gone_byebye | (no subject)

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Mid-January, 2008
RCMP/Ministry of Extraordinary Threats Emergency Hangar
Alert, Nunavut, CA

Even in times of the highest tension and most danger, people find ways to keep themselves busy, and neither the Ghostbusters nor the men and women of the world's northern watch bureaus were any great exception. "Ray? Ray! Ray, check it out." Venkman shook his friend's shoulder. "Egon's in a fight with one of the Inquanok guys."

Ray opened an eye and glanced sideways. Several of the Danish contingent and a couple of the Pohjola Project's Sami members were gathered in a semicircle centered on Egon and a broad-faced, dark-eyed man in Danish uniform. "Wow. Spengs is looking kinda..."

"Green," Winston finished for both of them. "That's freaky. What are they fighting about?"

"The worst thing they've ever eaten," said Venkman. "Eske's winning."

Ray and Winston exchanged glances. They both knew Egon's eating habits. "How?" Ray finally asked.

"That's not food," Egon suddenly said, loud enough to be heard over the snickering Greenlanders. "That's biological waste. You can't consider anything with that level of ammonia in it to qualify as edible."

"This from the man who admits to eating casu marzu," said his opponent with the serene smile of a man who knows he's won. "Hákarl is nothing-"

Winston shook his head. Ray gave up on the possibility of a nap and stood up. "Has anyone seen where Captain Korpan went?" he asked, and one of the Finns pointed. "Thank you."

He found the Canadian in the tiny office attached to the hangar, one hand pressing his headset against his ear and the other taking frantic notes. As Ray walked in Korpan lifted his eyes, winced, and held up a piece of paper that read:

Magnetic fields flaring
Deep ones report Russian helicopter near 82.7° N 114.4° W
Radio comms dorppinng like brick

A moment later Korpan scribbled one last line:

Dammit, I can spell. Marines on the way. Tell the others. We're going in.

Ray shuddered, nodded, and went in search of a better door.

[OOC: Assume everyone will be arriving from Milliways within five minutes of each other. Also, don't click on the food links above if you have a weak stomach.]

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Yeah, no. That one's gonna be jerking around like a Ferrari in fifth that got dropped down to first without warning. The other one, however, still has hold of his gun- and he's going to start shooting in the vicinity of his compatriot, and apologize for any wounds incurred later.

Call it pre-emptive self defense if you like.

Oh POOP.

A small man in a grey uniform appears from nowhere running away from the fallen thug, eek-ing. Moon Shadow remembers that just one blood sacrifice could bring down doom on them all. He's got bullet-proof armor, he's pretty sure Mr. Twitchy doesn't, so he's running for the nearest snowhill.

The source of the English shouting is currently beating the living daylights out of anyone within reach. She's used to taking on opponents twice her size; the fact that they currently can't see just makes things that much easier.

The sound of a screaming child, however, is somewhat distracting. Her head whips around. "Tyler?"

The men she's attacking are trained bodyguards, and very good at what they do, but they've never been trained to go against superheroes. Even non-powered ones. The blind-fighting skills you'd find in Spetznaz types just aren't there, so the Squirrel is coming out looking like Jet Li on a good day-

At least, until she turns in time to catch sight of the still-visually-capable Russian getting ready to attempt a flying tackle to bring Moon Shadow down.

Before she even consciously registers what's happening, she's already pulled a boomerang from her belt and thrown it toward the man pursuing Moon Shadow. If she's lucky, it'll clock him on the back of the head and bring him down before he can make the leap. If she's unlucky...

Well, let's just hope she's lucky today.

Moon Shadow is doing exactly what Mr. Revenant would tell him to do. Be a sneaky little bugger. Which the gunman is going to find out as Kit's boomerrang misses by that much.

The henchman gets a surprise as the kid is..grinning, and throwing something into his face that explodes with a hisssss.

Short range gas capsules.

That henchman is going down, and going down fast. Those are good gases in there; it might be a while before he gets up again...

Mind you, the others are still active, and at least one of them has enough targeting sense to come at Kit's actual location with a punch that could knock a mule for a loop.

He's fast, but the Flying Squirrel is faster. She sees the oncoming fist, grabs the arm attached to it with both hands, and uses the momentum of the man's punch to fling him over her shoulder and onto the ground a few yards away.

He won't be getting up for a while either. He'll probably be a lot crankier than Tyler's opponent when he does, though.

