2014.01.04 - Strilka Calling

A dark, overcast winter's night in Queens. There's not much to recommend it. It's cold. A little soggy in places, though mostly frozen. No stars. No moon. Only dark clouds, half amber with the reflection of the city's light.
This neighbourhood in Queens casts off less light than many. There are broken street lamps, closed up shops and others simply with bars on the window and yellow-white fluorescent spotlights meant to provide security but, in reality, only providing more shadows.
There's a run down tenement building about halfway down the street. It's several blocks away from the middle class apartment building Peter Parker -- and, up until recently, Dima Boyko -- lives in. And it's in considerably worse shape.
It's also, however, inordinately well-guarded.
The casual observer wouldn't realize it. They'd just assume the men standing around up and down the street are drug dealers or other disenfranchised always found in such neighbourhoods. It's the way their eyes move and the bulges in their clothes where there shouldn't be that suggests otherwise. Well, that and working cameras in places where other things just aren't working.
Strilka sits atop a building away from the bulk of those men, within sight of the tenement. She pulls the top off a flask and swallows nothing harsher than a cool mouthful of water. (Guns and alcohol don't mix.) Pushing the top back down, however, she replaces the flask on her hip and considers her options... her best way in or through.
"If you wish them all dead, we do have the means," comes a voice (two or three of them all at once, actually,) which would be all too familiar to the lone blaster. Not far away stands Mystique in the blue, warmly 'dressed' in fur-lined white as she leans against a dormant air conditioner unit.
As usual she's looking fairly relaxed, sort of like a feline in a sunbeam.
Glowing eyes then drift upward to Olena, a thin smirk taking shape upon indigo hued lips. "Of course, if you only want -some- of them dead then we have a more interesting situation on our hands."
Slipping away from the A/C, the morphic mutant comes closer to get a view of the situation for herself. "Wastes of flesh, the lot of them. We'd be doing this place a favor by removing them."
The thing is, Raven is only now announcing her presence. This could lead to an awkward situation of 'what the hell are you doing here?' Though, she does live for moments like these. Endless sources of amusement, they are. For her, anyway. But, at the end of the day, that's what matters most.
"So what are we doing here?" she inquires, turning around to sit on the very edge of the rooftop. Her amusement is already in full swing, the cold wind ruffling the fur lining her coat and boots alike.
After that show on the street with Loki, Olena had a feeling she'd be seeing Mystique at some point. That it happens to be now, just when she's planning her attack... somehow, that just figures. The typically silent archer actually gives a half-smile at the other woman's commentary.
"We're going to kill them all," Olena says matter of factly, accent heavy as always. "All except for prisoners. This group, they work with Boyko."
Who's dead, actually. Brains splattered across the front of the apartment building he'd been living in with his wife and daughter. Mystique doubtlessly heard about it. Somehow. Knowing her.
"He brought them gifts from Ukraine, when he came. In exchange for hiding. I intend to liberate his gifts, and any others they hold against their will."
A beat. She knows what she's saying when she adds, "And make examples of their captors so there will be no doubt that such things come at great cost... and peril."
Mystique's response should come as no surprise, either. Her smile broadens upon hearing the news. "Splendid. Nothing gets the blood flowing like a good rampage. Oh, yes, Boyko. You did a lovely job of redecorating his home the other day."
Hearing more of the specifics has her head inclined slightly, unblinking as she absorbs all of the information then running it past what she already happens to know about the people that they're about to be murdering. Some of these 'gifts' would be mutants..yes. But, not -all- of them would be. She's either committed all the way on this one or she's leaving that responsibility strictly upon the shoulders of her semi-protege and acting as another gun.
Meh. Humanity can owe her another favor.
"Unless you're planning on taking them all out with arrows, you're going to want to get closer. The moment you have a target behind cover or lurking about inside you will lose any element of surprise. Let's not let your efforts go to waste."
One of the inherent problems of being a shapeshifter while working with longer ranged pals is that it can be difficult differentiating 'friend' from foe. Fortunately, that's not too difficult to get around.
"While you're at it, try not to shoot anyone wearing a white belt."
"I could, you know," Olena replies. Take them all out with arrows, that is. She is that good. But, in this case? She smiles and gestures. "But, I will take out perimeter guards, first. No alarm. Stop reinforcements. Then, inside. Rescue captives; quickly, quietly." A beat, her smile sharpens. "Is small packet of semtex under boiler. Elsewhere, too." She gives an eloquent shrug. "Was bored last night. Needed something to do. It amused me." She then lifts a gloved hand and wiggles her fingers. There's a faint shimmer of wires. "Failsafe. Just in case. No one leaves unless I let them."
Which probably isn't going to happen.
That said, she sits back so her head isn't visible above the retaining wall.
