Scene #2334: Riot Control

Owner	Pose
Bitter Medicine	Gentrification. It's not a pleasant word, but the truth isn't always pleasant. Somewhere along the line, someone realized or suspected that the nuclear reactor being built here wasn't necessarily for the citizens. Not the ones living here right now, anyway. The plan, they fear, isn't to improve the lives of who's living here, but to displace them somewhere else and let more 'acceptable' sorts move in. Slum Urbania is no stranger to projects such as this one, although the power plant does have the distinction of being built with input from several enlightened multiversal minds. Maybe it's not a trick, and it is just goodwill. Change is scary, after all, and the success of this plant would bring some pretty big changes. The problem is, it's not successful right now. However ingenious the design is on paper, the management is severely lacking, and perhaps not all of the money involved in its conception went where it was supposed to. Some people got sick, some improper practices were observed. Now, there is a Protest, and a Protest is Trouble. Police mingle with private security, some in riot gear. The protest is mostly peaceful, but some of the older citizens say it's just a sign of the times that the cops come dressed for war. And that fellow in the trench coat with them, the one who seems to be in charge? He's not doing anything to allay concerns. It all starts with two young men, one on either side. A shove. A hit. The crowd ignites into violence, and the security closes in like a clenching fist, led by Bitter Medicine. A disc lies dormant at his hip, a far deadlier weapon than the weapons of war the police have access to. The Exalt appropriates a truncheon from one officer and begins employing it. An Alchemical Exalted, a thing of Soulsteel true and true--though his purpose is and always has been protection, he protects by destroying, the sledgehammer of his people. Crack. Something breaks beneath the truncheon. Nothing essential, but something nonetheless. "Your protests have been heard and noted. You will return to your homes--" A fist snaps out to intercept a broken bottle. Snap. The young lady swinging it is brought to her knees. "Or there will be... trouble."
Crimson Sea	When the riot gets into full swing, a glass bottle shatters against one of the riot shields wielded by the police, splattering foam and cheap beer and glass shards. The source of said bottle isn't immediately obvious however, because the person who threw it isn't at street level. "'Bout time th' party started, heh." Several floors up on the roof of one of the region's less crumbly tenaments--No doubt the home for more than a few of the sorry souls brawling at street level--is a woman in a white uniform. Perched on the concrete railing, one leg hanging down and the other bent up so she can prop her arm on it, she peers downward with one visible eye. Her reason for being here could be extrapolated many ways, but the truth of the matter is sometimes a fight is what it takes to get loose. And plenty of murder. The woman rises to her feet, straightening her surcoat, hands sliding into her pockets, "Now let's see... Oh?" Skimming over the crowd of offended citizens and uniformed police, one single blue eye rests on a taller figure amidst the ensuing brawl. "One o' Autobot's boys," by the size and the telltale taint of Soulsteel. She leans forward on her perch, "Now what brings th' likes o' you ta these parts, I wonder." Crimson Sea continues to lean forward until she falls off the roof. However, rather than actually fall, she strolls down the wall at a leisurely pace, hands still in her pockets.
Bitter Medicine	Bitter Medicine narrows his eyes--he knows when two and two don't add up, and regular dissidents don't scale buildings only to throw debris. As the foamy drink rolls down the nearby officer's riot shield, the Exalt comes to the conclusion that the act was deliberate, designed to draw attention. If this troublemaker wanted to kill, they could have easily done so. Their intent, therefore, must be to exacerbate the situation. A scowl crosses his already unflattering face. "Vacate the premises or receive corrective action. You have ten seconds to comply." The Alchemical takes the brunt of a chair leg to the face, not flinching even as a splinter embeds itself in his forehead. He callously plucks it, then glares unspoken promises of brutality at the frightened man who dared to swing at him. The message is conveyed, the offender takes a step back. "Ten. Nine. Eight." "Fuck you, you Nazi prick!" Bitter Medicine responds with a lateral swipe of his baton across the face of a dissenter. "Seven. Six." A synthleather jackboot flies swiftly into the stomach of the downed man, which only serves to incense the crowd. Of course, the other Exalt here knows that foot was probably loosed with considerable restraint not to kill its victim outright. "Five. Four." "Dump your waste somewhere else!" The countdown is unhindered, not by an approaching Exalt of unknown origin, nor by the crowd who continues striking out both at Bitter Medicine, the private security, and the riot squad. "Three." Menace laces his voice, without changing the tempo. "Two. /One./" Apparently, Autobot's boy went over this in detail with the cops and rent-a-cops. All of them put on masks, and at that exact moment, a cloud of milky white gas erupts forth from the Alchemical. The cries of anger and protest die out amidst panicked choking and gasps for breath. The assembled, hodgepodge security team takes this as their cue to move in with zipties, or, for the more resilient sorts, tasers. The fight isn't all the way out of the crowd, but this guy's clearly done this before.
