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The 88th Floor: Episode 1 - Tesla's Radio (9/22)
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<blockquote data-quote="HeapThaumaturgist" data-source="post: 1759379" data-attributes="member: 12332"><p>Yan was in motion before the rocketeer had even pressed the trigger. With a single bound he was speeding through the air, raindrops shattering against his face and coat like glass beads on marble. He touched lightly upon the roof of the auction house, and within three strides was airborne again, even as the rocket struck the stone facade of the building. He could feel the <strong>overpressure</strong> from the blast bouy him upward, billowing his rain gear out. In reality, the blast knocked him slightly off his intended course ... but the gunmen below would never know that.</p><p></p><p>He <strong>thundered</strong> in, coat fluttering behind him like the ribbon off the hilt of a Chinese broadsword. His foot struck the edge of the smoking launcher barrel, sending it <strong>spearing</strong> backward into one of the men, who had moved in after the backblast cleared. It took the goon in the face, dropping him in a clatter of fiberglass and steel. Yan landed with graceful ease behind the other hitter, who was still on one knee, and back-kicked him between the shoulder blades, knocking him prone. With a start and a yell, the other men pawed for their weapons, small submachine guns appearing from under coats. Yan dove to one side, rolled, and leapt, as leaden <strong>fire</strong> erupted on his heels. He vaulted <strong>UP</strong>, onto the criminals' van, and rolled as bullets tore with screaming fluidity through the thin metal of its panels. Several scored red heat along Yan's arm and flank, and he bit back a hiss of pain.</p><p></p><p>John Arm stalked forward as the firefight flared to life. None of the combatants registered his presence, and he walked up and tapped one of the machine-gun weilding thugs on the shoulder, casually taking his hands out of his pockets. As the thug turned, John laid a meaty, heavy-boned fist along his cheek with a dull <strong>thwock</strong>. The Serb fell like a cut marionette. One of the other gunmen turned, and John liften one eyebrow, fishing around in his coat pocket. </p><p></p><p>"Hey, buddy, got a light?" </p><p></p><p>The thug blinked, looked down at his partner, then back at John with confusion. It was the moment John needed, and his arm uncoiled like a serpent, steely death in his fist. His .44 reported like a cannon. The mafia-man squeezed his own trigger convulsivly, for the bullet had taken him in the throat, and John dodged clumisly to the side as slugs chewed the asphault and punched several holes in his trenchcoat. As the last slug whirled on him to draw a bead, John saw Yan illuminated in a burst of lightning, standing on the roof of the van. Even as death stared him in the face from behind the barrel of a gun, John smiled grimly.</p><p></p><p>Drawing on that secret training of the Tibetan monks, Yan directed his chi with infinite carefullness along particular meridians and energy lines of his body. With muscle-straining focus, his inner energies became manifest in the mystical Seven Dragon, Screaming Eagle Technique, which he released with a scream and a directive motion. His power struck from a full twenty feet away, like a sledgehammer blow to the mafia hit-man's skull, bursting certain blood vessels and disrupting the bio-electric flow of life. The Serbian criminal gurgled and blood rivuleted from his nose, and then collapsed to the ground ... stone dead.</p><p></p><p>"It does not please me that these individuals force me to utilize such skills." Yan said, slipping down from the van.</p><p></p><p>"Neat trick, though." John grunted, and levered himself to his feet. </p><p></p><p>"Occassionally useful." Yan said. They looked toward the crumbling Loveless and Kline.</p><p></p><p>----------------------------</p><p></p><p>Mordecai shifted around, kept low behind the table. He'd gotten to the dais, eventually, but had left all of his weapons at the Imperial Building. Lucky for him, the lot before Tesla's items had included an antique cricket bat, which had come in quite handy, but was now lying broken beside the inert form of the first guard. The second was, himself, hunkered down behind another overturned table, occassionally popping up to spray bullets in the Mordecai's general direction.</p><p></p><p>In truth, neither of them could see a whole lot. The room was dark, and neither had a strong idea of where the other was. Mordecai had stolen the first guard's submachinegun, and occassionally stuck it over the edge of his cover to blast a few blind rounds downrange. Mostly, he hoped he could keep the other guy pinned down long enough for someone to turn the lights back on.