not even looking back. He didn't stop, but worked his way toward the back of the house as his police skills picked up that for some reason the house was deserted. He got outside into the backyard when he heard a yell that caused the windows he could see to rattle, followed almost immediately by the sounds of smashing and destruction. In under a minute, he was no longer alone.

The Smith had survived his fate, yet now with what remained for skin he better looked like the monster he truly was. Red and blistered fingers wrapped themselves around a wooden grip as ragged breath sounded, the only response being the slight sound of a gun being drawn.

It had come down to this; Frank alone in a backyard left with only a weapon that he knew would be useless against his opponent, even with his skill he might pull off one single shot before he was charged yet again. Not one to lay down and die, the old fighter raised his weapon while Vincent snarled at him, and pulled the trigger. If The Smith had been calm enough to process thought, he might have noticed he felt nothing from the bullet; that was because he wasn't the target. Instead, the hot piece of metal easily punched into the tank of the propane grill on the back porch; the resulting explosion sent the villain sideways to the ground, and as Vincent looked up the last thing his eyes held before the void of sleep claimed him was his own sledge crashing down toward his head...

Frank had won yet again, but before he could even think of patting himself on the back he felt a prick in his left arm. He had just enough time to look and see a dart of some sort protruding from the black leather of his jacket, before he lost all control of his limbs and crashed down like a puppet with cut strings while his mind was swallowed whole by an inferno of pain. He was vaguely aware that someone was talking;

"Mister Jackson, allow me to introduce myself; I'm Mister Lee. I would have said hello earlier, but I was detained by a metal straight jacket that used to be the car I was driving. I don't mind of course, all part of the job plus the car was a rental anyway. You might be curious as to what's happening to you, so I'll explain;

"It has come to our attention that traditional means of elimination fail when it comes to you, Mister Jackson; but we are nothing if not determined. So I was sent with a little gift for you; a potent neurotoxin. Perhaps you've heard of such a thing in blowfish or some such, but in case you haven't I'll just say it kills the brain. This form has been strongly concentrated, just for you. Oh, we never expected it to result in your demise of course as we're not that lucky, but the chemical is destroying your nervous system forcing you to grow replacements which are also eliminated as so on, while at the same time making it impossible to use your body. Oh, and the extreme amount of pain you're no doubt in right now? That's a little bonus, I won't lie. I don't know how long it'll last, but I have more just in case. Meanwhile, I have radioed in for a transport. Usually it would be here in no time at all, however your friends have complicated matters a bit and so our ride is a bit slow in arriving. When they do get here, they'll have more of this wonderful stuff, and we're going to pump you full of it while thoughts are made above my paygrade as what to do with you. I believe some of the current suggestions are to seal you in a airtight case and throw you into a trench in the ocean, chucking you into an incinerator that is left constantly on, or a never ending dip in liquid nitrogen. There is a side discussion about mind control and turning you to our side, but that's got the least votes so far from the rumors I've heard. You had a good run, that's something anyway. But this was going to happen, Mister Jackson; it always does. Good versus Evil, a hero beats a villain and keeps the world safe. But, he grows old, weaker, frail, or just runs out of luck and a bad guy wins. They spread terror and pain for a while, then they go down and the cycle keeps going on and on and on. You beat The Smith, I beat you, some day a hero will beat me..."

"Do you happen to have today available, my good man?"

The remaining Vincent turned at the sound of a new voice, and found himself facing a man dressed in outdated eveningwear.

"Oh, it's you. The magic man. Sorry if I don't seem properly in awe, but I do have a lot on my plate right now with getting help for my fallen comrade over there and securing a prisoner. I'm aware you escaped from the testing facility, but honestly you were more of a curiosity than a clear threat as Mister Jackson here has proven himself to be. I'm sure you want some big, showy fight with me, but as I said I'm busy and I also have plenty so why not?"

If Peter was curious about the last part of Lee's comment, he ceased to be when the man aimed the poison loaded gun at him and fired. The dart sailed through smoke, and Vincent received a blow from behind. He turned with an annoyed look on his face to find the over dressed hero, now holding a staff he got most likely from one of his magic tricks.

"I will grant that's a handy little skill you have, but bringing in Frank Jackson is going to set me up for life and I'm not about to let some annoying little gnat spoil that for me."

Lee leveled his weapon again and made to fire, but didn't as the misplaced Big Apple rogue protector disappeared again. Vincent simply spun around with his gun at the read, and fired for real at the man now standing behind him; once more his attack failed as the deadly projectile punched into nothing and the illusion faded away as a razor sharp playing card sliced into the killer's right cheek. He looked in the direction of the attack to lock eyes with his new foe, a look of irritation clear on his features as the wound in his flesh healed up without a trace.

