2013.10.25 - Grand Central Plague

Grand Central Station!
What better place to be in order to gain a little more attention and to spread contagion through the city? Tourists from every country in the world are represented here in this less than humble train station, in rush hour rubbing elbows with hundreds at a time.
Thousands even.
Settled upon one of the vaulted ceilings, the green-coloured Harbinger of disease and pestilence sits hidden in the shadows, watching, his tail swishing behind him. Golden gleaming eyes that show no hint of the man (mutant? elf?) that was within burn with a malevolent intensity as he surveys his victims. He's not far from his favourite of haunts, St. Patrick's Cathedral. He hasn't yet entered the sanctuary there, instead content (for the moment) of causing mayhem outside its walls.
Train after train arrive and depart, until such time that the platforms are filled almost to capacity (which is a feat!).
Mystique's learned one thing fairly quickly: The Harbingers are not immune to psychic detection or powers of premonition. Combine the resources of the Brotherhood and her own knowledge of both her own son and of villainy and it wasn't that difficult to narrow down the list of places where she might happen to find the mutant formerly known as Nightcrawler.
She blends in with all of the other commuters stepping out from one of these trains under her Chinese businesswoman guise, Lin Daiyu. Without special abilities or pieces of technology no one would ever pick her out in a crowd as being different or being something more than simply human, a small mic clipped onto her ear as she looks around the platform through a slender pair of glasses. He must be close, and one thing that she happens to know is that he loves hiding up high in the darkness. It's a simple adjustment to sharpen her own eyesight and hone her senses, cutting through much of the shadows as she glances about overhead. She's acting quite natural but there's no mistake in her mind, this is a hunt. Whether by sight, smell, or hearing, she will find Pestilence.
Crawling across the ceiling now, keeping to the shadows, the half-demon, half-mutant's tail whips from side to side, the spade tip showing under the greatcoat. His sword is still sheathed, but that's not going to be for too much longer as he picks out the likliest spots in which to attack.
This will require both bamfing and swordplay.
As a new train arrives, disgorging its new compliment of passengers, Pestilence draws his sword before he drops to the ground, landing atop one of the station security folks. The green-tinged, disease ridden sword finds flesh in the next heartbeat, so quickly that those around him aren't truly aware of his presence before a muted (it IS Grand Central, after all!) but echoing BAMF! sounds, and a cloud of contagion is released. Those around, women and children, begin to cough, and with each breath, the mutagens, the diseases enter their lungs.
It's only a matter of time now.
Though now, with that departure, there is always a return, and return the Pestilent elf does.. atop one of the clock towers, his sword brandished.
"Breathe deep! The air here is cleaner than above ground!"
BAMF!
The Harbinger disappears once again, though now it causes those in the area to begin to scream, moving one way or another, more than ready to trample those around them. All's fair!
Landing once again, the sickly green elf plays tic-tac-toe on a businessman that is trying to jog to get away from the tumult. It lands upon his chest, the tie all but cut and ruined. The man gasps, clutches his chest, and tries to go a different way.. but that way is blocked by the crowds.
How quickly it starts. A carefully laid out ambush ignites in a flash of blackened steel, then the disease starts to spread. One moment Lin is walking along with a briefcase in her hand. In the next minute she, too, has a sword, drawn and ready. One thing she knows Kurt could never turn down is a good sparring match. As people start to scream and trip over themselves trying to escape the platform one woman remains, the artificial light gleaming off of the polished edge of her blade.
When Pestilence hacks into another man Mystique is suddenly there, catching the path of one blade with another in a resounding clang of steel.
"It is considered unsporting to use a weapon upon an unarmed opponent. One could argue the same for the spreading of your plague."
Pick on someone on your own Rockwell Scale, Furball!
The humans in the area mean nothing to her. She has a job to do, and it's going to hurt. But, it's going to be worth it. It's going to help her get her son back. As fond as she is of the idea of him attacking humans whole-scale in the name of mutantkind it -isn't Kurt,- she would wish this out of him rather than due to brainwashing. Sinister's genetic perversion must come to an end.
That all starts here.
The running, the trampling. That brings a fang-filled smile to the changed mutant's face. With each touch, each breath, each bit of spit that hits the air in the form of words, of screams, his diseases are spread. Small pox. Tuberculosis. Influenza. All created for rapid onset.
By the time they reach the surface, those normal humans will begin to feel the effects, though the chances are good they won't truly understand their predicament for another hour. Truly understand. And by then? Given a couple more hours, they will succumb.
Pestilence whips his head around to catch the sight of a lone human that isn't running for her life. Brows rise, and the rest of his body follows as the swords clang, the deadly dust rising off the sword with the catch. The moment the swords do catch, the Harbinger spins around and leaps into the air, ready to truly take combat to this female.
"Sie verdienen den Tod." They deserve death. "Removing the weak, they say. That is what I am doing."
BAMF!
