Event Den of Rats

“Got it,” Miasma said. Ayla slid out of cover and moved forward at a crouch. She managed maybe five or six steps before she paused and looked back at Molt and gave a brief nod before she turned away and made her way past the vehicles to the supply cache.

She paused again at the last vehicle, some overcompensating monster of metal, and peeked out from behind cover to check for any militiamen who weren’t distracted by the sound of the cannons before she broke from cover. She dashed across the open ground between the vehicles and the supplies, raising her left hand as she went. She took aim at the ammunition, and there was a hiss as a jet of pressurized alcohol escaped from the nozzle. Miasma pivoted on her left leg as she moved, aiming to cover as much as the supply cache as she could with the flammable liquid.

She checked, a flick of her eyes over her shoulder to see if either of the militants had heard the sound of the sprayer and were heading her way, before Miasma turned her wrist. There were a pair of clicks from the starter, a metallic twang followed by the dull feeling of heat. Flames raced out, splashing against the rack of guns, she could feel the air rushing as the cache ignited and she drew the flames back to the right towards the stacked boxes of ammunition.

For that she didn’t wait to see it get swallowed in fire before she turned on her heel and dove for the cover of a vehicle.
 
Another surprising thing about the Venom Suit was the stealth it could grant. Though visually distinct, the amount of padding and rubber they had packed in there made it damn near silent. Nothing loose and little hard, the only things that could make much noise were the vials on his hands if they clicked together, and he hadn't suffered tremors in a long time.

He followed in behind Rowan, though his path seemed even more cautious, taking longer to get into position, rather than risk being spotted. It was only once everything was lined up, and the targets were firmly downwind of him, that Gaz let himself relax. If anything went wrong--with either of them--he at least had a clean way out, to kill two birds with one chemically-restructured stone.

But it was just that- a way out. A contingency. Tempting as it was to just gas the bastards and get it over with, there was little he could do to contain what he'd release. If the rest of them clocked the respiratory hazard, they'd scramble to prepare themselves- meaning his later attempt, the important one, the stone which could hit more than just two birds, would be ineffective. Injection would be a better call for now. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a need for him to fall back on old habits just yet.

The vials were filled as quickly as they had been on the carrier, this time with something a tad less pleasant than saline. It was something he had overseen tests for; some venom derivative that stopped the heart as soon as it reached it. The lethal dose was high for this sort of thing, but that meant a couple of grams- the fifty millilitres each glove could administer almost felt wasteful.

It wasn't, though. Not for him.

Rowan's voice crackled through the earpiece, flatter than usual, though she may just have been trying to keep the noise down. Gaz responded, quiet and muffled by the mask.

"Sounds like a plan."

And so, the coiled snake waited- watching the idle motion of his target, whilst Rowan's position was held in the corner of his eye. The gunfire had been a good distraction, that was for sure. If either of these men had any idea what was about to hit them, then they were doing a damn good job of hiding it. Pity. He wondered what had happened to bring them to this low; what string of hatred and misery led to them being hired goons at a terrorist rally.

His cue came before he could finish that thought.

Gaz lunged forwards, the echo of gunfire masking his already muted footsteps as he closed the gap between him and his target. Once in range, he pulled back his right hand and snapped it forwards, attempting to hit the man in the neck- or, failing that, the shoulder. Should the needles hit their mark, the pneumatic levers would drain them almost instantaneously, and the overdose they packed would do what it was designed to do.

In short- it would be quick, but it wouldn't be subtle.
 
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TO THE EAST, the two guards that had been otherwise unoccupied soon found themselves adjacent to a complete warzone. Their reactions were immediate; the one sitting upon his phone dropped it into the dirt, then scrambled to grab it as he instinctively moved behind the crate he had sat upon; the other stopped his practice-firing and whipped his gun towards the source of the gunfire, unable to see anything but the oncoming gunfire that came from hundreds of yards away. Neither the east nor the west was at any particular risk of receiving strays; the eastern yard was wide, as was the western vehicle lot, which meant there was plenty of clearance between the active agents and the southern face of the compound, which was currently a mess of dust and fire as it began to partly crumble.

THAT'S ALL THE FIREPOWER I'M RATED FOR; ANY MORE AND I RISK BLOWING THE INTERIOR BOMB. MOVING FOR CLOSE-QUARTERS. EASTERN TEAM, YOU ARE CLEAR TO MAKE ENTRY.

"What the fuck was that?" One of the men stated-- pulling his crossbones bandana over his nose and mouth, wiping his phone off on his jeans before tucking it shakily into his back pocket. The other tilted his head.

"Couldn't have been one of the bombs. Right?" He muttered. "That was-- gunfire. Fucking A10 levels of--"

He didn't finish the thought. Syringes stabbed into his neck and shoulder-- the body immediately flinching as he whirled around, attempting to shoulder Gaz back. A sharp "FUCK!" escaped his mouth as he turned with slight bewilderment to see the costumed and masked figure before him-- eyes almost cringing into an expression of disbelief as he grabbed his neck, staggering back.

"What the FUCK!"

