Alessia, Alyssa, Avi, Bobby, Brent, Darion, Gabriel, Henry, Ilad, Jean-Paul, Madrox, Remy

[xmm_ilad]

It is dark now, but lights have been erected to bathe the Wells Fargo Bank in Los Gatos, California with far more illumination than it has seen in a long time. The scene has been a sort of organized chaos. The media is there in full force, though there are several members of the local police who seem to be mostly focused on keeping them away from the gathering of FBI and DHS. A crowd of bystanders is also there, farther back, craning necks and rubbernecking for a view. Though the FBI team has been rather bristly and territorial towards the DHS, they have grudgingly allowed them to be involved -- almost as if they don't have a choice in the matter. Jurisdictional squabbles aside, the faux-DHS agents have been kept in the loop. They know that the terrorists are pretty much entirely unresponsive to negotiations. The usual attempts to draw out communications, to offer smaller incentives to keep negotiations continuing, have fallen on ears far more deaf than those in most hostage situations. Power and water have been cut to the building about an hour ago. And now -- now the clock is almost upon the time the terrorists threatened to execute their first hostage. The negotiator is a few paces away from the rest of the team, trying to draw out the terrorist's leader in conversation, trying to find something he can offer them. "We're going to have to go in soon," the lead FBI agent, a worn man of medium height with dark hair that's beginning to grey obnoxiously named Jim Whitman, says to the joint FBI-DHS team. "If they go through with beginning executions and won't respond to the negotiator, there's nothing else we can do." A combination of camera feeds and Jean-Paul's newfound telepathy lets the team know the following: there are seventeen hostages and five terrorists. Fifteen of the hostages and two of the terrorists are inside the vault, with two hostages and three terrorists outside.

Inside the bank, inside the vault, things have grown tense and tedious. With no demands being met and staying locked in the vault for too many hours now, the dark-skinned man holds to a terse silence. His gun is not up and trained, but it is at the ready as he watches the hostages.

The red-headed man inside the vault flanks his companion, though his weapon occasionally lifts to point directly at the head of this hostage or that when someone moves too quickly. He has been jumpy for quite some time.

Brent has vomit on his pants. He does not seem overly concerned about it, kneeling close to Ilad. (Ilad can't complain, either: it's his vomit. Stupid concussions.) Though he hasn't fought Avi on the being Ilad's primary caretaker, he has failed to get very far from him at any point.

Ilad is stretched out on the floor of the vault, at the moment, his head propped up in his brother's lap. His shirt has been ripped open to make room for the tight bandage that binds the wound in his side, a makeshift construction of somebody else's shirt where his own is bloodied tatters. He has been murmuring to himself in a blur of languages that, to Avi at least who can understand all of it, sounds like bitching.

Avi keeps his head low, bent over his brother. His shirt is the one that died in the name of bandages, and he looks rather chilled and upset. Some of the bitching makes him exhale in something like a laugh, something like panicked humor.

Alyssa has been spared both vomit and shirt-death, but she still stays near the knot of Ilad-Brent-Avi. Occasionally there is a murmured offer of assistance, but she has mostly been deflected by Avi, hasn't wanted to get in the way of Brent. Thus: she hovers, small and worried and stressed. (She still has not recovered sunglasses, and thus spends a great deal of her time looking /down/, rather than anyone in the eye.)

Darion checks his equipment, leaning against a squad car. He checks all of his magazines, 2 tranquilizers and 1 live ammunition, to be sure they will load properly. He selects the first tranquilizer clip, and slides it into the receiver of his M416 carbine, waiting for orders. Nothing to do till the first team does their job. He slides the extra magazines into their respective slots on his armored vest, black on black on black. He had to request a female cut one, none of the male ones were small enough. He made an awful fuss about that, too. Looking at the agents around him, some calmer than others, Some glowing dim colors through his sunglasses, he wonders if any will slow down the op. Like last time. Darion draws his sidearm, a military issue MP443 Grach, and loads it with live rounds. Last resort only, and then for disable only, the order echoes in his head. This new outfit is so extraordinary. The marines never had to worry about disabling. If you were shooting at someone, you were shooting to make them not alive anymore. He can abide the rules, but he doesn't have to be happy about it. Follow orders. He slides the clip into the pistol, clicking the safety on, and sliding the weapon into his leg holster. Darion brings about his rifle, shouldering it and aiming at the ground, and sighs. Now to play the waiting game.

Glass bottle of juice in hand, the level just slightly lowered, Jean-Paul has already popped a couple of Tylenol and his expression is drawn, tense. He has circled the building, looking for an area of relative quiet as he makes his tally. An earpiece fits within his ear, relatively discreet. He emits a low-level field of tension, which is actually pretty good in terms of control. He isn't gushing out anxiety, fear, and anger. Improvement!! Separated from the rest of the gawkers, he focuses on the thoughts of the terrorists -- or rather, he tries. He has one hell of a time screening out the highly-charged thoughts of those in the vault, much less others nearby. And there are a lot of others. In such a crowded 'room', he strains to pick out a few particular strands of conversation as he waits for word from the fake-DHSers.

Henry is near Jean-Paul, but not too close. Attached to his hip is a holstered weapon, but it is covered by a coat. He quietly speaks into his radio, "I'm nearby, just give me the word if you hear anything," for the French Canadian's benefit.

As a few more words that he can't understand fall from Ilad's lips, Brent takes a deep, unsteady breath and reaches to hold the man's hand. There is something fractured about him in this situation entirely out of his experience, and the focus of his calm takes effort. His mind is speeding. << What if he dies what if he dies what if he dies-- >> He clamps down forcibly, trying to drive panic away even as the full force of caring and affection is directed towards a dread and fear of Ilad's death.

Bobby taps his earpiece and turns away from the reporting FBIer. "Northstar, I think we're going to have to go in or show our faces. They're coming up on showtime."

Madrox is gathered with the DHS folk, false-placid, checking his nice sidearm and his mean side-arm in turn. His attention is on Bobby, oblique.

Bundled in with the knot of the 'DHS' team, Remy has been uncharacteristically silent, bar occasional short whispered phrases when absolutely critical. Dressed in dark colours, twin holsters containing tranq gun and live pistol, and a plethora of pockets containing his gear, he currently squints at a laptop screen that's serving as a portable security station, as if trying to memorize layout and position as glimpse-able from cameras, in the hopes that this will somehow magically translate into flawless victory. Bobby steals his attention, and he gives a clipped nod.