"I give you two minutes? Or would you prefer five?"
How could someone not be proud of this moment? Mystique's amusement continues to grow as she hears all of this. Set explosives, deadman switch, and a whole lot of confidence. However. "You may end up killing those whom you are trying to save if you light those off. Perhaps something to consider."
Another glance is passed back to the guards and building in question, the shifter considering the question. "Two will be fine. Should keep things suitably interesting for everyone."
Her position along the one rooftop edge is abandoned, making her way over to another side which would not be within eyesight of the men below. Glancing back to Olena, she says "Do have fun with them" before she sort of rolls backward right off of the edge.
Stairs would have taken too long.
By the time she's back at street level the vivid hues of her mutation are gone, her entire presentation replaced with a cookie-cutter mook that would fit right in with the others out on watch.
Everything except for the white belt.
That's why Olena's plan is to get the captives out, if possible, before she lights the place up. God willing, or perhaps the Fates, or maybe just the Universe -- Olena isn't a big believer in a higher power -- she won't actually need to use the explosive. At least, not until everyone left inside it is already dead, anyway.
She watches the progress of the white belted mook with sharp eyes. Two minutes count down with predictable swiftness. As the clock rolls over to 2 minutes 1 second, she pops up and starts firing arrows.
One down. Two down. Three... It's methodical and precise. As easy as hitting Olympic targets in her youth. Throats make good targets. Center mass when necessary. An eye if she can get the opportunity. That's always fun.
Regardless, by the time the fourth is falling a couple of the far perimeter guards are starting to get nervous. No matter. Olena slides down a fire escape, crosses the street where the guards are already dead or non-existent, and starts loosing arrows at the next pack of nervous thugs. One zings right past a man wearing a white belt, inches to spare as the fellow he was speaking with slides down the wall, bleeding from an eye.
Two minutes gives Mystique enough time to learn the voices of three different guards to add to her collection, with time to dispatch two of the three in a way that keeps them out of sight of anyone else. When the arrows start flying, well..that's just the next stage of the fun. The third that she would have disposed of takes an arrow to the eye. Before he can hit the ground she's appropriated his concealed pistol for herself, because having a spare never hurts.
And his radio. "Hey, you guys catch the game last night?"
Hunting. Every guard with a radio is going to be giving off noise, whether because they're replying or because their com picks it up while riding on their belt. It also keeps their minds occupied, giving the two that much extra time to track them down and deal with them. Stepping inside of the building where she has no eyes but her own, she uses their tech against them to gain the upper hand.
Those doing the talking are avoided for now. Those that are only listening, they're the ones that find a stiletto piercing through their spines and throats, the spike formed from the tip of her finger just like in Terminator 2.
It works, darnit.
Of course, it works. That's why the movie guys did it.
Olena's sharp ears pick up the crackle and static of radios, as well as the voices that speak through them. She eases in through a broken window and out into a hallway where another well-placed arrow takes out another guard.
As Mystique also starts taking them out systematically, Olena turns her attention to their captives. She eases up behind a Russian man that stinks of vodka and cheap cigarettes, where he leans outside a dirty doorframe.
"What?" she says softly in Russian to him, her hands slipping around his shoulders almost seductively. "They won't let you actually in the room. Wow. You really don't have much luck, do you?"
He turns his head, surprised, but all it really does is give her more leverage to snap it back the other way. He falls in a heap... and she slams a steel toe silently into his ribs. All that's heard is a solid *thunk*.
Then, she opens the door to the room.
Away from the streets and potential prying eyes of everyday people, the guards camped out inside have access to fancier toys. Things which they aren't nearly as concerned over keeping hidden from everyone else.
Things like the 9mm MP5K now in Mystique's hands. Well, the hands of a guard sporting a white belt, anyway. "It's amazing what you can find just lying around sometimes," he states in a notable Russian accent with a slight grin. "Useless men, fine armaments, keys to Mercedes Benz. Eh," he finishes with a half shrug. "Come, get out of cold and let us go liberate your companions, da?"
It's important to be able to laugh at yourself sometimes. For everything else this evening, there's a keyring hanging from the guard with the snapped vertebra. This she passes over to Olena, just to simplify matters that much further.
Lowering the tone of her currently deep and rumbly voice, the metamorph adds "May want to wash hands after handling that one," with a slight motion back to the dead one as she continues onward.
"Da," Olena says dryly, a distasteful wrinkle to her small nose.
Inside the room, as she learned the night before, she finds the small cells into which the prisoners have been placed. Most are so starved and beaten that they hardly need restraints. Nonetheless, those that are mutants are obvious, even if their bodies don't show it. They wear inhibitor collars. But, they're all Ukrainian, nonetheless.
She knows the look. She wore it once, herself.
