Encounterlogs
Seans Odd Encounter Sr Cara 240828
In an intense turn of events at Arkwright Cemetery, Sean finds himself in a desperate pursuit of Ronan Loche, a notorious criminal with a long rap sheet that includes people smuggling, artifact theft, murder, and extortion. The chase quickly becomes a personal battle as Sean, fueled by an unexpected interruption to a significant phone call with Wren, dives headfirst into the hunt with a mix of professional zeal and personal vendetta. Employing his extensive tactical experience and support from his team, including a request for a swift strike force, Sean leans into the shadows of his environment, embodying the role of the hunter. His meticulous planning and rapid response to the situation highlight his deep immersion in his role as a protector, standing on the frontline against supernatural threats.
The confrontation escalates at the Fertile Valley Florists, where Sean and his ally, Jayanth, corner Ronan amidst an unsuspecting crowd within the goblin market. Their strategy shifts dynamically as Ronan reveals a resilience and regenerative ability far beyond the ordinary, turning the final clash into a grueling test of wills, strategy, and brute force. In a gruesome finale, Ronan's healing powers are pushed to their limits until Jayanth decisively ends the conflict in a manner that leaves no room for doubt or recovery. This violent resolution, executed with a blend of tactical precision and visceral force, underlines the harsh realities of their shadowy war against the supernatural. Sean's encounter closes on a somber note as he is whisked away for medical attention, leaving behind a scene that starkly illustrates the personal costs and moral complexities of their relentless campaign against such formidable and malevolent adversaries.
(Sean's odd encounter(SRCara):SRCara)
[Sun Aug 25 2024]
At Arkwright Cemetery
It is afternoon, about 79F(26C) degrees,
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Lingering in the graveyard, wind rushing against his skin, dressed perfectly for the weather. He'd been leaning against a gravestone, his phone on speaker, set on the granite beside him. Sean's gaze was turned out to the sea, and until this moment, he'd been in a quiet sort of pondering - unusual, for him, but the person on the other side of the line had asked him an incredibly loaded question, and for once, absent his usual masks and artifice, Sean was left to actually think about the implications of it. He'd begun to articulate his answer, head swimming. "So, I think the ...I think I'd really have to start by saying that whatever we have going on is very, very new to me. What I want out of this-" And the line cuts short. "...Wren? Wren?" He lifts his phone up, peers at it, and then goes to work jailbreaking the thing to hell to try to figure out what happened. Poor Spook. Could've just been a dropped call. But his paranoia tells him otherwise
Wind whips through the cemetary, the leaves rustling on the trees to the periphery and the crematorium howling as the wind coasts through the eaves of it. The reason Sean's phone has cut as it turns out, is a All Points Bulletin pushed from Network 66, the neutral occult data distribution forum. It reads: 'Ronan Loche, active in Haven area. Wanted by: Hand, Order, Temple for crimes including: People smuggling, artifact theft, murder, extortion. Suspect to be considered armed and dangerous. Approach available authorities if spotted.'. A rare opportunity, a criminal so indiscriminate he has left himself with no friends. Those are the headlines though, there's no further information on the individual immediately gleanable from that notice.
Panic sets in at first at the dropped call. Sean loves this woman dearly and he'd been on the verge of, finally, being able to open up to her within the chaos caused by the psychological feedback loop of being in such close proximity to a burgeoning Angelborn. He'd been pushing through various layers of self-imposed encryption to get back to Wren when the APB comes through. And he stops. Pauses. And a wicked scimitar's sweep of a smile slowly blossoms on his face. Six words that Sean had spent so long and so hard fighting off to the point that, last night, he'd had Autumn beat the living fuck out of him to keep them at bay, now chirp in his ear as a distant, monotonous voice at Temple Intelligence H.Q. does what they do best. Activate.
"Wake up, Spook. Time to hunt."
The phone call goes dead, the little brick becoming a tiny command center as Sean's spine straightens and his face distorts. Maps, GPS satellite footage, ping-traces, all pulled up as he reaches a hand up to his ear, voice so unerringly steady that it shouldn't come from his throat. "Jansen. Get me a Mosquito, two Geeks and get a squadron of Demolishers at the ready. I want the Geeks to meet me at the juncture of Sheriff's Run and Main. We've got a live one and I want to take it down personally." Wake up, Spook. Time to hunt. "I've got a latent trace, but he's trying to go to ground. Ronan Loche." There's a grumbling, irritated voice in reply, cut short by a swift remark from Sean. "Two geeks and a Mosquito. Plain clothes. Send them with a tac-vest and a pistol. I left mine at home. Eight minutes. I'm moving out." This is it. His wheelhouse. What he's done for ten years of his life. What he came to this podunk town to DO. And he takes off, backscrolling through Network666's chat logs to see if there's any pieces of information on Ronan Loche that he can pull out to aid him as he stalks through the graveyard at too calm a pace for such an urgent bulletin.
"Heard and understood Agent." Comes the answer down the line as Sean issues commands, requesting strike force and technical personnel in his own jargon. A search through Network666 reveals a plethora of readily available information on the man, though none of it extremely current save for a link to some grainy footage posted shortly after the APB. Mugshots show a man of swarthy complexion who looks to be on the rougher side of forty. A brunette with blue eyes trying to conceal a receding hairline with overgrown, greasy hair slicked across his forehead, greying stubble and an expression on his face that suggests he eats bricks just to feel the crunch. A couple missing teeth also suggest either he's literally eaten bricks or lived a rough lifestyle. The footage places him ducking into a pretty looking store full of flowers, a large carryall on his back and wary glances sent about. There's no visible accomplices in the footage, though the organized nature of his criminal history suggests he is not one for working alone.
In the man's right hand, accompanying the already very full looking carryall, is a large portable cooler of the sort one might use to transport food for a large picnic
"Fertile Valley?" It's a question, to himself, and the air, as Sean peels back through the footage, reeling it and looping it over and over again, eyes parsing out all the minute details he can extract from the blurry street security cameras. He tuts, irritated at the lack of clarity, and then starts really moving. Fast. He'd told Jansen eight minutes and he'd wasted five parsing out data. So he bolts off at a sprint, the stitches Freya had put into his skin mere hours prior groaning at the effort he's putting on his body so soon after injury. He'll hurt later. For now, he has a job to do. A dull voice clicks into his ear, aged, weathered, and almost bored in its tone "Elemental. Synergy. Patented. Av-" Sean growls, hitting his comms and saying "Not NOW Jeb. I've got it. I've got it. Really. I don't need it. I want this one. I need the blood."
weaving around gravestones to get to the juncture point he'd told Jansen to set the meet-up, he moves, truly, like a shade. Afternoon wanes slow in the last gasping breaths of summer and yet he finds every shadow, every stretch of darkness to be within, to mold into and move with speed and without sound to get to the intersection. He reaches for a pistol at his back belt that he knows isn't there, finds the knife he took from Wren, and slips that into an underhanded grip. "Done it before and done it with less, Jeb. I don't need the phrases." Wake up, Spook. Time to hunt.
A few minutes later, he hits the intersection, slowing as he hits open road and mid-day pedestrians, gray, stormy eyes scanning for the subtle, tell-tale signs of the requested backup. He sucks at his teeth thoughtfully, before lifting a hand to his ear, voice lowering. "Send a set of eyes ahead to Hart? Look around Fertile Valley. Forties. Brunette. Greaser fucker. Might be a wolf, b the size of that jaw, or a Demigod, but whatever spawned him is not god I'd want to worship."
Sean pauses, briefly, as he hits a curb, hop-skipping up onto the concrete as if this were a mid-day job to send out a single text.
Eight minutes is a very quick turnaround for a response team and Sean's requested support makes it two minutes behind schedule. The 'geek' technical support arriving in a tyrell industries van whilst Sean's requested 'mosquito' strike force arrives via seperate sedan with blacked out windows, minus one member Sean is swiftly notified is now watching Fertile Valley Florists. "Nobody matching that description on-site, and visibility is pretty good through the windows unless he's in the backroom." Comes a clear, crisp, professional voice down the operational radio. The footage at time of posting when Sean saw it, was only 15 minutes dated. Either he's left the florists in a hurry, if indeed he was at the florists, or there is something more going on there.
:Open the door, Miles!" Sean yells at the van as he rounds the corner to intercept it. A bound, a leap - that knee healed up right quick after a night with Saoirse, huh? Tuck, roll, leap in mid-stride at the van, and if the Geek's listening, he lands square into the middle seats. "Go," Sean commands, hand to his ear, eyes on his phone. To Miles, the driver, he says, "Fast, but quiet," and to the Geek in the passenger seat he says "Wilson, pass the gun and then get on finding a trace. If this man has a phone, I want to know its make, number and god damned background photo." He eyes down the street at the sedan, chin lifted, smile not once leaving his face. Hand still at his ear, he pops it twice, chirping to a side channel to address the Strike Force soldier in the sedan.
"Ho there, buckaroo. They let you bastards come out and play in the sunshine?" he says, his voice barely containing a laugh bordering on mania. Tinted windows notwithstanding, as the van rounds the corner, he makes a few, silent hand gestures to the Strike Force soldier driving the sedan, indicating for it to drop back into a tail. "Have Sergeant Latimer go inside. Do a sweep. Quietly. Check the back, by the gardens. Stupid place to go to ground, if you ask me, but the man doesn't look like he's got a lot in the brains department." If he's handed the requested armor and weapons, Sean gets to work, peeling his shirt off, strapping himself in, and then dropping the billowy shirt back over the vest. Not a PERFECT cover, like his suit, but it'll have to do on short notice. "
"Open the door, Miles!" Sean yells at the van as he rounds the corner to intercept it. A bound, a leap - that knee healed up right quick after a night with Saoirse, huh? Tuck, roll, leap in mid-stride at the van, and if the Geek's listening, he lands square into the middle seats. "Go," Sean commands, hand to his ear, eyes on his phone. To Miles, the driver, he says, "Fast, but quiet," and to the Geek in the passenger seat he says "Wilson, pass the gun and then get on finding a trace. If this man has a phone, I want to know its make, number and god damned background photo." He eyes down the street at the sedan, chin lifted, smile not once leaving his face. Hand still at his ear, he pops it twice, chirping to a side channel to address the Strike Force soldier in the sedan.
