driftfleet | SLAVERS PLOT LOG |closed-ish. this is why we don't get nice things, bud.

[had she known him a little better, and felt a little more confident in understanding him, she would have reached out and tugged him right back. But instead she purses her lips and steps into the space he just left, lifting a hand to get the the attention of the man selling the pieces.

Does she intend to haggle for some gears? Damn right she does. She has nothing better to do, aside from speaking to Max anyway. And it was something she was decent at. She glances at him over her shoulder]

You look plenty safe to me. [she says with a raised eyebrow. Maybe she wasn't the best judge of that, though, considering she felt right at home on the waystation. Still, she shrugs]

Do you like piloting as much as you like building things?

[she gives the quiet a group a passing glance, always alert for when people start to gather, but - as the man behind the stall draws her attention away to argue prices, she misses that a few more have joined the group]

[Max wouldn't say he's safe, but alright.

He snorts, though there's a tickling unease at the back of his neck.

He's not unused to it, in places like these, and a shifty glance around leaves him simply seeing the wandering crowds here and there, nothing out of the ordinary, no familiar faces. He tries to quell the unsettling feeling.]

... Like going fast, for long distances.

[Hnn.]

I build to pilot.

Not much for walking, hm? [its a tease, mostly turned on herself. She walked everywhere back home, forgoing horses and carriages and anything else. Going "fast" meant a brisk walk to her, not - whatever fast he meant]

Though considering where you are from, I imagine it is necessary, yes? To go fast.

[she glances over again and - pauses, frowning at the men milling behind Max. It's only with a bit of hesitation that she draws her gaze away from them to her company]

There is not a lot of that called for here, hm.

[He's about to reply, but that nagging unease sets him off again, and it's easy to see the metamorphosis in his posture — from mildly at ease to tense in his rounded shoulders, chin tucked even further against his scarf and eyes narrowing at the sudden departure of one of the salesmen. He knows something isn't right, knows from living aboard the station for too long that he's about to step out of what most would see as a crime.

Max is looking over Tempest's shoulder, though, his eyes moving from hers to them, trying to alert her first to her own predicament. He recognizes one of the faces. Two of them. Three. He breathes out his nose.]

You should go.

[It's probably all the time alotted to warn her, to make her leave if these men'll give her the chance. He's hoping they don't associate her enough with him to cause her harm, too. Or worse. There's a defensive, protective twist in his gut that he tries to always keep smashed down — such feelings aren't useful in his world, not if it's not for your wellbeing at the cost of others.

But this is kind of his fault. He knows them.

And they are closing in with caution, but with certainty that they're going to get what they came for. Hell, some of them look excited for the work to do.

"Remember me? I remember you, traveler," one says, tapping a heavy steel pipe against the floor. The others have guns, phasers. They don't wanna kill him; they'd've already done it.]

[it isn't the men gathering that make her tense up, but it's watching Max's body language change that triggers her own. This isn't an entirely unfamiliar situation to her, judging from the way she keeps her expression even, almost neutral. This was why she was comfortable here; this was she expected of people.

She tilts her head just a bit, eyebrows raising, silently indicating that she's seen the warning. And then her focus is on the men behind him instead, listening to their steps of the ones behind her as they close in. Taking stock, in a matter of speaking]

Oh, I probably should. [is her casual response. But she makes no move to go.

Her lips keep moving after that, the barely whispered words for a spell. When one of them speak up her eyes narrow on him]

[He cocks his head to the side as an exasperated frown graces his features for a moment; why does nobody ever listen to him? He really wanders if he just has the face of someone that nobody wants to listen to. If she plans on sticking around — then he'll at least try to take survey of the people around them, stepping closer toward Tempest.

The man with the pipe whistles, grinning even with bruises marring him from his last meeting with Max. "Your girlfriend willing to duke it out for your stupid mistakes? Fine then. But you're comin' with us either way, Nameless. Bet you'll fetch a pretty coin for labor somewhere."

Max isn't sure he should draw his gun just yet. His new ally seems to be doing a little something of her own, and if that works — that magic — then maybe he can get the jump on them well enough to stop it from getting any worse. Pull his phaser and shoot to kill.]