Crimson Sea	Before she reaches ground level, Crimson hops off her wall perch and rights herself, landing on a fighter's head. Disregarding his objection, she hops, planting on another rioter, kicking off, and travelling across the sea of discontent in a way that only aggrevates the situation in her wake. When her latest mount starts choking on teargas, the woman simply plants her feet on his shoulders and rides him down as he collapses, hands still in her pockets. It's only when he touches the asphalt that she speaks up. "Non-lethal takedowns, eh?" Stepping forward, the dread pirate leans back slightly to peer up at the magi-technical man, "Ya realize what yer made outta, right?" She bares her teeth in a sinister grin, showing one fang, "Wouldn't ya feel much better jus' cuttin' loose an' killin' th' lot of 'em?" As if to illustrate her point, the woman snaps a hand out. A soulsteel pistol with a moonsilver slide emerges from her sleeve and into her waiting hand. No sooner have her fingers closed around it is she unloading the clip without even looking where the rounds are going. Cops, civilians, her eye is fixed on the Alchemical and it's not like she cares anyway who gets cut down.
Bitter Medicine	Bitter Medicine watches Crimson Sea's arrival, under the impression that, yes, she /is/ here to cause trouble. He picks a rioter up by the scruff of his shirt and throws him haphazardly through the window of a nearby storefront. "No," he replies as the Abyssal fires haphazardly into the crowd. His arm bursts forward like a piston, attempting to grab hold of the pistol and direct it towards his own center of mass. "Because if I did, they'd be right about me." Should his redirection prove successful, he gladly, if foolishly, takes the remaining punishment the Abyssal has left to spare.
Crimson Sea	"An' what if they are?" Crimson's response is fairly simple, though when the Alchemical snatches at her pistol, she simply releases it rather than fight his grip. The shots go wide and high, due to his interference, saving a few precious lives. However, the sound of gunfire is likely to cause the riot to boil over into utter insanity if this isn't capped off quickly. "Would it be so bad?" She skips back a step amidst those still choking on the gas, hand diving into her coat, "If'n yer fightin' yer nature, it ain't worth it, mate. You'll be much happier embracin' it, aye?" When she removes her hand from her jacket, she holds a black ring forged from an oily black metal--Soulsteel. Attached to something else, she hauls it out and then swirls what reveals itself to be an anchor, then slams the flukes into the road in front of her. "Look, lad! This is what you are! Sufferin' an' pain, an' yer never gonna be anythin' else!"
Bitter Medicine	Is she... right? It's poison and heresy, certainly. But even a broken clock is right twice a day. He dismisses it, like he dismisses anything different, paying the Abyssal only a scowl. When did he draw his gyroscopic chakram? When did he release its sawblade teeth and bring it to bear? He doesn't know, nor does he realize he even has the weapon drawn at first. Pain and suffering... he observes the people fleeing from the both of them in terror, the panicked looks. The hate. "Is that supposed to be news?!" He assumes Thousand-Wounds Gear Form, long legs carrying him closer to the Abyssal with every pounding step. The soulsteel weapon in his right hand shrieks as he brings it to bear, swinging it in wide, mechanically controlled swaths. How dare she presume to know his struggle? How dare she seek to offer him something he doesn't deserve? After all... "Your use of pain and suffering is inefficient!"