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="HeapThaumaturgist, post: 1759379, member: 12332"] Yan was in motion before the rocketeer had even pressed the trigger. With a single bound he was speeding through the air, raindrops shattering against his face and coat like glass beads on marble. He touched lightly upon the roof of the auction house, and within three strides was airborne again, even as the rocket struck the stone facade of the building. He could feel the [b]overpressure[/b] from the blast bouy him upward, billowing his rain gear out. In reality, the blast knocked him slightly off his intended course ... but the gunmen below would never know that. He [b]thundered[/b] in, coat fluttering behind him like the ribbon off the hilt of a Chinese broadsword. His foot struck the edge of the smoking launcher barrel, sending it [b]spearing[/b] backward into one of the men, who had moved in after the backblast cleared. It took the goon in the face, dropping him in a clatter of fiberglass and steel. Yan landed with graceful ease behind the other hitter, who was still on one knee, and back-kicked him between the shoulder blades, knocking him prone. With a start and a yell, the other men pawed for their weapons, small submachine guns appearing from under coats. Yan dove to one side, rolled, and leapt, as leaden [b]fire[/b] erupted on his heels. He vaulted [b]UP[/b], onto the criminals' van, and rolled as bullets tore with screaming fluidity through the thin metal of its panels. Several scored red heat along Yan's arm and flank, and he bit back a hiss of pain. John Arm stalked forward as the firefight flared to life. None of the combatants registered his presence, and he walked up and tapped one of the machine-gun weilding thugs on the shoulder, casually taking his hands out of his pockets. As the thug turned, John laid a meaty, heavy-boned fist along his cheek with a dull [b]thwock[/b]. The Serb fell like a cut marionette. One of the other gunmen turned, and John liften one eyebrow, fishing around in his coat pocket. "Hey, buddy, got a light?" The thug blinked, looked down at his partner, then back at John with confusion. It was the moment John needed, and his arm uncoiled like a serpent, steely death in his fist. His .44 reported like a cannon. The mafia-man squeezed his own trigger convulsivly, for the bullet had taken him in the throat, and John dodged clumisly to the side as slugs chewed the asphault and punched several holes in his trenchcoat. As the last slug whirled on him to draw a bead, John saw Yan illuminated in a burst of lightning, standing on the roof of the van. Even as death stared him in the face from behind the barrel of a gun, John smiled grimly. Drawing on that secret training of the Tibetan monks, Yan directed his chi with infinite carefullness along particular meridians and energy lines of his body. With muscle-straining focus, his inner energies became manifest in the mystical Seven Dragon, Screaming Eagle Technique, which he released with a scream and a directive motion. His power struck from a full twenty feet away, like a sledgehammer blow to the mafia hit-man's skull, bursting certain blood vessels and disrupting the bio-electric flow of life. The Serbian criminal gurgled and blood rivuleted from his nose, and then collapsed to the ground ... stone dead. "It does not please me that these individuals force me to utilize such skills." Yan said, slipping down from the van. "Neat trick, though." John grunted, and levered himself to his feet. "Occassionally useful." Yan said. They looked toward the crumbling Loveless and Kline. ---------------------------- Mordecai shifted around, kept low behind the table. He'd gotten to the dais, eventually, but had left all of his weapons at the Imperial Building. Lucky for him, the lot before Tesla's items had included an antique cricket bat, which had come in quite handy, but was now lying broken beside the inert form of the first guard. The second was, himself, hunkered down behind another overturned table, occassionally popping up to spray bullets in the Mordecai's general direction. In truth, neither of them could see a whole lot. The room was dark, and neither had a strong idea of where the other was. Mordecai had stolen the first guard's submachinegun, and occassionally stuck it over the edge of his cover to blast a few blind rounds downrange. Mostly, he hoped he could keep the other guy pinned down long enough for someone to turn the lights back on. [/QUOTE]
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The 88th Floor: Episode 1 - Tesla's Radio (9/22)
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