"Ho there, buckaroo. They let you bastards come out and play in the sunshine?" he says, his voice barely containing a laugh bordering on mania. Tinted windows notwithstanding, as the van rounds the corner, he makes a few, silent hand gestures to the Strike Force soldier driving the sedan, indicating for it to drop back into a tail. "Have Sergeant Latimer go inside. Do a sweep. Quietly. Check the back, by the gardens. Stupid place to go to ground, if you ask me, but the man doesn't look like he's got a lot in the brains department." If he's handed the requested armor and weapons, Sean gets to work, peeling his shirt off, strapping himself in, and then dropping the billowy shirt back over the vest. Not a PERFECT cover, like his suit, but it'll have to do on short notice. (Fix?)
As the van rounds the corner, Sean swipes away the security footage and backgrounds Network 666's log page. He pulls up a number on his contact list - Jayanth Smith - and he pauses, and lets out a laugh that would make skin crawl. "This motherfucker's going to LOVE this. If he can keep his head on straight." Blip goes the call button and Sean holds the phone up to his ear, all while fidgeting with the sights on his gun. If the call goes through, the only thing Sean says is "Hay, you see the APB on 666? Some gravel-chewing fucker, thief and murder, is trying to go to ground. I think the Hand wants him, but I'm more content to put two in his head."
"You up for a hunt, soldier?"
Jayanth, like Sean, will have recieved an all points bulletin from Network666 detailing that a known criminal Ronan Loche has been sighted in the area. Criminal activities include People smuggling, artifact theft, murder, and extortion. Last known footage placed him at a florists in haven what is now 17 minutes ago at the time of Sean's call, carrying a carryall and what looks to be a large portable food cooler into the store.
The scale, target and natures of Ronan's crimes have put him on the wanted list for almost all major societies. His crimes are organized, large scaled, entirely devoid of empathy for their victims, and have left him with few friends outside of his criminal contacts, though presumably given the scale of his crimes, there must be no shortage of those.
There's a long quiet pause from the other line following the spook's words, until Jayanth's voice, distant as though he's answering from the otherside of a large room issues a lengthy string of curses that would make a sailor faint. "The shit you find yourself into, Aspen. Fine," the soldier growls on the other end, the words punctuated by a faint clatter of wood before the soft scratching of a phone being handled none too gently. "But I wanna play with it first."
"You love me," Sean snipes, "And you're welcome to play with it all you want once I get it away from the public. Considering it an apology gift." And then he ends the call, hand gripping the headrest of the passenger seat of the car, staring out over the center console, eyes like a hawk as the van rounds and heads towards Fertile Valley Florist.
Jayanth would receive, shortly after, a brief text from Sean that says, simply 'Let's see who's amateur shit now'
With Jayanth joining the hunt, Sean's van rounds the corner and pulls to a stop outside the Fertile Valley Florists, the scouting party already inside and reporting back in casual conversational tones, though hushed to avoid undue attention on him. "Sergeant Latimer reporting in. I have no eyes on the target. Got myself a table with eyes on the office and he's not in the backroom, cafe, kitchen or floral sales room... But nobody has left since I arrived either. Man must have done his business fast and moved on." comes a voice down Sean's raido, though it is echoed in the van by the command radio.
Jayanth seems to care less about being heard than seen, speeding his bike right down Hart way passed the Florist's and swirving to a halt the wrong way into a narrow parking spot on the far side of Antlors' less than 10 minutes later. Pistol already in hand he sprints for the van, keeping to the other side of the street with 1 eye on the building. "Report," he tells the spook once he reaches the door and swings inside, forest green eyes gleaming with building anticipation. "Dude inside?"
There's a disappointed 'tsk' at his teeth as Latimer reports back to Sean, the van slowing to a crawl, a rolling stop. He cranes his neck, eyes flitting about constantly, a bloodhound riled to hunt and nowhere near sated. Barely containing his rage at the loss of eyes on the target, Sean reaches up, touches his ear, and says "Give it five. If there's no motion, I want you to join Sergeant Wilkes out on the street. Give me a five-" A pause, eyes rolling up as he mentally maps this part of the town, "No, seven block perimeter. Watch the alleyways. It's too early in the afternoon and too busy on the streets for him to be bolting and the security footage showed him with a bag or a basket of some kind. Either he's trying to blend in, in which case, bag-and-tag, or," and this is where Sean gets way, way too excited, flinging the door wide and patting the Geek on the shoulder, "He's using back alleys. Which means he's moving slow. HSD would be on him like white on rice if he was out in public and presenting danger."
"God," Sean breathes, body tight, ready to pounce. "Love you," he says, leaning around the headrest to irritatingly kiss the Geek-tracer on the cheek. "Keep me posted on that trace and that tail. I'm a'goin' huntin'." And out he pops, his foot hitting the sidewalk and his entire posture changing, strides easy. Light. Boring. There's not a gun in his holster. There's no kevlar under his t-shirt. He is, merely, a man beneath notice, strolling around for a mid-day walk. He takes a five-step lope down the block to meet Jayanth, eyes burning, and says "No sign inside or in the backrooms. Had a basket, or something, I think. Either ritualist materials, or weapons, or he wants a picnic." He lifts a shoulder, so achingly casual in the face of a threat that might be able to rip him in half. Looking into the florist, he tells Jayanth, quietly, "I've got two Mosquitos on a perimeter if he's a no-show in five, and a Geek in the van working on a phone trace. I'll patch you into that active line." He juts his chin out to an alley around the corner. "Hand'll want this bastard for a wardog and the Order'll play it too safe. You want to go get messy?"
Sean does, indeed, patch Jayanth into the active line he has running back to the Intel agents in the van, a low buzzy thrum that intermittently blips with GPS pings and the sound of aggressive typing.
Another volley of curses follows, Jayanth's phone appearing in his free hand seemingly out of nowhere as he taps furiously at the screen. "Dickbag must've fled into the goblin market," he snears, shifting his eyes back to the front door of the building. "Have someone pull up a list of all the doors and send in eyes to cover the other exits into Haven, he's trying to give us the slip the long way round."
The tech working the vans command center seems flustered by Sean's intimacy in the moment, momentarily stalling in their otherwise incessant typing at the computer. "Last scout report from the camera network still places him at the florist." They utter. "No line on the phone so either it is off, he's offworld, or somehow in the last 20 minutes he's managed to get to the middle of no-where with no signal... Though I suppose underground would wor..." Their words cut-off as Jayanth raises another possibility and fingers fly over the keyboard once more. "I can confirm there -is- a market door in the florists. Wear your key, look for a trapdoor in the floor. The other one in town is the falafel place just across the road, and we've listings for one in Camp White Oak. Jay might be onto something."
"Huh. Good point," Sean says to Jayanth, looking a little upset that that hadn't occurred to him. "Rusty," Sean growls to himself, "Little blood'll help that." He cricks his neck and the Geeks are already ahead of him. "THIS. IS. THE. LIFE!" Sean whoops, throwing his head at the falafel place and saying, "Pincer? I go falafel, you go flowers? Guns up, eyes up," and he knows he's being patronizing because of course Jayanth would know how to do this. He just loves to be a needly prick. There's a pause, before he sobers up for a moment and says to Jayanth. "Spook Protocol's active, Jay. There's not -really- going to be much left of this guy if I get my hands on him. So if we want him alive, you know what to do. Go for the throat if I get blood in my eye."
That little moment of overly-intimate planning over, Sean rises back up to the trail and clicks his comms, "Latimer, Wilkes. Head to Camp. Jay and I are going in and I'll want eyes on. Miles?" He says, looking back to the van as he's already crossing the road. "I want you parked out here. If he's going in, at some point he's going to come out and I want to know if he does, when he does, and what condition he's in."
"He's not gonna come out from falafel," Jayanth notes, gesturing between the building across the road. "Too close to the converging point, he knows we're on him. He's gonna wanna get far, chance is out of town to avoid the HSD." This's not the Asian's first rundown, apparently, and the man is clearly used to leading. He concedes a step though, looking back at Sean for a moment and nodding to the Templar. "If he is in there he's gonna be watching the dors nearest this location, so watch yourself going in. They might not be as near on the other side either, so pick a meeting point and don't think twice about closing off the market. Act first, answer for it later you know the drill."
Sean's words are greeted with various notes of acknowledgement down the radio and moments later a man of squat build in a tracksuit paces out of the Florist, quickening to a slow lope to find his way into the passenger side of the blacked out sedan pulled up behind the Tyrell Corp van Sean and Jayanth currently reside in. The vehicle pulls out and around the van with some urgency and then it is off northbound along Prospect Street with a screech of tires that suggests speed limits are being treated more as guidelines than mandatory. With the strike force team off to another known door, Sean and Jayanth are left to plan and act in their own time, though who knows how time sensitive this could be when the market likely has so many unknown doors too?
"Arena," Sean says without a second thought. "Easy to pincer him, push him into, and, if need be, subdue," though obviously he doesn't want to subdue. He wants to hunt. "I'll go in, do a sweep, and we'll meet up near the Arena. Keep comms lines active. If you sight him, I'm shoving a trader to the ground to come put a bullet in his spine." Why? Because Sean wants to. Because he's a killer and it's all he's ever been made to be. And off he pops, to enter into the Market through the other door, pulling his parents' dogtags out from beneath his shirt and pressing them to his lips. He disappears through the doors of the -very- busy, lunch-rush falafel place, his comms static a bit overwhelming for a moment before he finds the door.
Just as he goes through, there's....singing? Yes. Singing. Over the wire, through to the van's speaker, the earpieces of the Mosquitos making Sean's perimeter, and right the fuck into Jayanth's ear. A song Jayanth would know, painstakingly and stupidly well, for it played the night Sean had almost allowed himself to get killed. And that is, of course, when he feels most alive. "I....hate, everything. About you. Why...do I, love you?! I. Hate. Everything about you, why....do I..love you?! Come on out you bastard!" And then he goes dark, stepping through the doorway and into the market place.
Sean might be singing Three Days Grace but Ronan wherever he is is unlikely to give them that much time to work with. Sean's techie apparently tires of Sean's rendition of the song and instead elects to put the original song down comms so it can be background noise rather than obfuscurate mission chatter. The mugshots up on screen give Jayanth an idea as to the appearance of the person they are searching for. A brunette just north of forty years old with a swarthy complexion and greying stubble. His overlong hair has been greased across his forehead but does little to hide the receding hairline. Despite an otherwise haggard experience he bears a burly jaw that suggests he eats bricks for a passtime, and a few missing teeth don't go far towards contradicting that notion.
No dogtags hang as some comfortable weight against the Asian's chest, no mottos or prayers uttered or even music to bolster or bui his spirits. Whether from any lack thereof or just because he simply couldn't give a fuck, Jayanth just strides into the Florist's without ceremony, hand resting on the gun at his waist, long raven locks brushing his shoulders as he shakes his head. "Fucker's gonna get himself killed," he mutters, prying open the trapdoor and lifting his other hand to present his watch to whoever's on the other side. "Move the fuck over," he growls, vanishing seemingly into nowhere.
