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Before the news broadcast even goes out, before anyone else has a reason to come running, Petra -- who is on duty and chilling in her wagon with her co-workers -- receives the call from dispatch. The ambulance arrives before anyone else, before the cops, before the news reporters. Another wagon is on its way, but at the moment, it's just them.
The sight is a really awful one: Doll's crumpled body on the ground, blood spilling onto the pavement, and Peter kneeling next to her, bleeding from a deep cut on his stomach which he's entirely ignoring at the moment. He's pulled off his fucked-up Red Sox shirt and is pressing it to Doll's wound as best he can; his massive hand covers most of the monstrous cut to her stomach, and speaks in a low, rumbly voice like rocks rolling slowly over each other, repeating the same words over and over. "It's okay, Dolly. I got you. Someone's coming. Stay with me, Dolly. I can hear the sirens. It'll be okay." People don't say clever things when there are mortals standing around and they can't do anything but hold a t-shirt to their wife's stomach.
And there are mortals around: people love a good show, and South Philly doubly so. Two young Black men wearing t-shirts and jeans sit on the steps of a row house right next to where Doll fell. One holds a smart phone in his hands and stares at the screen -- or through it, really. It's doubtful that he's seeing whatever video flashes across the screen.
One of the servers from McGillin's comes running out from the restaurant with a bunch of clean bar towels, clearly someone who saw what was happening and ran back in for whatever she could grab.
The police start to pull up. The news truck arrives, and quickly begins broadcasting. The world is a wash of red, white and blue lights, worried people, and blood.
Petra was on duty, the tiny bird was in an official EMT uniform. It was tricky with wings but she'd made some non-regulation modifications to the shirt and jacket. She'd never expected to run into freeholders while on the job like this, and she gasped when she saw just how badly Doll was looking. "Harry, see to the man. Stomach" she snapped at her partner on the bus while she knelt down next to Doll. "Sir, I'm going to need you to step back and let my friend take a look at you. I'll take care of her." She tried to catch Peter's attention- to make him see her. The Healer. "Let me work."
The speed with which Detective Yuri Androvich arrives on scene is technically speaking impossible, but reality is kind enough to overlook that fact for him just this once. He'd cheated every light, and dodged every vehicle between his center city penthouse and the crime scene, moving more like a NASCAR driver than a cop.
He parks a short ways distant, hops out of his car, and begins striding confidently towards the crime scene, with the swagger of a mediocre white man empowered by the state to do violence without fear of reprisal. Hopefully the cop walk strut will be enough to sell his authenticity, though he keeps a hand in his pocket just in case he needs to conjure a badge on short notice, and his prior conjurings not prove sufficient to win him a place on scene. He'll have a better chance if he's the first detective to reach it, and so he quickens his pace. "Ay! Ay! Yo! Boots!" He calls to a car of officers that are disembarking their vehicles. "Detective Androvich, Vice. You two get a perimeter going, clear the lane for the paramedics, alright?" Clear, concise directions. He doesn't stick around to be debated with, he moves right on to the next car to direct them, "You. You. Go get witness statements. Get that kid to stop filming, see if he'll shoot you the video. Don't threaten to confiscate the phone, alright? Last thing we need's a fucking rally on the scene..."
His general course is aiming for the victim on the ground.
It didn't take long for Artie to arrive from the southside. He'd been relaxing at the bar waiting on a drink when he'd seen the subtitles on the broadcast.
Mood absolutely tanked, his mantle a sweltering tumult of a heat haze, the wizened pushed his way outside to his car. Always ready like a boy scout, he'd slipped into different clothes, strapped on some less conspicuous items and sped off to the scene.
Face set in a scowl of concern rather foreign to his kind features, he was at the front of the tape chomping at the bit to get beside his friends.
"Petra!" The Summer called out to let her know he was here.(edited)
To the mortals and non-Changelings present, there's not much to notice. A few out of season autumn leaves skittering across the ground.
To the Changelings, Vorpal's arrival is immediately, tangibly, notable. The familiar swell of Wyrd washing over them, colored by the swirl of Autumn leaves and the feeling that the doors might not lead where they did a moment ago. Distinctly Vorpal. Possibly reassuring. She's not easy to spot though. She's wearing dark clothing on an unlit roof against a dark sky, staring down into the alley and taking stock of everything- EVERYTHING- she can see. Hints, clues, actors, obstacles, whatever she can see that she might be able to leverage against...
against
whoever did this.