"It is time to leave this shithole," she says quietly in her native language, moving from cell to cell, popping locks and opening doors. The captives inside look at once astonished, mistrustful, and... perhaps a little hopeful.
"Poznyar," she says, then, looking at one of the girls -- a blonde with dirty hair and an emaciated figure. Her lips press together. "I survived Poznyar." She reaches out to lift the young woman to her unsteady feet. "I will see that you do, as well."
Unlike those bastard X-Men.
Of course, Mystique in mook form at the door... that causes the first of the refugees to stop. "White belt," Olena says. "Any man with a white belt is on our side." She helps the thin blonde forward. She'll need to find the card to loosen the inhibitors. Probably on the head mook -- one Dimitri Globa.
She glances to Mystique. "Can you lead them out? The building where we met. It is safe." A beat. "I must find Globa to deliver my message."
Not, mind, that she'll actually complain if Mystique says 'no'... or returns after.
Sure, Mystique could refuse. But, this is Olena's fight. She has her ultimate message left to deliver. If Raven's work here is done already, what's the harm in letting the others follow her out?
Besides, there's mutants in there. Mutants that need her help.
If this building has any surveillance cameras it will just appear that one of their hired hands wasn't all that he seemed to be, now helping these people get to safety rather than keeping them fettered and caged. Her heart goes out to those other X-Genes, the sight of them alone is enough for her to want to -make- this her fight.
She has faith that Olena will deliver the message with an appropriate level of enthusiasm.
"Come. Stay low, stay quiet. I will see you to a better life." Maybe not -all- of them, but the Brotherhood is always recruiting! Even separated from Genosha, Mystique is never alone when it comes to having able-bodied minions at her beck and call. Right here, these ones will all have a big ol' chip on their shoulders. Perfect seeds of hatred for her to cultivate. Oh yes, she will keep them alive.
Once they get across the street the humans will be on their own. Hey, it's a tough world out there. If they want someone to represent their savior, they need to look to their own species.
Olena makes her way directly down the corridor, now. There's no doubt the security men have started to mobilize. The cameras have betrayed them, now. Olena probably should have shut them down, but that would have tipped her hand early. Besides. Once she sees the innocents led away from the building, there's nothing to stop her using the semtex, if she needs to.
Nevertheless, she slides a rebreather into her mouth and visor down over her eyes. An arrow slides from her quiver and is fitted to her bow. She rounds a corner and looses it. Men go down even before it thunks into the drywall behind them, the hiss of gas whispering even as the arrow flies.
The men go down, coughing and retching. As Olena nears them, she fires more arrows. Four of them, one into each of them, while they're incapacitated. Frankly, as far as she's concerned, the quick death is more than they deserve.
Her boot cracks against the door and it pops open. Three more arrows sing out in quick succession. Three more men go down.
Olena steps into the room and faces the last man standing. He has a Makarov in his hand. It's trained on her. She can see his trigger finger quivering, the microbeads of sweat on his brow.
"Who the hell are you?" he demands in Russian.
Olena smiles sharply, the rebreather removed. "Strilka," she says. Then, she moves to one side, drops under his aim as the gun discharges, and comes up to shove the point of the arrow in her hand through a gap in his ribs and into his heart.
One of the many, many rules when getting into war games: There's always one more guard.
Case in point, here's a guard that's now facing -another- guard with a conga line of former captives behind him.
"What--!"
A rapid spin and the slap of an open palm against the side of his weapon shoves it away from the metamorph and her quarry, knocking it away from numbed fingers. Before it can clatter across the ground she comes back around with a leg raised in what should be impossible for the copied grunt to manage on his own, the heel of her boot catching the man square in the throat, dropping him onto his back, then killing him as another spike forms from the back of the mutant's foot.
"I should take up arms dealing again," the shifter muses while collecting yet another fancy looking weapon. "These keep piling up around me lately."
Things are still blissfully quiet, and bitingly cold, outside. Crossing the street becomes an adventure all of its own for some of the group. Getting inside of the neighboring building, that's the easy part.
There Mystique will wait. Though, while she's waiting she'll start taking a tally of which ones to approach later and which ones to leave to the hounds of humanity. Some days she really enjoys her work.
The biggest clue that Strilka is finished for the night is the loud BOOM that shakes the building in which Mystique and her new brood wait. Those that scramble to the windows, see fire and smoke pouring from the old tenement across the street, and a lone, small figure dressed all in black, a bow across her back, crossing the street casually in its light.
Moments later, Strilka appears framed in the doorway of the room in which the former captives hide. She lifts a microcard between two fingers and smiles. "It's amazing how reasonable a man can be," she tells Mystique, crossing to the emaciated blonde to slide the card into her collar, "when he is bleeding to death."
And yes, there are traces of blood on her gloves.
Mystique simply grins.
Category:Log