I came in like a wreeeeecking ball!

[reconstitution]

Who: Winter & You (poor bastards)
Broadcast: n/a
Action: Iskaulit
When: early am

[ OOC Note: This thread is mainly for closed CR, though new people who want to thread with Winter are willing to participate. Just keep in mind that the end results are predetermined! Personal threads won't be dependent on one another, but if you have any questions about anything, send me a pm or catch me at skorozima on plurk. This is a mod-approved augment glitch, the effects of which will only last briefly.

**Content of thread may hold Civil War compliant material, reader and participator be warned!** ]

[ Beginning;; Meditation Room ] 
[ It's early morning, not that it's easy to tell with the endless expanse of starlight outside of every window. Winter finds himself wandering into the mediation room after his morning workout. There's been a general sense of unease that he's been carrying for the past few days, though nothing has appeared out of the ordinary. 

It's different than the hyper vigilance he normally suffers from, like a whisper no one else seems to hear. Grabbing one of the cushions, he sits at the far end of the room with his back to the wall. His legs are crossed, hands settling on his legs. A deep, focused breath inwards, held for just a moment before it is exhaled through his nose. This is only the third time he's come to this room on his own, and he really is trying to make it a part of his day. It's still difficult. 

Things are silent, save for the normal creaks and groans of the Iskaulit. His head isn't buzzing with activity, and he's almost calm. 

Longing. 

The word reverberates sharply in his mind, causing his eyes to snap open in search of the voice. There's no one else around, yet the sweet, crooning lilt sounded like it came from right next to him. His heart is pounding against his rib cage. 

Rusted.  

Winter jerks almost violently. No no no no. Not here. How? his hands slam up to his ears to block the voice out, and the noise in his head increases. 

The voice is just as melodious and clear, somehow more prominent, now. A few more words are spoken so sweetly, even as he writhes on the floor with an angry howl. There's no way for it to stop. 

Trying to concuss himself doesn't work. The voice sounds almost chiding for his poor attempt. 

Then the words stop. Everything stops. And then, 

Good morning, Soldier. ] 

«Ready to comply.»

[ His limbs feel heavy, but he listens intently for the voice to give him his new mission. The Soldier is ready. 

Let's get started, shall we?  

Anyone who happens upon Winter in this state will be aware of a few things that are off. His stare is vacant and unsettling; those who met him his first week on the fleet will recognize it. It's certainly not the expression of someone who means you no ill-will. Winter's posture is aggressive and strained like a tightly drawn bow ready to snap. Any sort of verbal greeting is met with silence. ] 



[ Middle;; Hallways ] 
[ Whoever crosses paths with Winter in the halls is bound to have heard the commotion coming from the Meditation Room. Perhaps one of the unlucky ones made a fleetwide broadcast calling for backup? 

Whatever you were doing, you're not going to be getting very far. He clenches his metal fist, the plates shifting to accommodate the movement. His eyes are locked, harmful intent in his expression. 

You're next. Be prepared to fight for your life. ] 



[ End;; Gym ] 
[ While he's done a great deal of damage, he's not looking so hot, himself. At this point, Winter has collected a great deal of injury, though he doesn't seem to notice or even care. There is a mission. It must be completed at all costs.. 

Even if the metal of his left arm is warped, almost decayed and rusted in appearance. It hangs lifelessly at his side, fingers stuck in a half curled position. He's sporting a gunshot wound in his thigh and his abdomen, still oozing stubbornly. There are a few broken ribs, but that doesn't seem to slow down his rampage much. 

At least this way, he'll be easier to subdue. Maybe all he needs is a little cognitive re-calibration. ]

Comments

[mortalcoil]

[even braced where he is, angled to keep from being thrown, there's nothing he can do when sheer force hauls him off balance to the side. he's not strong enough, he's not big enough, to keep the soldier from dragging his whole weight around and throwing him over his hip.

the worst part--worse than being knocked off his feet--is the way his hands tangle in the wires along the way. he'd been so focused on pulling back that the ability to let go had not been a priority. he tries to twist his wrists to unwrap himself, but there's no slack. there's no time.

he kicks his legs and writhes to keep his footing, but he can't. there's nothing he can do to stop that damn arm from whipping him around and onto the ground.]

[reconstitution]

[ The Soldier not only regains his footing, but drags his target into range. He drops the garrote once the target becomes off balance, tangled in his own weapon. What a foolish weapon to try and surprise him with. It's in his blood to be prepared for anything. ]

[mortalcoil]

[Coil continues rolling until he's up onto his knees, but he doesn't spend the time to untangle his hands. if he'd had the room, he'd step on the wire and unwrap them from where they'd slid off the wraps and bit his skin, but he's too close now. he needs to be ready to move.

he's cornered and outclassed, but he's still thinking--furiously, desperately--with his stomach in his throat.

the options are running thin. he needs to either take out the soldier or that damn weapon, but getting close enough for that might just kill him first.]

[reconstitution]

[ The target rolls and gets up, and he stalks forward with purpose. It was a decent attempt to live, but it's time for his target to stop breathing, now. The Asset catches up to him easily, right hand moving to grip him by the throat.