His gun was raised-- he fired off a volley of shots, backpedaling towards the compound as his compatriot behind the crate finally took notice of Gaz. In a flash, his sidearm was unholstered-- his rifle left on the crate in haste. In a moment, the trigger would be pulled-- if Songbird didn't act.

TO THE WEST, things were off to a similarly tumultous start. Miasma managed to evade momentary notice as she stepped forward-- but the jettison of flame that engulfed the munitions crates immediately drew unwanted attention. Guns upon the roof were immediately pointed and fired off at the Agent as the boxes were set alight-- panicked orders and declarations from the opposition accompanying the slight whine of bottlenecked pressure and crackling flame.

A moment later, the munitions underwent the natural consequence of any highly-explosive flammable compound when it was set on fire: they detonated.

Violently.

KRAKATHRMMMMMMMMRMCCKKRRRMMMM.

The munitions boxes exploded into a mess of shrapnel and flame, the vehicle Miasma ducked behind thankfully absorbing most of the metal shards that screamed through the air at a speed beyond that of sound; the shockwave itself, however, was a different story. Like fireworks crates set alight, the boxes exploded into fire and debris-- the explosions of which only served to throw as-of-yet undetonated munitions all along the vehicle bay, which blew up at random intervals and spread fire along the western face of the building. Those who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the initial shit-show within the vehicle bay were sent sprawling along the ground-- on fire, or in pieces.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!" A voice screamed from somewhere within the compound-- retaliatory gunfire spraying out into the woods towards the approaching Cannonade in staccato, disconnected bursts. More guns from the second floor fired out at the vehicle bay, along the western treeline-- bullets striking the road behind Molt and ricocheting into the abyss of night. The G-Wagon remained relatively unscathed-- save the scraping of debris and shattered windows along the side that had been directly facing the boxes of munitions.

And perhaps, just beyond the sound of gunfire and explosions-- the fog of war and ringing ears-- there was the sound of an engine roaring to life, somewhere within the run-down compound.

"What the FUCK IS THAT?!"

"FUCKING FEDS-- SPOOKS-- FUCK!"

BREACHING THE SOUTHERN WALL.
 
Rowan had no response for Cannonade. Instead, her focus was entirely on the man in front of her, the first obstacle on what was sure to be a chaotic night. Under the cover of gunfire and explosions, she was able to move more quickly than would have otherwise been possible, careful to stay out of sight as Gaz began to take down the first of the two men standing guard. She hoped that he hadn't taken a stray hit, but if he had, they'd have to resolve that once they got this taken care of.

The man in front of her spun to face her companion, drawing his gun. The moment he turned, she leaped up, aiming to wrap an arm around his neck, the other beneath his dominant shoulder.

It's only one man.

Rowan had been trained on this, before. It may not be her strongest area, but it was necessary, in case she ever found herself in a physical altercation. It helped that she had the drop on him. He was taller than her, but he hadn't expected her, and as the agent pulled him down towards her own height, she placed her masked face next to his ear, dropping her voice into a whisper.

"Sleep."​
 
She waited for the explosions.

Yeah, the distant gunfire was a distraction, but it wouldn't be enough to pull eyes away from anything closer. Miasma lighting up the munitions, though - that was a cover. The moment the first cracks and pops sounded off, Molt drew her gun, running quickly down between the vehicles. Two shots for the tires, one below the fuel door. Two shots for the tires, one below the fuel door. She moved quickly and methodically, clearing the entire fleet before turning to the gunners above.

Miasma was under fire - which meant they weren't looking at Molt. Popping out her empty mag, she palmed another, pushing it in with a click as she raised her gun towards anyone unlucky enough to be visible from her angle.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Staggered shots. In their panic, they probably hadn't even realized some of the bullets were being fired from a gun.
 
Seconds, now-

Shouldering Gaz was enough to knock the needles loose, but not much else. He had been trained in this sort of thing, after all. He had to be. Despite being a lethal noncombatant, his unaltered strength and unfortunate weight category meant months spent in training, even when his role was more field medic than environmental hazard.

As such, he knew roughly what to do. Expecting the strike, he let it carry him backwards, turning the momentum into a swift evade to avoid the lethal follow-up. The bullets flew past his shoulder, probably finding their mark in some haybale target way off behind him. His training had paid off, it seemed.

But this wasn't really a fight. It was murder, with evidence of struggle. Gaz relaxed- visible through the suit, as his shoulders slouched and his posture started to loosen.

-I wonder if he knows how few.
 
The reaction was fast but late, heavy rounds cutting through the air with an angry zip before plunging into the earth with a heavy thud as Miasma finished her pivot. Not one for getting shot or for getting , Ayla dove back for the cover provided by truck or was it a van, or like an ATV sort of thing? What it was was really less important than the feeling of bullets thumping into its side, though she couldn’t tell if that was from the riflemen trying to pin her in place, or from the munitions cooking off a little too well.

As if to answer her, explosions rocked the side of the vehicle as Miasma hefted herself up into a crouch. She placed a hand on the ground to try to keep herself steady as she moved to the vehicle’s front end. Had the riflemen caught onto Molt’s position? If not she was better suited to picking some of them off, so she should keep trying to pull attention.