Gabriel waits around much like the other pseudo-DHSers, suit exchanged for something a little more SWAT gear friendly. He also has coffee. And red licorice, which he idly chews on while waiting around. Old habits and so on. He checks his watch, brows pulling together just slightly about the time.

Ilad, in contrast, is a fairly relaxing person to eaves'-drop on in the present situation. He is muzzy enough that the prospect of dying is totally unreal, rejected. He is aware of pain, the sharp pain in his side, the dull, throbbing pain in his head where he was pistol-whipped. He is aware of shapes, vision blurring and coming into focus. He surfaces enough to pitch a question to his surrounding hangers-on: "I still have a concussion, don't I?"

Alessia with her hair darkened from usual bright red to a more tame auburn color, is also in pseudo DHS gear. Chewing gum, arms crossed over her chest, looking restless as she shifts her weight from foot to foot.

"Still no sign of al-Sahra?" Jean-Paul counter-questions with an absent-minded tap at his comm.

The terrorists are a rather focused group. Tension lines most of their thoughts with a snappish impatience born from wild, zealous beliefs that leave little room for anything but violence. Two of them are injured, both outside the vault now, and one significantly more than the other. The leader, the uninjured party outside of the vault, talks regularly with the negotiator with a fierce refusal to compromise. More interesting, however, are his occasional updates to an outside party. The image these updates bring to his mind is clearly recognizable to Jean-Paul: Military Doe. Any sign of flagging from the terrorist leader, and Military Doe reinforces his uncompromising hatred of mutants with clipped, Australian syllables.

"It hasn't gone away since it happened, no." Avi laughs, sound coming out too loud. He moves a hand to clasp his brother's shoulder, a reminder not to move too quickly. He clings to a couple thoughts--one, Ilad has been through much worse situations before, he presumes. Thus, he'll come through this one with no trouble. Two, Ariadne is probably really upset about being stood up. He could buy her flowers. Flowers are something harmless to cling to.

Darion is still leaning against the car, at the ready. Mostly, anyway. He's twirling a combat knife on two of his fingers. No orders yet. The duffel bag at his feet has the rest of his gear. Nobody said he'd need it, but why not?

"Yes," Alyssa answers, because this /is/ something she can do: she drifts slightly closer, to slant a brilliant-eyed look down at the muzzy, concussed, bleedy Ilad. Her thoughts are distinct, half-flatscan shielded out of habit she still hasn't lost even now, away from the constant contact with Xavier's and its cadre of psionics. Concern for Ilad is sharp, focused, bitter: this isn't the first time she's been in a situation like this. (It probably won't be the last.) (At least he isn't dead.) Less so, but present: the shop unopened, custom order waiting to be picked up. Nick will probably be frustrated she's not there. "You are still concussed."

"Two of the three terrorists outside the vault are already injured," Jean-Paul updates. "The last one is in contact with al-Sahra. We've got an injury in the vault, too."

"Good. That means they'll be easier to take down. We've got permission to move in?" Bobby asks, already signaling the others to get their gear and get ready to move.

Agent Whitman pops a piece of Nicorette from its blister pack and chews sharply on it. "We've got the three entrances," he says as one of the other FBI agents smooths out the blueprints in front of him. "Likely if they get wind of us coming in, they'll start killing hostages. From all the evidence, they are very willing -- excited, even -- to go down fighting and take every last person they can with them." Is the DHS team even listening? Who knows. Jerks.

Madrox shifts straight-backed, his head canting briefly toward Whitman, lips pressing together appropriately. Then he veers closer to Bobby. Ready.

Spotting the signal, Darion slides the bolt on his carbine back, and screws the suppressor onto his rifle. He steps away from the car, and begins moving on toward Bobby. He closes the visor on his combat helmet. Ready.

Jean-Paul draws a breath and says, "Take over jurisdiction from the FBI. Move into position. Wait. I want to see if al-Sahra shows their hand."

An absent pat to the laptop -- be good -- and Remy moves (silently, how else?) to get ready, one hand patting over pockets to run one last check and see that his gear hasn't been switched along with his powers, and thus replaced with tinned sardines. A click-click of his comm signals readiness, and he eases into a go position.

Alessia shifts from lazy stance to one more attentive, tense. She moves with the boys into position, a pair of fingerless gloves tugged out and onto her hands. Gloves with padding stitched over the knuckles, thoughtfully enough.

Gabriel sets his coffee cup on top of a car, checks the clip in his gun, and then slaps it back into the chamber firmly. He does not reclaim the coffee. Bye, coffee. With the last of his licorice also consumed, he moves closer to the others, ready as well.

Because Avi and Alyssa have already said what needs to be said, Brent just squeezes Ilad's hand. "I can't believe you did that," he says, mostly a worried-incredulous mumble to himself. After a longer pause, he says very quietly, "No wonder you run so hot." Heat, hot, in his mind, the touch of skin that has always been feverish with no explanation as to why. It is a short jump there to Jean-Paul, who after all has been there the whole time in the back of his mind. << What if I never see him again /God/ it's so stupid the whole thing is so stupid and I will die and the last thing I'll have is giving back that shirt I should have kissed him I should have done better /he/ should have done better if only if only if only-- >>

"That's why we're not going to let them know we're coming until it's too late," Bobby assures the FBI guy, hand falling from his ear bud. "We're handling it from here on out." He doesn't wait for a response, letting confidence take the place of /actual/ authority, then signals the others to take the circuitous route to the side entrance they'd mapped out earlier.

"Fire is hot," Ilad slurs, squinting up toward the ceiling. Somewhere he claws clear of some of the fog and tries to shift only to find himself held by the clasp of Avi's hand. He growls something, fuzzy-headedly plotting out some harebrained scheme not entirely dissimilar to the one he came up with when his brains weren't all scrambled. "{Are there only two of them left in here?}"

Agent Whitman's expression hardens at this young whippersnapper DHS agent, but apparently jurisdictional squabbles that were handled before are apparently enough for him to not argue.

