A Change Is Gonna Come

[swiftargyros]

Characters: Hank McCoy, Wanda Frank, Pietro Maximoff
Date & Time: September 30th, mid-morning
Setting: NYC
Summary: Those first steps are always a doozy.
Rating: PG-13 but subject to change
Status: Semi-Closed

Comments

[swiftargyros]

It was a strange sensation, being able to read another when you'd known them for little more than a fortnight. Pietro had charted the expressions that danced across his parent's faces as he grew, cataloging each nuance of muscle and tilted angle until they had become like a secret language that he could decipher in an instance. That was an acquired art, the possessive right of all children to determine. But Wanda...he couldn't have recited many facts about his new companion but he understood her as intimately as he did Mama and Papa. It was disconcerting. Pietro was not the sort to believe in soulmates, no matter what the Old Ones in the gypsy camp had taught; but for the first time in the scope of his existence, he felt as though he were one of a pair of bookends and that the whirlwind of a woman marching toward him stood at the other end of the shelf.

So though it was faint, the dying blip of a passing satellite, Pietro caught the trembling chord of dismay that echoed across her delicate bone structure just before she stowed it away. He frowned but didn't press. Just because he could tell something was wrong, didn't mean he had the right to ask her to give over information.

Instead, the Serbian pushed the paper across the table so she could better see it. He tapped the photo. "When they caught us, it was not in the open like this. They are getting smelije," Pietro paused and mused, "perhaps even careless."

But whether the robots were developing plated bands of courage or were simply investing in foolish risk (Pietro thought it was probably a combination of the two: they had nothing to fear, and so they forged ahead in seemingly impractical measures of strategy) there was no doubt that he and Wanda were at more risk than ever. If they were willing to strike in broad daylight in such a populated area, there was no stopping them from barging in on a private hideaway - and Pietro had no doubt that they were being hunted.

A worried reminder crept into his mind. They'd both had blood drawn, which meant that somewhere out there was at least a basic biological workup of who and what they were. In the wrong hands, that was devastating. Pietro sighed.

"Well. There is no avoiding it," the mutant glanced toward the box of hair dye reluctantly. He'd refused at first, insisting on simply wearing a hat when he ventured out for groceries under the logic that he was quicker, could be back long before Wanda. But if they were going to be making a concentrated effort to get out of the bounds of the city until the dust cleared, he was going to have to do something to disguise his most well-noted feature. Pietro stood and strode over, plucking up the strange product and holding it out to Wanda. "želim samo da se ovo više sa tako da možemo odavde," he said mournfully. "We must keep moving. If they are tracking us, staying in one spot will only allow them to find us," Pietro's features softened a little. "I am sure your friend is thinking the same thing. Perhaps he is already safe outside of New York."

[chaosmagus]

Wanda frowned thoughtfully down at the image for a long moment, before slamming a hand on top of it. She clenched her fist, crumpling the paper (somewhere, in what passed for the living room, a lamp sparked and died with a sudden, violent pop) before she flung it off to one side. There were more. Not that she was surprised, but it angered her as much as it worried her.

“They’re дрзак, for robots. Or perhaps it’s the puppeteers behind them that are. Regardless, they seem незабринут with being seen now. Else it was just where their prey led them and the mission is more important than witnesses.” She’d found that, since spending so much time with Pietro, more and more Serbian was slipping into her speech without any sort of conscious thought behind it.

Raising an eyebrow, she watched as he rose and retrieved the box of hair dye before handing it to her somewhat... mournfully. He’d been supremely reluctant to use the dye to attempt to disguise himself. Now, though... there wasn’t much choice. “It’s only temporary, I promise.” She took the box from him, and put a gentle hand on his arm.

“I’m accustomed to keeping on the move. We’ll be fine.” She managed a very small smile at his words. “I can only hope.” Sliding her hand down his arm, she curled fingers loosely around his wrist and gently tugged him towards the bathroom. She was relieved that she was facing away from the silver-haired Serb, because she couldn’t stop the pang of anguish from momentarily twisting her features.