And in short order, Sean and Jayanth find themselves opposite one another in the stone corridor of doors leading up to the goblin market. Nothing out of the normal here as yet. A couple supernatural shopgoers pass not even bothering to hide their goats horns, tails or other features in this rare respite for beings of supernatural nature, though doubtless they will again mask their natures before stepping out of this place. A distant hubbub of the market to the north echoes off the masonry of the hallway.
Jayanth nods upon spotting the spook, falling into step with him with a quiet, "we got any intel on what this guy might look like down here if and when he sheds his skin?"
"Why...do I...YES, Miles, YES." Has Jayanth ever seen Sean look and feel this alive? Once. Maybe. At the Succubus, the night he met Wren, but the was high and drunk and here he's so dangerously clear-eyed and sober. He steps through, a shudder running down his spine, and eyes Jayanth for a moment. He looks off northward, pausing at the question. "...Not sure." He chirps at his ear and says, "Miles, we got any intel on if he's Obfuscating? If he's got a rap this long, someone's got to have clocked what he is, right?" He waits, bouncing on his toes, held at the end of a very thin leash until he's given an answer. He's already looking down into the heart of things, where people and creatures of all make and size make him look small and weak and so very, very squishable. "Speaking of, Latimer, you at Camp yet? Pop on through and give me a sweep. Meet me and Jay at the Arena if you catch no sight of him. Not that that's saying he'd look the same here."
"Tell me one of your supes' picked up on the fucker's scent," Jayanth mutters, eyes scanning, of all places, the floor of the stone hallway for fresher footprints. "Would make this shit a whole lot easier."
"Uhhhh..." The voice comes down the operational line to the pair from the support officer, accompanied by a "Enroute" From the strike team operative. Moments later Miles's voice sounds out once more. "This is only a hunch, but given the sadistic nature of the criminal history, if I had to guess? Demonborn. Could be Fae given how much he seems to enjoy what he does, but there's no mischief to it. Only brutality... Though let's not pretend humanity doesn't have it's own monsters. Money is a mighty motivator and there's plenty of money in people smuggling, killing for hire and the rest of what he's done." Unfortunately for Jayanth the stone floor isn't very accommodating to those trying to pick up footprints. A couple moments later the tracksuit clad operator Sean ordered appears just a little further north of the pair from another door in the hall.
As if conducting a symphony in his head, Sean gestures to the air, fingers going back and forth, gun - thankfully - still tucked away so as to not be a friendly fire risk. He sways as the music plays in the background of his comms, the melody apparently the only thing keeping him from darting off and murdering, apparently...everyone he sees? He did say he wasn't a good man. There's a laugh at the report. "Guess work. Love it." His phone buzzes in his other hand, kept out in hopes of a tracker trace, the lock screen briefly glowing to show a picture of Wren in her PJs as his background. He eyes it, goes flush, and grits his teeth till the grind. "...Hate me a DB," He says, "And I -hate- me a DB that's keeping me from her." Phone goes into his pocket, gun comes out, and he narrows his eyes tightly. "I'll have to talk to the Viper after this. If this is one of his circle's fuckers, we're going to have a conversation."
He gives a subtle upnod to Latimer, before looking to Jayanth. "Had Janesen hold the Demolishers in reserve. Was worried about a street brawl. I can have him let them off the chain, but we're here now, and if we wait for a scent, we're going to lose him." The last order is given to his comms, so that Latimer can be looped in. "Split up, three-prong, and do a sweep? Double-chirp the first chance you get and try to corral him to the Arena without too much fuss." And before there can be any word of protest, throat still caught on that melody, Sean just...completely disappears. He takes three steps forward and then he's a body in a crowd, and only the keenest of eyes could even begin to sight him.
"I've done horrific shit that made my demon partner gauck back in London," Jayanth remarks with fond amusement in his tone, his eyes glinting at the memories. "Don't mean shit. Could be anything from a psychopath to a descendent of a psychopathic god, or just some fuck following orders for so long he's found a moral off switch." Another nod is given to the second agent, Latimer, before Jayanth is breaking off from the group to head deeper into the market, 1 eye still subtly checking the doors and no view on Sean what so ever.
And so the team moves on into the market. With Sean blending into the crowd the less subtle Sergeant Latimer elects to stay close by Jayanth, hands tucked into the front pouch of his hoodie where presumably his weapon resides. With the corridor as narrow as it is there's little opportunity to split up until at the market, though once at the market, it doesn't take much looking to find the target. There's a visible thinning in the crowd around a stand to the market's northern section where tools beyond mere contraband natures are sold and bartered for, the regular shoppers ducking around a roaring argument that passes for a man's haggling. A man with brown hair, long and greased to his forhead, a man wearing a matching brown jacket with a swarthy complexion and a brutish jawline. "THIRTY SIX! I BOUGHT YOU THIRTY SEVEN! YOU TRADE ME GOODS OF EQUAL VALUE! THAT'S WHAT WE AGREED!" The man blasts at a goblin who stumbles over trying to explain the difference between buy value, sell value, and his need for a profit margin. The goods being bartered over are in a cooler set on the table with it's lid off, though from here it is impossible to discern what is actually in the container. "A-ah-and the artifacts are still cursed." The goblin says of the carryall left unzipped on the floor.
Spook. Shade. Ghoul. Ghost. This is his life. His element. Here, where he can disappear and be nothing but teeth and knives and glaring eyes. This crowd is his second skin and Sean wears at such, without hesitation. He becomes nothing, a part of it, moving within it with grace so refined that it might almost be supernatural, if Jayanth hadn't seen the -MANY- times he had spilled very, very human blood, all over himself, the floor, the ground, Freya, and other people. This is trained. Honed. And if anyone wants to see if him first, it'll be because Sean lets them. Whether this Ronan is a Demigod, a Demonborn, or just an asshole and a ritualist, his blood is already up. It takes a psychopath to know a psychopath. The market is busy enough for him to disappear into, body fluid, touching against shoulders and hips only lightly enough to make people move out of his way when he simply can't squeeze past them.
He goes towards the Arena but takes a wide swath, eyes peeled for the initial description of the target. And then there's noise. And Sean LOVES noise. He darts behind a stall, ducks behind a curtain, and then slips forward till he's simply...behind the vendor, body curled tight behind the goblin trader as it tries to barter with Ronan. So -incredibly- quietly, Sean's voice comes up on comms, whispering "...Hey. I'm gonna do something stupid."
The shouting attracts enough of Jayanth's attention a second after it does Sean's, the Asian raising a hand to signal Latimer close by with a series of gestures. A circling finger, crossed middle and ring, a closed fist. Whatever it means, Jayanth doesn't wait long for the operator to get it before cutting a path not to the goblin's stall, but the one next over from where he spots Sean just as the man's voice comes over the line. "Don't lose your fucking shit here," the soldier growls into his watch, his eyes narrowing. "We bag him with as little fanfair as we can. I don't feel like putting up with the goblin king's bullshit today."
"THEY AIN'T CURSED AND WHADDA YOU CARE IF THEY ARE?!" Ronan roars at the goblin trying to do its bartering. "YOU LITERALLY SELL HUMAN KIDS HEARTS HERE EVERY DAY. YOU'RE TELLING ME YOU SUDDENLY CARE ABOUT PEOPLE NOW?!" The man continues to bluster. Hearing Sean's whisper, Sergeant Latimer ups the pace, gripping the weapon in his pocket a little harder as he power walks towards Ronan. So focussed is Ronan he hasn't noticed anything out of sorts as yet, though the goblin merchant trying to barter does send a confused look aside at Sean before the man roaring in his face gets his attention once more.
"S'fine..." Sean croons, hidden like a ball beneath the paneling of the adjoining stall where Ronan just screams at a goblin. "I've got this." He looks manic. Not just excited, but past that, to something that is ravenous, yawning, and never, ever able to be filled. He worms his way beneath the counter till he's barely visible, his voice a breathy whisper that, itself, is barely audible, and only to Jayanth, on the private line between them, does Sean murmur "...Brain power time. I'm going to hit him as hard as I can and you grab him the moment he reels." And then Sean goes comms-dark. Quiet.
And he closes his eyes and he sits there, breathing, for a few, long moments, all while Ronan screams at this poor vendor, as if questioning the ethics of his salesmanship. His body slackens, his eyes open, a haze over the stormy gray as he tilts his chin up to look past the wood, past Ronan, and into the Nightmare around the target. His lips move, but no sound comes out as he watches the man yell and yell and scream and roar.
A lance of emotion would come from Sean's mind to Ronan's, worming through the Nightmare, would strike the very center of Ronan's cortex, before blossoming into a feeling that is all-consuming, overwhelming, and painful. It is a lifetime's worth of guilt, a shower of self-loathing, a sudden and shameful holding up of a mirror against the man's blackened soul that forces him, if for only a moment, to feel the weight of his misdeeds.
Jayanth positions himself at third point from Sean and the fast approaching Latimer, closing in on the stall as soon as the latter's at roughly the same distance. Sean's words do nothing to break his stride, though curiosity at least keeps the raven from drawing just yet. His gaze fixes on the goblin's wares, making a show of examining the stall's display while his friend now crouched under it does his thing. Content to follow just as casually as he is commanding by default, though every ioda of his attention is spent on the perp now only a foot away.
Ronan looks to be halfway to snatching a payment off the goblins countertop when he stops with his hand extended towards it, blinking with that burly jaw slack as for once in his life, a conscience is asserted upon him. The goblin in turn reaches to grab their items, pulling them out of reach of the much larger man.
His nose explodes with blood and Sean doesn't even bother trying to clean it. He reels as his eyes snap back into focus, pulling his gaze from the Nightmare to press to his ear and whisper, heatedly, "Tranq, tase and bag and tag. I can't hold this for too long or I'll get an aneurysm."
And with that Latimer pulls a weapon. His go to seems to have been the taser and it lances with a sizzle straight home into Ronan's neck. The man jumps for a moment, rendered rigid all too briefly by the probes before he whirls, arm up and disconnecting the taser probes as his other hand raises and there's a *CRACK*. The back of Latimer's skull separates from his body with Jayanth in the splash zone, Ronan's eyes wide as he snarls and looks for his next target.