"You would have been dead in seconds you know, your system so overloaded you'd most likely be dead before you ever felt anything. But no, you have to play this hero thing to the hilt, don't you? Fine, I have some time to kill anyway. Go ahead, do your worst; anything you can dish out, I can heal from as you've seen. You suffered a head injury before they sent you to the testing grounds, you used your food for escape, I doubt you've got much fight in you especially after your little disappearing act from before. So wear yourself out trying to save the day, and I'll just kill you when you're weak and tired. Or, my friends arrive, and you get outnumbered. Either or, you'll be dead and I'll be gone without even knowing your name."

"Allow me to correct the last thing first, my good man. My name is Black Magic..."

There was a flourished bow.

"...and I shall accept your challenge. You say you can take what I might provide? We shall see."

Another playing card appeared in a gloved hand and flew through the air as Peter vanished and reappeared, throwing another one which like the first and second did no lasting or even real damage. He repeated his actions twice more, but to no avail. The next two attacks came from the same place this time without vanishing, and were sent by one hand each. Lee just sighed and took the impact, realizing too late that this time Black Magic hadn't used cards; he had seen those were of no use in causing harm, but they did keep his audience distracted while he kept teleporting in search of the darts meant for him. He had watched Frank's fight from afar and seen the old man stand after heavy damage, so he figured with Lee was like the fallen fighter what was meant to stop one would work on the other. He was proven right, as the second Vincent joined the first on the ground.

Vargus spared himself no time for basking in his success; Lee had said more enemies were coming. Black Magic swiftly made his way over to Frank, stooped to touch one leather clad shoulder, and both were suddenly gone. The prestidigitator repeated this twice, hoping he had bought him and the fallen hero at least a little time. He wasn't deluded enough to think he could keep the man safe from harm in such a hostile place, but he had a thought about how to get some help. If he was right and the old man was an Agent, then he would have some way of contacting his organization. To this end, Peter started searching until he found a small device almost invisible in one of Frank's ears. The masked crime fighter slipped it into one of his own, and pressed at it hoping to stumble upon how it worked.

"Mayday, mayday. This is Black Magic, to any Gifted heroes, ITSDA, and law enforcement. I found a man named Frank Jackson I believe to be an ITSDA operative, badly injured. We are currently hidden, but I do not know the precise location and enemy reinforcements are inbound. Again, this is Black Magic, calling for rescue. If you need to confirm my identity, Mister Jackson arrived by way of a teleporter I fought alongside of in Central Park and whom I believe might also be an ITSDA Agent. Contact him to confirm my identity, but please use haste."

(OOC: Does anyone want the scene with the soldiers to be a battle post, or should we save the battles for the infiltration/Redcap attack?)

A moment of tense silence passed between Brian's makeshift presentation/plea and Jill's response. Jill stood with her arms grossed, shooting an intimidating, steely look at her possible ally. Vandal's gaze darted rapidly back and forth between Thunderclap and Meta. Whisper tapped his chin repeatedly, quietly hemming and hawing. Glitch stood, looking attentive even as he stole glances at his friends and their guest. Knight saluted his commanding officer.

Before speaking, Jill spun on her heel and pointed at several points on the satellite map.

"We've got two objectives. First, we need to direct and assist the city's counter attack on those Gifted. Second, we need to infiltrate and capture the base. Knight, Glitch, you two and I will handle the immediate crisis. Whisper, your power can assist Meta in infiltrating the base. 

"I think you mean he'll be assisting me," said the bitter young man quietly and to no one in particular. Thunderclap snapped loudly; Whisper stared directly at his commander and gave her a firm nod.

"Ma'am!"

"Scrap, once we land in the city, you will also help infiltrate the compound. Your power can alternatively serve as a diversion and a method of physical infiltration. Vandal, you will serve as a liaison between the two teams and locate Agent Jackson and provide assistance when necessary. Check back with each of your contacts on a regular basis. Am I understood, team?

"Understood, Lieutenant!" responded her agents. Scrap's eyes followed several dots as they appeared on his satellite map of Gaultown and converged near Meta's vehicle.

"Lieutenant, you may need to take a look at this," said Scrap in a matter-of-fact manner that was utterly devoid of fear or even concern. Jill did as Scrap suggested.

"Those aren't police," said Jill. "Okay team, it looks like they have come to us. Meta, did you leave anything important down there?"

Before he could answer, Jill continued her speech.

"Scrap, fly over. Vandal, Knight, secure the civilians. We'll hit them with some spheres and get some answers out of them! Meta, regain control of your vehicle.

As the team (save Vandal) strapped parachutes to their backs, Brian couldn't help but marvel at how they were already ready to reenter the fray.

