Coast-a Costa Linda

[nation_citizens]

On one of the remote edges of the island, away from the civilized end of it, several folks in wetsuits wash ashore.  Some wetter than others.

Because they don't make wetsuits for dogs, you know.

But they're there.   And it doesn't appear that anyone has been seen. 

Comments

[nation_extras]

From behind a group, a quartet of uniformed figures move through the woods, and, judging from their casual pace, unaware of their proximity to Costa Linda's new guests.

One of them turns his head, all but doing a double take as he sees the intruders for the first time.

"HALT!" he yells, reaching for his radio while the three behind him reach for their guns.

[psychic_surf]

Hank had just managed to free himself of his SCUBA gear. Well, most of it, anyway. He was still wearing his flippers.

Which made for comedy gold as he tried to tell the guard that he really didn't want to call in an alert.

Oh, wait.

Dampened.

Right.

He charged, his flippers flapping wildly as he dove into a tackle towards the guard with the radio.

Boy, telekinesis would really be handy right now.

[nation_extras]

The guard tries to step out of the way, but doesn't move fast enough. He is knocked to one side, at worst off balance while Brainwave's momentum carries him down to the sand. Luckily, the radio is knocked out of his hand, and away from them both.

Behind him, the three guards, their weapons now drawn, are indecisively choosing their targets.

[psychic_surf]

Hank wasn't much of a brawler. It was so dirty and inelegant best perfected by hairy muscular men with Nth metal harnesses or grown men who dressed up like cats. Or women in fishnets, he thought absurdly. But not the one who spoke backwards.

Suave, stylish men didn't engage in fisticuffs. But here he was in a wetsuit trying to find a way to disable this guard before he got his ass thoroughly kicked.

He flailed at the solider, hoping he'd land something dangerous before his opponent got with the program and starting putting some hurt on him.

[nation_extras]

The soldier backs off at first, unsure of what to make of this swimmer. He's obviously not a trained threat, but still...

One shot lands, and suddenly the soldier ceases to care how ridiculous the man looks. He blocks the next incoming shot, and viscously returns the favor.

[psychic_surf]

Hank felt that one. And likely would for the next few days. He tried his very best to return the favor, only this solider person kept squirming out of the way of Hank's punches, leaving him literally hitting nothing but air.

But with the next incoming punch Hank discovered something very important.

Knuckles didn't taste very good. And the next thing he knew he was flat on his back on the lovely, lovely beach.

Wow, the sky was really a very pretty shade of blue. The kind that makes your teeth hurt even more than getting punched in the mouth.

[green_shield]

Tara was keeping an eye on Hank, but when she looked for just a moment down another corridor all hell apparently broke loose.

Tara gets out the gas arrows while Hank is on the ground.

[nation_extras]

This was supposed to be just another boring patrol, the soldier thinks as he sourly glares at the figure on the ground before him.

"Wrong place," he mutters as he kneels over Hank, and begins throwing punch after punch. There's both a sidearm and a knife on his belt, but just this second, neither would be particularly satisfying.

[psychic_surf]

Hank was doing his very best to keep from having his melon caved in, with marginal success. He hadn't been kayo'ed yet but his chimes had been rung and he couldn't seem to get clear of the ground-and-pounding he was receiving.

The flippers might have had something to do with that, come to think of it.

He took a hammer fist to his right eye, then one to his left. He couldn't even begin to think about fighting back, given the crippling pain he was experiencing and his lack of any real idea what the hell he should be doing right about now.

[hotshot1280]

Lucky for Hank that he's not alone, and at least one of their number specializes in 'inelegant dirtiness.' A backhand swing of Trevor's 'chuks to the face of one soldier gives him a broken nose to distract him from aiming at Hank, and the second soldier barely has time to register the crack of hardwood on facial bones before Trevor lands a running punch into his gut. After that the fight with Soldier-Boy Numero Dos is academic, and Trevor ends it with another crack of the 'chuks, this time to the back of the head.

"You'd think someone who looks as much like a surfer boy as you do could swim better," Trevor says almost conversationally to Hank as he punts Hank's new friend in the jaw.

[nation_extras]

Soldiers three and four raise their weapons to Trevor...

[caleb_z]

But when the bang comes, it's not one of them who has fired. Caleb's bullets rip into one of their legs, knocking him to the ground. Caleb tries shifting his fire to the fourth figure, but without luck. The final soldier is high tailing it, and all the trees make it difficult to hit a moving target.

"Dammit," he mutters, changing out his clip.

[green_shield]

The guys can handle a lone idiot. The ruckus has other people's attention and she can hear them coming towards their sheltered position. They get gassed, quietly and efficiently.

[psychic_surf]

Hank lay on the ground still, his face a mess, blood streaming from his probably-broken nose.

"See this?" he told no-one in particular. "This is why I hate being dampened." he said with a wheezing laugh.

It was that or break down sobbing, and he really didn't want to break down quite yet.

[sand_hawkins]

The fourth idiot doesn't get far.

Even without his tectonic abilities to guide the shot, Sand's a pretty good marksman. The gunman falls, a shot laid perfectly to his leg. "We need to move." Sand says. "Gather it up and lets go. These are just patrols right now, but they have to check in at some point. When they don't, it's going boobies up."

[caleb_z]

Caleb tries to ignore the feeling, but part of him just doesn't feel right about having shot this man. It's strange - Caleb has shot many people before. With the DEO, he's even taken (meta)human life, but it's been years since the act has bothered him.

Caleb shoulders his discomfort as he walks past the bleeding figure, ignoring the noise as best he can as he makes his way to the radio. A few good stomps ensure that it won't be used once they move on.

Ignore the man, Caleb tells himself as he tries to walk by him again, intending to move forward with the group. Sand is right. Time is of the essence. We can't .. can't afford delays...He stops, frozen for a moment before running his hand through his hair, and returning to the injured man. He drops to his knees beside him, and manually applies pressure to the wound