[swiftargyros]

When he had first left home, his mother's favourite scarf (the one made of pale grey thread like smoke, embroidered with tiny birds in a thousand different shades of blue so that one was dizzy with the brilliance of soaring just by looking at it) wrapped carefully around a bundle of brittle photographs at the bottom of his bag, Pietro's hair had been down to his shoulders, a wispy-bright tangle of silver sea grass that curled lazily as though permanently windswept. It had always been long and pale as dust. As a boy his locks had been so blonde as to be white and Old Nan the storyteller, her gnarled limbs and nutbrown-creased skin a testimony to the many years she had worked into the soles of her tiny, twisted feet, had called him their little Norse wanderer. She'd been the first to know he was different.

And then had come the English with their curtailed sensibilities. The first thing they'd made him do was totter down to the barber for a crew cut. It made him look more Serbian, they said, which was really just a delicate way of saying that it made him look less Romani. Pietro had allowed it because it was a small sacrifice for the opportunity to be able to provide for his family, and they had done nothing to displace the natural chromatic hue which was what really mattered.

Covering it up felt like smothering an old friend. Pietro tried not to move about too much as he crouched over the sink and let Wanda work the stinking mixture into his scalp. The entire process seemed entirely too complicated. It was more like being a mad scientist, having to mix those tiny tubes together, and the final product created vapours which burned the eyes with just the slightest waft. Pietro tamped down on the clamouring dissent rising in his mind and concentrated on the reasons why they had to do this as he waited out the setting time.

The end result after Wanda had rinsed out the excess (every reddish drop in the sink like a splotch of blood) was a dull, dark brown. Pietro scratched at his scalp and eyed his reflection skeptically, turning his face first to the left and then to the right.

""Izgleda kao pas sranje," he muttered darkly. That was a little melodramatic but he looked so... so average. Perhaps he was being a bit vain and really, Pietro was not so self-consumed that he was not willing to make the sacrifice; but that did not change the fact that it was a damned shame that something so distinct had to be masked. It bothered him, made him feel as he had as a young child when shopkeepers had not allowed his mother to make purchases from them simply because she wore the garb of a tinker.

Well, as Wanda said: it was only temporary. Pietro squared his shoulders and raked his hands over his itchy scalp again before nodding and clearing away the rubbish. "So, we are truly incognito now," he said, flickering about the room at what was to him a relaxed pace. There wasn't much to gather - a few spare sets of clothing that were easily stored in the over-the-shoulder canvas bag they'd nicked from the back of a drycleaners; some bread and fruit that his conscience would not allow him to leave behind; a map, a pad of paper that they'd been keeping notes on; money. He neatly packed everything and then retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on.

""Vi ste tako spori," Pietro rolled his eyes, grinning at Wanda. "Hajde , hajde - da ćemo imatibolje šanse za pronalaženjeprazne kabine gornjem delu grada."

[chaosmagus]

Wanda could read the nuances in his expression as he tamped down on the dissent rising in his mind. And as she watched the emotions flicker minutely across his facial features, she wondered again how it was she could know him well enough to read him so clearly. Yes, she hadn’t a problem reading someone like her father, or Clint. Even Cap. But she had known the three of them far longer than she had known Pietro. And somehow...

Frowning, she studied him thoughtfully as he raked a hand through his now-brown hair. It really didn’t suit him. He seemed... wrong, somehow, with brown hair. Granted, he was far more unrecognizable now, which was the whole point of this endeavour. But still... it wasn’t HIM.

She shook her head, chuckling quietly as she crossed to her bed and retrieved her own coat. “Имате значајну предност када је у питању брзина, Pietro,” she told him, sliding into the red leather trench as she made her way toward the door. It was time to leave.

[swiftargyros]

"Prednost? To je nipodaštavajući, ljubavi," Pietro offered a sidelong grin as he held the door open for Wanda and followed after, shutting it and taking the time to secure the lock out of habit. From his jacket pocket he retrieved his cap and tugged it on, giving it a low pull so that it covered up his tragic hair. "Ono što sam je nerazblažen talenat."

Even only knowing Wanda for a short time was enough to ensure that Pietro instinctively dodged the lighthearted smack aimed for his shoulder. On lithe feet the man twisted around her, merriment sparkling in his light eyes. That was always the way with Pietro: he flit from one corner of the spectrum to the next just as deftly as he soared along the earth, trading worry for a focused ease in a matter of minutes. Certainly he still maintained a very real sense of the precariousness of their situation, but Pietro had long ago learned to seize what joy there was in small moments of peace. One never knew when the next strike would fall and without a breath to tide the body over, drowning became an inevitability rather than a possibility.