In the next moment, Pestilence is in the air, the sailor's longcoat flowing with the breeze that is generated under it. The elf that had been Kurt has a demonic grin on his face; the expression of one that is truly not caring, that has no sympathy, no empathy.. nothing. Nothing spared for those that will be falling under the weight of his particular creation.
Plague. Pestilence. Contagion. Pandemics.
This is so not right.
Mystique's taken to arms against Kurt before, this is hardly the first time! It won't be the last. Yet, this time is different. The look in his eyes, the gleeful determination to kill and infect, this is clearly not her child. This is not right.
When Pestilence leaps into the air Lin's blade and focus alike track his movements, ever ready to intercept another attack whether it be from the front, from behind, or from overhead.
Turns out that the Chinese lady speaks German, too. When blades next meet, she asks "Und Sie sollen sie verhandeln?" And you are to judge them?
She won't kill Kurt. She probably won't even maim him. (Probably.) She's not against making him hurt, though. She's not afraid to make him -bleed.-
The next attack comes from her, feigning right then ducking low and left with the wakizashi held parallel with her forearm, primed to slice diagonally up across the Bamfer's chest as she twists about, already prepared to cover herself from retaliation. She's quick! Hopefully a worthy foe.
"Come at me, demonic fiend!"
Close the attack, do what he came here to do!
Lights on. No one home. Or rather, the person that is in residence, while the same person, is remarkably different. The unprovoked attacking of unarmed humans and his fighting of a woman. A female. Without any complaint.
And Pestilence isn't backing up, laying out defense as he tries to speak reason, no. This... this is full on attack. Attack, parry, feint, spin to get in close where swords are exceptionally useless...
Und Sie sollen sie verhandeln?
"Ja.. und mein Gebeiter." ...and my Master.
Pestilence is ready for the attack; the elf is quick, and trained. And enhanced. If she thought Kurt was quick before, he's just got that little bit more that allows for a feint and attack that may not be anticipated. Still, his foe is quick as well, and the first cut.. that is to her. The coat is sliced near the hand where he comes in to protect his chest and parry out. Green, viscous blood oozes from the wound, and now that it's 'taken', Pestilence does that which comes so naturally-
Change his sword hand.
BAMF!
There, the green elf disappears in a cloud set just right before his opponent, where she had been standing only moments ago, anyway. Landing only a scant few feet away, in the air (the elf uses up/down/left/right in all earthly dimensions!), he's on the move. He lands on the ground on his hands, only to push up and flip over backwards, aiming to vault up and back, behind his foe, ready to plunge the sword in. There's no fine control, no. Nothing that he'd used on the mortal where a scratch is all that is required.
This isn't only to poison, but to damn.
Gebeiter. -Master.-
Sinister.
That ever-present rage which has been seething away within Mystique's thoughts threatens to boil over when Kurt mentions that word. She had this conversation with him before. He would never bow to another soul. And yet, where is he now? Under the heel of a genetic overlord.
With the bamf comes a cloud of disease that lingers in the air, causing the woman to cough harshly while she spins about to confront her foe, wherever he disappeared to. The timing could not have been any more ideal.
*SCHUNK!*
There's an instant of time where reality seems to stand still, the wakizashi slipping from Lin's fingers to clang harshly upon the floor, echoing in the now nearly empty platform. The lone woman's got a matte black blade plunged into her stomach, already poking out behind her, dangerously close to having clipped her spine.
With clear effort she reaches forth and locks her hands right around the hilt, one after the other, right around one of Pestilence's own hands.
Then she pushes.
A faint, sickly sound of splitting tissue comes forth from the steel piercing her torso as she draws herself closer to Pestilence, seemingly ignoring the loss of blood as she reaches forth to jab her own fingers into the chest wound that the Plaguebearer had suffered only moments ago.
It's here that Mystique grins, face to face with what had become of her son, facing him down through the guise of Lin with absolute defiance glowing within her eyes. Already the sickness seems to be within her, forming discolored pustules across her face.
Checkmate. But for whom?
And it's a strike!
Somewhere in that head of his, Pestilence has that awareness that this woman is remarkable. She doesn't .. seem like a normal human. Narrowing those golden yellow eyes, those fangs show themselves in that mouth as he begins a wide smile.
Check.
Mate.
That smile, however, begins to shift as he feels the hand begin to reach into his chest, her hand becoming covered with the ichor, the diseased filth that currently runs through his veins, that is pumped through with that same beating heart that her hand is so close to. His eyes widen briefly, the realization striking before he reaches out with his tail, whipping it around that damned hand of hers before he's gone.
BAMF!
And with him comes a stump... bloody or not.
Too little, too late.
Pestilence's blood has been stolen. It may not seem like it but Mystique has her sample. Of his genetics. Of his diseases. She's claimed countless samples, right from the source. Pure, undiluted. -Stored.-
It's a good thing that she works as quickly as she does because she is -not- expecting what happens next. While it isn't the first time that she's lost a sizeable portion of herself in a fight it -is- the first time she's ever lost anything due to localized teleportation.