She doesn't stay visible long. Long enough to case the alley and glean what she can before she invokes a Contract of Swords, letting her senses melt into the shadows and find one shadow, one particular shadow...
... the one behind whoever did this.
The rumble of a motorcycle engine joined in with the rest of the cacophony going on around the alleyway as Aurelio made his arrival, parking the bike off to the side before approaching the scene. While the heat of his Mantle was going full bore the look in his eyes was one of pure jet-black fury, as frozen as the Realm from which he had escaped from.
Yuri closes onto the scene and pauses just shy of where Petra's at work. He briefly rests his fingers on her shoulder, just to announce his presence. "Doc, I got the guys setting up a perimeter. You need anything from us? Equipment from the wagon, or anything?" As his fingers rests lightly on her uniform shoulder, he cuts loose with an attainment that doesn't so much as tickle the chin of one's supernal senses. Then he begins staring at the ground, searching it with his eyes, even sniffing at the air lightly, as though that might lend him clues. (It might, you never know.)
Peter doesn't look up at first, sort of locked in to the moment the way that people who are just trying to get through to the next moment often are. Once he looks up a handful of seconds later, at the second sir, his fire-pit eyes brighten just a little bit. "Ah, shit," he mumbles, but that mumbling is relieved, and the emphasis on that second syllable sounds like a drowning man gulping in a lungful of air. His massive bulk slumps back, and he sort of lands on his ass on the sidewalk, backwards from a kneel. He doesn't move after that, just letting the other EMT look at his stomach, but one of his huge hands shakily reaches to touch Doll's splayed hand with an incredible gentleness for someone so large. It's like watching the stone giant delicately hold a baby bird in his palm. "Dolly," he repeats the term of endearment softly.
It's worth noting that Peter has extensive scarring on his bared torso: whip-marks, thick old scars that come from blades, what looks like an old brand on his shoulder. Even the other Summers have never seen them before.
The cops fan out as Yuri directs them: the perimeter goes up, a lane cleared for the paramedics. Police start moving the residents of Drury Street and those at the pub away from the scene. A younger woman officer goes over to crouch in front of the two young men and talk to them quietly.
There was a scent of warm, freshly turned earth around Petra, like Spring awakening the world after a long Winter. "Fuck off and let me work!" she snarled at Vasha. Her warm and caring attitude was probably why she'd never been promoted. "Get the wheels if you want to help, and make sure a second bus is on the way." She breathed a little easier when Doll's wounds began to slowly stabilize and heal beneath her touch. She took the time to glance over at Peter. "How's he doing?" she asked her coworker. "I've got a stable pulse here. She's still in shock but she'll be fine when we get her to the hospital."(edited)
Yuri doesn't even flinch at Petra's less than generous attitude. That this interaction perfectly encapsulates the life of your work-a-day Guardian of the Veil largely explains why, one supposes. He breaks his stare at the ground to call over to another loitering pair of cops. "You two. Call dispatch, make sure we have an RA unit en route, and call in a second RA unit per the paramedic on scene." He asides down to the still annoyed and decidedly unchatty Petra, "Heckuva night to be without a radio, eh?" As he steps around the whole drama, he sidesteps into the crime scene carefully and adopts a crouch, right there in his pearl white track suit, rubbing at his stubbly chin with his free hand.
And then he sends Arthur a quick wink on the sly as his focus turns to the ground again, then that focuses fades entirely as he slowly pushes the sunglasses up over his milky vision.
Taking an opportunity to slip closer while the uniforms formed a perimeter, Artie opened his senses to magic and took note of the mystically inclined around.
His legs took him to Peter first, he kneeled down to the giant of a man. "Hey Peter.seems like Petra's gonna make sure Doll is gonna be ok. So please tell me you got a piece of that guy?"
Rather than cut through the perimeter Aurelio made his way up to the line through sheer "I'm 6'4" and pissed, get out of my way" energy, giving the other Summers present a nod while watching the gathered crowd. Any signs of the one who did this, or at least someone who was especially interested in the goings on, were watched for.
Vorpal tenses up as her magicks run into a brick wall, squinting into thin air as she sends them out again. Once more, they reach- almost- and snap back, the doors to her target shut just ahead of her grasping, furiously metaphorical fingers.
"Keep it up, you bitch, I can do this all day."
