Rufus
New Member
[1148]
She was thinking of survivors when Death narrowly missed her, lodging itself into a brick and the next projectile determined to strike her off from that small certain list of four. Becka couldn’t tell what they were – there was no gunshot – but they were fast and chipped rubble off old Venetian bricks, so she ran for it like a proper agent should. The attacks followed her with difficulty as she ducked and spun through the narrow bridges and stair-infested passages that would characteristic of the city, but they did follow her.
One of them bounced with reduced force when it struck the wall at a weak angle, and without thinking she caught it; a silver needle, looking clean and non-venomous but certainly painful to be speared by. The speed they were travelling at suggested some sort of gun – or at least, they weren’t being thrown by normal human hands, and she couldn’t see anybody raising their arms to throw.
Weaving through the city without direction, the ex-schoolteacher had to admit something – it was the first time since Tokyo that her adrenaline was pumping, and the thrill of the chase was exciting even as she hated it. It wasn’t a choice right now, as the needles broke out sparks as they scraped the walls beside her, but Becka wished she could resist this, this life-and-death circumstance. Her survivor’s list floated dimly in the back of her mind, hanging about after the interruption.
There was Babel – machine-alive, breathing through an ugly mask, and there was Layla who was thankfully unharmed. Lieutenant Aragorn and Takanori-kun she hadn’t had to courage to check up on before she left Tokyo, so in the field of who she physically saw alive there were three. On the next level (and she didn’t dare go too far into the speculation) there was a mystery forth agent, construed from Layla’s cryptic story of how they had survived, a ghost rescue story. There was nothing to suggest he was alive, or even existed anywhere except trauma-dreams, but if he were real he didn’t sound like somebody who died easily.
A brief run through a public square went unmolested by projectiles, and by the time she had passed the area the attacks had resumed. She cursed; the pursuer couldn’t deal with civilian damage, she could have hid in the tourist crowds if she’d known.
Becka has been holding it off for a while now, but as she turned the latest corner she knew there was nothing else she could do. The idea still made her skin crawl, was too much a memory of the battles, was too Orpheus. But this long corridor was straight, and principles must be stalled in the face of impalement.
With a burst of feeling her body shook off corporeality. Feeling her flesh bubble with energy, the agent-on-holiday pushed a little off the ground and spun, before tearing through the air the way she came like a banshee. A needle punctured into her shoulder and went through; that was going to bruise when her body reformed, but at least now she could see who was to blame for that.
A small group hurriedly tried to back their way out of the alley as she came at them like a wave, her clothes and hair rolling into dark blue ribbons as Fear manifested. They looked like any other tourist family, with a man and his wife and – either a son, or a very short man, who scurried behind the other two. The lady reached into her bag and withdrew a gun, stopping Becka in her tracks (or something else, unless there are floating tracks). A bullet would still hurt, and if they were hunting her they most likely had spiritual weaponry.
The two men were being altered by the empathy field already, their minds moving slower than usual and pinpricks of depression bouncing in them. The lady’s confidence, on the other hand, was dangerously forward. “Who are you?” Becka demanded. “What is it you want?”
The man coughed. “We represent Cerberus Corporation-”
“Not the best start to your answer.” A low wave of Fear swept across the three like a growl. The man shuddered but the lady held her ground, cocking the gun.
He was, however, obviously reciting from something. “-and we would appreciate your time to discuss a matter that may be to your advantage, in the wake of the Tokyo disaster.” So they know her association with Orpheus. They probably salvaged personnel files from the rubble. “Because of your organisation’s collapse and current disorder, doubtlessly you have considered other options of…employment.”
It dawned. “You’re recruiting the surviving supernaturals.”
“We tracked your movements, then we followed your spiritual pressure. Which, by the way, is unshielded and we can train you for that. We have many resources available, and we pay very well.”A sniff.
“Yes, I can see,” Becka deadpanned, “how can you not, when the job interview is so…penetrative?”
The woman started to talk, and there’s a defiant honesty in her that was absent in her shifty male partner. It’s almost carelessness. “There is a high demand for existing agents at the moment. Many were killed in Tokyo and there is…resource competition. We have multiple methods of recruitment.” Meaning they’d take her unwillingly, get her addicted on their drugs and thus become dependent on the Corp.
“And if they don’t work?”
“We have many enemies.”
Becka considered this for a moment. “When you don’t have strength to harvest…”
“…you burn the fields before the invaders use it.” There is a dangerously delighted smile in the Cerberus lady’s face. “Whoever has the most agents has the most power. We’re not leaving it to chance.”
Slowly, with her hands raised high, the former schoolteacher floated back to the ground until her running shoes (a habit from Orpheus she hasn’t been able to break) touched the floor. “Is there anything I need to sign?” The male agent, obviously relieved, started to fish for something in his bag – and Becka took her chance, stepping forward quickly, a hand shot out to slam right on the side of his head. “See me. Look upon my visage. Feel me in your heart.”
She could see herself in his eyes now – eyes turned dark with power, hair stripped of colour into a mourning black – and as she suspected his ego was easily crushed and overwhelmed. The lady gave a cry, jerking her gun into action, but the man had already screamed and barrowed into her, sending to bullet skyward. In the distance tourists cried out at the sound – Becka could feel their fear, mixed in with excitement (because gunfights are just so Venetian) – and the canals rippled as speedboats rushed to investigate.
Pumping one more pulse of desperation into the Cerberus agents and their head-over-heel squabbling, she turned herself loose and took to the skies, skimming over rooftops and cursing the world.