You gonna demonstrate?

[He looks at them but is really just directing it at her, voice low.

"Demonstrate this, you shit-" the man finally growls impatiently, moving to swing the heavy weapon at Max's head, as Max had done to him not too long ago.]

[she wishes she had her sword at hand, the one taken from her that would've allowed her to have one spell already to go while she could cast another. She's limited in that sense, but then again she has before as well. Her fingers twitch at her side as she feels the magic pooling there.

She scowls at the girlfriend comment, before glancing briefly up at Max. "Demonstrate", sure, that's what she was about to do.

Briefly, she smiles at him, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards in answer.

The man swings and Tempest moves as well, her hand shooting out, palm flat. She hisses out something and the spell explodes from her hand, right in the face of the attacking slaver. It erupts on contact, fire engulfing his head and torso almost immediately.

She doesn't wait; she's already spitting out the words to her next spell]

[ (゜Д゜;)

WELL FUCK THAT WORKS FOR ME.]

[More importantly — time to shake off the surprise of just... y'know, fire imploding nearby. Max is quick to draw his handgun and knows it's a longshot, but it's better than nothing. He fires twice, this time aiming to kill, unlike his prior attack against the thugs. One bullet makes it through a guy's forehead, between the eyes. Another hits the guy in the left side of the chest, but Max thinks maybe he's got some sort of — enhancement.

Space. He hates space.

He kind of expects them to try and kill him on the spot. Instead they descend in like rabid vultures, ready to attack with what weapons they have; Max grabs a barbed bat with his hand, hissing but pushing back against the white pain thrumming up his arm. It's nothing when you've got adrenaline. He slams his forehead into the man's chin, and yanks the bat from his hand, not yielding even when he feels a vicious swing to his lower back that nearly knocks him to his feet.

Through spittle and grit:]

Run!

[Once again, his sad attempt to make Tempest go.

Foolish drift fleet personnel. They always do this kind of shit with him.

He hates it.

Even if he... does it sometimes, too.]

[she visibly startles at the sound of a gun, wincing a little as she isn't used to how loud they are, and that close - she scowls as it breaks her concentration and takes her anger out on the next nearest slaver, planting a boot in the center of his chest and kicking him into - and through - one of the stalls.

Rather than trying for the spell again this time she goes with one that's a little less destructive and doesn't need the words, more fire only this time smaller, hitting another slaver in the shoulder]

You run, you bloody—

[turning her head to yell at him was a mistake, and she's cut off with a yelp as one of attackers hits her in the side with - something, she isn't sure. Whatever it is it hurts, and for a moment she has to catch her breath.

In any case, piss off, Max, she isn't leaving.

Deal with it]

[And that's the worst thing about this place, right there.

He'd rather get his ass kicked sad, alone, and without a prayer in the world. Company just isn't fair. To anyone. His hackles rise near instantly when she's struck, because even if he doesn't know her well enough to care for conversation of his own accord, he really is useless in how human he can be. Someone trying to help him? It's ridiculous, it shouldn't happen, but here they are.

He launches himself at the person attacking her, jamming his gun into their gut and —

His foot is pulled out from under him, from behind. He hits the ground hard, and is—

Dragged.

A bag is dragged over his head, breathing suddenly difficult, and memories pulse in his mind of warboys and wet rags and chains. It feels scratchy, rough like burlap, and he kicks and claws and makes nearly inhuman growls of panic and rage. Something prods into his side hard, and he feels his body grow taut, white-hot pain lancing. Electric prod. His fingernails are splintering against the floor as they try to pick him up and carry him like a coffin at a funeral. Only he's quite alive and is thrashing like a stuck but raging boar.

They can punch and strike all they want; it only fuels his desire to flee against all pummeling.]

[she's knocked to her knees and out of the corner of her vision she can see him getting dragged away. All it does is fuel her anger further. One of the slavers leans down and grabs her by her hair and she shoves her palm up, hitting him as hard as she can in the throat. Another has his legs swept out from underneath him, and the momentum is enough to scramble to her feet and pursue the rest of them and Max.