"Not as much of one as I'd like, kid," admits Peter in response to Artie, the fire in his eyes burning low. Now is the time when the guilt sets in, apparently. The EMT glances across Peter and briefly meets Artie's eyes, a small shrug following. Apparently this sort of thing is pretty normal. "The bastard just rolled up on us. Never seen anything quite like it." And it's woven in his low, gravely voice, even though he doesn't say the words: and I failed Doll.
There's shame, and then there's the humilation of letting your wife get almost killed by a random sword guy in a mask, followed by that shame being seen by people who count on you to have your shit together all the time.
Yuri's squinting at the ground behind his shades ends. He slowly unspools from the ground, wets his lips, and lowers his sunglasses again to begin watching the crowd of bystanders. Most he skips over, but some his gaze lingers on. Aurelio and Vorpal, for example. Petra and Arthur, though Arthur is given an encouraging 'It's going to be okay' smile. Like he knows a secret that he isn't telling. Like this deck they've been dealing from? He loaded. His decisions made, Yuri crosses himself, lifts his orthodox crucifix to his lips, and settles his hand on the grip of his silver pistol.
Time to do something so stupid it just might work: The Acanthus Epitaph.
"It's going to be alright," Petra promised Peter as she worked to wrap up Doll's wound for transport. "Stay calm, you'll both be fine. My friend here is great, you're in good hands."
Artie offers Peter a wan smile. "It's alright. You did a lot. I saw. And what kind of psyvho attacks people with a sword right?" He tried to assure.
As the paramedic looked his way, Artie shared the same soft smile with the guy. "Thanks. He's doin' alright though? Maybe you could snag the stretcher for his wife?" The young man suggested subtly?
Then he saw Vasha and his eyebrows knitted in confusion. Why was that guy looking so coy? He knew that he was a magic-type but well.... Coy magic types were nerve-inducing when they made that face.
What is time, really? If matter and energy (and really, what's the difference) cease to evidence state change, can there be said to be time at all? Without change? Is stasis the absence of time, or is stasis a point in time? These, and many similar questions, leap very immediately into pressing consideration as the world suddenly just stops.
Somehow, impossibly, they don't. For a brief moment, they experience a sensation of lurching forward in temporality entirely disjointed from the one to which they belonged. Little spiders balooning on the breeze of possibility. And then the left hand of Detective Androvich slowly lifts from his side, holding his silver pistol less like a weapon and more like a talisman, gesturing and swirling it over his head as that frozen moment of time begins to unwind itself. All those stitches of moments, all those careful darned corners of what was untangle and untether as what was certainty, what was known, becomes only one potential outcome of an infinite array.
And each one of those possible futures play out around the detective, as he leans and swerves, dodging blows from swung blades, block a red robed arm with a knife he is presently not carrying, and myriad other scenarios. And then, in a shower of light that has all the light and dazzle of a pouring of silver coins, the moment resolves again, and their temporal feet are set gentle onto the sidewalk of Drury St, moments before the attack on Doll and Peter.
All those possible futures snake back into Yuri as he spins his pistol about to ready it as a weapon again. "Don't touch the mask, my comrades. You have six seconds to prepare." That's the explanation. That's it. That's all he has.(edited)
Vorpal, for one, is intimately familiar with what time looks like racing backwards, albeit on a much smaller scale. To see the world itself rewound, steadily, consistently, all the way to before they even arrived?
This was not an opportunity she was going to let slip. She speaks a sound- one deeply and personally familiar - the name of the first owner of her blade. Perfection settles over the blade as it already lies over Vorpal's clothing. She was given time to prepare, and a glimpse of what is to come- has happened- will happen. And so she stares, deadly focused on the space where there will, shortly, be a deadly threat to the Freehold- and, if she has anything to say about it- the spot on which they will remain while their deadly intent is defused, knife bared and ready if needed... but hopefully not.(edited)
Petra was on her knees, hands bloody from working on Doll when they went back in time and let loose a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. She jumped to her feet and looked around wildly. And licked her talons clean off the blood.
Artie's golden eyes darted around for a second as he pieced together what had happened. As Vasha was explaining their situation, the wizened was already in motion, slipping into the alley and out of view of passerby.
Pulling a quarter, he gave it a dance over his knuckles and a flip before catching it with deftness between two fingers and invoked a contract. Scraps of metal nearby whipping and twisting into a sharpened shaft.
A breath and he seems to get just a little more imposing. But just a smidge. He is but a cute little twunk after all.