The streets here were of a declining urban sprawl, filled with the sort of hardworking honesty that the Serbian identified with completely. He smiled and gave a nod to a broad, burly man hefting crates of roofing tiles. A recognition passed between them, the sort of fleeting connection made between those cut from the same cloth.

"This is a good place. It is shame that we have to leave it," Pietro clucked, half-irritated that they were being driven out of what had always been a temporary fix. There was a proprietary edge about his personality that caused him to cleave to niches of habitation, a fault if ever there was one. He'd always been inclined to get too attached to places and people, become too protective. Sighing, he adjusted the bag on his shoulder and offered the crook of his empty arm to Wanda. "You are alright in those shoes? Oni su kao tim Njujork nebodera , tako visok - možda imatesrednju mutacije . Povišen pešaka agilnost."

[chaosmagus]

Wanda laughed, a bright, sharp sound in the mid-morning air. He dodged her light-hearted swat to his shoulder, but she had somewhat expected that. “Некако мислим да ћете преживети мало потцењивачки. Шта са неразређен таленат,” she teased. “It’s still an advantage, however.”

She tucked her fingerless-gloved hands into her trench coat pockets, and huffed a few loose strands of hair out of her eyes. She was already trying to figure out where they should go next. She knew where she wanted to go; she wanted to go HOME. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until they were certain that no one was following them. That they were safe. Until then it was temporary safe havens and out of the way places.

“It is,” she replied quietly. It hadn’t been a surprise to her that they were leaving; in fact she found herself wondering if they hadn’t waited too long to vacate their temporary home. This was something she was accustomed to; she had been on the move often before. She had had to be, after everything that had happened at home. Wanda smiled and slipped her arm through his. “I’m all right. Имао сам много, много година праксе.. I look forward to being able to wear shoes that are more... me.” Shoes that were appropriate for fighting in. Not that she couldn’t in this particular pair of boots, but it always frustrated her to get caught in a battle in shoes that were less sensible than they ought to be. They weren’t nearly as high as Pietro was making them out to be, however.

[swiftargyros]

They neared the street and Pietro gently put his arm out, slowing Wanda in an absent way. "Ah, shoes like you," he nodded, looking down the road after the traffic. "So you are normally wearing bossy shoes?"

There was no doubt that of the pair of them, Wanda was more inclined to toss out directions. It was charming, in a way - though Pietro doubted he would have found it so if he hadn't been naturally an easygoing soul. Of course, except for their escape when emotions had run high and loose, the pair of them had not been in an exactingly stressful environment. He wondered if that would make a difference. Between his tendency to grow dangerously focused and her sheer voracity, there was the potential for a massive explosion.

For now at least it was nothing they had been forced to discover. All there was to combat was where their next refuge would be. With the city becoming an all-approved stalking ground and hunting season wide open, their best bet was to untangle themselves from the concrete jungle entirely. Pietro despised the fact that he was in such a strange place, the out of sorts feeling of being on foreign soil even more frustrating when the stakes were so high.

But traveling? Ah, now that was something he was good at. The Maximoffs were a migratory cavalcade, seized with wanderlust and able to linger at the edges of many different worlds without detection. There were advantages to having grown up in such a transitory society.

"Ako mi glava Zapadu, mi sami ostaviti dosta opcija. Verovatno nas očekuju da ostanu negde gužva, gde možemo juriti oko kao pacovi. Poslednje mesto oni će misliti da bi glava za će bitizemlja," Pietro commented as they paced over the crosswalk and melted into the uptown-bound crowds. "Although, Vanda, I would not mind if they choose to show their faces again. I will pokazuju oni gadovi da se ne poigrava našim vrste i izvući se."

[donotmockme]

Had it been fifteen or fifty years later, Hank would be the sort of man to be walking down the street speaking on his cell phone or reading some strange form of GPS device. As it was, he was attempting the very next best thing. There had been strange readings legible as far as Winchester, and after what he had heard from some of the younger mutants? Hank was not about to risk anyone else chasing down these readings.

His head, buried in the map and walkie-talkie-esque device, he had little notion of anything else about him besides the feet passing next to him. So close... he was what. At most, three blocks away? Any moment now...