Darion takes point, almost by habit. He follows the route, getting into position.

"{Two you're going to do nothing about,}" Avi says, firmly. His clasp strengthens, holding Ilad down. "{You're not bulletproof.}" Part of his mind wonders, though. What else does Ilad have up his sleeve? Is he going to pull something out to save the day?

Remy knows a signal when he sees it. His sidle may look casual, but it comes at a good clip that takes him along the side of the building in Darion's wake, body held parallel to the wall to minimize his profile to... shooters that aren't actually there. But he's still got a bruised midsection from the last time into a hostile situation, so caution may be forgivable.

"No wonder you liked the painting," Brent says with a dry breath of humorless laughter. "Don't move." It's unnecessary with Avi right there to do his brotherly duty, but he can't help it. << If he dies I am going to kill him. I swear to God I will do -- /something/. >> Though he's very aware of his own ineffectiveness in any sort of altercation, there burns deeper a willingness to sacrifice.

Madrox is the excited kind of nervous, that anticipatory tension that perhaps lacks a certain native caution - but positioning has left him a little back from the front. He braces his hand against the butt of the tranq gun. How fast can he unholster? Well now.

Gabriel follows Bobby's lead, moving along with the others, his gun held at a ready position, pointed at the ground before him. Since he is not one of the people heading in first once the doors will be open, he sticks to the rear.

"Fire's hot," Aly agrees, even though Ilad isn't really talking to her; in the back of her mind, there is an ache that is something like loss. Old, but no less there: when she looks down at Ilad there is another face interposed over his in memory, and she shakes her head to clear it. << --not John-- >> She moves, slow and sidley, to put her hand on Brent's shoulder and squeeze. Now it is her turn to comfort / protect, even as worry once again edges itself into the forefront of her thoughts.

Bobby saunters along, picking up the rest and chivying them along until they're in place, strung out along the building. "In position. How are we going to try to make them show their hand?" Bobby reports to JP.

Inside the vault, the dark-skinned man checks his watch. Tension runs tight in his mind as the clock ticks on, and he starts to eye the hostages more carefully, assessing.

Painting. Ilad's gaze slants sideways, his head shifting against his brother's lap. Dizzy. He swears inside his head. He blinks slowly, sketching skewed imagery in his muzzy, half-functional brain. "Risen from the ashes," he mumbles.

Jean-Paul says, "Wait," with a certain helpless wryness. "Let the clock tick a little farther down. At five minutes, move." His telepathy shifts, filtering out all the mutter-mumble around him, sifting past the all-too-familiar minds in the vault to search out the strangers. He adds the last two in the vault to his focus.

Al is in position along with the fellas, those gloves on, a test of her gun to make sure it'll come free of the holster smoothly enough.

The redheaded man in the vault glances over at his companion, and makes a little gesture with his gun toward one of the hostages, a question in his mind as to which one they're going to kill first. It's nearly time.

Darion clicks the fire selection on his rifle to single shot, waiting for the go ahead. He is dead calm, waiting.

The dark-skinned man glances back at the redhead and shrugs. He looks back at the hostages, gaze lingering on Ilad. He is the only mutant, after all. "Maybe we should save him," he says out loud. In his mind, he is calculating hostage possibilities. They might want to save the mutant, but there are the two who seem to care so much for him. Perhaps they should die first for the cause.

"Oh." Avi hadn't made that connection, of the painting. He makes it now. His mind follows unwilling onto the subject of mutation. Will this mean more of Ilad being mad and then silenting at him again if he ever asks about it? He looks up, not parsing the saving comment. A doctor? Maybe they'll let in a doctor?

The minutes tick down and tension ramps up in Bobby's muscles while he splits his attention between their surroundings and his watch. At five minutes in, he signals for the door picking to begin. "Going in," he whispers into his ear piece, then signals the shooters to gang up on Remy's backside, and fall in once the door is cleared.

"Mm. If we kill a girl, they know how much it is serious," the redhead points out, tension scraping through his voice. He waggles his gun. He'd much rather kill the mutant. Especially after what the son of a bitch did to TJ.

"What about one of his friends?" the darker man suggests, gesturing towards the clump of people near Ilad. His gaze lingers on Alyssa, as one who is both clumped and a girl.

Remy's backside joined X-Factor to -avoid- people ganging up on it, thanks. He eases forwards, dropping to a crouch before the side door as his toolkit of lockpicking awesomenisity is fished out, with appropriate measures deployed depending on if this is a mechanical, electronic or some-combination-of-both lock. Regardless, silent as he may remain, there's a glimmer of grim delight about him as he sinks into work he can stil -do-.

There are electronic locks hooked up to the door, but they aren't switched on for the moment. Apparently manual was as far as the terrorists got. Under Remy's expert and dextrous fingers, the lock purrs like a kitten. That is, unlocks. Inside is darkness, but not excessive darkness: the lights set up outside shine through the glass windows and doors. The vault is ahead and to the right, but tucked behind walls and turns that keep it out of immediate sight.

A moment's satisfaction creases Remy's expression, before lockpicks are exchanged for tranq pistol, and he stands with a hand on the door and the other motioning Darion to take point. One... two... three, and he opens the door as noiselessly as possible to let point enter. Here's hoping the bank didn't short on hinge grease!

Alyssa looks up, over -- at the men with the guns. It's just a moment, but it's the first time she's really looked anywhere other than down, or at Brent, or at Ilad since they've been trapped in here. (Her eyes are brilliant-bright, but muted, slightly filmed over. Maybe she has cataracts. Maybe it is a trick of the light. She isn't really looking up for /long/.) "Don't do anything stupid," she says to the cluster of boy-things as the guards get restless, but even as she says it there is a terribad plan maybe half-formed in the back of her mind. (It probably mostly involves shoving people down if people start shooting.)

"Yeah," the redhead agrees. He glances at the vault door, and then raises his voice, with a jerk of his gun. "You with the braids. Come here."

Darion presses his shoulder against the doorframe, gun at shoulder level, aimed at the door, where the opening will be. His finger clicks the safety off. As it opens, he steps forward, he aims left and right, panning, looking for targets. He stays low, pressed against the wall, creeping. Nothing, yet. As he walks around the first corner, his black suit lets him blend with the black shadows. Thanks for the no power. The silhouettes of guards are near the door, up ahead. No notice, yet.