Yuri's stuck in an espionage masque for the time being, lacking the time to debrief out of the Gopnik into the Read Death. So he is perhaps a bit less cavalier than he might otherwise be. His prior magic was brazen, vulgar, obvious, and crude. It could be no other sort. Now, he is all subtlety and silence. His empty hand twitches through vague forms of Mudras, so subtle as to perhaps dodge notice. The motions of his hand, disguised as an adjustment of the shirt, or a tip of the hat, they all work to effect the magic The Gopnik will need to fight and to win.
He hopes.
His first effect falls into place like a shrowd, colorless, scentless, without a ripple on the supernal senses of others. No sooner is the first concluded than he winds up the will a second time, this time as he eases back into some cover with good vantage on where the suspect is going to appear. His pistol, still held in hand, is kept close to his side. All but palmed to hide it from view as he continues to surge potentia and will into every fiber of his pattern.
The street isn't entirely empty -- McGillin's is a popular Irish pub in South Philly, where there are a lot of Irish-Americans. It's around 8 PM, so cars do pass now and again, and people come and go from rowhouses up and down the street. The Veil could still potentially be a problem!
As time starts to tick again in the proper direction, the soft pink neon of the McGillin's sign lights the night; the sound of laughter and dishware trickle out from the pub, just as the door opens and a dark-haired woman in a t-shirt that reads I ONLY LOOK SWEET AND HARMLESS and a pair of jeans leads the way down the stairs as a massive man in a Red Sox shirt holds the door for her. She spins around to look up the pub's entry stairs at him, adoration glittering in her bright blue eyes. "That was fun! I liked winning the trivia game because I knew all of the answers, and making the man in the Mets hat so angry because I knew all of the statistics about the baseball seasons!"
"Yeah, Doll, just-- just don't do that with a Phillies fan, okay? No one gives a shit about the Mets."
"Peter, I have lived in South Philadelphia for many years. I will not make fun of the Phillies in an Irish public house in South Philadelphia."
"Okay, Dolly, okay."
Yuri gets settled in and lets the impossibly long seconds tick by. Waiting. Waiting. As he does so, he mumbles to himself as though by rote, as though it calmed him somehow, a snippet of poetry. "The gold fields lie down, flat but not empty, and will be harvested later with blades. Near Odessa I come to a place where the end is beginning. Where the light is absolute, we rise. We are Odessa's wroth." He checks his safety one final time, checks his breathing, and becomes one with that heartbeat of his. Waiting through that final second like the little forever it is to him.
Petra spread her wings as she wrapped the power of the Wyrd around herself. "Doll!" She screamed out. "Watch out!"
Johnnie's focus doesn't waver. She's aware- watching, really, best she can- of Doll and Peter stepping out of McGillin's in what had previously been the last moments prior to what could have been Doll's untimely demise, but to drink that in would be selfish. A disservice, feeding her own want to feel good about them rather than staying focused on what WILL be BETTER- them, unharmed. She holds her perch as gargoyle, dark coat whipping in the wind, one hand's fingers fed into Sigknifr's knuckle guards, ready to try to render impossible the unthinkable- and already calculating trajectories to dive to earth should that prove insufficient.
Tightening his grip on the spear, Artie took a deep breath as he heard the Woods.
As Petra called out, the Summer bent his knees. Fast and quiet thats all they had to be right now. Pulling his mask up to hide his face, he waited for things to pop off.(edited)
Aurelio breaks off from the group as soon as he spots the kid who'd been sitting on a porch step with his friend and watching a video numbly. The kid doesn't have the video yet and hopefully never will, since the Summer glassblower walks over to him and starts diverting him, asking for directions, chatting about random stuff, and sort of herding the two young men away from the scene.
The masked figure appears right after Petra screams: red gloves, black robes, and an iron mask. The sword spins in the gloved hand of the slight, tall figure, though the true build of the individual inside the robes is largely a mystery. Vasha feels something wash over them, some sort of effect, but all he knows for sure is that it isn't targeting him.
Peter and Doll turn toward the scream...
Vasha attempts to intercede in the effect by reaching in and rearranging the opposition's timeline, but the attempt fails. So much for doing things the easy way.
"Close your eyes and rest your head or else you will soon be dead. Sleep will come and you will wake, or else your life we will take." Petra was a terrible singer. It was a fact established in many a karaoke bar but it'd never stopped her and she sang the snatch of lullaby that carried on a Spring breeze to the would-be-assassin's ear, lulling him toward magical slumber.