Canon Battle Post

The first round impacted the sedan, causing a shudder that had not yet passed when the second bullet flew home. The windows along that side shattered completely, while the back and windshields were lanced with jagged cracks from the force of the attack. The rental swerved wildly, in part from being shoved one way by the explosions and in part from the driver overcompensating; yet the assault continued. Paint burned off, rubber shredded and melted, and metal crumpled until there was only one solid lump were the lines that defined the vehicle's doors used to be. The half-mutilated car went fully out of control as the driver forfeited a losing battle; the half dead beast bumping up a sidewalk and crashing into a telephone pole before letting out its death rattle of a blaring horn. Only smoke came from a barrel now instead of more fatal flashes; the pin clicked on an empty chamber.

There was no explosion, but Frank never expected one; electric cars had grown in popularity to the extent that he now had trouble once in a while buying his girl a tank of gas. But considering he and she were in one piece and the sedan a sad impression of a car, he'd have to say American Steel: one, Imported Tin: goose egg. While entertained by this thought, he never took his experienced eyes off the wreck; he was here on a tip that the Wave was in the area, and sending a car to crush him in a lame reenactment of a worn-out action movie plot device would just be their way of saying hello. He had taken out one of their top agents and eliminated a number of their high tech foot soldiers in less time than it took to get a pizza delivered; he was pretty sure they would throw more at him than a simple hit-and-run. There was the sudden and piercing sound of metal being torn, a definitive and irrefutable answer that proved his suspicion correct.

Suddenly, the lump that was once the car's door flew off and Frank was forced to roll for cover as it slammed into his bike. The veteran stared at his machine as it took a beating, but he saw that it was in one piece (if not a bit dented and scratched). He glared at the mountain of a man who climbed out of the car. The man eyed Frank for several long seconds, then reached into the back of the car and pulled out a 50 lb sledgehammer, swinging it around like a little wooden bat. The man had a few burns and cuts running over his hide, but not nearly enough for someone who had just been in a serious accident. He ran a massive hand over his sleek, silver hair and spat blood on the ground.

"Been a while since I tasted my own blood. Fuck if that didn't actually hurt, old man. Let me return the favor, 'kay?"

The guy started running --- fast! Frank noted that when the man kicked off, the pavement cracked with the power of the man's step. It was a fact that Gifted with inhuman strength tended to have rather nasty sprinting speeds. Frank was fast and strong, but he could only push his regenerating human body so far; this man had no such limitations. The agent threw up his hands to block the attack he could not dodge.

A massive, steel-toe boot sank into the forearms he hurled in front of his face. He felt his arms snap like twigs at the impact and lost his breath as he flew into the artificial paneling of the house behind him, through the wall, and landed on some family's abandoned dinner table. It had been spaghetti night. He idly spat a noddle off his face and grunted as he felt his arms set themselves. His fingers twitched as they struggled to grip his sidearm; the familiar weight of his second weapon was missing. It must have gone flying during his last trip. He was glancing around for the weapons when a creak registered in his ears. Only his decades of training and experience made him roll when he heard the slightest squeak of the floor. A massive hammer sank into the spot where his head had been. His ears rang for a second; for Frank, it was a comforting sound.

The old dog tried an old trick; he rolled back and tried to use his body's weight to disarm the opponent. It was easy, Frank had done it hundreds of times. The hammer would be trapped under him, the opponent weaponless, and he could launch any number of attacks from the position, right? The man above him blinked and grinned as his Gifted strength meant his grip on his weapon was not shattered. Frank's considerable weight was nothing to The Smith's strengths. Before Frank could launch his attack, then man simply used the hammer as a lever to send Frank flying again. He crashed through another wall.

As Frank rolled along the family's back yard, he noted a 3'' piece of glass lodged in his thigh from the window he had just crashed through. He focused on it for a second, but the wind then left him as he crashed into some poor kid's swing set. The structure remained standing, but his weight bent the cheap metal support pole badly. He grunted as several ribs broke. Each blow this man dealt was like being hit by a Mack Truck. Frank ought to know, he'd been hit by several in his lifetime. Still, within seconds his body was doing its thing. He gripped the grass to haul himself up even as the backdoor exploded and the mountainous man stepped out, swinging his hammer casually.

"They said you were tough, old man. No kidding. Most men would be dead by now. I do not know if this is a good or bad thing for you." The colossal juggernaut cracked his neck and lowered his frame, building up his energy like a coiling spring. Frank knew another mad sprint was coming and he threw himself to the side. Super strong opponents might have a deadly sprint, but it was usually straight line movement. Behind him, he heard the swing set squeal as it was demolished by the attack. He spun and launched himself at the man.

Smith was just trying to wrestle his hammer from a knot of piping when Frank connected and wrenched the man off his feet. If it had been a matter of brute strengths, Frank would be sorely outmatched. But it was a matter of leverage and Frank used it to spike the hammer wielding maniac onto a corner of the kid's sandbox head first. Frank was atop the man and pounding the head into the wooden corner like a madman until the wood splintered and he was pounding the head against cold dirt. Again his experience said the man's head should turn to mush. Instead, the head stopped his attack mid-strike. The other man was staring at Frank with cold blue eyes.