He'll squeeze the life from him and watch the light leave his eyes. In due time. The Weapon rears back, the hall filled with that sharp, metallic rev and the decompression that follows as he completes his swing. ]

[mortalcoil]

[really, he could have dodged the grab if he'd tried. he could have rolled, prolonged the chase, pissed the soldier off just a little bit more before some unfortunate end. but something suddenly clicks together in his head, in that way that it does. all of it, all at once.

ever since he'd made a certain sacrifice years ago, the dark knowledge he'd swallowed tended to bubble up from the depths of his mind and line up into a clear path only when times became desperate. and as the soldier's hand comes down for him, the words spring bright to his mind. it's suddenly obvious what he is to do next.

luckily, he doesn't actually need a voice--his throat is shut off, but his mouth still forms each meticulous word. it's not a prayer for his life, but it is a prayer. and the answering light begins to gather in his eye, in his mouth, at his fingertips like smoke as the weapon finally snaps and slams into him.

he'd always wondered what it would be like to be hit with that thing. and now he knows.

inside, things crush like leaves. air that he'd barely had to begin with is bashed out of him and, in the shock of it, he distantly tallies up the medical names of the things he's sure are ruined now. it's an absent, shellshocked thought, while the rest of him runs through the unholy script in his head.

he can't breathe. he can't hear. but he sees the weakness and reaches for it. there's just enough wire between his hands to let one set of fingers grip onto a metal elbow while the others reach for a shoulder. nothing is impenetrable and nothing is invincible. everything can be unmade. dig deep enough, between the fibers and the atoms and the entropy, and any metal is just as fragile as skin.

with a small explosion of warping grey light, that principle is applied with force to the soldier's precious arm--from the inside out.]

[reconstitution]

[ There is no way to be trained for this. No torture or drill or field work. This is other-worldly. Out of his depth. For once, the Soldier feels helpless. It's not an emotion found in his vocabulary on this end. Instantaneously, he loses the ability to even move the Weapon.

It wouldn't be a problem, but pain flares up his shoulder, gripping like an iron jaw. He screams, mostly in surprise, though the searing echo is a very close second. Pain can be ignored. The Weapon hangs heavily at his side, shoulder burning in agony at the dead weight. The pain throbs, he can feel it in his head like a heartbeat.

The Asset takes a moment to regain focus, vision not quite so grey at the edges. He drops the target, moving away as he claps his free hand over where metal meets flesh. Maintenance required. Extreme malfunction. Failure.

He's angry, but there's time for that, later. He has a mission to finish. ]

[mortalcoil]

[when he's no longer supported by the soldier's choking grip, he crumples to the ground like something already dead. the necromancer can practically smell the damage, like ozone--the metal warped and corroded and broken in impossible ways--but seeing anything around him is a bit of a challenge.

the energy he'd spent is tangible as dim remnants of light trailing from his fingers and leaking from between his lips like smoke. and for a few moments, that's all there is. his ears are buzzing with the sound of emptiness and fading consciousness... until the fact that he can't breathe hits his brain with a pang.

he's beginning to writhe long before he realizes that he still has an enemy coming for him, struggling to gasp past whatever damage has been done to his rib cage. it's only very belatedly, when his head happens to twist to the side, that he sees the soldier still standing, and his hands weakly begin to glow again in aimless, preemptive self-defense.]

[reconstitution]

[ Taking a few focused breaths, the Soldier assesses the damage. He barely recognizes the Weapon. Most of the shining sliver has turned a mottled, rusty brown. The darker parts have eaten away at the exterior, showing the internal wiring and workings. He can't move it. Pain still bleeds outward from where the Weapon meets his shoulder, like fire licking at the scarring, burrowing beneath his skin.

The Asset's ears pick up the sound of wheezing, eyes snapping to the target. Blood boiling, he lets the useless weapon dangle from his shoulder and surges forward. He doesn't need to be quick. Broken ribs and a punctured lung tend to slow a victim down. The target had better pray to whatever god he believes in before a foot finishes the job his fist started. ]

[throwsdown]

[Takeshi is a small fella, so admittedly, it takes him a while to play catch-up. He's quick enough, but to follow the carnage? Without his power suit? It's really super frustrating. And yeah, he's real scared, but he's also quieted and determined, something like steel willpower forming in his gut. 'Cus he knows what's gotta be done, sometimes.

He just doesn't expect it to be Winter getting ready to stomp someone.

He's gotta work fast, and he's not a real good aim yet; he's been practicing where people can't wag fingers at him, mostly in the woods on the toxic moon, so he's pretty good. But he's not real good, and guns are hard, and — and — and he doesn't want to kill Winter. He likes him. Liked him. Why's he hurting people? Why's he look like that? It's kind of scary.

He draws his little peashooter of a gun and fires, hoping he won't kill him.

When the attention's drawn, Winter will find himself being stared at from behind the aim of a gun, Takeshi's quiet trepidation and grimness focused on him. He tries to think of something intimidating to say, so — ]

... Fight someone your own size, you... dickface!