The funny thing about attacking mages is that sometimes strange things happen.
Things like Petra falling asleep instead.
Good night, sweet princess.
The intruder, the assailant, the absolute motherfucker with the gods-damned audacity to raise steel against the most beloved members of the Freehold shows up like the cocky, arrogant fuck they are, twirling their sword while they tromp around in HERS sneakers whose imprints they fully intend to fill with the blood of the Woods. They shrug off Vasha's intervention. They rebound Petra's mercy. It seems the wicked is Protected.
A shame, then, they forgot to safeguard their tools.
The Autumn witch straightens on the rooftop, visualizing the ribbon of space, time, through which that blade will cleave, through which she watched it cleave in reverse- through thin air, through Peter's chest, through Doll's belly, and back into its sheathe before vanishing into nothingness, from whence its bearer will- has JUST- come. She visualizes, she fills the thought with Glamour...
And she cuts it.
Sigknifr tears through the sword's future, it's past, cutting it clean of both, severing where it Is from Has Been and Will Be. There's only Is, now, and it Is not currently cutting Peter, nor Doll, nor anybody.
The sword Is.
And until Vorpal says otherwise, Being is all it can do.
Peter and Doll turn toward the sound of Petra's voice, just in time to see her collapse. Without asking for updates or questioning the situation, the big man turns toward the fight and lunges in. He moves quickly for his size but there's still some distance to cover, and when he closes in on the target, raises his big meaty fist, punches the figure right in its mask, connects...
... and staggers back howling in pain as the skin on his hand cracks apart and falls off. The Lost see stone crack and shatter. The damage bares tendons as they snap and sizzle like his hand's being cooked.
Just one thing does that, and now all the Lost know for certain why Vasha told them (but not Doll and Peter) 'don't touch the mask.'
She's most of the way to Petra when she sees the damage, and Doll yells, "Peter, I think you should not touch that again!"
"Thanks, Doll," Peter offers through gritted teeth. "Hadn't figured that one out myself."
"I am very helpful!" she agrees, grabbing Petra by the shoulders and starting to pull her back toward the curb.
Artie,poised for attack, slips in from behind Peter's bulk and sweeps with his hastily formed spear. His attack is low as he swipes the legs out from under the assailant with a twirl of his spear.
A glint can be seen as he moves though and something flashes into one of their eyes with a small spout of blood. Apparently Artie isn't here to play around.
When Artie hits the figure, no damage occurs, and the figure does not fall down.
However, wounds open on Petra's legs.
The Interfauxter's high-pitched howl of frustration from behind their mask when their sword freezes turns into a grunt when Peter punches them in the face. They let go of the sword and leave it hanging in the air, and their now-freed gloved hands spin briefly in the air.
Then again, there's another Mage here, and the effect fizzles. Everyone doesn't know how happy they are about that fact, but maybe the secondary howl of frustration from the masked figure gives some clue.
Yuri remains in hiding for the time being, though he can sense the incoming magic quick enough. He flicks a hand through the air with his pistol and picks apart the threads of the Imago before it ever has a chance to lash the rest of his comrades. "It's pointless. Anything you do to that one, you'll do to your friend! Give me a moment, and fight defensively. Keep it occupied. Target its clothing and equipment-- just not the mask. It isn't what it carries." Having spoken, Yuri steps out of his cover, silver pistol in hand, and tosses the other mage a chin up. It's only war. It's nothing personal. "Take off the mask. Let's see your eyes with some life in them still."(edited)
Petra woke with a cry of pain, and tears pricked at her blinded eyes. She flailed in confusion as she tried to reorient herself and figure out what had happened to her. She twisted her head towards the wizard's howl of frustration and spat towards him. "You Fucking Bastard, you're going to pay for this." She dug her fingers into the earth beyond the curb where she was sitting and called up Spring to defend her and the others, summoning plants to grow, tangle, and bind.
Frustration. Rage. Vorpal's felt both, felt them, reacted to them, many a time, and one of the most common, almost inevitable reactions happens to play very, very well into Vorpal's personal aims to prevent this person from successfully doing- well, any of the things they're trying to do, honestly. They've declared war on Her Family, and if there's one thing Direct Action knows about harming family...
An injury to one is an injury to all.