"Good show old man, but even if you are able to make that body do all that human physiology is capable of... I am stronger than any human!" Then man's hand came up and grasped at Frank's wrists, but the cagey veteran sprang back, grabbed the man's lying hammer, and swung the maul. His swing connected with the man's ribs and the agent felt them give out just a little. The Smith glared and reached for his hammer, but Frank spun away and brought it around again to smash the man's knee. The man buckled and grunted, but the knee did not give the satisfying crunch it should have. Frank didn't stop as he kept going, spinning, hauling back, swinging, and connecting. It was the first time Frank had fought someone who acted just like him. The mad Smith didn't even try to dodge the blows; he just kept trying to grasped the hammer, Frank, or stand. Frank's wounds healed rapidly, but this man seemed immune to being damaged in the first place! Where gaping holes in his skin should have been were just bruises, joints that should have broken were a bit wobbly at best, and ribs that should have been shards were cracked. And the villain just kept coming. Was this what others had felt like fighting him? It was infuriating; but Frank was a survivor of countless battles. He reminded himself that he was war incarnate and that thought kept him calm as he brought the hammer near the man's head. The blow was a direct hit. The man's eyes crossed, his form wobbled, and his considerable size sank just a few inches toward the earth. But then his eyes snapped to focus, a hand shot up and grabbed Frank's wrist, snapped it effortlessly, and swung Frank through the house again.

He was in that strange slow-mo time again. He sailed through the kitchen wall, collected a few more splinters of wood and glass in his form, shot through the kitchen door while miraculously only catching and breaking one ankle on the door's frame, noted a rather comfy looking chair and nice couch as he flew over them, and spotted his weapon in the folds of the couch before his body was crunched up by the family's TV. Frank only had a few precious seconds to catalog his various rapidly healing injuries again and wondered when the last time he had taken so much hurt was. He lurched forward and fell out of the TV onto a rather nice throw rug and then crawled toward his gun. He fell back against it and had just enough time to put a single round into the chamber before he heard the floors in the kitchen creak. He stood, swung around, took the long slow breath necessary to aim his pain wracked form, and pulled the trigger. The man went flying as he doubled over the round exploding in his abdomen.

Frank sighed heavily and slowly limped after the man, reloading the gun as he went. He climbed out the wall, walked to where the man was groaning and trying to stand. Even his superior stamina had problems with an explosive round of this caliber. Frank noted the man's form was only somewhat wounded instead of human spaghetti though. He smiled as he noted he had finally gotten the man to drop his weapon. The nigh-immortal warrior picked up the hammer that had hurt him so much and lifted it over his head. Even if it took a hundred blows, he would crack the bastard's head open like an egg.

"Even a tough summabitch like you's gunna die with no head..."

"I really wish the same was true of you, but our files say otherwise, Mr. Jackson." Frank had a split second to look to the side before his new opponent's bullet thrust its way into his largest neck vein and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

Vincent, for his part, had just been through his own hell. Trapped in a Gordian Knot of a car wreck, Vincent had spent the last several seconds breaking his own bones and tearing his own flesh to get out of the vehicle. The sounds of the fight were obvious and he had watched Frank sail out of and then back into the house as his own form slowly regenerated. Unlike Frank, Vincent had no "stuck in time" bonus, so he suffered an incredible amount of pain as his flesh and bones re-knit themselves. Luckily, the battle gave him time to heal. Once he finished regenerating to the point where he could move, he limped into the backyard, walked calmly up to Agent Jackson, and fired his secret weapon. He then looked at The Smith and raised an eyebrow as he reloaded.

"Are you an asset or a liability, Mr. Smith?" A lifetime of Triad contracts had given Vincent just enough experience to sneak up on the legendary Frank Jackson. Speaking of Mr. Jackson, Vincent knew that a man like him was probably still conscious enough to hear him right now.

"Mister Jackson, allow me to introduce myself; I'm Mister Lee. I would have said hello earlier, but I was detained by a metal straight jacket that used to be the car I was driving. I don't mind of course, it's all part of the job. You might be curious as to what's happening to you, so I'll explain."

"It has come to our attention that our traditional methods fail when it comes to you, Mister Jackson; but we are a determined group. So our boys cooked up a little gift for you: they call it "The Spiker." It's a little bullet with dozens of micro-needles attached to it. As soon as the bullet contacted your blood, it sent those fuckers flying off in every direction. To put it bluntly, your body is now full of syringes, each with enough neurotoxin to vaporize that little brain. And they are programmed to fire off one by one by one by one."

A sadistic smile crept across the assassin's face as he counted to four on his fingers. Frank's body suffered spasm after spasm as his nervous system degenerated and regenerated at an impossible rate.