She leans over to scoop up one of the discarded weapons just in time to take a swing at one of the slaver's heads, the dull sound of metal hitting bone loud despite all the commotion. But it seems like the closer she gets, the quicker they are dragging him away, as she gets caught up fending off the ones still standing]

[One of the tragically bruised men waves a hand at the men, moving them along. Telling them to get the cargo back to the ship — that they're going to deal with the all too literal fiery bitch. Max can hear bits and pieces, all of it whirling together in a mess of sound and a taste of blood from his bitten cheek. It's hard to fight when exhaustion begins to slow his arms and legs against a legion of tightly gripping arms, but he damn well continues.

Until something hits him especially hard, and the breath flies out of him before he sags heavily and they begin to move him away down the nearest alleyway. Leaving Tempest to her fate against half of the men who are more than ready to take on a tiring fighter who is struggling to beat their faces in.

"Kill'r."

Slavers. Dickbags.

Max is a heavy but motionless weight being dragged without care, further and further away, like a man fated to a strong ocean current.]

[how many times has she heard that? Is the taunt she wants to shout back, but instead she takes her aggressions out once again on a poor, unfortunate slaver who stepped wrong.

It isn't that she can't hold her own; she's a decent fighter and now armed with a weapon, she can at least beat the hell out of some and set fire to the others - her preferred method of combat, with people like this.

But she's slow and her side feels as though it's on fire, and even though she puts up a good fight, she's overwhelmed soon enough. One good hit sends her staggering back to hit a somehow still standing wall, her borrowed weapon skittering out of reach. Still, almost immediately she's gasping through the pain, working up to a spell to keep the men at bay as they descend on her]

[Makie appears like a ghost on the sidelines of the whole mess. She tends to guard herself when it comes to staying out of other people's business, but the sounds of a fight are always going to draw her attention when people she knows and cares about might possibly be in the vicinity, and she's... dealt with these guys before. So.

She respects Max. And doesn't know Tempest from a bar of soap, but it's a woman fighting a losing battle to a bunch of assholes, and that's enough for her to step in. Sorry, Max, she's gonna let you get kidnapped, because you're clearly not about to die. Priorities. She makes her presence felt a moment later, the bladed edge of her chain staff scything through the air to bite into the side of the closest slaver to Tempest, yanking him backward with a gurgling cry. It gets their attention. Have some breathing space.]

[Makie's timing is perfect; Tempest stops, mid-spell, as the slaver about to hit her is suddenly yanked away, and the rest are momentarily distracted. Her head jerks up in surprise and there's obvious relief in her expression when she spots Makie. Fortunate and lucky she was, even if she'd managed to get the spell cast in time]

[Makie registers the relief and marks it as the other woman being immediately out of danger, but they're still outnumbered. She yanks the pike back and lets the first slaver slump to the ground trying vainly to stem the blood flow-- he won't get up again. In fact, she steps on him as she rushes forward, blades never stopping. She's fast, a dancer with an eight foot reach of spinning steel, and most of them just aren't expecting it.

But she's not superhuman, and after a few moments-- after another handful die, after the surprise is gone-- the slavers take her as a genuine threat. Fight's on. She'll keep within reach of Tempest to offer any further defence, but she doesn't say anything. It's been a long time since Makie could really cut loose, and so she does.]

[she staggers to her feet after a few moments, when the slavers start turning their attention completely away from her and towards Makie. She isn't the type to just sit back and let someone else clean up her mess - or in this case make more of one - but she isn't about to get in the way, either. Let the woman have her fun.

Still, she picks off the ones who don't know how to stay down, who get knocked close enough that she can take the discarded weapon to a head, or a knee. She has half a mind on keeping at least one alive, but as for the rest? Well, if Makie doesn't kill them, Tempest is happy to play clean-up]

[Fire magic. Handy stuff. She does keep an eye on Tempest, especially when she gets up-- not just to make sure she can hold her own, but always making sure Makie keeps the long range of her strikes away from the woman she's trying to help. It divides her attention just slightly more than she wants, but that isn't really a problem. She's still much faster on her feet than this rabble, and compared to the swordsmen she's fought at home, they're nothing but peasants. Their strength is in numbers, and Makie's strength has always been against numbers.