The Autumn witch in all her splendor, standing in the night above the battle, cuts again, but still Sigknifr touches not one scrap of flesh, spills not one drop of blood, for it is Time she cuts, and she carves it, this time, away from the hand that had first held the sword, presuming it their dominant hand, the moment frustration forces it into that most human of responses- the clenched fist. With the leather now like frozen steel trapping their hand not just in place but in the precise position it's in, that hand is a shackle, tying the offender to their fate at the hands of their targets and everyone that loves them...
And the absolutely amazing wizard that's shitting all over what's probably a lot of Very Clever Plans to Mage their way out of this. He's going to get a particularly heartfelt thank you later.
Peter howls with pent-up rage. The Right-Hand Victor is Summer's Biggest Hammer, and therefore every problem looks like a nail. A crackling heat washes over everyone as the Ogre's Mantle flares, turning the cool Spring night into a sweltering Summer evening, if only for a moment. The warmth so familiar to the other Lost and not so familiar to Vasha roils over them as he curses, "Aw, fuck this and fuck ya motha!" in his thick Boston accent. One big foot rises and STOMPS down on the back of the Interfector's robe, pinning the back of it to the earth.
Doll flutters her hands when Petra wakes up. "Oh no! Petra, you are bleeding!" Doll does state the obvious now and again. The former Spring's fingers curl in the air, making use of a Contract still her province to invoke, and Petra's wounds close themselves; even the bruises fade away. Her work pants are torn up, though.(edited)
Piecing together a set of problems, Artie switches up tactics just a bit.
Tossing Peter his spear in the hopes the giant can use it, Arthur hotswaps to one of his Bowie knives and tumbles around the masked mage's person trying to get out of sight.(edited)
Peter catches the spear, which looks like a child's toy in his big hand.
The Interfector, increasingly trapped, struggles against the frozen glove, the stomped-on robe, and the people closing in on them. "My face doesn't matter. My eyes don't matter," the voice behind the mask answers. A woman's voice, high and sweet-sounding, for all of the venom in it. "You cannot kill me in any way that will matter to your Fate. Yours or your Fae-spawn pals." She somehow manages to make the word 'pals' sound like she's sneering down her nose at disobedient children, even as the iron mask itself makes her words echo hollowly.
Vasha spots what appears to be a greasy smear of some sort of Awakened magic hovering and slowly drifting up and down, just over McGillin's roof. An effect attempts to flare -- Vasha sees it in his Prime Sight -- and then...
Yuri maneuvers closer to Petra, his hands and fingers engaging in a type of combat that it's difficult for his confederates to understand. Clearly the pair of mages are fighting tooth and nail back and forth, though the effects are subtle and inscrutable. And all the while, the Abyss gathers nearer, exacting heavier and heavier costs from the will workers involved, sapping their potentia and draining their will. It's playing out like a prize fight, with the lighter and faster boxer wearing down the stronger and larger of the two. Judging by the grin Yuri's wearing, it's not his arms that are getting tired.
He advances in a fencing crouch, pistol leading the way, jabbing it through first one, then two, then three threads of his rival's imago, sending it spinning out into uselessness, sucking away more potentia with it while expending none of his own. And he's closer now, poised at the side of the pissed off and justifiably angry bird woman. "It's not so fun fighting someone trained to kill you, is it? Surrender now, and I won't kill you in a pocket realm where meta-temporality can't save you. No reboot for you, little Cylon."
Vasha's silver pistol raises, gleaming with focused potentia and heavy with the threads of fate.
"Surrender, Liar. The offer you never gave Odessa."
Flowers and vines, all the green growth on the street that was getting ready to bloom, broke out in a riot of spring colors and grew in a tangle, chasing towards the mage in Petra's wake as the tiny, positively furious bird, stalked towards the masked murderer. Then she between one step and the next, one breath and another, she and her foliage entourage just weren't there.
It's not clear to the others precisely what changes, but it gives Yuri cause to smile wider and move his finger from alongside the guard to resting on the trigger, "Now. Do it."(edited)
Petra vanishes, Vasha speaks, and like she was summoned by the Mage himself, down comes the Wyrd Wytch of the... McGinnis Rooftops. There's a ripple of leather in the air and then the sickening, bone-dull thud of someone's bell getting WELL and TRULY rung as Vorpal joins the fray and clobbers the Interfector in the side of the head not coated in existence-consuming hatemetal. "An injury to one of us is an injury to all, coward. Surrender like the nice man says- it's the closest thing to mercy you're gonna get."
