WHO: Rot Team and those who will try to stop them.
WHERE: Washington D.C.
WHEN: Shortly after
this post
WARNINGS: Violence and desecration
SUMMARY: The Major was counting on the heroes of the City to not act in force to stop the nuke. He was wrong. Time for a monumental battle.
FORMAT: Whatever works.
NOTES: Don't forget to add your character's
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--And, somehow, it was supremely unsatisfying.
He bit back a sneer. None of this did anything to erase his problems back home. None of it brought back the soothing, maddening sounds of his mother's voice. For Cavil, that realization was maddening. Killing was supposed to be a perfect solution. And yet.
All that flew from his mind, however, as he caught sight of a metallic angel gliding over his head. Irony of ironies. This one he would take out. Using the sirens to propel his abilities, he aimed a psychic twist at Warren's neurons. He hoped to paralyze his muscles, too. Pull this dazzling creature from the sky.
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However, despite the fact that his body could not move, his metal wings could. Any attacks to his motor system put them in complete cruise control, and dozens and dozens of knives exploded from them in every direction--including a few straight at Cavil. The blades were made from advanced techno-organic metals and could cut almost anything in their path.
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"Don't move!"
Yelling commands, he thought numbly. That was sure to help. But he was quickly realizing that he was in over his head. He needed to slow this down, to think. If he could just get Warren to stay still a minute, maybe he could figure out a way to take him out.
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Death wasn't exactly as willing to bargain as Warren was.
"What did you just do!?" he shouted and stormed forward, wings spreading wide behind him to show off more of those blades. "I don't take kindly to mind tricks!"
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He choked out a laugh. His gun hand trembled but didn't waver.
"You really are perfect, aren't you?" The words came all at once, and he laughed again, remembering Centurions riddling him with bullets, remembering the Sixes, the Eights, the Twos. The Three. Flawed machines. Why was he always up against flawed machines? "Are you human?"
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The weapon was clutched like a shield, almost. Though Death's eyes didn't stay on the gun for any longer than half a second. Guns didn't frighten him. Nothing did.
"And now you will die."
The blades in his wings erected into a shooting position, and Death prepared to fire them off.
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Everything considered, did he care?
Cavil knew for certain he was afraid of pain, however, and that looked like a particularly painful way to go. His panicked, pain-addled brain began to rapidly formulate a plan, a way out, desperate though it may be. No, he wasn't going now. Not yet. He fired the gun as well as shot another psychic burst Warren's way, attempting to bring his brain past seizure threshold.
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Again, the feeling of Cavil's mental attack clawed at his brain, sending him to the ground in a tense, shaking heap. His body's natural defenses were trying to combat it, but it didn't do much.
It gave Cavil a few spare moments to harm him more, if he desired.
Death's wings were the only things that could save him now, and they swiped and thrashed at all the debris around him in an attempt to shove something - anything - in the other man's way to break his hold before any prolonged damage could be done.
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The funny thing about only two or three blades was that they mattered a lot more when they were in close range.
Dodging the knives before was one thing, but Death had gotten closer to him, had stormed forward, and Cavil was focusing on his own attack. One blade shot through his bullet proof vest and into his stomach. The other shot through his vest into and his chest. He turned his head, shuddering, and vomited, before firing twice more at Death's fallen form. Then he dropped as well. It was a downward stumble more than a full collapse. He caught himself on one knee with his hands, felt himself reel forward, and then dug his fingers in the dirt to steady himself. The world shifted under him.
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Still, his wings continued to flail about and now that his condition was getting worse, the blades began exploding from them once more. A few nearby security guards and civilians had to take cover, but one wasn't so lucky as he was struck down.
The bullets that Cavil had fired struck Archangel as well, one hitting him in the side of the face, while the other bounced off of his metal hand. Control was gone now, though, and he could barely feel the pain from it.
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He was sure he was dying - he could recognize the familiar pull, the brown spots on the corner of his vision - but he was also sure he had won. The so-called 'heroes' couldn't make it. The bomb would go off, the humans would tear each other apart, and then beautiful nuclear winter--
He groaned, suppressing another wave of nausea and unbelievable pain. He hated bleeding to death.
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He would kill every fucking human in the vicinity if he had to, but he would not lose.
He was not weak.
That constant regeneration process Death had was most likely the only thing keeping him from going completely brain damaged right then, which was advantage enough to keep that very small sliver of awareness there. Not that it did any good for his body, of course, because the muscle spasms were still hitting him. Were they slower? Faster? Death was not sure, but he still had his wings to count on. Knives continued to fly, lights were struck out, poles were destroyed and knocked over and other displays around the mall were also shattered. If only he could hit Cavil. That was all he wanted to do, if he still could.
Was Cavil still there?
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The next knife caught in his shoulder. The next in his neck. That was when his arms collapsed and the world slowed down, but still the knives came, and again and again he felt blinding spikes of pain that gradually grew more and more distant as time went by, that felt like gentle piano keys on a keyboard of stars dum-dum-dum dum dah dum dum dum-dum-dum dum and the universe shrunk and expanded all over again just for him.
And then it went quiet.
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Yet, he could see enough to know that Cavil's body had disappeared and left him there alone.
Maybe now he was so damaged that he'd die, too. Maybe this time the healing factor wouldn't be enough. As enraged as Archangel wanted to be, his brain was practically fried and there wasn't enough energy in his body right then to even be angry. Even the bomb had escaped his thoughts; he'd forgotten about it. There was nothing in his mind but mangled and jumbled thoughts that made no sense.
And still his body worked against him.
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"WARREN!" she shrieked, wanting to go closer so bad even if his wings would probably hurt her. "ALEX! LOOK!"
No, no, no. NO.
She could probably put a light shield to protect people from his wings, but that probably wouldn't end well.
"ALEX, IT'S WARREN!"
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He started forward, but then barely dodged a lethal knife flung his way. "Look out!" He shouted, grabbing Ali by the wrist and pulling her to one side.
Getting near him was going to be hard. "Can you put up a shield? Use your lights to calm him down? Anything?"
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