Avi draws in a breath, jagged, and looks at Alyssa with wide eyes. That's not right. He should--he should--do something stupid quickly without really thinking about it properly before he loses his nerve. "Here, take him," he tells Brent, moving out from under Ilad as carefully as he can, to stand in front of Alyssa. Distract them, somehow. The idea of actual killing is--surreal, somehow. Not taken into account.

Bobby is just going to hang out back her until you guys clear out the bad guys, kthxbye. His healing hands are wrapped loosely around a tranq gun that he knows, basically, how to use.

Madrox nudges himself just off the ground, an inch or two maybe, to enhance stealth. Jean-Paul does it all the time, right? Unfortunately, this is a tight kind of precision, walking on air, that he isn't quite sure how to do yet. After a couple of seconds of stuttered drift, he re-lands and sneaks in the conventional way, behind Remy and Darion, unholstering the tranq as he goes.

Alyssa says, "Don't be /stupid/," again, followed by, "take care of your brother," but she is a little on the shortish and lightish side, so she can't really muscle past Avi. But. /But/. Her head snaps up, and this time she looks at the guards dead on, steady, and un-blinks her inner eyelids. Then re-blinks. Hello there.

Remy tucks himself in after Darion, traveling on silent-soled shoes and taking advantage of what walls and shadows he can find to minimize casting shadow puppets of Sneaky Government Agent thanks to the powerful lights outside. Tranq gun out, safety off, he joins Darion in tracking for targets.

Henry continues to remain near Jean-Paul, but still not too close. He idly passes the time by watching the area around him, and by listening in to all the radio chat.

Alessia slips her way in, gun with tranqs unholstered and held carefully in her hand. She ignores the surreal feeling of being on mission and having to rely on what she's learned, rather than feeling people out the head-cheater way.

Gabriel follows in after the the first few, his crouch less pronounced so that he can provide cover for them, safety flicked off from his gun. He tries to move as quietly as possible. He is mostly successful at it.

As the others move forward, Jean-Paul's telepathy tightens with a narrowing focus. His breath steadies: shallow, even. He doesn't even pretend to pay attention to what is around him as he winds in with a spiraling tension. His arms cross, hugging his chest. The two guards in the vault are his entire aim, as he desperately tries to ignore everything else he hears. (Mixed success. Very mixed. ...poor.)

Darion presses up against the bank teller counter, his acog scope trained on the first terrorist. He waits for the team to fall in behind him, hoping they'll have the mind not to step into the light.

"/Avi/." Brent's mind wavers, resolves. He has one of our convenient NPCs come over to hold Ilad's heads, because there are so many of them, and he stands. He places a very firm hand on Avi's shoulder and pulls back. Very clearly, he says, "Avraham. Take care of your brother." He loops a protective arm around Alyssa, not seeing what she's showing the guards, and tries to shift her behind him. << I am going to die. >>

Apparently the NPC is getting /very friendly/ with Ilad.

His scope settles on the first target's chest. He squeezes the trigger, breathing deep, steadying his aim. the tranq flies. He pans over to the other guards, and fires at each, carefully aiming at their chest. His gun coughs two more times, a tranq sent with each.

Ilad tries to thrash upright, which is not the wisest thing he has ever done. Abruptly dizzy, he nearly retches again. He claws for the nearest pantleg. It doesn't matter whose. "What in the name of God are you doing?" he snarls, weak-voiced on the floor. Only Ilad is authorized to be stupid.

Having registered that the girl is a /freak/, the redhaired terrorist is all the more eager to make her their first victim. "Get back," the redheaded man orders both men with hot impatience. He gestures with the gun, and then sights down it, plotting out the trajectory of a bullet all shoot-to-wound. "Step back or I shoot you now."

In front of the vault are people. To be more specific, there are five people in front of the vault. Two of the bank employees are huddled together against the wall, with a youngish blond man with a makeshift bandage on his shoulder standing nearby keeping an eye on them. One of the terrorists, once fedoraed, is slumped against the wall as well with significant burn damage to his body. The last of the terrorists, an older man with greying hair, a wiry build, and glasses, is speaking on the phone to the negotiator. "No, we /won't/ accept that. We won't accept anything other than the demands we've already given!"

Avi wavers. Can's, shouldn't, but--Ilad's question settles it. He has to stay. Take care of his brother. He drops to his knees, to take back the duty of Ilad-bracing. "Don't move," he directs Ilad, trying to put the strength of an order into his own voice. "You'll hurt yourself more."

The dark-skinned man straightens sharply when he realizes what Alyssa is, and his gun lifts with a similar eagerness. With the redheaded man already laying threats on Brent and Avi having returned to Ilad, he stays silent for the moment.

Remy's gun tracks, tracks.... stops, training itself on the bandaged young blond. A jerk of his head and a click of his comm to the others signals the target he's picked for himself. A breath is drawn in to steady himself and his aim, and he squeezes off a dart round on the target, aimed for the upper center of mass where the bandaging says there's got to be no armour.

Aly's mind is full of faces: Brent/Ilad/Avi/Ginny over others, older; Honor, Jones, Jubilee << --saving the world-- >>. If she can, at least, save /them/, /these people/ here, now-- "Brent," she says, voice quiet, cracking, "don't. They know." She lets herself get pushed back, but only to sidle sideways instead. Her braids swing. Surely, the guns track her. << --save them. >>

"There might be shots from the vault," Jean-Paul says, strain drawing his voice flat. He can't see his targets, and there dozens of minds between him and them. But still, he gathers, anticipatory, anxious. "Terrorists are planning to shoot to wound. Don't let it rattle you."

"Have they heard us? We're in, they're going down," Bobby asks and reports all at once.

Darion nods, aiming his own weapon at the one speaking. He lets the team know his pick, and fires at the man's inner shoulder, where there can't be any padding.

"No. Unrelated," Jean-Paul answers. "Would-be-brave idiots."

Madrox slides up just behind Remy and Darion and poises to dart beyond in the process of, well, darting. He quick-pin-points the chosen targets, chosen trajectories, and it's time (practiced a little in preparation, no problem, no problem). He takes off almost in time with the snipers' beads, feet eating up the ground so rapidly that it's a blink or two between here and there. He pulls short (maybe not-gradual enough), pivots, fires at the last. Sorry, burn-damage guy.