This very smooth line from Vasha may be somewhat ... changed... by the fact that Doll -- this slender, china-doll woman -- comes running up from where she was standing next to Petra and just yells right in the Interfauxter's face, even as this scene becomes a Supernatural Boot Party. "You! You are very mean! I do not like you! Why are you being so mean? You don't have to be like this. But you are! You are just terrible! And you know what? I am NOT terrible. I am very nice. We could have been friends, but you are not as good a person as I am, on account of being so very mean and terrible! I make cookies for my friends, and I heal them and fix their clothing! This makes me a better person than you and that is a FACT!"
The Interfauxter, though stunned, weaves back and forth a little, and Vasha can see the splash of brilliantly hot Fae magic across his Prime senses.
At the words "Now, Do it." Artie spins around like a top, dancing around the big body that is Peter and brings his knife to bear.
A dextrous sort, few might've even seen him toss the knife over all of their heads only to be caught as he brought an arm down. With a timing few on earth could hope to match, he brings the butt of his knife down on her head with a sickening crack that could leave the faint of heart queasy.
"Shut up! Gosh you're so rude." And as the woman collapses he adds, "And never touch my friends again. Or next time I'll use the pointy end." He promptly kicks dirt on her and looks around.
"Sorry. Peter. I was gonna let you do that."(edited)
Pistol still aimed, Yuri pulls out his phone and blindly dials a number from the speed dial. He puts the phone to his ear and, after a very brief wait for an answer says, "Are the kids clean for dinner?" His eyes momentarily scan the street. "I'm at Drury, near McGillin's. Mmm. Yeah, I figure you'd mind since there's something the matter. I don't want to force the issue, but I mean. Yeah, right. Exactly. I figure two." A quick glance at his watch. "Mmhmm. Yep. Sure. I can box up my meal. It's getting real cold, anyway." His eyes fix on their captive when he speaks of his dinner. "You too, honey." He ends the call and slides the phone away, then adopts a slav crouch before the frozen, beaten, bloodied, and unconscious Seer. His head tilts slowly, as though looking her over for something familiar. Something human. Something to show there really is worth in every life after all. His head just shakes with a frustrated sigh and his hand swishes in the air, tossing the unconscious body into his own personal Magely oubliette.
She was there once. She isn't now. The blood on the pavement remains, though. Vasha slowly uncoils from the ground and notes, "My people will come to secure the scene. We'll keep you out of the papers, off the televisions. If you leave now, they will not even need to know you were involved. I am sorry for this attack on your people. This fool violated the Shadow War. It will be punished severely. If you wish, I will surrender myself to your custody to answer for this one's behavior. My people will still come, and will still do as I have said." He looks to Petra, the woman who most recently slapped him and told him to fuck off. "You are kindly. You fix broken things. I tried to keep you safe, I am sorry." Another glance to Peter, a nod to his hand, "My people can fix that. I tried to warn your people-- I only knew the stories, I wasn't sure." He's already ejected the magazine from his pistol and run the slide to eject the shot he never actually got around to firing. The disassembled weapon is held towards them all plaintively.
The mask, properly secured in place, does not fall away when the Interfauxter falls. She doesn't totally hit the floor, though: she just sort of awkwardly hangs in place, suspended from the glove frozen in the air. Blood blossoms up under the hood of her robe and dribbles down onto the street.
The fight is over.
Then, of course, she isn't there because Vasha put her into a pocket timeline. There's only a couple of splashes of blood on the street.
That weird grey smear of magic that Vasha saw over the pub? It sort of casually flies away, up and over the city.
"What happened?" Petra demanded, whirling around in place and then shaking an admonishing finger at the plants and releasing the contract so they slowly returned to their natural inanimate state. Her gaze caught on Peter's fist and her eyes went wide. "Need help there, Doll?"
"Huh? Oh. No. I was just gonna take you at your word. Are Wizards notorious liars?" Artie asks.
"Anyway. We don't *like taking people generally. So for now. Do your job and we'll have the big wigs reach out soon. If you aren't around when we call well... You know the problems it'll cause and I doubt you want that. You helped us here today and so we'll give you just a little trust. Seem good to everyone else? Ok then. Shax folx, let's meet at the place."