The sum total of Moon Shadow's opponents have been shot in the twig and berries with a taser, goofy-gassed and have had to evade the spiked tentacles...of...

Moon Shadow looks where the tentacles had gone still. "Oh crud, the cultist!"

"Over here," calls a voice, in heavily accented but otherwise perfectly clear English. "Your gadget lost the fight."

The speaker made it up onto the same tripod as the brazier, it would seem; a moment later he leaps down to the ice, staying in a crouched position. His expression is distorted with an unwholesomely painful-looking smile.

"So someone thought to offer me competition after all. I had wondered if anyone on this side of the barrier was going to try."

As he comes to his feet his hands come alight with the same clear green fire that burns in the brazier above.

"Although how you think you're going to stop me from delivering the City into Azathoth's hands is beyond even me."

"Buddy, I deal with crazier nutjobs than you before breakfast in the morning," replies the Flying Squirrel. "You're gonna have to do better than that if you wanna stop me."

It's a bit hyperbolic, but Mister Greatcoat doesn't know that. And hopefully he'll be sufficiently distracted not to notice the little gray cylinder that Kit's pulling out of her belt...

Keep distracting him Kit, the kid's going to try and make himself scarce.

Now see you him now you.. where the heck did he go?!?

"I'm not surprised, truly," says the man. "Always good to know someone is taking care of the competition. The fewer troublemakers lie between my lord Azathoth and the Pole, the better my chances of supplanting His most potent servant..."

The next words that he shouts are in no language fit for the tongues of men as he whips a fistful of that green fire straight at Kit's head.

The Flying Squirrel leaps sideways to dodge the blast, while simultaneously throwing the grey cylinder at the Russian man's feet. It detonates with a sharp report and a spark like a firecracker going off.

Those magical flash grenades may not be too flashy, but they get the job done.

They do indeed. The man's face pales as the fires around his hands flicker and die; he can see, and he can act and all, but every particle of mystical awareness he has has just been whited out in a flood of indescribable pain.

He drops into a low, wide crouch, hands coming up in a fighting stance; if he can't bring this woman down the way he'd planned, he'll do it any way he has to.

The Flying Squirrel gets to her feet and assumes a similar stance. "So ya wanna do this the old-fashioned way, eh? You think you can put up a better fight than your hired goons?"

"I've served in the Navy since I was sixteen," says the man through gritted teeth. "I have all the close-quarters training the state could give me. Bring it on, American."

Either he's mistaken or he's being deliberately insulting. Either way, the tone of voice is the same.

"Sticks--and stones--may--break my bones," she grunts between blows, "but don't you dare--call me--an American!"

His only reply is a snort as he lays into the superhero full force. She's small, and nimble, and that means fewer targets- but he's not one of those guys who makes the mistake of trying to compensate by hitting harder. Unlike D&D players he's well aware that strength doesn't give a to-hit bonus. It's more important that the blows land than that they be hard.

He'll deal with his own injuries later. Azathoth accepts no excuses for weakness.

While his attention if focused on the pretty lady in the catsuit who just took out his magic-throwing temporarily, Moon Shadow's been invisibly checking up on the Russian President.

Namely by making sure the guy can breathe through the face-hole in the putty.

We do hope the Russian president favors the fast-pull method of tape removal.

"Sorry sir..."

It's a lucky thing he didn't have a mustache, that's all we're going to say. The man blinks a few times as he struggles to get his thoughts back in order. Then he says, in halting English, "Matochkin- did he finish- has he done the rest of the ritual?"

"I don't think so, but I have no way of being sure...I don't speak Russian. ...or whatever he's speaking to summon the Elder God." Moon Shadow says looking back at the fistfight. "The Flying Squirrel kind of interrupted and blinded him temporarily. Do you know what he did exactly?"

The President would nod if he had enough room to move his head for it. "The submarine is nuclear," he says. "He said- when the reactor was in line with the Pole, from underneath, and the whole sky was lit with red, he would call the god's power from the reactor. He needs human blood to finish it. Mine or the sailors'."

"...ooooh poop. We've got teams out to rescue the sailors, any idea of how to stop things from here?"

It's better the President doesn't have that much room to move at the moment, he'll stay warm bundled up like that inside of the putty. "We have to make sure he doesn't kill anyone here...or himself."

"He won't do that," says the President. "He wants his power too much... Stop the fire. He needs to start all over if the fire goes out."

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