It's in that moment of chaos and confusion raught of personal intraspection that Jayanth opts to make his move, lifting his gaze from the display to level a devilish smirk at Ronan. "You really should've decursed those artifacts," he muses, just before a hand comes up with a flash of metal not to fire, but slam butt first into the broot's temple. Jayanth's left knee shoots up for the perp's groin for good measure, and then a step and pivot sees him shoved back and off balance towards the stricken Latimer.
"Oh, no." There's a brief, BRIEF moment of concern, of grief, at the sheer brutality with which Latimer is dispatched, before Sean mutters to himself, body stilling, and then he rises from behind the stall, and says "Oh, okay, cool. I get to kill you now without feeling even slightly bad about it.l The Spook breaks, launching himself at Ronan just as Jayanth goes for the groin. He wraps his arms around the target, trying to hold him in place and break his balance with a heel to the back of the knee to take Ronan down. "
"Oh, no." There's a brief, BRIEF moment of concern, of grief, at the sheer brutality with which Latimer is dispatched, before Sean mutters to himself, body stilling, and then he rises from behind the stall, and says "Oh, okay, cool. I get to kill you now without feeling even slightly bad about it." The Spook breaks, launching himself at Ronan just as Jayanth goes for the groin. He wraps his arms around the target, trying to hold him in place and break his balance with a heel to the back of the knee to take Ronan down. (fix)
"Are you out of your motherfucking mind," Jayanth snarls, making as if to yank away the spook. Good sense wins over whatever suicidal tendencies might've masked themselves in sentiment though, and the soldier retretes a couple of steps with his gun leveled on Ronan. "The fuck out of the way, Aspen. Ain't no way you're beating a supe with broot strength."
For all Ronan might have been able to claim the initiative very briefly with their swift rallying from the taser Jayanth manages to pile in before Ronan's revolver can be turned on them, Jayanth swiftly inside of firing range as the next time the gun goes off it fires harmlessly into the ceiling, though goodness knows where the ricochet goes pinging off to. The kick to his nuts amd subsequent strike to a joint has the man stagger to a knee, though Sean's leg is grabbed and he is quite literally thrown in Jayanth's direction for his troubles.
"I literally am," Sean says with a laugh, "And- A'yoop!" He's a ragdoll, flung at Jayanth, and it has to hurt, but Sean doesn't even seem to let it register. He gets up with a limp, a slope to his left leg, and lifts his gun at Ronan. "So," he says, wincing in abject pain, "I have to ask. Was it all worth it? Or did it make you realize that you're nothing more than a worm in the grand scheme of men greater and more terrifying than you?" Does it matter what Ronan's answer is? Not really, because Sean ducks and strafes away, unloading the entire clip of his gun at Ronan's head and throat - he had won the marksmanship three out of four years at the Navel Academy (Damn Aleida, else he'd have gone four for four).
Great stupidity begets even greater consequences, or so some may say for situations like these. Jayanth it seems is all too willing to let Sean suffer his as he hurredly moves out of the way, much as he can before the other human's hurled uncerimoniously into the stall the Asian had approached from. Another shot fired, 3 this time flying from Jayanth's own pistol to Ronan's stomach, chest and head respectively. "Fucker's gotta spoil my fun," he snears at the runaway psychopath. "But I'll make it nice and slow if I can."
The pair unload on Ronan, and suddenly his body is riddled with bullets that send him staggering back a half pace, unable to respond under the sheer barrage. As so often happens in the world of the supernatural though, it's not that simple. On the upside, more answers. Why the missing teeth? In the intensity of the movements with Sean having been thrown towards Jayanth, and Ronan's own movements thrown in, a solid six shots land in his torso, with one in the neck and another having punched through that oh-so-sturdy jawline of his. Without a forensic report it will be impossible to say whose rounds are whose, but there'll be no forensic report yet. The man is still standing with blood welling from his chest, a bubbling, sucking wound in his throat that splutters and gurgles with each of his breaths, and his cheek has been blown open on one side baring his teeth and lolloping tongue out that side. He staggers forwards, trying to raise his pistol once again after the torrent of rounds slows him, and the wounds begin to heal with supernatural speed as he advances, still shuffling in a zombielike fashion. Those teeth certainly aren't growing back anytime soon, and he's an easy target now for the coup-de-grace
"...Huh," Sean says, pausing for a moment to do the 'assessing' part of his job that so often precedes the 'violent and unrestrained murder' part. He watches Ronan seek to heal, head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed to slits. "Fucker's got a lot of regenerative energy stored in there, but he's burning it up fast, Jay," he says aside him. "You go low," whatever the fuck that means, as Sean just whips forward, striding through the crowd like a panther before leaping at Ronan, giving Jayanth his answer as to what 'Low' means, launching himself up towards Ronan and shoving the barrel of his gun into the open side of the man's cheek, pushing it till he hits flesh. "Once chance," he breathes, "Before I blow your fucking brains out. Collar or death?"
"Christ that's fucking nasty," and indeed Jayanth looks like he's about to throw up everything he's ever eaten at the sight of that tongue flapping out the side of Ronan's face, like some grusome fleshtie done up wrong amidst a mess of blood and bone. He ignores Sean's command, all up until the other man's actually giving the perp a choice. "Are you fucking kidding me?" his voice dangerously low as he strides over, not taking his aim off the brutalised man and pumping another couple shots in his gut for good measure. "You are fucking mental. You can't collar this shit, uck him up or feed him as a party favour but don't take your fucking chances, moron."
With Sean's gun pressed into the open wound on the side of someone' face the chance of a verbal response are further diminished, though those supernatural healing powers continue to play out, the bubbles in the man's throat ceasing to form as whatever perforation was made to his airway heals. Indeed Ronan's cheek too continues to heal, welding itself in horrific fashion around the invading barrel of Sean's gun. There'll be no missing. For all the man might heal fast, it is clear however he still feels the pain as Jayanth's rounds land home in the mans gut and have him groan in agony around the barrel of the gun. His own weapon comes up partway, a shot stolen at Sean and firing through his thigh in a non-verbal 'fuck you' if ever there was one.
With Sean's gun pressed into the open wound on the side of Ronan's face the chance of a verbal response are further diminished, though those supernatural healing powers continue to play out, the bubbles in the man's throat ceasing to form as whatever perforation was made to his airway heals. Indeed Ronan's cheek too continues to heal, welding itself in horrific fashion around the invading barrel of Sean's gun. There'll be no missing. For all the man might heal fast, it is clear however he still feels the pain as Jayanth's rounds land home in the mans gut and have him groan in agony around the barrel of the gun. His own weapon comes up partway, a shot stolen at Sean and firing through his thigh in a non-verbal 'fuck you' if ever there was one.
"Information is power," but Sean is on the knife's edge of being torn to pieces, grappling Ronan in such a way as to try to keep his vitals...semi-out-of-death's-door. "APB didn't have him as kill on-" Another gunshot, the barrel held through the hole of a slowly regenerating wound in Ronan's face. A twitch and a bullet would go through his brain. Another twitch in the opposite direction and Sean is surely injured. Dead if it weren't for Haven's Sanctuary. "Oh, well-" He says, in response to the gurgled non-reply, and just as a bullet courses against his thigh, Sean fires, five full fucking times, overkill, probably, but Spook Protocol takes no fucking chances, until Ronan's brains are all over his face, and Sean falls to the ground, bleeding...a lot. Out of his left leg. Fucking left leg. Why always the left leg?
But Jayanth is done waiting, done fucking around. Gone is the pistol that'd still been smoking in his hand, replaced by the gleaming double-edged blade of a dagger so long one could be forgiven for calling a shortsword. The Asian's resigned himself to find entertainment elsewhere it seems, because without word or warning the blade plunges half-way into Ronan's throat with a wet sickening sound, and the tight clentching of Jayanth's jaw, his shoulders has him hacking the blade first one way, then back around to chop at the rest of the bullneck until the head falls wettly to the ground. It's not a clean job, and Jayanth doesn't look like he gives a fuck either way. "Burn the shithead," he says tightly, poking the tip of his knife against its unmarred cheek. "And then chop up the body and burn that too." Not the faintest flicker of amusement is left in the soldier's face, in his eyes as they flick to the dead Latimer and then Sean on the ground and bleeding. "And get the spook a goddamn medic before he finds a new way to kill himself."
The all consuming sound of gunfire sounds out over and over and over again in the unforgiving stone halls of the goblin market, and then silence. Not a person left in sight save for Jayanth, Sean, the very deceased Sergeant Latimer, and the now twitching remains of what was once Ronan as his body falls to the ground. Five rounds through the jaw like that was enough to vaporize everything above the jawline, the mess coating a solid two meter circle surrounding the body and doubtless having backsplattered onto the pair present. The blows to the neck from Jayanth cleave meat away from what was once a man and leave part of his spine extending uselessly up from a shot up torso, arm and legs that now lay on the ground. Still it is healing, slower now though and there is no chance of the body getting up anytime soon. Jayanth's advice regarding burning it might well be on the mark though.
Every stand has closed, every customer absconded. The only items of value available for grabbing are now the cooler on the table, and the now blood soaked carryall open on the ground full of cursed treasures. This close, the contents of the cooler can be seen. Organs, each absurdly small, no bigger than the upper segment of an adult thumb, fill the cooler to the brim. Each professionally vacuum sealed biohazard bag is labelled 'heart, infant' with different hospital names on every bag from all over the world. Another question answered. Where does the goblin market get its hearts? From men like these. There will be others, men and women and beasts willing to supply such things, but there is one less of them now, provided he is burned.
A chirp of comms comes over the line, apparently too focused on bringing Sean down that it doesn't take note that Jayanth is still linked in. Sean has his hands in the air, blood gushing onto the dirt and ground of the goblin market, cackling with laughter. A voice, dull and monotonous, comes onto the comms, then, as the target is confirmed to be dead and Jayanth gets to work on the hack-and-slash. "Telephone. Avocado. Patented. Synergy. Elemental." And Sean goes entirely limp, his laughter subsiding into a shake of his chest that then just becomes shallow breathing. The glare of pure fire and bloodlust leaves his eyes as his arms go slack and a double-team of Temple medics come rushing in from one of the other gates, carrying a medkit and a gurney. They both look at Jayanth as they move to tend to Sean and nod, silently. "We'll get him to the Clinic. We've got a few Demolishers incoming to help with clean up." One bandages Sean's thigh, the other lifts him onto the gurney and jabs something, a coagulant, likely, at the juncture near his hip. He groans, but is otherwise immobile and quietly unresponsive. "I believe he has a primary contact? A ....Stavanger, something? Perhaps worth a call. We'll get him to a recovery room." The Geeks seem entirely nonchalant about this whole practice. As they both lift up either side of gurney to roll Sean out of there, one of them lifts a hand to their ear and says "Spook Protocol deactivated. Target neutralized. Agent Aspen being taken for recovery."