With more strength than he generally exhibits, Brent works to keep Alyssa firmly behind him. "So shoot me," he says, voice gone strangely quiet with an ephemeral sort of strength that sounds like it might crack at any second. "She's worth it." << Jesus God Jesus worth it worth it worth it >>

The redhead snaps, harsh-voiced but even of tone, "I said get back!" and, true to his word, he shoots Brent.

Al, almost as short as Darion, slips along quietly, avoiding the light. She's letting the guys take down the terrorists outside the vault, in hopes of catching the ones /inside/ off guard. Once Madrox rushes on in, Al is quick to move in behind him. A look to the two bank employees, "Can you open this?" Is whispered, pointing at the vault. "Will opening it make noise on the inside before it's being opened?"

Gabriel continues to provide cover behind the snipers and the zippy Madrox, just in case, although it looks as though his presence might almost be an unnecessary redundancy. He does, however, primarily watch the weaponry of the three men being tranqed, eyes skipping from gun to gun. If something goes awry, maybe he can try to pull one. You know, before Madrox gets shot at for running right up.

"Jesus /Christ/, Brent--" Aly is elbowy, emphatic, struggly ahead -- MAYBE THEY WILL BOTH GET MISSED.

The crack of the gunshot rouses Ilad even further from the fog of disorientation and pain. "{Live fire,}" he snarls. He wrenches away from his helpers, propping himself up on his elbows even as nausea surges in his gut. He gasps, "Get /down/--"

The blonde twitches and twists at the sudden plunge of the tranq. It's just another breath of a moment for him to fall. The leader suddenly stops talking on the phone as his tranq hits, and the burn victim -- well, come on, it's just adding insult to injury now. All the terrorists unconscious, the two bank employees are breathing rapidly but with some sense of distinct Hope. (Rescue!) "Yes," the woman says quietly, "we can open it. It's not silent, though."

Al takes a deep breath. "Is opening it a long process, or can ya make it quick." Sorry to interrogate you, former hostages, but!! "Is it somethin' you can just tell us how to do?" So they can get out, and all.

Bobby slides in and nods his approval of Al's questioning before checking the situation all around them otherwise. The gunshot fires from within and he calls out, "They're shooting to wound, but we got to get this door open."

"Should we help them?" Henry asks of Jean-Paul. He remains off to the side, eyes scanning the surroundings. After the first gunshot, a bit of disorientation seeps into the air for a brief moment.

When the bullet buries itself in Brent's thigh, he buckles and falls and pain /blossoms/. It fills his mind with its novelty and leaves him gasping on the floor. << Holly fucking hell gunshots /hurt/ Jesus don't kill her they're going to kill her get /up/ >>

"It's -- no, it's not easy to explain," the bank manager says, almost apologetic as she fights through fear. "It takes several seconds."

With the three baddies dropped, Gabriel moves forward quickly, holstering his gun. He goes from guy to guy, checking them, just to make sure the tranqs have only knocked them out. He actually pulls a slightly horrified face at the burned guy, before he screws his expression down. "I don't have anything with me to really treat him."

Avi grabs tight to his brother. No, you stay down. "{I'm not letting you--}" If Avi can't help Alyssa or Brent, at least he is going to help his /brother/, dammit. He watches Brent fall near tears, screw manliness. << Can't--need to--I know know what to do-- >>

Al frowns, thinking. "How heavy is the door?" Her hand gestures impatiently, even as she's looking at the vault.

"All right," the redhead says grimly, gesturing at Alyssa with his gun. He glances at the dark man beside him and asks, "Time up?"

Jean-Paul flinches as the bullet strikes, his voice a little unsteady as he says, "The guy on the phone. He had a cell. Someone grab it. If he had two, take both." He glances in Henry's direction and says, "Negative, Donut. Keep your eyes out for our friends." Reckless, heedless, he attempts to imitate what he unconsciously did in the first chaos. He tries, tries so very hard to focus on the two terrorists in the vault -- a challenge in itself -- and reaches to deliver a sharp command, heavy with the weight of power: << Drop it. >> It spills and echoes, sloppy.

"You /assholes/," Aly cries as Brent goes down, hate and fear and -- more fear, more /fear/, half-dropping in his wake. (Someone else gets to him first, gets hands on the wound, and Aly's mind chases itself in circles.) << --was supposed to save them save them save them time's up my time's up time's up this is it this is it /now/-- >> as she struggles back to her feet, tears spilling down her cheeks, eyes brilliant, bright, bizarre. She is dumb. "--time's up."

"Someone find the phone and grab it," Bobby relays, then points at Madrox and Gabe. "You two. Second the door's open, get them down." He then points at Alessia. "Help her get it open." Move the door if necessary.

"How heavy--" The bank manager looks at the door. "Very?" It's a big, huge, metal vault door. How heavy do you think it is?

Madrox lowers his gun with a faint wince, bracing his hand on his thigh (bit too abrupt, yes, definitely a bit). He only limps a little, though, and only briefly, in his approach of the door (with no concern for poor overkill target, the jerk). His fingers spasm around his tranq, light, mostly unconscious splashover of echo, but he retains the weapon and side-nods to Bobby. Positions.

Gabriel is quick to nod, quick to abandon Burny McBurnyson, because there are still so many hostages to worry about. He moves to flank one side of the vault door, drawing his weapon again.

Darion sits back, waiting. He lowers his weapon, nothing to do until the door is open.

Phone? Remy can do phone. He crosses the floor at a quick clip, no longer concerned about cover now that the upstairs terrorists are down. Rifling through pockets is really second nature, and he drops with a crouch to go see about finding that second phone on the older man who'd been negotiating. Patpatpat. Rifle rifle.

The redhead's gun falls from his hands and hits the floor with a metallic clatter. He stares down at it, and then looks at his hands with revulsion. He shouts, "What the fuck!" at the top of his voice.

The dark-skinned watches Brent go down with absolutely no sympathy. << Mutie-lover >> echoes in his mind. He checks his watch. "Almost. Maybe we could ask Samuel to go early, once he knows what she is." And then, with the weight of Jean-Paul's command, powerful for all its sloppiness, the gun drops from his hand. Drops, hits the floor, and goes off. The bullet slices through the arm of one of the other hostages and buries itself in money.