Crimson Sea	There's that fang-toothed grin again. Crimson's single eye is concealed by the brim of her hat due to the angle of her face, "Heh... Maybe not news after all." Supporting the anchor with one hand, she twists her body opposite, using the weapon's mass as a shield when Bitter swipes down with his chakram. Soulsteel striking soulsteel fills the air with screeches of metal and even more nerve-wracking cries of suffering. "Did I make ya angry?" the pirate teases. She steps aside and strikes the side of her anchor with her boot, hurling the weapon into an aerial arc with such force that it appears to weigh nothing. Chain pays out from her sleeve and she wraps her hand around it. With a solid yank, Crimson Sea halts the upward motion of her weapon, then pulls downward, bracing the chain with both hands and wrenching the anchor down in an arc atop the Alchemical. "Inefficient, har! But more fun! Yer wastin' yerself playin' nice with this lot, mate!"
Bitter Medicine	Angry? Has she made him /angry?/ "HAH!" The noise is more like the bark of a vicious mongrel than a laugh. The chakram and the pistol are not the only Soulsteel weapons here--one of them just happens to walk on two legs. This Exalt has a frustrating tendency not to succumb to the his augmented might. He bares his teeth at her, unable to force the anchor down any further, only to lose his balance when she tosses it upwards. His Sixth Dexterity Augmentation plots a course to evade the most likely attack, using the information given. The Alchemical begins a deftly, inhumanly executed series of backflips, hand to heel--only to realize his projections were made with incomplete data. The shadow of the anchor greets him moments before the weapon itself, and the charm provides useless information. UNABLE TO COMPLY Having been caught on his hands, the Exalt's only option for defense is to try and counter the impact of the blow with his legs. The impact drives him into the asphalt, sending debris flying into the air. Something snaps, and the Alchemical grunts in either frustration or pain. His augmented strength struggles against the superior opponent. She's faster. This place is miserable, but it has merits. There are human beings living here, governed completely by themselves. In a world where so many creatures--like this one--would seek to prey upon them, that is immensely valuable, however imperfect they may be. The Alchemical Exalted were created to soften those imperfections, by uplifting humanity instead of ruling over it. With the guidance of Autochthon's chosen, yes, even his enforcers, his people have thrived. This Exalt is his superior, it seems. But she'll have to kill him if she intends to break his spirit! "Hnngh..." His anima flares. A dark thundercloud with flashes of purple lightning. The distant sound of gears grinding. Inevitable progress. "I am... a part of something larger than myself." Jets of bright purple flame with smoldering cinders erupt from his boots, forcing the anchor back up into the air. With a fierce shout and a kip-up, he's back on his feet and ready for round two. Fight smarter, not harder. Bitter Medicine leaps easily thirty feet, then suddenly /shifts/ as if he'd made a special request of gravity. The Exalt's feet land perfectly on the side of a building, and he begins his ascent one quick footfall at a time.
Crimson Sea	The whims of the Silent Wolf are not always clear. She yanks on her chain, wrenching the anchor away rather than submit the alchemical to its incredible weight for too long. When it clears his legs and strikes the pavement, cracks shoot out, and she reels it in by retracting the chain back into the sleeve of her jacket. "Part of somethin' larger, heh..." The anchor smacks into her palm and the pirate sweeps it back as if it weighed nothing. Hurling out her other hand, the opposite end of her chain hurls from her sleeve, burying into the concrete near the top floor. Pulling again, the chain retracts, pulling Crimson airborne. When she strikes the side of the building, Crimson yanks again. Planted on the side of the building, she instead rips out a chunk of the wall around the Drowning Shot's hook, using the chain to swing it towards Bitter Medicine with a laugh. "Yaa ha ha har! Yer doin' a fine job amusin' me, mate! Yer sorts are always full o' surprises, keep 'em comin'!"