[chaosmagus]

Wanda mock-glared at him and then proceeded to elbow him in the ribs. Made all the easier by the fact that her arm was looped through his. He called it bossy... she called it decisive. Tenacious. Possibly with a bit of impatient tossed in. If she HADN’T been, well Pietro would probably still be in the cell, under the ‘tender’ care of mutant-hunting robots. “Следећи пут смо у тесном месту ћу вам омогућити да пронађете сопствени излаз, смартасс,” she told him, grinning in amusement.

As they walked their steps fell into a sort of syncopated rhythm, moving in time with each other as if they’d always done so. It was yet another indicator of the strange familiarity which was so evident between the two of them. No one paid them any mind as they blended seamlessly into the crowds, for which she was grateful. She had been worried that even the with the hair dye that someone would recognize him.

“West it is then,” she replied quietly. “I wouldn’t mind, either. Волео бих ништа више него да их на комаде и видим да их спали.”

[swiftargyros]

Pietro was not so proud that he could not afford to grant other's their due credit but there was something to be said about accuracy. He fixed Wanda with a judicious expression, one pale brow ticking up toward his hairline. The look was softened by the quirk that Pietro couldn't quite keep from his lips and the sparkle in his eyes. "The way I am recalling, you opened the door but I got us away. Next time I will care for the explosions and you carry me, da?"

He had no illusions that his escape had been expedited by Wanda - the ability to conjure projectiles was helpful in this regard - but Pietro was not about to let the other mutant get away with playing the part of sole saviour. She'd be insufferable. There was a particular intensity to Wanda's precociousness that Pietro had found vaguely recognizable and he realized now where he'd seen it before: the Forest Wolves that hunted on the outskirts of the campgrounds that were his boyhood homes had always tried to press forward and edge closer to the boundary laid around the gathered caravans. It was a part of their nature, an irrepressible urge to cast their net of dominance over anything within range and the only way to combat it had been to show them, swiftly and decisively, that you could not be governed by their ways. While this was slightly less vital to his imminent survival (he could hardly picture Wanda lunging for his jugular), Pietro knew that if he didn't dig his heels in, he would be a goner. All women were the same way. Wanda was just more...concentrated.

As they carried on their way the warm smell of fresh-baked bread drifted over, yeasty and faintly sweet with the promise of a full belly. Pietro glanced across the street and noted the bagel shop tucked beside a shoe repair store. They probably had coffee, too. That was one of the fantastic things about New York City, they knew how to make good, hearty bread and strong coffee. It was just the thing needed to start a day out right.

Pietro nudged Wanda. "A truce between our warring nations, come, I will take you for breakfast," he teased warmly. "We will need our strength if we are going to -"

Whatever the Serbian had been about to say was abruptly cut off as a sudden, violent streak of light razed by with furious heat and fired into the building to their right, sending up a shower of brick and dust. Pietro swore and tugged Wanda down, shielding her face and head with his arms as he ducked. What the hell? Casting a wild eye about, Pietro felt the thud of his heart skipping a beat and catching up in a rush as he spied it:

There, in the center of the street turning a slow, ominous circle so that it's glowing sights were fixed on them, was one of the strange robots.

"Da li ste jebeno šališ? Lepo vreme, seronjo!" Pietro shouted, voice rising above the startled yells from the surrounding pedestrian traffic. This was no place for a showdown, hemmed in as they were. Another curse saw him turning on agile limbs to start running and Pietro pressed Wanda forward, hands urgent on her back. "Go. Go!"

[donotmockme]

Hank first heard the robot, rather than seeing it. The screams of civilians and the clanking of the metal was enough to send even the most hard-pressed researcher into goosebumps. Hank? Oh he had them in plenty.

It appeared to be a mix of every 50's childhood nightmare and a drawing a colleague had thrown together a few years back. Something for the jar-heads of Washington to use to chase down possible renegades. Never once did Hank think it would be himself that could be a possible target- never mind the two terrified teenagers that just found themselves in the light across the street.

They couldn't have been more than twenty each, a dark haired pair that protected each other and yelled words that Hank was unable to hear from the distance of the street. Though he was no hero, already he was toeing off the leather of his loafers to get better traction naturally. He probably couldn't out-run everything, but a huge hunk of metal?

Well. He at least hoped as much.