We know this won't kill you, be we have some plans to take care of that. You had a good run, Frank, but this was going to happen; it always does. Good versus evil, a hero beats a villain and keeps the world safe. But he grows old, weak, frail, or just runs out of luck and a bad guy wins. They spread terror and pain for a while, then they go down and the cycle keeps going on and on and on. You beat The Smith, I beat you, some day a hero will beat me. Kill and be killed, that's how it is with us street rats."

"Ah, but it's different for showmen! We dare not go gently but by tragic accident. We move boldly, even in death!"

The remaining Vincent turned at the sound of a new voice, and found himself facing a man dressed in outdated evening wear.

"Oh, it's you. The magic man. Sorry if I don't seem properly in awe, but I do have a lot on my plate right now. I know you escaped from the testing facility, but honestly you were more of a curiosity than a clear threat. I'm sure you want some big, showy fight with me, but as I said I'm busy and I have extra... so why not?"

If Peter was curious about the last part of Lee's comment, he ceased to be when the man aimed the poison loaded gun at him and fired. As the large, relatively slow bullet sailed through smoke, and Vincent received a blow from behind. He turned with an annoyed look on his face to find the overdressed hero now holding a staff.

"I will grant that's a handy little skill you have, but bringing in Frank Jackson is going to set me up for life. I'm not about to let a gnat like you ruin it!"

Lee leveled his weapon again and made to fire, but didn't as the misplaced Big Apple rogue protector disappeared again. Vincent simply spun around with his gun at the ready and fired for real at the man now standing behind him. Once more, his attack failed as the deadly projectile punched into nothing and the illusion faded away. A razor sharp playing card sliced into the killer's right cheek. He looked in the direction of the attack to lock eyes with his new foe, a look of irritation clear on his features as the wound in his flesh healed up without a trace.

"You would have been dead in seconds, you know. It'd have been so peaceful, so quick, so easy. But no, you have to play this hero thing to the hilt, don't you? Fine, go ahead. Anything you can dish out, I can heal from. After the day you've had, I doubt you've got much fight left in you. So wear yourself out trying to save the day, and I'll just kill you when you're weak and tired. Or you'll last until my friends arrive. Either way, you'll be dead and I'll be gone without even knowing your name."

"Allow me to correct the latter issue first, my good man. My name is Black Magic..."

There was a flourished bow.

"...and I shall accept your challenge. You say you can take all I can offer? We shall see."

Another playing card appeared in a gloved hand and flew through the air as Peter vanished and reappeared, throwing another one which like the first and second did no lasting or even real damage. He repeated his actions twice more, but to no avail. The next two attacks came from the same place this time without vanishing, and were sent by one hand each. Lee just sighed and took the impact, realizing too late that this time Black Magic hadn't used cards; he had seen those were of no use in causing harm, but they did keep his audience distracted while he kept teleporting in search of the bullets meant for him. He had watched Frank's fight from afar and seen the old man stand after heavy damage, so he figured Lee was like the fallen fighter. If these things could stop Frank, they could put Vincent down. He would have been proven right, had the thrown bullet not barely broken the man's skin.

"Real sneaky, kid. Gotta work on that pitch, though," Vincent Lee cackled in delight and fired once more at the shocked Black Magic.

Vargus barely managed to duck the bullet that left a hole in his hat. As he twirled his hat off of his head and caught a glimpse of it, his famous confidence cracked. Just like before, his magic started pouring out of the hole in his armor. He knew he could come back from this again, but he needed time!

But time was not on his side. Vincent smirked and lobbed a incendiary grenade clear over Peter's head. A horrible shadow of a man with a burning hammer grew under the showman's feet.

Vargus' rolled under the hammer, but the white-hot flames still licked his suit. Burning and flanked, a desperate Black Magic dove for Frank and touched the hem of the badass' leather jacket. The pair disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame. The prestidigitator repeated this twice, hoping he had bought himself and the fallen hero at least a little time. He wasn't deluded enough to think he could keep the man safe from harm in such a hostile place, but he had a thought about how to get some help. If he was right and the old man was an agent, then he would have some way of contacting his organization. With that in mind, Peter started searching until he found an almost microscopic device in one of Frank's ears. The masked crime fighter slipped it into one of his own, and pressed at it hoping to stumble upon how it worked.

"Mayday, mayday. This is Black Magic, to any Gifted heroes, ITSDA, and law enforcement. I found an injured man named Frank Jackson. I believe him to be an ITSDA operative. We are currently hidden, but I do not know the precise location and enemy reinforcements are inbound. Again, this is Black Magic, calling for rescue. If you need to confirm my identity, Mister Jackson arrived by way of a teleporter I fought beside in Central Park. If he is an ITSDA agent, you can call him to confirm my identity, but please use haste! Time is of the essence."

NON CANON BATTLE POST

...And the team springs into action leaping from the lowering cargo ramp.