And then, as if on cue, a whole squadron of Demolishers come stomping through the abandoned market place, guided by Strike Force soldiers and taking up everything that isn't nailed down.
The confrontation escalates at the Fertile Valley Florists, where Sean and his ally, Jayanth, corner Ronan amidst an unsuspecting crowd within the goblin market. Their strategy shifts dynamically as Ronan reveals a resilience and regenerative ability far beyond the ordinary, turning the final clash into a grueling test of wills, strategy, and brute force. In a gruesome finale, Ronan's healing powers are pushed to their limits until Jayanth decisively ends the conflict in a manner that leaves no room for doubt or recovery. This violent resolution, executed with a blend of tactical precision and visceral force, underlines the harsh realities of their shadowy war against the supernatural. Sean's encounter closes on a somber note as he is whisked away for medical attention, leaving behind a scene that starkly illustrates the personal costs and moral complexities of their relentless campaign against such formidable and malevolent adversaries.
(Sean's odd encounter(SRCara):SRCara)
[Sun Aug 25 2024]
At Arkwright Cemetery
It is afternoon, about 79F(26C) degrees,
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Lingering in the graveyard, wind rushing against his skin, dressed perfectly for the weather. He'd been leaning against a gravestone, his phone on speaker, set on the granite beside him. Sean's gaze was turned out to the sea, and until this moment, he'd been in a quiet sort of pondering - unusual, for him, but the person on the other side of the line had asked him an incredibly loaded question, and for once, absent his usual masks and artifice, Sean was left to actually think about the implications of it. He'd begun to articulate his answer, head swimming. "So, I think the ...I think I'd really have to start by saying that whatever we have going on is very, very new to me. What I want out of this-" And the line cuts short. "...Wren? Wren?" He lifts his phone up, peers at it, and then goes to work jailbreaking the thing to hell to try to figure out what happened. Poor Spook. Could've just been a dropped call. But his paranoia tells him otherwise
Wind whips through the cemetary, the leaves rustling on the trees to the periphery and the crematorium howling as the wind coasts through the eaves of it. The reason Sean's phone has cut as it turns out, is a All Points Bulletin pushed from Network 66, the neutral occult data distribution forum. It reads: 'Ronan Loche, active in Haven area. Wanted by: Hand, Order, Temple for crimes including: People smuggling, artifact theft, murder, extortion. Suspect to be considered armed and dangerous. Approach available authorities if spotted.'. A rare opportunity, a criminal so indiscriminate he has left himself with no friends. Those are the headlines though, there's no further information on the individual immediately gleanable from that notice.
Panic sets in at first at the dropped call. Sean loves this woman dearly and he'd been on the verge of, finally, being able to open up to her within the chaos caused by the psychological feedback loop of being in such close proximity to a burgeoning Angelborn. He'd been pushing through various layers of self-imposed encryption to get back to Wren when the APB comes through. And he stops. Pauses. And a wicked scimitar's sweep of a smile slowly blossoms on his face. Six words that Sean had spent so long and so hard fighting off to the point that, last night, he'd had Autumn beat the living fuck out of him to keep them at bay, now chirp in his ear as a distant, monotonous voice at Temple Intelligence H.Q. does what they do best. Activate.
"Wake up, Spook. Time to hunt."
The phone call goes dead, the little brick becoming a tiny command center as Sean's spine straightens and his face distorts. Maps, GPS satellite footage, ping-traces, all pulled up as he reaches a hand up to his ear, voice so unerringly steady that it shouldn't come from his throat. "Jansen. Get me a Mosquito, two Geeks and get a squadron of Demolishers at the ready. I want the Geeks to meet me at the juncture of Sheriff's Run and Main. We've got a live one and I want to take it down personally." Wake up, Spook. Time to hunt. "I've got a latent trace, but he's trying to go to ground. Ronan Loche." There's a grumbling, irritated voice in reply, cut short by a swift remark from Sean. "Two geeks and a Mosquito. Plain clothes. Send them with a tac-vest and a pistol. I left mine at home. Eight minutes. I'm moving out." This is it. His wheelhouse. What he's done for ten years of his life. What he came to this podunk town to DO. And he takes off, backscrolling through Network666's chat logs to see if there's any pieces of information on Ronan Loche that he can pull out to aid him as he stalks through the graveyard at too calm a pace for such an urgent bulletin.
"Heard and understood Agent." Comes the answer down the line as Sean issues commands, requesting strike force and technical personnel in his own jargon. A search through Network666 reveals a plethora of readily available information on the man, though none of it extremely current save for a link to some grainy footage posted shortly after the APB. Mugshots show a man of swarthy complexion who looks to be on the rougher side of forty. A brunette with blue eyes trying to conceal a receding hairline with overgrown, greasy hair slicked across his forehead, greying stubble and an expression on his face that suggests he eats bricks just to feel the crunch. A couple missing teeth also suggest either he's literally eaten bricks or lived a rough lifestyle. The footage places him ducking into a pretty looking store full of flowers, a large carryall on his back and wary glances sent about. There's no visible accomplices in the footage, though the organized nature of his criminal history suggests he is not one for working alone.
In the man's right hand, accompanying the already very full looking carryall, is a large portable cooler of the sort one might use to transport food for a large picnic
"Fertile Valley?" It's a question, to himself, and the air, as Sean peels back through the footage, reeling it and looping it over and over again, eyes parsing out all the minute details he can extract from the blurry street security cameras. He tuts, irritated at the lack of clarity, and then starts really moving. Fast. He'd told Jansen eight minutes and he'd wasted five parsing out data. So he bolts off at a sprint, the stitches Freya had put into his skin mere hours prior groaning at the effort he's putting on his body so soon after injury. He'll hurt later. For now, he has a job to do. A dull voice clicks into his ear, aged, weathered, and almost bored in its tone "Elemental. Synergy. Patented. Av-" Sean growls, hitting his comms and saying "Not NOW Jeb. I've got it. I've got it. Really. I don't need it. I want this one. I need the blood."
weaving around gravestones to get to the juncture point he'd told Jansen to set the meet-up, he moves, truly, like a shade. Afternoon wanes slow in the last gasping breaths of summer and yet he finds every shadow, every stretch of darkness to be within, to mold into and move with speed and without sound to get to the intersection. He reaches for a pistol at his back belt that he knows isn't there, finds the knife he took from Wren, and slips that into an underhanded grip. "Done it before and done it with less, Jeb. I don't need the phrases." Wake up, Spook. Time to hunt.
A few minutes later, he hits the intersection, slowing as he hits open road and mid-day pedestrians, gray, stormy eyes scanning for the subtle, tell-tale signs of the requested backup. He sucks at his teeth thoughtfully, before lifting a hand to his ear, voice lowering. "Send a set of eyes ahead to Hart? Look around Fertile Valley. Forties. Brunette. Greaser fucker. Might be a wolf, b the size of that jaw, or a Demigod, but whatever spawned him is not god I'd want to worship."
Sean pauses, briefly, as he hits a curb, hop-skipping up onto the concrete as if this were a mid-day job to send out a single text.
Eight minutes is a very quick turnaround for a response team and Sean's requested support makes it two minutes behind schedule. The 'geek' technical support arriving in a tyrell industries van whilst Sean's requested 'mosquito' strike force arrives via seperate sedan with blacked out windows, minus one member Sean is swiftly notified is now watching Fertile Valley Florists. "Nobody matching that description on-site, and visibility is pretty good through the windows unless he's in the backroom." Comes a clear, crisp, professional voice down the operational radio. The footage at time of posting when Sean saw it, was only 15 minutes dated. Either he's left the florists in a hurry, if indeed he was at the florists, or there is something more going on there.
:Open the door, Miles!" Sean yells at the van as he rounds the corner to intercept it. A bound, a leap - that knee healed up right quick after a night with Saoirse, huh? Tuck, roll, leap in mid-stride at the van, and if the Geek's listening, he lands square into the middle seats. "Go," Sean commands, hand to his ear, eyes on his phone. To Miles, the driver, he says, "Fast, but quiet," and to the Geek in the passenger seat he says "Wilson, pass the gun and then get on finding a trace. If this man has a phone, I want to know its make, number and god damned background photo." He eyes down the street at the sedan, chin lifted, smile not once leaving his face. Hand still at his ear, he pops it twice, chirping to a side channel to address the Strike Force soldier in the sedan.
"Ho there, buckaroo. They let you bastards come out and play in the sunshine?" he says, his voice barely containing a laugh bordering on mania. Tinted windows notwithstanding, as the van rounds the corner, he makes a few, silent hand gestures to the Strike Force soldier driving the sedan, indicating for it to drop back into a tail. "Have Sergeant Latimer go inside. Do a sweep. Quietly. Check the back, by the gardens. Stupid place to go to ground, if you ask me, but the man doesn't look like he's got a lot in the brains department." If he's handed the requested armor and weapons, Sean gets to work, peeling his shirt off, strapping himself in, and then dropping the billowy shirt back over the vest. Not a PERFECT cover, like his suit, but it'll have to do on short notice. "
"Open the door, Miles!" Sean yells at the van as he rounds the corner to intercept it. A bound, a leap - that knee healed up right quick after a night with Saoirse, huh? Tuck, roll, leap in mid-stride at the van, and if the Geek's listening, he lands square into the middle seats. "Go," Sean commands, hand to his ear, eyes on his phone. To Miles, the driver, he says, "Fast, but quiet," and to the Geek in the passenger seat he says "Wilson, pass the gun and then get on finding a trace. If this man has a phone, I want to know its make, number and god damned background photo." He eyes down the street at the sedan, chin lifted, smile not once leaving his face. Hand still at his ear, he pops it twice, chirping to a side channel to address the Strike Force soldier in the sedan.
"Ho there, buckaroo. They let you bastards come out and play in the sunshine?" he says, his voice barely containing a laugh bordering on mania. Tinted windows notwithstanding, as the van rounds the corner, he makes a few, silent hand gestures to the Strike Force soldier driving the sedan, indicating for it to drop back into a tail. "Have Sergeant Latimer go inside. Do a sweep. Quietly. Check the back, by the gardens. Stupid place to go to ground, if you ask me, but the man doesn't look like he's got a lot in the brains department." If he's handed the requested armor and weapons, Sean gets to work, peeling his shirt off, strapping himself in, and then dropping the billowy shirt back over the vest. Not a PERFECT cover, like his suit, but it'll have to do on short notice. (Fix?)