But the slavers aren't stupid, either-- or at least, some of them aren't, practically falling over themselves to get away from both the pike blades and Tempest's magic. One outright breaks and runs, and a handful of others produce guns, though they don't fire yet-- there's still too many people on the floor. A clear shot is all they need. And while they'd rather not draw attention from others in the station with gunfire, it's better than dying to a couple women, isn't it?]

[Tempest has to admit that the woman is doing a far better job than she or Max had managed. She'd been thrown off by gunfire and it had cost her, and without a sword she only had the stolen pipe to use in place, aside from her magic. At least, this was less fighting against trained soldiers, though they were still trained enough that they gave her trouble. Maybe that had been the real problem - underestimating.

The closest slaver to her draws a gun and she grips the pipe in her hand, swinging downwards to disarm him, then twisting the weapon to jam it upwards into his chest. Another is gifted a fireball to the face, as she continues to work the perimeter, outside of Makie's range. Surely they wouldn't be stupid enough to fire those blasted things in here of all places, right?]

Edited 2016-10-27 05:40 (UTC)

[Makie's exotic weapon probably hadn't helped matters either, though the slavers are finally growing accustomed to it, learning to avoid its reach where they can. But that just puts them in reach of Tempest instead, and it's easy to adjust so the rest have no choice but to fight one or the other. Death by fire or the blade, guys, take your pick.

She catches the heavy metal rod that swings toward her on the iron midsection of her staff, eyes widening as it flares to life with electricity a few inches away. It's an unfamiliar weapon for a samurai, and she gives way under the attack, letting him stumble forward. Then she spins on her heel and slam him in the face with a kick hard enough to crunch bone.

One breaks and runs. There's swearing-- fuck it-- and another finally raises his gun, white-faced, and opening fire. He'd like to leave here alive, thanks very much.]

[for the ones she can't handle on her own, it's simple enough to knock them back, letting Makie do the rest with her blade. Their strengths work in tandem with each other and without a word.

Tempest ends up with one particular slaver too big to knock down easily, and he's caught on to her strategy - he grabs her wrist and disarms her, while the other grabs her free hand - at least, thinking that would stop her from using her magic. Instead he's greeted with fire engulfing his hand and a knee to the groin, and she's quick to grab him by the face and slam his head into the floor with all her strength.

That leaves the last one firing his weapon, too far from her to hit easily with a spell]

[Makie's aware of him on her peripheral vision but she's still fighting on other fronts and he's out of her reach. She makes an effort even so-- her knife pulls free from its sheath and she flings it in his direction. It's too little too late; spoils his aim enough that the shot punches through high in the shoulder instead of a more lethal place, and Makie staggers.

Well, fuck that guy. Her mouth tightens in a line of pain, but Makie follows through with her opponents without more than a small hitch to her movement, blade swinging back to catch in her hands as she finishes the fight. Kind of leaves the dead, the dying, a couple runaways, and one gunman fumbling to keep his grip on the gun with Makie's knife buried in his forearm.]

[well, that just won't fly. Tempest curses as she sees Makie get it, but she has to be impressed as well - the woman keeps going, taking out the last few standing save for the gunman, and the body count alone is worth being impressed over. She glances from Makie over to the gunman - and Tempest takes off at him.

He turns and lifts the gun, but she's is a moment quicker and grabs it, jerking it downwards as she rips the knife out of his hand. He has little time to cry out from the pain; she kicks at his knee, putting him off balance and sending him to his knees, releasing his hold on the gun. Tempest is quick to shift her grip on it to point the barrel at his head.

When she finally speaks she's calm, though a little out of breath, and she turns her head just enough to glance at Makie]

Are you all right?

[Damn, woman, you're brutal. Makie approves. And now that all in the vicinity are accounted for, she sags just a little, her free hand going to her shoulder with a wince. It hurts... a lot more than she'd anticipated. But she's never been shot before.

Nevertheless--]

It's not critical. I'll be all right. [She needs treatment and it's going to slow her down, which is unfortunate given they're still down one man. But it's not going to kill her.

She gives Tempest a reassuring nod, and then shifts her gaze to the sweating gunman. Dude, you're so screwed.]

SLAVERS PLOT LOG |closed-ish. this is why we don't get nice things, bud.

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