It's also the first time she's lost anything of the sort from Nightcrawler, whether he's Kurt or something else.
Lin hesitates for a moment as she pulls back a -stump- where her forearm used to be, blood quickly rushing to pour out of the severed limb. The bastard took... Her. -Arm.-
He also left his sword behind, still lodged through her middle.
Slowly Lin falls onto her side, bloodied and, apparently, diseased, if the unhealthy and rapidly developing display across her skin is of any indication. There the woman lies, twitching. Another victim of the Harbingers.
Or so it would seem.
BAMF!
Once again, Pestilence is on the ceiling, hiding in the shadows. His blood falls to the ground in small, but rapid drips, giving away his position should anyone be astute enough to wonder where such a thing is coming from. Green. Ichor. On the train platforms?
Now, there is a growing crowd once again, though now, it's more of the group of the stricken- the weak and already infirm, or the weak and so very young.
(Mortal sin, anyone?) News is spreading, but that doesn't stop the trains that have already passed the last junction and let their passengers off. Disembarking from the train, they're met with a grisly, gruesome sight, and there are even a few that have enough thought to call 911. Thing is, they're already on their way, only now the sirens are sounding from a distance. The passengers of only minutes before are up above ground, and bits of lung are beginning to decorate the city's sidewalks.
Pestilence looks down at his handiwork and grimaces, a hand reaching to his chest. He's been granted a little extra stamina, a little extra speed.. but this wound will take a little while to heal. (Though thankfully not as long as it would take normally.)
The realization that he is no longer armed comes slowly, in a cloud of haze. Leaping from his position, or rather, letting go so he drops, the jacket billows around him as he lands first on one thing and bounces off, only to hop across and land on a waiting bench. Flipping down, his feet land him right beside the stricken, armless woman. A boot rises to rest upon her torso for unnecessary leverage, and reaching for the hilt, is prepared to pull it from her seemingly lifeless body very much as Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone, to be named King. "Schlaf und nie wieder aufwachen." Sleep and never wake.
Not forgotten is the severed arm. Once the sword is drawn from her body, Pestilence leans over, and with the forearm down, hand facing up, thrusts the limb into the hole that the weapon has created, impaling the woman once more.
If Mystique didn't have a blood sample before it would be easy enough to acquire while it's dropping freely from the rafters. She won't leave this empty-handed. Just..single-handed.
Or not.
When the sword gets wrenched free she ends up falling across her back with an anguished -howl,- her own blood giving his blade a high gloss finish.
Then he gives her a hand. -Her- hand. Somewhere where it's not supposed to go. A severed limb is not dimensionally similar to a cutlass. There isn't -room- for a hand and forearm, no matter how small it happens to be.
And it hurts. It hurts something -awful.-
But it's nothing Mystique hasn't already endured in some fashion or another over the decades.
Times like this she doesn't need to worry about the acting portion of her mission quite so much, though she -does- still have some control over what happens. Nerves can be shut down. Veins can be closed off. She can suffer mortal wounds without that whole 'mortal' part coming into play. This happens to be the next part of her act, right along with 'passing out' from shock, pain, and loss of critical bodily fluids.
Asleep. In a self-induced coma. Again..of sorts.
Straightening, after a fashion, Pestilence turns his head to look around at the crowds gathering, and the expression on that iridescent green face shifts from tunnel-visioned to one of growing awareness and pleasure. Here... here are more to infect. To feel his contagion, and to pass it along to friends, relatives... and strangers.
Replacing his sword into its scabbard, still dripping from Myst's blood, the Harbinger leaps into the air only to teleport in a disease-filled cloud. BAMF! Over and over again, going for placement and overall coverage, in the last moment, the former devout Catholic demon/mutant hybrid disappears from sight, leaving the platform to the stricken, soon to be dead.
How long to lie there in pain? Not all that long, really. With one act having passed Mystique effortlessly drifts right into another. Pretending to be dead is a lot easier for her, she -can- stop her pulse and fall into something akin to a shut-down state for a good long period of time. So long as she doesn't let herself bleed out, which is also quite easy to do.
After the last round of bamfs and the clearing out of Pestilence, she waits. Give it a good half a minute or so, make sure that he's really gone and out.
Won't those diseased humans be surprised when that severed arm just happens to re-absorb itself into the Chinese woman's stomach. The pool of blood surrounding her slowly disappears, pulled right back into her body. Within mere seconds she's gone from being a disease-riddled corpse to being a perfectly healthy, and perfectly whole, businesswoman. Even the lost wakizashi is retrieved, morphed right back into herself.
Slender, professional glasses are adjusted upon the bridge of Lin's nose as she smirks, ever so slightly, after the long-since departed Pestilence. Not a word is spoken as she begins to leave the area, leaving those yet damned behind to face their own fates.
These people are not her concern.
Category:Log