[ As Cain shoots, Fitz leaps from cover to improve his vantage point, stood exposed between the counter and the refrigerator. ]
Good, Cain! [ A little thrill rushes through him at the sight: That’s one successful kill, confirmed by the red pool quickly forming. ] Eyes up.
[ One soldier open-fires at Cain in retaliation, only to find it once more redirected above — but, oh, they’re learning. A tumble-dodge forward saves the enemy, still on Cain, and his companion snaps to attention, vision narrowed to Fitz. Silent communication leads them to divide, unsure which Morningstar agent is the source of the mysterious happenings. And Fitz lacks the time to do the math on his portals, focus too divided to calculate trajectory. A crash to the side (Peggy being clothes-lined) distracts him. Is this what you wanted, Fitz? Another sickening thud, Markus’ impressive work, but he doesn’t know that, staring down an oncoming threat. Two down, but not the two closest to the exit, engaged with the scouts-turned-instigators.
He opens the fridge door just in time to block a series of targeted shots, aimed for his vitals, bullets both embedding and glancing off the smooth surface. Saves him for the moment but removes his visuals on the soldier, the others, and the exit.
All too quickly, the soldier closes the gap between them, gun holstered so he can bodyslam the door shut, ] Shit. [ nearly crushing Fitz in the gap, saved only by his acute instincts prompting a jump back, portal opening beneath his own feet to escape, with the exit point near Markus and Peggy — not bloody fast enough. The soldier yanks Fitz upward by the arm and swings him into the cabinets, his bulletproof vest barely softening the blow of angular metal. Brutally efficient in his follow-up, the soldier’s free hand rises to grasp him securely, pulling him forward only to throttle him back again. His pained and then choked cry likely obscures the harsh crack of bone for anyone but his opponent. Winded, chest aching from the break, limbs scrambling for purchase. Fitz already knows then what the next move will be: Snap at the neck, no time to squeeze the life out of him. Can’t see the ground below the soldier’s feet for his little magic tricks. Pointless to generate an opening anywhere else. There’s nothing to move, nowhere to run —
The only way out is through.
Even from afar, the arterial spray proves striking. Horrible, warm red down his front, splattering his face, in his mouth, and smearing across the sleek silver of the kitchen. When the head rolls, sliced cleanly by the rift in space opened at its neck, the body left behind belatedly slackens, total collapse, and Fitz follows suit, an undignified (and slick) slide down metal cabinets. Although shaky hands attempt to grasp the counter, he ends up on the floor, catching his breath in raspy huffs. ]
no subject
Good, Cain! [ A little thrill rushes through him at the sight: That’s one successful kill, confirmed by the red pool quickly forming. ] Eyes up.
[ One soldier open-fires at Cain in retaliation, only to find it once more redirected above — but, oh, they’re learning. A tumble-dodge forward saves the enemy, still on Cain, and his companion snaps to attention, vision narrowed to Fitz. Silent communication leads them to divide, unsure which Morningstar agent is the source of the mysterious happenings. And Fitz lacks the time to do the math on his portals, focus too divided to calculate trajectory. A crash to the side (Peggy being clothes-lined) distracts him. Is this what you wanted, Fitz? Another sickening thud, Markus’ impressive work, but he doesn’t know that, staring down an oncoming threat. Two down, but not the two closest to the exit, engaged with the scouts-turned-instigators.
He opens the fridge door just in time to block a series of targeted shots, aimed for his vitals, bullets both embedding and glancing off the smooth surface. Saves him for the moment but removes his visuals on the soldier, the others, and the exit.
All too quickly, the soldier closes the gap between them, gun holstered so he can bodyslam the door shut, ] Shit. [ nearly crushing Fitz in the gap, saved only by his acute instincts prompting a jump back, portal opening beneath his own feet to escape, with the exit point near Markus and Peggy — not bloody fast enough. The soldier yanks Fitz upward by the arm and swings him into the cabinets, his bulletproof vest barely softening the blow of angular metal. Brutally efficient in his follow-up, the soldier’s free hand rises to grasp him securely, pulling him forward only to throttle him back again. His pained and then choked cry likely obscures the harsh crack of bone for anyone but his opponent. Winded, chest aching from the break, limbs scrambling for purchase. Fitz already knows then what the next move will be: Snap at the neck, no time to squeeze the life out of him. Can’t see the ground below the soldier’s feet for his little magic tricks. Pointless to generate an opening anywhere else. There’s nothing to move, nowhere to run —
The only way out is through.
Even from afar, the arterial spray proves striking. Horrible, warm red down his front, splattering his face, in his mouth, and smearing across the sleek silver of the kitchen. When the head rolls, sliced cleanly by the rift in space opened at its neck, the body left behind belatedly slackens, total collapse, and Fitz follows suit, an undignified (and slick) slide down metal cabinets. Although shaky hands attempt to grasp the counter, he ends up on the floor, catching his breath in raspy huffs. ]