As the van rounds the corner, Sean swipes away the security footage and backgrounds Network 666's log page. He pulls up a number on his contact list - Jayanth Smith - and he pauses, and lets out a laugh that would make skin crawl. "This motherfucker's going to LOVE this. If he can keep his head on straight." Blip goes the call button and Sean holds the phone up to his ear, all while fidgeting with the sights on his gun. If the call goes through, the only thing Sean says is "Hay, you see the APB on 666? Some gravel-chewing fucker, thief and murder, is trying to go to ground. I think the Hand wants him, but I'm more content to put two in his head."
"You up for a hunt, soldier?"
Jayanth, like Sean, will have recieved an all points bulletin from Network666 detailing that a known criminal Ronan Loche has been sighted in the area. Criminal activities include People smuggling, artifact theft, murder, and extortion. Last known footage placed him at a florists in haven what is now 17 minutes ago at the time of Sean's call, carrying a carryall and what looks to be a large portable food cooler into the store.
The scale, target and natures of Ronan's crimes have put him on the wanted list for almost all major societies. His crimes are organized, large scaled, entirely devoid of empathy for their victims, and have left him with few friends outside of his criminal contacts, though presumably given the scale of his crimes, there must be no shortage of those.
There's a long quiet pause from the other line following the spook's words, until Jayanth's voice, distant as though he's answering from the otherside of a large room issues a lengthy string of curses that would make a sailor faint. "The shit you find yourself into, Aspen. Fine," the soldier growls on the other end, the words punctuated by a faint clatter of wood before the soft scratching of a phone being handled none too gently. "But I wanna play with it first."
"You love me," Sean snipes, "And you're welcome to play with it all you want once I get it away from the public. Considering it an apology gift." And then he ends the call, hand gripping the headrest of the passenger seat of the car, staring out over the center console, eyes like a hawk as the van rounds and heads towards Fertile Valley Florist.
Jayanth would receive, shortly after, a brief text from Sean that says, simply 'Let's see who's amateur shit now'
With Jayanth joining the hunt, Sean's van rounds the corner and pulls to a stop outside the Fertile Valley Florists, the scouting party already inside and reporting back in casual conversational tones, though hushed to avoid undue attention on him. "Sergeant Latimer reporting in. I have no eyes on the target. Got myself a table with eyes on the office and he's not in the backroom, cafe, kitchen or floral sales room... But nobody has left since I arrived either. Man must have done his business fast and moved on." comes a voice down Sean's raido, though it is echoed in the van by the command radio.
Jayanth seems to care less about being heard than seen, speeding his bike right down Hart way passed the Florist's and swirving to a halt the wrong way into a narrow parking spot on the far side of Antlors' less than 10 minutes later. Pistol already in hand he sprints for the van, keeping to the other side of the street with 1 eye on the building. "Report," he tells the spook once he reaches the door and swings inside, forest green eyes gleaming with building anticipation. "Dude inside?"
There's a disappointed 'tsk' at his teeth as Latimer reports back to Sean, the van slowing to a crawl, a rolling stop. He cranes his neck, eyes flitting about constantly, a bloodhound riled to hunt and nowhere near sated. Barely containing his rage at the loss of eyes on the target, Sean reaches up, touches his ear, and says "Give it five. If there's no motion, I want you to join Sergeant Wilkes out on the street. Give me a five-" A pause, eyes rolling up as he mentally maps this part of the town, "No, seven block perimeter. Watch the alleyways. It's too early in the afternoon and too busy on the streets for him to be bolting and the security footage showed him with a bag or a basket of some kind. Either he's trying to blend in, in which case, bag-and-tag, or," and this is where Sean gets way, way too excited, flinging the door wide and patting the Geek on the shoulder, "He's using back alleys. Which means he's moving slow. HSD would be on him like white on rice if he was out in public and presenting danger."
"God," Sean breathes, body tight, ready to pounce. "Love you," he says, leaning around the headrest to irritatingly kiss the Geek-tracer on the cheek. "Keep me posted on that trace and that tail. I'm a'goin' huntin'." And out he pops, his foot hitting the sidewalk and his entire posture changing, strides easy. Light. Boring. There's not a gun in his holster. There's no kevlar under his t-shirt. He is, merely, a man beneath notice, strolling around for a mid-day walk. He takes a five-step lope down the block to meet Jayanth, eyes burning, and says "No sign inside or in the backrooms. Had a basket, or something, I think. Either ritualist materials, or weapons, or he wants a picnic." He lifts a shoulder, so achingly casual in the face of a threat that might be able to rip him in half. Looking into the florist, he tells Jayanth, quietly, "I've got two Mosquitos on a perimeter if he's a no-show in five, and a Geek in the van working on a phone trace. I'll patch you into that active line." He juts his chin out to an alley around the corner. "Hand'll want this bastard for a wardog and the Order'll play it too safe. You want to go get messy?"
Sean does, indeed, patch Jayanth into the active line he has running back to the Intel agents in the van, a low buzzy thrum that intermittently blips with GPS pings and the sound of aggressive typing.
Another volley of curses follows, Jayanth's phone appearing in his free hand seemingly out of nowhere as he taps furiously at the screen. "Dickbag must've fled into the goblin market," he snears, shifting his eyes back to the front door of the building. "Have someone pull up a list of all the doors and send in eyes to cover the other exits into Haven, he's trying to give us the slip the long way round."
The tech working the vans command center seems flustered by Sean's intimacy in the moment, momentarily stalling in their otherwise incessant typing at the computer. "Last scout report from the camera network still places him at the florist." They utter. "No line on the phone so either it is off, he's offworld, or somehow in the last 20 minutes he's managed to get to the middle of no-where with no signal... Though I suppose underground would wor..." Their words cut-off as Jayanth raises another possibility and fingers fly over the keyboard once more. "I can confirm there -is- a market door in the florists. Wear your key, look for a trapdoor in the floor. The other one in town is the falafel place just across the road, and we've listings for one in Camp White Oak. Jay might be onto something."
"Huh. Good point," Sean says to Jayanth, looking a little upset that that hadn't occurred to him. "Rusty," Sean growls to himself, "Little blood'll help that." He cricks his neck and the Geeks are already ahead of him. "THIS. IS. THE. LIFE!" Sean whoops, throwing his head at the falafel place and saying, "Pincer? I go falafel, you go flowers? Guns up, eyes up," and he knows he's being patronizing because of course Jayanth would know how to do this. He just loves to be a needly prick. There's a pause, before he sobers up for a moment and says to Jayanth. "Spook Protocol's active, Jay. There's not -really- going to be much left of this guy if I get my hands on him. So if we want him alive, you know what to do. Go for the throat if I get blood in my eye."
That little moment of overly-intimate planning over, Sean rises back up to the trail and clicks his comms, "Latimer, Wilkes. Head to Camp. Jay and I are going in and I'll want eyes on. Miles?" He says, looking back to the van as he's already crossing the road. "I want you parked out here. If he's going in, at some point he's going to come out and I want to know if he does, when he does, and what condition he's in."
"He's not gonna come out from falafel," Jayanth notes, gesturing between the building across the road. "Too close to the converging point, he knows we're on him. He's gonna wanna get far, chance is out of town to avoid the HSD." This's not the Asian's first rundown, apparently, and the man is clearly used to leading. He concedes a step though, looking back at Sean for a moment and nodding to the Templar. "If he is in there he's gonna be watching the dors nearest this location, so watch yourself going in. They might not be as near on the other side either, so pick a meeting point and don't think twice about closing off the market. Act first, answer for it later you know the drill."
Sean's words are greeted with various notes of acknowledgement down the radio and moments later a man of squat build in a tracksuit paces out of the Florist, quickening to a slow lope to find his way into the passenger side of the blacked out sedan pulled up behind the Tyrell Corp van Sean and Jayanth currently reside in. The vehicle pulls out and around the van with some urgency and then it is off northbound along Prospect Street with a screech of tires that suggests speed limits are being treated more as guidelines than mandatory. With the strike force team off to another known door, Sean and Jayanth are left to plan and act in their own time, though who knows how time sensitive this could be when the market likely has so many unknown doors too?
"Arena," Sean says without a second thought. "Easy to pincer him, push him into, and, if need be, subdue," though obviously he doesn't want to subdue. He wants to hunt. "I'll go in, do a sweep, and we'll meet up near the Arena. Keep comms lines active. If you sight him, I'm shoving a trader to the ground to come put a bullet in his spine." Why? Because Sean wants to. Because he's a killer and it's all he's ever been made to be. And off he pops, to enter into the Market through the other door, pulling his parents' dogtags out from beneath his shirt and pressing them to his lips. He disappears through the doors of the -very- busy, lunch-rush falafel place, his comms static a bit overwhelming for a moment before he finds the door.
Just as he goes through, there's....singing? Yes. Singing. Over the wire, through to the van's speaker, the earpieces of the Mosquitos making Sean's perimeter, and right the fuck into Jayanth's ear. A song Jayanth would know, painstakingly and stupidly well, for it played the night Sean had almost allowed himself to get killed. And that is, of course, when he feels most alive. "I....hate, everything. About you. Why...do I, love you?! I. Hate. Everything about you, why....do I..love you?! Come on out you bastard!" And then he goes dark, stepping through the doorway and into the market place.
Sean might be singing Three Days Grace but Ronan wherever he is is unlikely to give them that much time to work with. Sean's techie apparently tires of Sean's rendition of the song and instead elects to put the original song down comms so it can be background noise rather than obfuscurate mission chatter. The mugshots up on screen give Jayanth an idea as to the appearance of the person they are searching for. A brunette just north of forty years old with a swarthy complexion and greying stubble. His overlong hair has been greased across his forehead but does little to hide the receding hairline. Despite an otherwise haggard experience he bears a burly jaw that suggests he eats bricks for a passtime, and a few missing teeth don't go far towards contradicting that notion.
No dogtags hang as some comfortable weight against the Asian's chest, no mottos or prayers uttered or even music to bolster or bui his spirits. Whether from any lack thereof or just because he simply couldn't give a fuck, Jayanth just strides into the Florist's without ceremony, hand resting on the gun at his waist, long raven locks brushing his shoulders as he shakes his head. "Fucker's gonna get himself killed," he mutters, prying open the trapdoor and lifting his other hand to present his watch to whoever's on the other side. "Move the fuck over," he growls, vanishing seemingly into nowhere.