Bitter Medicine	If this fight is to be won at all, it will be with surprises. The outlook is grim--but, with a look given to the streets below, the Populat has at least begun to clear. Now his mind can focus solely on the fight. With gravity on his side, his ascent is that much easier, but it seems his foe is used to it, too. "I'm Bitter Medicine, Chosen of Autochthon." Projectiles are thankfully one thing he can handle, no matter who's throwing them. He meets the flying chunk of concrete with a roundhouse kick. His Exalted strength should shatter such a missile handily, even one thrown by a far stronger opponent--but most Exalted outside of his world don't know Thousand-Wounds Gear Style. "LINEAR FLIGHT PRINCIPLE!" As his jackboot strikes the thrown hunk of building, it rockets back towards Crimson Sea, the chain looping back around as the impromptu weapon promptly changes course. That alone won't be enough. The mild, slightly warm touch of something wet hits his brow, as stormclouds other than his anima gather. It's going to be a downpour, in more than one sense of the word. Bitter lets Voidbane loose, and with a shriek the artifact weapon flies, banking under its own power to attack the Abyssal.
Crimson Sea	The ancient styles fell out of public knowledge (such that it was) a long, long time ago in the world that Crimson Sea calls home. Though the practiced eye might recognize certain forms in the way she fights, she moves on instinct rather than training. Crouching on the wall like a gargoyle, aided by Essence, the pirate digs her heels in and swings her heavier weapon out in an arc, intercepting the concrete rubble mid-flight with a resounding slam of stone striking steel, with the undercurrent of painful sobs. The chain, freed from its surroundings, retreats suddenly into her sleeve and disappears entirely, save for the end affixed to the Burden. Her single eye flits from Bitter to his airborne weapon, too late to counter its approach. Instead, she hurls herself from the building's face, throwing the Burden upward. Those spinning blades bite into her coat and scatter flecks of blood across the structure's face. Flipping in midair, Crimson slams into the opposing structure and then stands there, blood seeping from a slash in her surcoat. But the woman still grins, a laugh escaping her lips. "I'll give this one to ya," she states loud enough to be heard, "Ya made me bleed. Tha's all I needed." Dipping her head, she conceals her eyes with the visor of her cap, "Now I've all th' reason I'm needin'. Yer gonna regret th' day ya crossed swords wit' th' Silent Wolf o' th' Crimson Sea, lad. Hahahar!" She wrenches on the chain, ripping the Burden of Injustice from where it had landed, tearing loose a great chunk of the building's face in the process. The anchor returns to its master, and she leaves the falling rubble for Bitter to contend with.
Bitter Medicine	The Alchemical is buffeted by falling rubble as he attempts to ascend. The chakram is fast on its way back to him, and he somehow manages to catch it without losing a finger--there must be a trick to it, or something. Whatever the reason, he's able to use it as a shield once it returns, although leaving the rubble he's suffered a wide gash across his face. "Crimson Sea!" The rain comes, and it falls hard. It's cold and stinging and all around, just like the reproachful glares of the very people he's trying to protect. They've long since dispersed, but it's not something that goes away. When you have to save people who hate you, it's something you feel every day. At least they live long enough to hate him. It's his purpose to protect them by destroying threats. But why does this Exalt destroy? "What is your purpose?" He lets the chakram fly again, this time infusing Essence with the use of a special Charm. "Why do you senselessly destroy?"
Crimson Sea	Standing on the opposing building, the Silent Wolf bares her fangs. She slams the Burden down, using its mass to throw herself out of the chakram's path. It strikes the Burden instead, soulsteel ringing against itself with a crying sound singing through the air. She sweeps the weapon around and then hurls it upward. When it bites into the roof above her, she reels herself up with her chain, shooting past it. The anchor rips free, then disappears into her coat. Flipping over, Crimson Sea descends, slamming feet-first into the concrete. She plants one foot on the railing, leaning over, "Killin' ain't sensless if it's fun, mate. 'sides. All lives end, might as well quicken it up, aye?" Leaning forward, she sneers, a sinister, fanged smile, "Me purpose be ta me an' myself, that's all yer gettin' today." With a flurry of surcoat, the Abyssal pirate whirls around and disappears across the rooftop. At the opposite edge, she jumps up and then straight up drops to street level, laughing the entire way down, a laugh that echoes through the now-empty streets of Slum Urbania.