Action Log /// 002
Who: Mitsuo, Max, and Heine [Open to anyone who thinks they can help, or wants to capitalize on the chaos.]
What: Saving Mitsuo from an Ogre.
Where: Near the Archives.
When: Post-Plane Shift.
( ... )
What: Saving Mitsuo from an Ogre.
Where: Near the Archives.
When: Post-Plane Shift.
( ... )
Heine was already preparing for the worst, and Giovanni couldn't particularly blame him for it; he didn't precisely mean to leave this meeting without a bullet-hole or two, without their shared blood spread across the ground and the wall of the Archives. He looked between the pair, half-listening as Heine muttered his little orders, some more audible than others. What could Heine possibly have to say to her though, hahah, really. Run and steer clear? Fly away, little bird. Even the robot seemed to be taking protective measures for her, as though Heine wasn't the only one with a soft spot.
... Being overprotective is like advertising a vulnerability.
"You have no manners. Cutting me out of the conversation." He took another movement up the steps. The dog followed, matching perfectly, its flopped ears pricking just slightly as though listening in for itself. It licked its muzzle and panted, and its teeth seemed too sharp and too numerous in its mouth, the jaw heavy and unnatural on a dog of its type. Giovanni rested a hand at his hip, casually.
And then he thrust both hands into his jacket, drew his guns from opposite sides, and levelled them on them both. One gun per person - though, that did leave the robot, but that was why his gestalt was prowling its way up the steps, its head down low.
"Shall I count for you, as well?" The question was posed to Max, then, and it seemed that even for having done everything right, that big bulls-eye had already been painted. By Heine, and Heine's attention, and Heine's protection.
"I'll go up to ten."
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She could sense Heine's tension. He'd had less when running towards the felled ogre, and that hound by Giovanni's side; nothing spelled well for any of them. Leaving any comrade of any kind behind to face this trouble went against every piece of her that screamed to stay and fight.
But then there was Mitsuo, who by all appearances couldn't fight. They'd come out for him, so she would see it through that he get away alive at the cost of nearly anything. Goals were necessary. Goals would keep her sane in this place.
Her eyes fixed on the gun's barrel. Nothing new, she reminded herself, despite the start that ran through her. Keep a steady beat.
"Go ahead. I'm a pro at this game."
Heine had simply said "Go". And she did, spinning behind Mitsuo's gestalt, leaping into the library, and side-stepping behind the walls before taking off to find their prince charming. Hopefully he had not hurt himself on something yet.
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Inside the Archives, Mitsuo had only made it across the first anteroom, before he reached another door he couldn't open on his own; he cowered there against it, barely aware of what his gestalt was doing.
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Upon reaching Mitsuo she grabbed his arm to pull him away from the locked door. No, she intended to go every which way, through every door and hallway she could find, so long as it meant getting out decently undead.
"Come on," she commanded sternly. "We've got ten seconds maybe."
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Mitsuo frowned at her, his hair in his vacant eyes and his mouth set in a petulant line.
"The door is locked," he said, as if that were the only choice. To sit and wait and die and hope for the best. His heart was racing, but his face was completely impassive.
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She shot a glance towards the great double doors she'd just sprinted through and back to him. His fight response had not yet shown itself, and his flight had sputtered to a panicked stop. Max wasn't used to this kind of reaction, wasn't used to protecting someone who she hadn't already conditioned to stay quiet and run despite all odds or attack with everything available.
"You have to listen to me." Max gestured towards a narrow corridor that led away from the anteroom to another chamber. What laid beyond was as much his guess as hers, but as long as it had another door, a window, a vent, there was potential. "Listen to me and you live."
Less than four seconds.
"Now, for God's sake, run. I'll be behind you."
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"Onward and upward," he muttered, and stood. There was still that odd feeling, like an itch in his veins--- but movement actually seemed to help. Once he started, it was easy enough to flee; he had enough instinct for that, once he'd been prodded.
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