Not entirely sure of what he was thinking, Hank sprinted towards the pair with arms tucked in tight, a linebacker's position to protect his precious instruments. Catching up along side them, he gave the boy a hard look and a finger towards the right- an alley that if he remembered correctly.. ought to have an outlet. "Can you run?"

[chaosmagus]

Wanda rolled her eyes good-naturedly and laughed. “I was more speaking of the impetus to escape, rather than the escape itself. I won’t deny your participation in that.” She had wondered, shortly after being deposited abruptly into the cell with him, if he would have EVER endeavoured to escape had she not sped things along. Or would he simply have waited?

Now, however, the answer to those questions didn’t matter in the slightest. And the fact was that she wouldn’t leave him behind. Not until it was safe for them to go their separate ways. Hopefully by then she would have figured why there was such an easy familiarity between them.

She smirked up at him as he nudged her, about to interrupt him when something else did it for her. With a brilliant flash of light and a rush of heat the building to their right exploded in a shower of brick and dust. She had seen something similar before, that night out with Clint when everything had gone horribly wrong. There was a spate of cursing in her ear as Pietro tugged her down, shielding her. Her fists were clenched, the faintest glow surrounding them until she instinctively realised what she was doing and forced herself to release the energy she had been gathering and forming into a hex. Now was not the time to lose control.

“Јебени пакао!” she hissed sharply, twisting to look for what she already knew was there. She moved almost in unison with him, her gaze landing on the robot in the centre of the street at the same moment. “Савршена јебено време, ви роботски говно.” They couldn’t do anything here, they were too hemmed in. There were too many bystanders. Fuck. She didn’t need Pietro telling her twice, or at all for that matter. Even as his hands pressed urgently at her back she was already turning lithely and dashing through the startled crowd.

What she DIDN’T expect was the stranger who sprinted up beside them. He was lucky; she tamped down on her instinctive response to defend herself and throw a hex. At his question her eyes flicked to Pietro momentarily, and a grin flashed across her face, a quick showing of teeth. “Yes, we can run.” There was a touch of sarcasm to her voice, as was wont to happen when someone asked a question that the answer was a bit obvious to in the middle of a stressful situation.

[swiftargyros]

Before Pietro could answer the bespectacled newcomer, a second laser was fired and this time it skimmed past close enough that he felt the heat brush against his skin like the whisper of a razor blade. The Serbian's voice cut off in a sharp breath as he arched back, spinning to avoid being pelted by the debris that rained down. Apparently there was no such thing as a fighting chance with these mechanical bloodhounds.

"The question is not can we run, it is why aren't you?!" Pietro shouted back, jerking a half-nod toward the alley in confirmation as he instinctively shoved Wanda and the other boy towards it. Threading through the panicking crowd made it difficult to reach but it also provided a little cover for them from the pursuing combatant. By the time they reached the mouth of the alcove, it was clear that time was not on their side. They needed a distraction.

He shed his coat fluidly and tossed it to one side as they bolted down the narrowed causeway, keeping his speed in check so as not to arouse any antagonistic suspicion. Before he did anything, Pietro needed to make sure that loose ends were cared for.

"Vanda, nastavi!" Pietro yelled as he took a flying leap over a heap of decaying pallets and jerked sharply to the left to avoid hitting the side of a dumpster. He glanced at Hank, face intense and alight with the fierce thrill of determination. "Do not let her talk you into stopping, my friend! Run!"

And then all bets were off. Pietro grinned and ripped off his cap, gunning forward on feet that flew so fast they were no longer visible. The stiff smack of wind whipping past his face was a sweet, familiar caress, all the tethers that bound him to the surface of the earth snapping as he dove headlong into the deep, swift-flowing river of power that frothed below his easy nature. Pietro let go and the rest of the world was left behind in a blur, the wake of his speed disturbing a sheaf of papers that spewed tornado-like behind him.

This sort of running didn't even leave him breathless but the stakes had his heart pounding in exhilarated tension. Pietro reached the far end of the alley in a matter of seconds and with a quick scan, he spied the dull stack of a fire escape leading to the top of the building. Without hesitating the boy jumped up and grabbed hold, pulling himself up with easy grace until his feet hit the first rung and he could clamber up.

Their little friend could only concentrated on one group of them at a time and it's mistake was watching straight ahead and not casting a ruby red eye to the skies above.