When Vorpal speaks on his behalf, he looks genuinely confused. As though he's about to argue. But common sense catches up with him, and he just shrugs at the others and tries on his best disarming Gopnik grin, complete with a silver tinted front. (Built in Yantra, boy.) "Um. Sure?" Clearly this is the first time an attempted counter-assassination has ended up in a dinner date. "Call us." He doesn't go about reassembling his weapon, but he does hold it above the reach of the vines. "Some wizards are notorious liars, yes. Like the one we just fought. We even call them servants of the Lie. I just have an unbound fate, that's all. Your sticky promises tend not to on me, that's all."
Before they all depart he notes, "Before you all go? What we prevented-- no one else knows it happened. We are the only ones that know. So if you speak of this attack to others, they will know nothing of the earlier attack. The news, the video, the cameras. You understand? We undid that. If you want our work to succeed best once you are gone, only speak of what we did after the rewind. Try to forget the rest. Put it out of your mind, if you can." The blood, and the screaming, and the paleness of Doll. Just put it out of your mind. "And thank you. You helped me capture one of my sworn enemies. And helped avenge a great wrong. I will remember you all for this." He hastens to add, "In the good way."
"Mm. I will, then," Johnnie asserts at the invitation to call. And about being remembered? "As will I. Again, thank you." She looks to the others gathered, leaning over towards Artie. "You should call "the place" the Shack shack. That's what I think." That's all she says, though, before she does exactly as she said, and Artie suggested- and leaves. Quickly, discretely, drawing as little attention as possible as she wanders off into the city to be anyplace but the prevented murder scene.
"Oh, yes, I would like help very much," Doll agrees, tilting her head to look at Petra and offering her a very mechanical sort of smile. The coin-operated girl lets go of Peter's hand and even takes a step back for the Spring to take a proper look at Peter. "It is much easier for you."
The blunt-spoken woman turns her attention to Vasha: those bright blue eyes given him a long, assessing look. "I like you," Doll declares, with the sort of simplicity that may remind him of someone else. Funny how that works. "I do not understand what just happened, but I do like you. We should be friends."
And then she pauses, and says, "What earlier attack?" while continuing to stare the Guardian full in the face with those wide, guileless eyes. "What happened?"
"I'll explain once we're not ironside. I promise." Artie urges, shooing people off the street before anyone's the wiser.
"Darn it. My car is at a gay bar now. And I'm not." He huffs and starts jogging.(edited)
Petra smiled to Doll and stood up on tip-toe to get a better look at Peter's fist, breathing out a bit of Spring magic and using a bit of ointment on the worst of the wound. "This kind of damage will take a bit more work," Petra warned him.
Yuri gives the woman a sad smile and answers, "Nothing, ma'am, thanks to your friends." He slides the pieces of his broken down weapon away for now. He can reassemble it easily once he's out of view, but the gesture of peaceful intent remains for the time being. But, since they're letting him go and the sooner he's gone? The better. "Oh. And. It's likely this one had friends watching this from afar. I would lie low if you can. If you're friends with any of our sort, you might benefit from reaching out for protection. I will keep you informed through her." A nod to Vorpal. "So as events develop with this matter, I will make certain you are informed. Likely we should have our diplomats renew official contact so long as this is going on. Just in case there's a repeat." With that, Yuri begins backpedaling away from the gathering with his hands still raised wide from his side. And then, after three steps, he's just gone. Winking out of perception with such sudden severity that it might give one pause to wonder if he'd ever been there to begin with.(edited)
Petra swung back from healing Peter as 'Yuri' gave his farewells and opened her mouth to say something. Then she growled in frustration. "I take one little step forward and now I can't seem to keep up with what's going on. Now why the hell did you pound your fist into cold iron? Couldn't you have hit some other part that wasn't going to do more damage to you in the process?"
She scowled at Peter's wounded hand, then leaned in, sniffed, licked it, and then sliced her talons across her own arm and bled into the wound to get it to close up properly.
"Oh!" Doll offers in surprise when Vasha flashes out of existence, blinking her doll-wide eyes. "Oh, he -- he's gone now." Thank you, Doll. "Well, I liked him. He was nice. I like nice people that tell the truth."
"Okay, Artie. Thank you. I will meet you there," Doll agrees, her mechanical-sounding voice settled into its usual patterns. "It's okay, Petra. I handled the scolding part. That is a wife job. I did that job, because I am the wife." She smooths her shirt over her stomach with a rote sort of action as Peter looks mildly more perturbed at the interaction of the women. "I didn't see it none," he mutters. "Just everybody fighting, so, you know. I punched. Realized about half an inch from the iron." And he shrugs. No apology, there. "Come on. Let's go. Don't need people recording us."
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