Which might be hard to top given the bullet fireworks, but all the same Miasma swung out from cover, her arm lifted to send a gout of flame to wash over a nearby vehicle that seemed to have lost a large chunk of its door. She took aim for the tires first, before running the flames along the body of the vehicle, at the very least smoke could help provide some cover.
 

SONGBIRD AND ELIXIR executed their assault on the pair of soldiers rather flawlessly. Though one had fired off a few disparate shots, any successive trigger pulls were weak-- ineffective. The poisoned militiaman's aim slouched, body staggering back as the serum began to take full effect.

"Whadd'hre... hnnfhrh. Doingh. I..."

He collapsed backward onto the ground; if Gaz cared to look, his eyes were wide, stricken with fear. Then, the look left his gaze, replaced with an emptied and glassy stare into the sky. He was dead.

For the second, the brief moment of panic was replaced by calm; spared a far less gruesome fate, his eyes fluttered and he collapsed, slumping onto his knees and let down face-first onto the ground. His eyelids twitched; blood stained the bandana mask that covered his mouth and nose. Being forced into REM sleep would likely have neurological consequences, but it was better than being dead.

And with that, the backline was clear-- forces were pulled away to the south and west, leaving the east relatively unattended. A door closer to the south would likely allow them to link up with Cannonade, but place them in a more direct line of fire; to the north, there appeared to be a service and back entrance to the abandoned law firm, likely leading to a safer position. The choice was theirs in how they continued, but one thing was for certain-- they needed to move, and move quick. Already, flashlights were sweeping along the roof and from the south towards their position, and the longer they loitered out in the open, the more likely they were to be spotted.

MOLT AND MIASMA, meanwhile, were past the point of discretion. While Molt returned fire through the hailstorm of the munitions fire-- a conflagration that had extended to the actual building itself and lit a portion of the structure ablaze-- Miasma set up a secondary distraction by engulfing a nearby vehicle in flames. The van caught fire relatively easily; in a few moments, the cabin was burning with disgusting, chemical-laced smoke from rubber and dyed cloth alike being turned to ash, and the entire chassis was blackening from soot and stripped paint from the fire. At some point, the gas tank would likely catch fire; for now, though, things seemed stable. The thing about explosions, however, was that they weren't exactly telegraphed.

Much like the secondary stage of the munitions fire. Ear-piercing shrieks and deafening crackles echoed out into the night as homemade napalm and repurposed fireworks were set alight, throwing molten fire into the air and onto the Jurors if they weren't careful enough to evade the hellfire they'd created. The place was a veritable warzone, and through the fog of battle, one thing was clear-- the building was burning, and it was burning quick. Given the fact that there were a total of two confirmed high-yield IEDs on the premises, this was not a wholly good thing.

It was effective, however, at flushing the militiamen on the ground out from behind their cover; some were easy marks, already half-consumed by flames as napalm coated their heads and sides; others dove for safer cover, returning shots through the smoke towards Molt and Miasma. One particularly smart-- or idiotic-- soldier rushed through the smoke and flames, faceless and decorated with a ballistic mask that had a skull upon its face.

His gaze found Molt, from her cover, and he charged-- aiming to tackle her directly, firing off two shots before he drew close enough to attempt a running bear-hug takedown onto the soot-covered dirt.

"Fucking spook," He growled. The side of his armor was singed; shrapnel stuck out along his arm and side. "I'm going to fucking lynch you after we kill your fucking friends."

Through the clamor, the sound of an engine might've cut through; another armored car-- some sort of modified Toyota Tacoma, in the spirit of African insurgent forces-- roared through the smoke, thumping over a fallen body and slamming through the flaming van Miasma had set alight. No visual on the driver, but one thing was clear--

-- in its truckbed, there was something covered by a tarp, and it was big.

 
Easy marks.

One after another terrorists fell, and by the time they caught on to the fact someone was shooting at them, Molt had already shifted position, moving behind another truck to reload her gun. Most of them probably weren't trained for a situation like this. Wannabe soldiers, dishonorably discharged, small town cops and overweight gun nuts. The ones that were military - active or not - still probably weren't used to this sort of chaos.

Pushing another clip into her mag, she glanced around the corner of the truck -

Shit. Someone was coming up on her. Didn't hear him over the explosions. Shit shit shit. She threw her arms over her face and upper chest as the charging asshole fired. One of the shots hit. Maybe both. The burn exploded across her arm, the side of her outfit wet in seconds. She didn't have much time to react before he tackled her to the ground.

They hit with a shock, rolling through dust and rocks and gravel. He knew enough to control her gun, and she knew enough to not fire it - she couldn't even tell where the fucking thing was pointed. Instead, she strained for her boot, bringing her leg up to meet her free hand. Couldn't reach. No knife.

"Choke on a dick, soycuck," she hissed back. "You're a fucking LARPer."

Then, flexing her hand, she drove the points of her talons into the gap below the man's body armor. Not enough to hurt him bad, but enough to distract him - enough to give her an opening to lurch forward against his grip and dig her teeth into the soft spot beneath his mask.
 
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