The older man's second phone is fairly easy to find in the front pocket of his jeans, and the first was in his hand and even easier. Congratulations, you have two phones.

"Got the phones," says Remy, a mere hoarse whisper into the comm. Even at that low level adrenaline's sing and pulse add some unpleasant harmonics to the short phrase.

"/Aly/." Even as Brent is down, even as someone is applying pressure to his leg, he tries to shift, tries to reach for her. << No no no don't just /let/ them-- >> His attention sharpens quickly as the two men drop their guns. He /reaches/. Come /here/, Aly. Let me /shield/ you.

There is a gun on the floor. Ilad reaches for it. With his foot. Brent wants to shield people. Ilad wants to shoot them.

Al shakes off thoughts, looking at the bank manager. Urging closer to the vault door. "None of the locks or security of the vault are hooked to the power, right?" Voice low.

"{Stoppit!}" Avi will reach for the gun first, to stop his brother dealing with it! Of course, should he actually get it, that will leave with utterly no idea what to do with it, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

And again: someone else takes a bullet for her, if unintentional. Aly flinches away from the noise of the shot, but the is what-the-fucking all over. With the immediate threat gone, she turns again, drops down to scramble (not so very far at all) to, for Brent. "What the fuck," she says, because she is half-yelling and half-crying, "what are you /doing/ what did you /do/ why did you--" The unnamed good samaritan has no problem turning over the unpleasant duty of applying pressure to a gunshot wound on some dude he doesn't know's thigh. "I told you not to do anything /stupid/." <<--whyhimwhynotme shouldhavebeenme stupidalythisisstupid whydon'tyoueverlisten >>

"No." Without any more hesitation, the bank manager and the other employee begin to work to open the door. It takes a few seconds but seems mostly quiet.

Bobby goes to kind get out of the /way/ of fire.

The redhead dives for his gun again after the moment's terror and disorientation of his initial what the fuck. Now he and Avi will get to wrestle for it. He is totally not noticing anything going on with the door, though.

Gabriel tenses as they work on opening the door, gun held at the ready so that he can swing into the opening once there's enough room and open fire, if necessary.

Alessia holds her breath, getting in closer to where the vault will actually OPEN. "When you get it partially opened, you head out the employee entrance and get clear." Her voice is still low, but it's firm as she looks at the two employees. Like working on Saturday wasn't bitch enough.

Remy and his shiny new cell phones leave the snoozing contact behind, and he too makes sure to be off to the side of where the door will open out. He tenses, throat closing between a series of quick swallows.

The dark-skinned man, after a similar moment of disorientation, goes for his own gun. Which apparently nobody cared enough to grab. (You don't love him.) He lifts it and trains it on Avi as gun-wrestling commences. "Let go!"

Madrox poises, low-bodied, at the opposite side of Gabriel, to sprint-spring into the gap. Worked last time! Any second now--

Jean-Paul twists the lid off of his bottle of juice, keeping quite close attention to the two terrorists. As a fight breaks out over one of the guns, he focuses on the /other/ man, with wavering, shaky attention. << Stop, >> doesn't have the same power as his first command. It, too, echoes. "Two men are fighting over a gun," he says. "You want the redhead."

Once the door has unlatched and is unlocked to where it can be pulled open, the two bank employees comply with Alessia's request and scatter off to the side entrance. FREEDOM. Have fun opening the door.

Slightly crouched, Al has her gun out and to the ready again. Small and slight, she'll reach out to push the door wide open (with gun still in one hand) once it gets cracked open by the employees. Super strength comes in handy! Then it's moving to get into the vault, taking in the faces. JP said redhead, and that's who Al aims for as she surges forward, sound of a tranq being fired off.

Avi hears the other bad guy's order and Jean-Paul distantly, but he's too focused on racing against time. If he can get get /this/ gun fast enough then he can point it at the /other/ guy and then he won't shoot and this works out...somehow.

"Shh." Disoriented through the pain and early blood loss, Brent tries to reach for Aly to pull her close. It is a dumb thing to do, since she's trying to stop the bleeding. "It's okay," he tells her, voice fluttering vague. "It's okay, kiddo." He turns his head as the vault door opens, almost confused. What?

The dark-skinned man pauses, wavers, shakes his head as if trying to clear it. WHAT IS GOING ON?

Bobby frowns as Al jumps in ahead of the ones he'd ordered to go in first, but it's too late. Tally ho, boys!

Darion watches them run into the vault, and taps his fingers against his gun. He almost starts whistling, bobbing up and down on his heels. Ah well.

The redhead is so busy grappling for his gun he doesn't even notice the prick of the tranq as he it strikes him. All of a sudden he is slumping forward, dead weight crashing against Avi.

Alyssa probably knows more first aid than this, but most of it has been knocked out of her head by the immediacy of /bleeding/, of /bullet/, of /Brent/ in combination with the other two. "Stop," she says, but there isn't any effort behind it, and she leans with one hand to free the other, bloody, to flail until she can catch hold of Brent's reaching one. There. Both satisfied. "/Why/--" She whips her head around at the sound of the vault door opening. What--?

Gabriel blinks when Alessia rushes in first, before he can even swing around into the open gap that he was waiting for. He goes with the flow, however, because what else can he do, and follows after her quickly. Assessing the situation as swiftly as he can, he fires a round off at the dark guy, since the redheaded one is already dropping.

The stop echo is just a worded echo, but Madrox perhaps pays a bit too much mind to it, because he's a second late getting out of the gate. As the red-haired guy falls and Gabriel takes his shot, Madrox skirts rapid along the edge, assessing, but not yet firing (no OD, no OD). It's a quick skirt, space of a second or two, repositioning behind the darker of the men.

When the door opens, the dark-skinned man swings around quickly, mind sharpening past the receding weight of Jean-Paul's telepathic compulsion. He winds up with a face full of Madrox and tries to fire off a wild shot before Gabriel's tranq downs him.

Remy is rear guard this time, following after the initial charge into the vault to take up a position with his gun still drawn and ready just to the side of the door. Just in case one of the anti-mutant terrorists is ttly a mutant and is going to shrug off tranqs and come charging out.