Brian only needed a moment to assess his own tactical agenda and nodded to a grimacing Whisper. Brian needed his suit and needed his go-kit from his RV. The others sprang into action. Meta's hud tracked each of them as they began to spread out and Scrap strapped himself into the pilot seat. Jill watched impassively for only a moment before strapping herself into monitoring seat.

Brian's combat chute weighed a cool eighty pounds and he felt the weight before he himself leaped from the hold, along with the reluctant Whisper. Within moments the team had cleared the hold.

Whisper called on the radio after they felt a few seconds of freefall, "We're clear, Pull!"

As Brian saw below, Namidian soldiers or police were surrounding his RV, much to his chagrin he saw the breach and they began to pour into the vehicle. When he was off the ground by ten feet or so he hit his buckles and dropped the remaining distance. He absorbed impact by dropping into a roll and came up squirt gun in hand. He had about four shots left in the thing so he hoped he wouldn't need more. His hud showed that there were skirmishes where the eastern side of the interstate had been shut down on either end of the roadway, that was where Vandal and Knight were located. Whisper crept up behind Meta but the two maintained radio silence, just as Scrap flew over top of the vehicle and a score of small spheres dropped from the undercarriage of the ITSDA VTOL craft, the soldiers in police uniforms outside began to fire on the craft as their buddies took refuge. Each of the small aluminum spheres shot into the squad as they sprayed a knockout gas throughout the area.

Meta was close enough to the RV now that he could tap into the systems within it. He began to purge his system, Johnny-5 had already been cut-loose so he had much fewer things to worry about, but Johnny's source code, was still there, uncompiled and would be a rather impressive treasure for any Namidian willing to bring home his blackbox server.

Three of the Namidians went down with the gas, the fourth and fifth fired from inside the door of the RV, taking shots at the craft above, gas masks on their faces now. The sixth man was inside the RV, probably rifling through his gear...a radio signal went off, Meta could detect it, but didn't have the time to break the encryption. Hopefully he wasn't beaming the contents of the server. Brian and Whisper watched as the soldiers began to take clinical shots at any target they could see, and that included Whisper and Meta.

Meta closed his eyes for a moment and his truck vrooomed to life. He had reprogrammed the OnStar module  to respond to his commands and that would come in handy about now, he tapped into the computer control module of the pickup, something he had worked tirelessly on a few months ago. He was glad he had now, for he began to drive the truck attached to the RV forward and backward fast, attempting to send the soldiers within the RV into a maelstrom of snow-globe-like proportions. It worked, they had dropped their guard and weapons to hang on to the vehicle as Brian stood up and began to walk towards the flailing RV door.

Whisper hissed at Brian, "wait for Vandal and Knight!"

"Now's the time Whisper."

Seeing Meta was not stopping, he began to call to Jill and the muscle of the team, "Meta's moving in, we need support..."

Jill called back, "Vandal and Knight are engaging the Namidian forces flanking your position. No backup coming, proceed with Meta, with caution, and don't get yourselves killed."

Meta disabled the interior controls and locked the false freezer, too late, it had been opened. Brian began to analyze the situation and simulated outcomes to the highest probability. He knew the guys inside were probably sufficiently shaken to try and get out now, he raised his squirt gun and slammed the remote controlled vehicle into one of the jeeps surrounding it, sending whoever was inside into a whirlwind of debris and breaking glass, the impact wasn't very great, he didn't have room to do damage, but it would add to the chaos of the situation within and turn confusion into a madhouse.

Meta poked his head into the vehicle and saw a wide-eyed 'Gibson' staring at him, and pulling back for a punch while grabbing at his gun with the other hand. He got a squirt in the face.

Another man, saw 'Gibson' drop, knocked out by Meta's FADEAWAY squirt gun, contact with the skin was all that was needed to nigh-instantly drop a person. Next he saw a burly looking lieutenant push a dislodged cabinet from himself as he brought up his UMP machine pistol. A spray of bullet fire erupted within the vehicle and Brian leaped upon the only other man, still scrambling to recover from the crash. Bullets exploded through the side of the RV just as Whisper turned up the juice on his own Gift. Whisper raised his gun and shot through the exterior of the vehicle, his radar sense allowed him to pinpoint the sound of the gun's spring-loader as it clicked another bullet into the chamber.

Whisper's bullet pinged off of the gun much to the surprise of the hefty looking lieutenant, sparks and tiny lead shrapnel pieces disarming the man instantly, Brian had only a moment to roll aside to uncover and shoot the man's face under his tackle. His arms went limp as he had attempted to get a wrestling hold on Meta.