She was thinking of survivors when Death narrowly missed her, lodging itself into a brick and the next projectile determined to strike her off from that small certain list of four. Becka couldn’t tell what they were – there was no gunshot – but they were fast and chipped rubble off old Venetian bricks, so she ran for it like a proper agent should. The attacks followed her with difficulty as she ducked and spun through the narrow bridges and stair-infested passages that would characteristic of the city, but they did follow her.
One of them bounced with reduced force when it struck the wall at a weak angle, and without thinking she caught it; a silver needle, looking clean and non-venomous but certainly painful to be speared by. The speed they were travelling at suggested some sort of gun – or at least, they weren’t being thrown by normal human hands, and she couldn’t see anybody raising their arms to throw.
Weaving through the city without direction, the ex-schoolteacher had to admit something – it was the first time since Tokyo that her adrenaline was pumping, and the thrill of the chase was exciting even as she hated it. It wasn’t a choice right now, as the needles broke out sparks as they scraped the walls beside her, but Becka wished she could resist this, this life-and-death circumstance. Her survivor’s list floated dimly in the back of her mind, hanging about after the interruption.
There was Babel – machine-alive, breathing through an ugly mask, and there was Layla who was thankfully unharmed. Lieutenant Aragorn and Takanori-kun she hadn’t had to courage to check up on before she left Tokyo, so in the field of who she physically saw alive there were three. On the next level (and she didn’t dare go too far into the speculation) there was a mystery forth agent, construed from Layla’s cryptic story of how they had survived, a ghost rescue story. There was nothing to suggest he was alive, or even existed anywhere except trauma-dreams, but if he were real he didn’t sound like somebody who died easily.
A brief run through a public square went unmolested by projectiles, and by the time she had passed the area the attacks had resumed. She cursed; the pursuer couldn’t deal with civilian damage, she could have hid in the tourist crowds if she’d known.
Becka has been holding it off for a while now, but as she turned the latest corner she knew there was nothing else she could do. The idea still made her skin crawl, was too much a memory of the battles, was too Orpheus. But this long corridor was straight, and principles must be stalled in the face of impalement.
With a burst of feeling her body shook off corporeality. Feeling her flesh bubble with energy, the agent-on-holiday pushed a little off the ground and spun, before tearing through the air the way she came like a banshee. A needle punctured into her shoulder and went through; that was going to bruise when her body reformed, but at least now she could see who was to blame for that.
A small group hurriedly tried to back their way out of the alley as she came at them like a wave, her clothes and hair rolling into dark blue ribbons as Fear manifested. They looked like any other tourist family, with a man and his wife and – either a son, or a very short man, who scurried behind the other two. The lady reached into her bag and withdrew a gun, stopping Becka in her tracks (or something else, unless there are floating tracks). A bullet would still hurt, and if they were hunting her they most likely had spiritual weaponry.
The two men were being altered by the empathy field already, their minds moving slower than usual and pinpricks of depression bouncing in them. The lady’s confidence, on the other hand, was dangerously forward. “Who are you?” Becka demanded. “What is it you want?”
The man coughed. “We represent Cerberus Corporation-”
“Not the best start to your answer.” A low wave of Fear swept across the three like a growl. The man shuddered but the lady held her ground, cocking the gun.
He was, however, obviously reciting from something. “-and we would appreciate your time to discuss a matter that may be to your advantage, in the wake of the Tokyo disaster.” So they know her association with Orpheus. They probably salvaged personnel files from the rubble. “Because of your organisation’s collapse and current disorder, doubtlessly you have considered other options of…employment.”
It dawned. “You’re recruiting the surviving supernaturals.”
“We tracked your movements, then we followed your spiritual pressure. Which, by the way, is unshielded and we can train you for that. We have many resources available, and we pay very well.”A sniff.
“Yes, I can see,” Becka deadpanned, “how can you not, when the job interview is so…penetrative?”
The woman started to talk, and there’s a defiant honesty in her that was absent in her shifty male partner. It’s almost carelessness. “There is a high demand for existing agents at the moment. Many were killed in Tokyo and there is…resource competition. We have multiple methods of recruitment.” Meaning they’d take her unwillingly, get her addicted on their drugs and thus become dependent on the Corp.
“And if they don’t work?”
“We have many enemies.”
Becka considered this for a moment. “When you don’t have strength to harvest…”
“…you burn the fields before the invaders use it.” There is a dangerously delighted smile in the Cerberus lady’s face. “Whoever has the most agents has the most power. We’re not leaving it to chance.”
Slowly, with her hands raised high, the former schoolteacher floated back to the ground until her running shoes (a habit from Orpheus she hasn’t been able to break) touched the floor. “Is there anything I need to sign?” The male agent, obviously relieved, started to fish for something in his bag – and Becka took her chance, stepping forward quickly, a hand shot out to slam right on the side of his head. “See me. Look upon my visage. Feel me in your heart.”
She could see herself in his eyes now – eyes turned dark with power, hair stripped of colour into a mourning black – and as she suspected his ego was easily crushed and overwhelmed. The lady gave a cry, jerking her gun into action, but the man had already screamed and barrowed into her, sending to bullet skyward. In the distance tourists cried out at the sound – Becka could feel their fear, mixed in with excitement (because gunfights are just so Venetian) – and the canals rippled as speedboats rushed to investigate.
Pumping one more pulse of desperation into the Cerberus agents and their head-over-heel squabbling, she turned herself loose and took to the skies, skimming over rooftops and cursing the world.