And in short order, Sean and Jayanth find themselves opposite one another in the stone corridor of doors leading up to the goblin market. Nothing out of the normal here as yet. A couple supernatural shopgoers pass not even bothering to hide their goats horns, tails or other features in this rare respite for beings of supernatural nature, though doubtless they will again mask their natures before stepping out of this place. A distant hubbub of the market to the north echoes off the masonry of the hallway.
Jayanth nods upon spotting the spook, falling into step with him with a quiet, "we got any intel on what this guy might look like down here if and when he sheds his skin?"
"Why...do I...YES, Miles, YES." Has Jayanth ever seen Sean look and feel this alive? Once. Maybe. At the Succubus, the night he met Wren, but the was high and drunk and here he's so dangerously clear-eyed and sober. He steps through, a shudder running down his spine, and eyes Jayanth for a moment. He looks off northward, pausing at the question. "...Not sure." He chirps at his ear and says, "Miles, we got any intel on if he's Obfuscating? If he's got a rap this long, someone's got to have clocked what he is, right?" He waits, bouncing on his toes, held at the end of a very thin leash until he's given an answer. He's already looking down into the heart of things, where people and creatures of all make and size make him look small and weak and so very, very squishable. "Speaking of, Latimer, you at Camp yet? Pop on through and give me a sweep. Meet me and Jay at the Arena if you catch no sight of him. Not that that's saying he'd look the same here."
"Tell me one of your supes' picked up on the fucker's scent," Jayanth mutters, eyes scanning, of all places, the floor of the stone hallway for fresher footprints. "Would make this shit a whole lot easier."
"Uhhhh..." The voice comes down the operational line to the pair from the support officer, accompanied by a "Enroute" From the strike team operative. Moments later Miles's voice sounds out once more. "This is only a hunch, but given the sadistic nature of the criminal history, if I had to guess? Demonborn. Could be Fae given how much he seems to enjoy what he does, but there's no mischief to it. Only brutality... Though let's not pretend humanity doesn't have it's own monsters. Money is a mighty motivator and there's plenty of money in people smuggling, killing for hire and the rest of what he's done." Unfortunately for Jayanth the stone floor isn't very accommodating to those trying to pick up footprints. A couple moments later the tracksuit clad operator Sean ordered appears just a little further north of the pair from another door in the hall.
As if conducting a symphony in his head, Sean gestures to the air, fingers going back and forth, gun - thankfully - still tucked away so as to not be a friendly fire risk. He sways as the music plays in the background of his comms, the melody apparently the only thing keeping him from darting off and murdering, apparently...everyone he sees? He did say he wasn't a good man. There's a laugh at the report. "Guess work. Love it." His phone buzzes in his other hand, kept out in hopes of a tracker trace, the lock screen briefly glowing to show a picture of Wren in her PJs as his background. He eyes it, goes flush, and grits his teeth till the grind. "...Hate me a DB," He says, "And I -hate- me a DB that's keeping me from her." Phone goes into his pocket, gun comes out, and he narrows his eyes tightly. "I'll have to talk to the Viper after this. If this is one of his circle's fuckers, we're going to have a conversation."
He gives a subtle upnod to Latimer, before looking to Jayanth. "Had Janesen hold the Demolishers in reserve. Was worried about a street brawl. I can have him let them off the chain, but we're here now, and if we wait for a scent, we're going to lose him." The last order is given to his comms, so that Latimer can be looped in. "Split up, three-prong, and do a sweep? Double-chirp the first chance you get and try to corral him to the Arena without too much fuss." And before there can be any word of protest, throat still caught on that melody, Sean just...completely disappears. He takes three steps forward and then he's a body in a crowd, and only the keenest of eyes could even begin to sight him.
"I've done horrific shit that made my demon partner gauck back in London," Jayanth remarks with fond amusement in his tone, his eyes glinting at the memories. "Don't mean shit. Could be anything from a psychopath to a descendent of a psychopathic god, or just some fuck following orders for so long he's found a moral off switch." Another nod is given to the second agent, Latimer, before Jayanth is breaking off from the group to head deeper into the market, 1 eye still subtly checking the doors and no view on Sean what so ever.
And so the team moves on into the market. With Sean blending into the crowd the less subtle Sergeant Latimer elects to stay close by Jayanth, hands tucked into the front pouch of his hoodie where presumably his weapon resides. With the corridor as narrow as it is there's little opportunity to split up until at the market, though once at the market, it doesn't take much looking to find the target. There's a visible thinning in the crowd around a stand to the market's northern section where tools beyond mere contraband natures are sold and bartered for, the regular shoppers ducking around a roaring argument that passes for a man's haggling. A man with brown hair, long and greased to his forhead, a man wearing a matching brown jacket with a swarthy complexion and a brutish jawline. "THIRTY SIX! I BOUGHT YOU THIRTY SEVEN! YOU TRADE ME GOODS OF EQUAL VALUE! THAT'S WHAT WE AGREED!" The man blasts at a goblin who stumbles over trying to explain the difference between buy value, sell value, and his need for a profit margin. The goods being bartered over are in a cooler set on the table with it's lid off, though from here it is impossible to discern what is actually in the container. "A-ah-and the artifacts are still cursed." The goblin says of the carryall left unzipped on the floor.
Spook. Shade. Ghoul. Ghost. This is his life. His element. Here, where he can disappear and be nothing but teeth and knives and glaring eyes. This crowd is his second skin and Sean wears at such, without hesitation. He becomes nothing, a part of it, moving within it with grace so refined that it might almost be supernatural, if Jayanth hadn't seen the -MANY- times he had spilled very, very human blood, all over himself, the floor, the ground, Freya, and other people. This is trained. Honed. And if anyone wants to see if him first, it'll be because Sean lets them. Whether this Ronan is a Demigod, a Demonborn, or just an asshole and a ritualist, his blood is already up. It takes a psychopath to know a psychopath. The market is busy enough for him to disappear into, body fluid, touching against shoulders and hips only lightly enough to make people move out of his way when he simply can't squeeze past them.
He goes towards the Arena but takes a wide swath, eyes peeled for the initial description of the target. And then there's noise. And Sean LOVES noise. He darts behind a stall, ducks behind a curtain, and then slips forward till he's simply...behind the vendor, body curled tight behind the goblin trader as it tries to barter with Ronan. So -incredibly- quietly, Sean's voice comes up on comms, whispering "...Hey. I'm gonna do something stupid."
The shouting attracts enough of Jayanth's attention a second after it does Sean's, the Asian raising a hand to signal Latimer close by with a series of gestures. A circling finger, crossed middle and ring, a closed fist. Whatever it means, Jayanth doesn't wait long for the operator to get it before cutting a path not to the goblin's stall, but the one next over from where he spots Sean just as the man's voice comes over the line. "Don't lose your fucking shit here," the soldier growls into his watch, his eyes narrowing. "We bag him with as little fanfair as we can. I don't feel like putting up with the goblin king's bullshit today."
"THEY AIN'T CURSED AND WHADDA YOU CARE IF THEY ARE?!" Ronan roars at the goblin trying to do its bartering. "YOU LITERALLY SELL HUMAN KIDS HEARTS HERE EVERY DAY. YOU'RE TELLING ME YOU SUDDENLY CARE ABOUT PEOPLE NOW?!" The man continues to bluster. Hearing Sean's whisper, Sergeant Latimer ups the pace, gripping the weapon in his pocket a little harder as he power walks towards Ronan. So focussed is Ronan he hasn't noticed anything out of sorts as yet, though the goblin merchant trying to barter does send a confused look aside at Sean before the man roaring in his face gets his attention once more.
"S'fine..." Sean croons, hidden like a ball beneath the paneling of the adjoining stall where Ronan just screams at a goblin. "I've got this." He looks manic. Not just excited, but past that, to something that is ravenous, yawning, and never, ever able to be filled. He worms his way beneath the counter till he's barely visible, his voice a breathy whisper that, itself, is barely audible, and only to Jayanth, on the private line between them, does Sean murmur "...Brain power time. I'm going to hit him as hard as I can and you grab him the moment he reels." And then Sean goes comms-dark. Quiet.
And he closes his eyes and he sits there, breathing, for a few, long moments, all while Ronan screams at this poor vendor, as if questioning the ethics of his salesmanship. His body slackens, his eyes open, a haze over the stormy gray as he tilts his chin up to look past the wood, past Ronan, and into the Nightmare around the target. His lips move, but no sound comes out as he watches the man yell and yell and scream and roar.
A lance of emotion would come from Sean's mind to Ronan's, worming through the Nightmare, would strike the very center of Ronan's cortex, before blossoming into a feeling that is all-consuming, overwhelming, and painful. It is a lifetime's worth of guilt, a shower of self-loathing, a sudden and shameful holding up of a mirror against the man's blackened soul that forces him, if for only a moment, to feel the weight of his misdeeds.
Jayanth positions himself at third point from Sean and the fast approaching Latimer, closing in on the stall as soon as the latter's at roughly the same distance. Sean's words do nothing to break his stride, though curiosity at least keeps the raven from drawing just yet. His gaze fixes on the goblin's wares, making a show of examining the stall's display while his friend now crouched under it does his thing. Content to follow just as casually as he is commanding by default, though every ioda of his attention is spent on the perp now only a foot away.
Ronan looks to be halfway to snatching a payment off the goblins countertop when he stops with his hand extended towards it, blinking with that burly jaw slack as for once in his life, a conscience is asserted upon him. The goblin in turn reaches to grab their items, pulling them out of reach of the much larger man.
His nose explodes with blood and Sean doesn't even bother trying to clean it. He reels as his eyes snap back into focus, pulling his gaze from the Nightmare to press to his ear and whisper, heatedly, "Tranq, tase and bag and tag. I can't hold this for too long or I'll get an aneurysm."
And with that Latimer pulls a weapon. His go to seems to have been the taser and it lances with a sizzle straight home into Ronan's neck. The man jumps for a moment, rendered rigid all too briefly by the probes before he whirls, arm up and disconnecting the taser probes as his other hand raises and there's a *CRACK*. The back of Latimer's skull separates from his body with Jayanth in the splash zone, Ronan's eyes wide as he snarls and looks for his next target.
It's in that moment of chaos and confusion raught of personal intraspection that Jayanth opts to make his move, lifting his gaze from the display to level a devilish smirk at Ronan. "You really should've decursed those artifacts," he muses, just before a hand comes up with a flash of metal not to fire, but slam butt first into the broot's temple. Jayanth's left knee shoots up for the perp's groin for good measure, and then a step and pivot sees him shoved back and off balance towards the stricken Latimer.