Brian's gift kicked into full power and time slowed to a crawl around him. His first squirt missed the commanding soldier instead hitting the now lone soldier's armored vest, and he was not slow compared to the size of his bulk as he barreled towards Meta. Lieutenant Marcus's square jaw set and bulged in his cheeks, as Meta adjusted his aim slightly and pulled the trigger once more at the oncoming powerhouse. The liquid jetted out and misted into the man's face as he fell before Meta's mighty FADEAWAY. Meta let out an >oomph<, as the Lieutenant hit him with his full now almost totally inert weight and momentum.

Meta dispassionately said, "there we go, I thought we were going to be in trouble. Nice shot...," Meta had already calculated the possible known gifts this guy Whisper might have, as he pushed the Namidian off of him.

Whisper snorted, "next time you better not just barge in, wait for me to help. I got ears ya know, that's my Gift. Boss, we've secured the vehicle."

Meta nodded, "I see, well you can prep these guys for transport if you like. I've got to get a few things...don't touch the purple liquid, it's a knockout agent."

Whisper began to cuff the men and make a pile of contraband outside the wagon. Meanwhile Meta began to haul a bag of personal effects and a blade-style server out of the RV. Once he had everything he needed, he found a bundle of his Meta-material cloth stuffed into the lieutenant's jacket, "that's mine."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:19, Mon 21 Sept 2015.

As Jill ordered Meta and Whisper leapt from the Cargo ramp even before it'd finished lowering.
Things were moving quickly for Meta- it was almost unreal to think that only a few hours ago he'd discovered a Namidian presence in the small sleepy town, whilst even now he was leaping into a potential battlefield with allies he'd only met minutes ago, out of a plane he'd only just boarded.
Fortunately thinking fast on his feet was one of Meta's many talents, and if the rapidly worsening situation phased him Brian didn't show it.

As Whisper and Meta plunged through the chilling night sky their freefall brought them above Brian's RV at a steep angle, with a sharp snap of captured air Whisper released his parachute and the ITSDA agent rapidly slowed his decent, Meta followed his lead. Moments later a cluster of fist-sized steel spheres shot between the two parachutes with a whistle to scatter themselves around their landing zone and burst into a thick screen of pale chemical gas.

Scraps airborne assault had an immediate effect on the invading soldiers and they immediately shouted in startled confusion, the wind rushing past Meta's ear as he rolled into his landing stopped him from making out whatever they were saying but Whisper picked out that their Squad Leader was shouting orders to bring his men back into line.

"NEWBIE, SECURE THE WINDOWS. YOU! GET A FIRING POINT! BREATHE SHALLOW, THE GAS SHOULD ONLY TAKE A MOMENT TO PASS- THEN WE COUNTER ATTACK!"

Like this, Marcus minimised the damage of the ITSDA's opening volley and regained control of his situation. Whisper, however, wasn't interested in giving them a chance to recover. He called out a request to his team-mate before ducking his parachute into a controlled landing.

"Meta, they're going to bunker down. You didn't build your RV with any clever tricks, by chance?"

Meta had already hit the ground and ditched his heavy parachute, and a smug grin settled on his face as he accessed his RV's computer interface with a remote command.

"As if you had to ask. I have 'clever tricks' to spare."

With a few mental clicks Meta's truck jumped into a life of its own. Without warning it's on-board AC unit revved to full power and sprayed the vehicles interior with the chemical-laced gas from outside, at the same time every mechanical window on the vehicle (including the sunroof) started to wind themselves open. Within seconds the inside of the RV was as inhospitable as the road around it. The soldiers suddenly clearing from the RV's exit were accompanied by the sound of their own coughing and gagging as they tried to find a patch of breathable air.
The rough column of men beat a desperate advance back to their own vehicles. several of the soldiers dropped to their knees and succumbed to exhaustion as the ITSDA's knock-out gas took hold, but those who didn't peppered the air around Meta and Whisper with loose bullets as they tried to place difficult shots through the thick eye-watering smoke.

Meta's tactical mind raced as he analysed the situation with clinical, automatic, genius. At the moment they had the upper hand but the knock-out gas would only take a few more seconds to completely disperse, and once that happened the battlefield would rapidly shift against them; Meta's squirtgun was instantly effective but suffered from a short range, and once the soldiers were able to re-coordinate their numbers and automatic weaponry would make short work of the two gifted. Each passing second made the situation worse for the pair, but Meta struggled to think of a way to end the battle without exposing himself to undue risk.
Whisper tilted his head as though listening to something, before muttering to Brian.

"Only four soldiers are still concious, and two of those aren't going to last much longer. All four are running low on ammunition."

Meta was taken by surprise, a rare thing. "How can you tell?"

"My ears are burning, is all."It was Whispers turn to look smug. Meta shared his grin as the new information gave him the leverage he was looking for.

"All right then! Here's what we're going to do..."