Pietro bolted across the roof of the brownstone, pebbles skittering beneath his feet, running back toward Hank and Wanda. Just a little closer, he pleaded mentally, arms pumping as he watched the chase intently, gauging their momentum and calculating his own. They only needed to bring the bastard close enough for it to count. Come on, nearly there...

And then everything seemed to slow down for one split-second, the axis of the earth grinding to a halt as the mechanisms all clicked into place until the moment rose to a perfect, complete alignment. Pietro let out a roar and threw himself over the edge of the building, arms outstretched and legs peddling in the air as he hurtled toward the Sentinel like a missile launched from above.

[donotmockme]

Hank could run, and he could run fast, but even in his bare-footed glory, he had nothing on that brunette kid. There was no question that the targets were mutants, which only proved the information he had collected was true. So very, very true. He reached for Wanda's arm, not entirely sure how he'd protect her should it be needed, but by far doing much more than the boy who had sprinted ahead after yelling in what must have been Russian or some Slavic language.

The civilians were sprinting in every direction, and it didn't take too long before the robot (Sentienal? Was that the term?) set it's gaze on Hank and the girl.

Dr. Henry McCoy. Physical mutation. Military dissident Threat Level: High. Capture Priority: #7

"Military dissident?" Hank mumbled, questioning the logic behind that as he turned towards the thing momentarily. He was just about to argue that fact when there was a movement above the beast. Pietro shot from the higher elevation like a rocket, and the best Hank could do was watch because damn - there was no question.

These kids were coming back with him to the mansion when this was over.

[chaosmagus]

“Pietro, NO!” Wanda shouted, unable to do anything but WATCH as he ran off, his cap dropping to the ground. The fool boy was going to get himself KILLED. Don’t you dare die, she thought darkly, her mind racing to come up with something to help keep the idiot among the living. She couldn’t catch up with him, that was an impossibility with as fast as he ran. He was on his own for the time being.

Which left her and the stranger on the ground. She moved out of his reach without thinking, eyes not moving from the robot in front of them. Much to her surprise it set its gaze on the two of them... and then its monotone recitation of name and barebones information wasn’t hers. Her head snapped towards the man standing beside her for a moment, eyes widened in surprise, and then she was moving again, shifting to stand in front of him. She would be damned if she let one of those things take someone like her.

Pietro was on his own.

But she could still do something for the man behind her.

She dashed forward, dropping down and grabbing a loose, discarded piece of concrete in one fluid motion. With a strong, practiced arm she threw her makeshift projectile at the robot, slamming the concrete hard into the side of its body. “That’s right. Keep your eyes on me,” she muttered. If she could keep its attention away focused on her then Pietro could do whatever foolish idea he’d gotten into his head.

Fist clenched and glowing brightly, she stood before the enemy, head held high, chin raised in challenge. And that was when her compatriot moved, flinging himself at the robot from above, a human projectile hell-bent on striking their metallic foe.

[swiftargyros]

Pietro`s body was a thing of irrefutable beauty. It wasn`t arrogance or vanity that decreed it so but rather the necessity of his mutation. The outside was nothing to scoff at but it was the internal construction of the Serbian`s frame that was truly a marvel of engineering. One did not simply run at triple-digit speeds and thank the leading sporting goods manufacturers for their nifty shoes. There came a point where it did not matter what you wore but rather how you were made. Pietro`s musculoskeletal system was created to absorb the extreme impact of upwards of thirty footfalls per second, his lungs adapted to process oxygen at a rate that meant his bloodstream wouldn`t be flooded with nitrogen, his skin able to handle the force of high speed velocity without protection, his metabolism so efficient that virtually nothing he ate was wasted.

But no matter how incredible his construction, hitting a solid wall of steel at a hundred miles and hour fucking hurt.

Pietro`s shout came to a jagged, violent stop as he collided with the Sentinel in a staggering blow. His face smacked against the textured side panel and there was a dull snapping sound, a waterlogged twig cracking in two; he felt his cheekbone give and the sofft, slippery slide of skin going suddenly loose. The robot veered sharply into the side of the alley, not prepared for the added weight and astonishing momentum of it`s mutant projectile. A shower of bricks hailed down into the narrow space and Pietro had a moment to enjoy the thrill of victory before his grip went slack and he slid off the rounded dome of the Sentinel, falling the last ten feet or so and landing in a dazed heap on the filthy ground.