Self-loathing FTW.

"Is that all of them?" Bobby calls out to those inside the vault and JP simultaneously as he appears around the edge and peers in. Oh. There are wounded too! Hello, wounded. "WHo's the worst hurt?"

"That's all of them," Jean-Paul confirms. "You've got two gunshot wounds in the vault. Tal-Shachar could probably use your help. Get in contact with the FBI, paramedics."

Avi has a bad guy on top of him. Oof. He loses his grip on the gun, of course, which ends up on the floor again. He finally shoves the guy off, checks his brother is still all right. "My brother," he says immediately to talk of injuries. "Brent--"

There are bleeding people. Gabriel's stance first eases when the bad guys are down, especially with Jean-Paul's confirmation, but then he's quick to action again, holstering his gun. He moves the short distance to whoever bleedy person on the floor is closest.

"Three wounds," Jean-Paul corrects himself.

Ilad is still stretched out on the floor. The soles of his shoes have burned off, and there are a lot of burn holes in the pantlegs of his jeans. He squints up toward the voices, making out shapes. "Do I still have a concussion?" he asks, heavily accented. It's probably the third or fourth time by now. It's not changing, Ilad.

Gun holstered, before Al is moving. "Who needs to get out?" She can't help looking at Ilad, moving further into the vault. "Iceman. Get in here. Need those magic hands." A kneel next to Ilad's legs, a glance at Brent. "Hang in there, Ilad. We'll have ya back to kickin' ass in no time."

"I'm fine," Brent tries to claim from the floor, attempting to shift. "Ilad needs--" It is a bad idea to move and he falls back with a gasp of air. "Oh my God holy /fuck/ bullets hurt--"

Alyssa says, "Bobby?" because, seriously, Bobby. YAY BOBBY. Someone else will probably end up relaying the same information, but more voices doesn't hurt. "He's the worst," comes coupled with a jerk of her head toward Ilad, which is all that he is getting because she has her hands full. "We're next-bad." <<--ohthankgodBobbyX-Menthankgodthankgodthankg-- >> "Were they Friends? Were they /Friends/?" She is maybe a little bit frantic with that question.

"{Still,}" Avi says to his brother, and laughs, with that slight edge that shows the sound is bleed off for any number of other emotions. Like relief!

Let's say the bleedy person closest is Brent, because that simplifies things, and Al is already at Ilad's side. Gabe drops to a kneel beside him, producing a woefully inadequate medkit. It wasn't like he could storm in with an EMT bag or something, after all. Annoyed by his attire, which makes things more difficult, he nonetheless does /not/ remove his helmet like he would like to. "Everybody who isn't injured needs to move out of here, so we have room to work." So they can at least stabilize them.

The other hostages are beginning to move and gather with the weight of things like Hope and Relief and the knowledge that they are Not Going to Die. It is a happy gathering.

Okay, Madrox, too close to target, stopped too soon that time. Put that in your notes - stop further out /next/ time and aaaah, gun. Madrox back-side-pedals with as much startled speed as he can gather in the split-time of a thought, but like his predecessor, he can't /quite/ outrun bullets. Even wild ones. When they're point blank. Whump in the lower right arm. Not the arm he likes, fortunately.

"Bullets do hurt," Ilad says, slanting his wandering gaze throughout the room. "Brent? Did you get shot? That is -- not right." He tries to sit up again. This is an error. He retches. Since he's already thrown up, it's just dry heaves.

Bobby is already in, moving toward the indicated Ilad. "Uhm. Ok," he says as he squats next to him and peels off his gloves. "I'm no exactly sure how to do this so..." He finds a bare patch of skin and glomps. Kendra's powers seek out the damage and start repairing it.

Remy remains by the vault door unless directed elsewhere. Guarding it. From what we do not know, but guarding is totally happening.

Darion steps down into the vault, to provide a shorter hand. He peers down. 2 of the hostages are glowing. He stops on the stairs, confused. He ignores it, and continues.

He could be calling, unless I missed it already.

The uninjured hostages are easy to herd out of the vault -- and out of the bank. LET THE FEDS DEAL WITH THEM.

Eavesdropping on the clusterfuck within the vault, Jean-Paul can only wince -- and drink more juice. At the spike of pain from one of their own, his thoughts jar with glass clicking against his teeth. He wipes his chin. "Fission, you okay?"

"I got /shot/," Brent confirms with a little bit of hysterical laughter. "Somebody /shot me/." It's like it can't really compute.

Remy does have the phones, after all. The one to the SWAT outside gets beep-booped into working, and a very careful whisper (Maybe the DHS member has laryngitis?) reports that "The vault is secured."

Alessia moves to try and hold Ilad down, leaning. "Easy. It'll be all right. We're going to get everyone help. You an' everyone else are gonna be fine." A look at Bobby. "You get tired, you stop. Ah can help carry." Though HOW might be more the question.

Oooow. Madrox pulls to a quick-as-starting-stop. His breath gasps out and he pushes his bleeding arm against his ribcage. Pressure, always apply pressure. "All right," he mutters into the com, vowels compressed. "I'm a lefty."

"Try to stay calm," Gabriel tells Brent, as he pops open the medkit and then produces a large swatch of gauze to press to his wound. He glances briefly over to Bobby, to try to see if he's having any success with Ilad, before looking back. "Can you tell me your name?" he continues to talk to Brent, an attempt to assess just how deep into shock he is.

Alyssa, uninjured, gets extracted from her charge and herded out with the rest of the hostages. To the Feds. Hi, Feds.

"Get those phones out here," Jean-Paul says. "I want to get them back to Home. Fission, if you can fly, take them back, see if Sunshine can patch you up."

"/Yes/," Brent says. He tries to reign in laughter, the bubbling, semi-hysterical sort. << Alive alive alive alive >> "Yes," he says, a little calmer. "Brent. Is my name. Hannigan. Alexander. Brent Alexander Hannigan."

As the healing mutation repairs the damage to his head, Ilad blinks a few times, head clearing. He closes his fingers into a warm clasp at the stranger's hand, his body recovered enough from its earlier exertion to heat his body with a whisper of something like fever. He blinks and sits up. His head is clear and he does not retch. "Right," he says, his voice a little rough. The healer's magic is still working on him, knitting together the wound at his side. "Help me stand, friend."