Marcus, Gibson and two wheezing soldiers had taken cover behind one of the military Jeeps that'd borne them down the I-70. They were all that was left of their squad, and Marcus knew from the way that two of his men were spluttering that they were combat incapable. His squad had weathered the initial volley of knock-out gas well, but the shock of the RV turning against them and the undisciplined retreat back to their vehicles had caused most of his men to breath the polluted air deeply and suffer the consequences. Marcus fancied that he was the only one of his squad with the discipline to manage his breath under direct fire- well- him and the new guy- somehow.
Marcus's peripheral vision caught something and he spun his weapon around as his eye glimpsed a figure darting out from behind the smokescreen and towards the abandoned Recreational Vehicle, he jabbed two fingers at his enemy before shouldering his sub-machinegun.

"Eight O'Clock, Greenhorn! Light 'im up!"

Gibson and Marcus both fired tight bursts of lead down the highway, but their target darted back just as their fingers tightened on their triggers- almost as though it had anticipated their attack at the last moment. A few frustrated bullets later and both their weapons jammed with deadmans clicks as they wasted their last bullets.

"Reloa-!"

Marcus's order was interrupted as a second figure vaulted and slid over their Jeeps hood, to shoot him in the face with some kind of water pistol. The squad leader immediately seized up and pitched forward as if he were a puppet with cut strings, the figure adjusted his aim with tight efficiency and fired a second jet of purple liquid at the last soldier standing; Gibson.
Meta's attack fell short, rather than finish reloading his weapon Gibson threw it into the air between himself and the nozzle of Brian's blaster. The liquid rebounded harmlessly against the obstacle and before Brian could squeeze off a second shot the huge soldier had already closed the distance between them with a few threatening steps. A strong backhand hit the side of Meta's weapon and sent it flying from his hands and out of reach whist his other darted forward with surprising speed and viced a single broad hand around the gifted geniuses throat! The whole action was performed in a single martial movement that was as natural to the soldier as breathing. The thuggish mercenary spoke tensely and through gritted teeth, without any pretence of amusement.

"Try any tricks and I will break your neck. Tell your friend to surrender, Immediately. Under authority of the United States Government I am placing you both unde- AUGH!"

Gibson's head seemed to snap back of it's own accord, and the man released his grip to stumble away involuntarily. He regarded Meta with a look of almost drunken surprise before falling into an unconscious heap. A spurt of blood from a burst vessel shot from one of his nostrils.
Meta got his breath back raggedly, and he rubbed the ache out of his neck with a steady hand. He hadn't expected his foe to be so proficient at hand-to-hand combat, but at the same time the soldier hadn't expected Brian to lash out with a TK-Punch. In a roundabout fashion, brain had defeated brawn.



Some minutes later the site was secure. Meta had recovered all his stolen property, and Whisper had restrained their unconscious enemies with zip-ties around their wrists and ankles- the big one that'd tried to strangle Brian was given an extra pair, for good measure.

"The others are moving into position. Ready to go?" Whisper enquired.

"Yeah. Ready."
Brian spoke sourly. Before he'd taken out Gibson the man had said something about working for the US government. That had taken him by surprise, and it cast a thin shadow of doubt over his new ITSDA comrades- the ITSDA were government funded, right? Had this been a friendly fire incident? Had the soldier been trying to use a psychological trick? Was the situation more morally grey than he'd fist suspected? How did Schwartze Augen fit into all this? Questions with no clean answer began to intrude on Meta's active mind, and as a man who was supposed to know everything, it vexed him.
"Where to now?"

Whisper pointed down the I-70.
"That way. The squad was receiving orders from their mission co-ordinator, and I can still hear his radio transmissions. It must be their base of operations."
Whisper tilted his head again, as though eavesdropping on a conversation.
"In fact, I'm sure it's their base. We should leave immediately; whoever's giving the orders sounds pissed off."

---

"Charlie division, Come in, Charlie! Please respond!"
Scraps voice modulator rendered The Commanders voice as panicked and fearful, but behind his transmitter Commander was smiling with amusement in the only small grim way that his features allowed.
"Charlie! We're going communication dark and assuming total loss- re-establish communication immediately! Please! Respond!"

Commander took his thumb off the 'Transmit' trigger of his hacked device and took Scraps voice modulator off from around his neck. All four Namidians burst into unrestrained villainous laughter. Charlie squads encounter had hit various snags, but it'd played it's role to within a hairs breadth of perfection.

"You might have hammed it up a bit, Commander. Do you think they'll fall for it?" Scrap managed, as he wiped a tear from his eye.

Commander's face was still set in it's grim excuse for a smile.
"Let's check."
He pulled the 'Scrapped' tablet open and fired off a quick message. A few moments later a reply appeared onscreen which confirmed that Leviathan was tracking two heat signatures leaving the I-70 on a direct path toward the infiltrated government facility. Commander's grin would have widened, if it could.
"Mission accomplished. In a few minutes this facility's going to be a madhouse."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:16, Sat 26 Sept 2015.