"Oh, no." There's a brief, BRIEF moment of concern, of grief, at the sheer brutality with which Latimer is dispatched, before Sean mutters to himself, body stilling, and then he rises from behind the stall, and says "Oh, okay, cool. I get to kill you now without feeling even slightly bad about it.l The Spook breaks, launching himself at Ronan just as Jayanth goes for the groin. He wraps his arms around the target, trying to hold him in place and break his balance with a heel to the back of the knee to take Ronan down. "
"Oh, no." There's a brief, BRIEF moment of concern, of grief, at the sheer brutality with which Latimer is dispatched, before Sean mutters to himself, body stilling, and then he rises from behind the stall, and says "Oh, okay, cool. I get to kill you now without feeling even slightly bad about it." The Spook breaks, launching himself at Ronan just as Jayanth goes for the groin. He wraps his arms around the target, trying to hold him in place and break his balance with a heel to the back of the knee to take Ronan down. (fix)
"Are you out of your motherfucking mind," Jayanth snarls, making as if to yank away the spook. Good sense wins over whatever suicidal tendencies might've masked themselves in sentiment though, and the soldier retretes a couple of steps with his gun leveled on Ronan. "The fuck out of the way, Aspen. Ain't no way you're beating a supe with broot strength."
For all Ronan might have been able to claim the initiative very briefly with their swift rallying from the taser Jayanth manages to pile in before Ronan's revolver can be turned on them, Jayanth swiftly inside of firing range as the next time the gun goes off it fires harmlessly into the ceiling, though goodness knows where the ricochet goes pinging off to. The kick to his nuts amd subsequent strike to a joint has the man stagger to a knee, though Sean's leg is grabbed and he is quite literally thrown in Jayanth's direction for his troubles.
"I literally am," Sean says with a laugh, "And- A'yoop!" He's a ragdoll, flung at Jayanth, and it has to hurt, but Sean doesn't even seem to let it register. He gets up with a limp, a slope to his left leg, and lifts his gun at Ronan. "So," he says, wincing in abject pain, "I have to ask. Was it all worth it? Or did it make you realize that you're nothing more than a worm in the grand scheme of men greater and more terrifying than you?" Does it matter what Ronan's answer is? Not really, because Sean ducks and strafes away, unloading the entire clip of his gun at Ronan's head and throat - he had won the marksmanship three out of four years at the Navel Academy (Damn Aleida, else he'd have gone four for four).
Great stupidity begets even greater consequences, or so some may say for situations like these. Jayanth it seems is all too willing to let Sean suffer his as he hurredly moves out of the way, much as he can before the other human's hurled uncerimoniously into the stall the Asian had approached from. Another shot fired, 3 this time flying from Jayanth's own pistol to Ronan's stomach, chest and head respectively. "Fucker's gotta spoil my fun," he snears at the runaway psychopath. "But I'll make it nice and slow if I can."
The pair unload on Ronan, and suddenly his body is riddled with bullets that send him staggering back a half pace, unable to respond under the sheer barrage. As so often happens in the world of the supernatural though, it's not that simple. On the upside, more answers. Why the missing teeth? In the intensity of the movements with Sean having been thrown towards Jayanth, and Ronan's own movements thrown in, a solid six shots land in his torso, with one in the neck and another having punched through that oh-so-sturdy jawline of his. Without a forensic report it will be impossible to say whose rounds are whose, but there'll be no forensic report yet. The man is still standing with blood welling from his chest, a bubbling, sucking wound in his throat that splutters and gurgles with each of his breaths, and his cheek has been blown open on one side baring his teeth and lolloping tongue out that side. He staggers forwards, trying to raise his pistol once again after the torrent of rounds slows him, and the wounds begin to heal with supernatural speed as he advances, still shuffling in a zombielike fashion. Those teeth certainly aren't growing back anytime soon, and he's an easy target now for the coup-de-grace
"...Huh," Sean says, pausing for a moment to do the 'assessing' part of his job that so often precedes the 'violent and unrestrained murder' part. He watches Ronan seek to heal, head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed to slits. "Fucker's got a lot of regenerative energy stored in there, but he's burning it up fast, Jay," he says aside him. "You go low," whatever the fuck that means, as Sean just whips forward, striding through the crowd like a panther before leaping at Ronan, giving Jayanth his answer as to what 'Low' means, launching himself up towards Ronan and shoving the barrel of his gun into the open side of the man's cheek, pushing it till he hits flesh. "Once chance," he breathes, "Before I blow your fucking brains out. Collar or death?"
"Christ that's fucking nasty," and indeed Jayanth looks like he's about to throw up everything he's ever eaten at the sight of that tongue flapping out the side of Ronan's face, like some grusome fleshtie done up wrong amidst a mess of blood and bone. He ignores Sean's command, all up until the other man's actually giving the perp a choice. "Are you fucking kidding me?" his voice dangerously low as he strides over, not taking his aim off the brutalised man and pumping another couple shots in his gut for good measure. "You are fucking mental. You can't collar this shit, uck him up or feed him as a party favour but don't take your fucking chances, moron."
With Sean's gun pressed into the open wound on the side of someone' face the chance of a verbal response are further diminished, though those supernatural healing powers continue to play out, the bubbles in the man's throat ceasing to form as whatever perforation was made to his airway heals. Indeed Ronan's cheek too continues to heal, welding itself in horrific fashion around the invading barrel of Sean's gun. There'll be no missing. For all the man might heal fast, it is clear however he still feels the pain as Jayanth's rounds land home in the mans gut and have him groan in agony around the barrel of the gun. His own weapon comes up partway, a shot stolen at Sean and firing through his thigh in a non-verbal 'fuck you' if ever there was one.
With Sean's gun pressed into the open wound on the side of Ronan's face the chance of a verbal response are further diminished, though those supernatural healing powers continue to play out, the bubbles in the man's throat ceasing to form as whatever perforation was made to his airway heals. Indeed Ronan's cheek too continues to heal, welding itself in horrific fashion around the invading barrel of Sean's gun. There'll be no missing. For all the man might heal fast, it is clear however he still feels the pain as Jayanth's rounds land home in the mans gut and have him groan in agony around the barrel of the gun. His own weapon comes up partway, a shot stolen at Sean and firing through his thigh in a non-verbal 'fuck you' if ever there was one.
"Information is power," but Sean is on the knife's edge of being torn to pieces, grappling Ronan in such a way as to try to keep his vitals...semi-out-of-death's-door. "APB didn't have him as kill on-" Another gunshot, the barrel held through the hole of a slowly regenerating wound in Ronan's face. A twitch and a bullet would go through his brain. Another twitch in the opposite direction and Sean is surely injured. Dead if it weren't for Haven's Sanctuary. "Oh, well-" He says, in response to the gurgled non-reply, and just as a bullet courses against his thigh, Sean fires, five full fucking times, overkill, probably, but Spook Protocol takes no fucking chances, until Ronan's brains are all over his face, and Sean falls to the ground, bleeding...a lot. Out of his left leg. Fucking left leg. Why always the left leg?
But Jayanth is done waiting, done fucking around. Gone is the pistol that'd still been smoking in his hand, replaced by the gleaming double-edged blade of a dagger so long one could be forgiven for calling a shortsword. The Asian's resigned himself to find entertainment elsewhere it seems, because without word or warning the blade plunges half-way into Ronan's throat with a wet sickening sound, and the tight clentching of Jayanth's jaw, his shoulders has him hacking the blade first one way, then back around to chop at the rest of the bullneck until the head falls wettly to the ground. It's not a clean job, and Jayanth doesn't look like he gives a fuck either way. "Burn the shithead," he says tightly, poking the tip of his knife against its unmarred cheek. "And then chop up the body and burn that too." Not the faintest flicker of amusement is left in the soldier's face, in his eyes as they flick to the dead Latimer and then Sean on the ground and bleeding. "And get the spook a goddamn medic before he finds a new way to kill himself."
The all consuming sound of gunfire sounds out over and over and over again in the unforgiving stone halls of the goblin market, and then silence. Not a person left in sight save for Jayanth, Sean, the very deceased Sergeant Latimer, and the now twitching remains of what was once Ronan as his body falls to the ground. Five rounds through the jaw like that was enough to vaporize everything above the jawline, the mess coating a solid two meter circle surrounding the body and doubtless having backsplattered onto the pair present. The blows to the neck from Jayanth cleave meat away from what was once a man and leave part of his spine extending uselessly up from a shot up torso, arm and legs that now lay on the ground. Still it is healing, slower now though and there is no chance of the body getting up anytime soon. Jayanth's advice regarding burning it might well be on the mark though.
Every stand has closed, every customer absconded. The only items of value available for grabbing are now the cooler on the table, and the now blood soaked carryall open on the ground full of cursed treasures. This close, the contents of the cooler can be seen. Organs, each absurdly small, no bigger than the upper segment of an adult thumb, fill the cooler to the brim. Each professionally vacuum sealed biohazard bag is labelled 'heart, infant' with different hospital names on every bag from all over the world. Another question answered. Where does the goblin market get its hearts? From men like these. There will be others, men and women and beasts willing to supply such things, but there is one less of them now, provided he is burned.
A chirp of comms comes over the line, apparently too focused on bringing Sean down that it doesn't take note that Jayanth is still linked in. Sean has his hands in the air, blood gushing onto the dirt and ground of the goblin market, cackling with laughter. A voice, dull and monotonous, comes onto the comms, then, as the target is confirmed to be dead and Jayanth gets to work on the hack-and-slash. "Telephone. Avocado. Patented. Synergy. Elemental." And Sean goes entirely limp, his laughter subsiding into a shake of his chest that then just becomes shallow breathing. The glare of pure fire and bloodlust leaves his eyes as his arms go slack and a double-team of Temple medics come rushing in from one of the other gates, carrying a medkit and a gurney. They both look at Jayanth as they move to tend to Sean and nod, silently. "We'll get him to the Clinic. We've got a few Demolishers incoming to help with clean up." One bandages Sean's thigh, the other lifts him onto the gurney and jabs something, a coagulant, likely, at the juncture near his hip. He groans, but is otherwise immobile and quietly unresponsive. "I believe he has a primary contact? A ....Stavanger, something? Perhaps worth a call. We'll get him to a recovery room." The Geeks seem entirely nonchalant about this whole practice. As they both lift up either side of gurney to roll Sean out of there, one of them lifts a hand to their ear and says "Spook Protocol deactivated. Target neutralized. Agent Aspen being taken for recovery."
And then, as if on cue, a whole squadron of Demolishers come stomping through the abandoned market place, guided by Strike Force soldiers and taking up everything that isn't nailed down.