"Sir," Madrox acknowledges into the com. All formality. (Owow.) Now certainly limping a little and still hooking in his arm, he approaches Remy for phone pick-ups. He looks confident and glorious about it, we swear.

"Hello, Brent," Gabriel says, perhaps adding a surreal element to things. "My apologies for meeting under such circumstances." With one hand still keeping pressure on the wound, he fishes out heavy duty medical scissors from his kit with the other. The gauze is lifted away for a moment, so that he can cut through jeans, making the hole caused by the bullet a lot wider. He then proceeds to wipe away the welling blood to try to get a glimpse of the actual wound.

Avi stares as his brother sits up. Apparently he doesn't still have his concussion anymore. He stands hurriedly, wanting to be the one to help Ilad up to.

Remy is in awe. Pure awe. Really. He does have the satisfied smile of someone who is still full of singing adrenaline and has watched former hostages go scampering past him to freedom, however. The phones are handed over.

"Ilad you cannot stand up you have a /concussion/ would you /stop trying/," Brent tries to insist, twisting his head to look over at his friend. It delays any reply to Gabriel. The most important thing about the wound is that it hasn't hit the femoral artery. It is bleeding, but it is not gushing like mad about to kill him. Yay.

Bobby clasps hand and elbow, and pulls, easing Ilad to his feet and stumbling back, breaking the contact. "Woah, you're hot." Temperature wise, because there is a brief moment of disorientation that leaves Bobby unable to appreciate any other kind of wise. He pushes the face guard up and glances over at Brent and Gabe. "Need a hand?" he puns terribly.

Moving to slide a hand under Ilad's arm, Al looks at Avi. But Bobby helps him up anyhow, even as she moves back. She moves towards the injured man she doesn't know, face guard still down. "How bad are you hurt?"

Madrox accepts the phones with a head-duck and slips on out as discreetly as he can manage. To find a sheltered take off spot.

It is totally a woman who got grazed with the bullet, but she's not hurt too bad. She is a patch and go sort of job.

Gabriel's expression is probably awash with relief at the lack of tell-tale spurting blood, but his features remain hidden. He reapplies the gauze and pressure. "Yes," he replies curtly, but not unkindly, to Bobby. Then, to Brent, he says, "I'm sorry, this might hurt for a moment." As carefully as he can, he proceeds to lift Brent's leg up enough to look for an exit wound.

"Whoever isn't busy in there, go see about transferring their leader into our custody. I don't care about the rest. I want him," Jean-Paul instructs, going to find some place to sit down within range that takes him away from anyone who might look at him funny for all this talking to himself.

Henry continues to wait near Jean-Paul. He strokes his chin, watching his surroundings, as others conduct their business inside.

Al steals from Gabe's kit, sorry Gabe. Bandages chick NPC after cleaning up the wound, so she can go.

Bobby is busy, so he doesn't bother delegating this one. Some one with initiative and drive and all those young, career-oriented words can.

Risen to his feet, Ilad notes that his shoes and socks are both ruined. He wiggles his toes, the pads of his feet against the cool floor. He says softly, "Thank you," with a tip of his head in Bobby's direction. "Hush now, Homegrown," he goes on. "The doctors have helped me. I am all right." He reaches for his brother, tugging him by the upper arm, letting his arm drape across Avi's shoulders as he leans against him, quietly.

Brent hisses and clenches down on the sudden pain as Gabriel moves his leg, but he manages not to cry out. There's no exit wound. Any reply will have to wait until someone isn't moving his leg around.

Avi slides his arm across his brother's back, having sort of passed out of confused into just numb. His brother is okay! Yay! Brent's not dead either! "Ari will be mad..." he remarks, vaguely. Otherwise, he just concentrates on making his shoulders supporty.

A whisper doesn't carry well at a distance, and so Remy's initiative-taking takes the form of pointing to Darion, then pointing at the leader. "Let's take care o' this," -is- whispered, across the comm to his ears. Take us to your leader is to become take your leader to us.

Bobby frowns over at Gabe and just kind of watches for a minute. "If I do my thing," he wiggles his fingers at Gabe, "Is it going to be a problem??"

Gabriel frowns heavily enough to have it touch his voice when he finds no exit wound. "The bullet is still in his leg," he says, mostly to Bobby, looking to him for a moment as he eases Brent's leg back down to the floor. Then he's all apologies to the patient. "I'm sorry, I know it must hurt." Back to Bobby again, he says, voice quieter, "It could be. Do you think you can... work it out? Or no?"

Darion nods, and heads over to the unconscious terrorist. He picks him up, and throws him over his shoulder, heading back out onto the street.

Al gently ushers the woman towards the door of the vault and out, pausing to look back. She looks at Avi, forgetting the helmet could make it hard to tell. "Ya got him? Ah can help ya get him outside, if ya need me to."

"Don't know. I could try?" BObby offers, grinning just a little crazily. "Or we could let the paramedics take over." Cause they are here. Yay.

THey /are/ here, I hope?

Yes.

Yay.

Ship away, baby.

"Only if she is a very silly woman," Ilad tells Avi in tones of gentle reproof. He arches his eyebrows, high, toward his hairline, as he looks at Bobby and his wiggling fingers. He glances at Alessia, dark gaze sharp and alert as he focuses on her helmeted head. "Thank you, I have got him," he says, utterly bland, utterly dry. "Come, Avi. Out we go."

Hooray EMTs.

Gabriel gives a slight shake of his head at Bobby being unsure, and then glances over his shoulder to the approaching paramedics. "We'll have to." He rocks back onto his heels, packs up his kit, and maintains pressure until they get there. Then, as they take over, he rises and steps back. Exit, stage left?

And right, and off the bloody front of the stage.

Al laughs, the sound hopefully masked by the helmet and everything. "Ah'll..." Biting her tongue. She can't tell him she'll see him later. Der. Exiting close behind the brothers.

Avi goes gratefully, still numb. Ilad should be grateful, it means that there are no Questions. For the moment.

The paramedics help deal with what needs helping, the feds handle the rest. All in all, a successful rescue.

THE END.
Freedom! GMing by Roz and also me.