2012-11-11 Beneath the Jersey Shore (2/2)

The story so far:

Riding the waves off the coast of New Jersey, the vast transport ship rumoured to be smuggling human weapons into the country has been intercepted and laid immobile by the combined efforts of the X-Man Psylocke and Blink, the teleporting mutant from the apocalyptic near-future. The command deck of the cargo vessel is a bloody mess, only a number of average crewmen and two scared soldiers remaining alive. The delicate cargo - a metal storage container sixteen feet long, ten high and six wide - has been transported to shore and sits waiting beside a hatch supposedly allowing rear access to an underground facility.

Nearby sits the dessicated husk of the 'Lady Fortuna' resort hotel. The parking lot outside has played host to a dramatic series of explosions, detonating the neighbouring gas station and laying waste to the hotel's once-opulent front entrance. Deep inside the building, our motley band of heroes assemble around the bizarrely-situated bulk of a concrete military bunker, one set of blast doors lying open to allow access to a short, dimly-lit corridor leading to a second set of doors; with a high-tech access panel, and a two-way speaker.

Welcome, dear reader, to part two of...

...BENEATH THE JERSEY SHORE!

Releasing the stored tension in her muscles, Psylocke sends another, wry glance toward the increasingly-reckless Ghanaian beside her, lips pulling upward at one edge. She doesn't voice any further thoughts - but that *look*, directed past the lustrous purple sweep of her hair - says it all. 'I'll do the talking from now on'. Rolling her shoulders back and releasing a sigh, the kunoichi takes measured steps forward through the first of blast doors and reaches confidently for the bank of controls. Almost as if she recognizes them.

There's a muted crackle from the grille above her hand, and a voice breaks through, a reedy male voice speaking quickly. The language is Japanese, easy marked enough for anybody who's heard even a few words spoken, and whoever the man is he's clearly a native speaker.

Remaining unfazed, Betsy directs a handful of words back in exactly the same, businesslike tone. A reply follows, and she's equally at ease in tapping a series of numbers into the nearby keypad, each press releasing a sharp intonation through the grille. The sounds lack melody or any noticeable pattern; but the blast doors release a hiss of hydraulic steam into the corridor, then begin to ease open at a snail's pace. Beyond, there's seemingly *nothing* - just a deep, dizzying pitch darkness to greet them. At least until several seconds have passed.


 * fzzt...!*

An arc of blue-white electricity streaks in and out of being in an instant, oh-so-briefly illuminating perhaps twenty feet of corridor running almost to the back of the bunker before curving sharply downward into a near-vertical plunge.

What's black, white, and red all over? That would be Domino after tackling a minigun. The merc bitch extraordinaire is still a part of this excursion, littered with high-powered weapons and superficial wounds aplenty.

She's also got her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Should have figured you'd be a part of this," she sides to Psylocke with a somewhat less than trusting stare. The part that she -really- wants to know, however? How Ninjachick knows the keycode to that door.

A brief conversation with their unlikely alien companion from the Titans resulted in Miss Martian remaining topside to watch over all of their backs. One less thing to be responsible for getting shot at, which works fine and dandy for Dom. Now, despite still being part of the group, she's only responsible for her own hide. Probably for the best, given that her only suppressed firearm along for this run is a single shot pistol. For the moment it's her death-dealing tool of choice. Again.

"Remember, Kwa. -Subtle.- That means no fire or explosions. Actually, just let me go first."

"I may pick odd allies, but we get the job done." Kwabena's accent seems to come thicker, paired with the steady heaving of his chest; a result of such intense physical activity. However, there's a reprieve to the score of battle, and it is one the Ghanaian greatly appreciates. He nods his head slowly in acknowledgement of Psylocke's unspoken direction, before turning to look down the tunnel beyond.



A quick glance is given to the bullets remaining in the clip of his semi-automatic pistol. He'd prefer not to have to use it, but one could never be too cautious. He follows her as she proceeds down into the tunnel, and reaches up with a spare hand to radio Domino.

"Inside the bunker now, with the telepath." His voice is quiet, ever so quiet, as he warily watches the two way speaker that they are approaching.

When Domino arrives, he looks over at her with a cocked eyebrow. It would seem that her blood-stained clothes were an appropriate match to the little strands of fabric stretched across his bare torso, which used to be his shirt. His eyes narrow just slightly at her remark, but a grin forms at the corner of his mouth. "It's okay, I'm fresh out of grenades."

If that's what you call them.

Looking back, he follows behind Domino, his eyes warily looking to the side and checking behind him every so often for unwanted followers.

The call came in not long ago, and Carol is one who takes and follows orders. "Absolutely sir." she says to Director Fury when he orders her to go look into this... well, what he said was cluster fu**... but we all understand Fury-speak, yes? So Carol heads out, her clothes becoming her black bodysuit, gloves, and boots costume. The thing is -almost- custom tailored for stealth... or it would be were it not for the shoulders, upper arms, and thighs and yes... backside that is exposed by it. Either way... she's heading that way. There -is- a pause as she checks in via comms. "Okay. It's... right, got it." she remarks as she dips down and heads in through a wide open, disused sewage hatch, "I don't get paid enough for sewage.." She mutters before she eyes the corridor behind the hatch. "Well, what do we have here?" she mutters softly to herself as she spies the far better taken care of innards of an externally dillapitated place (I can't spell dill... dil.. you know!)

It came as little genuine surprise to Psylocke that the 'friend' Kwabena spoke of hiring was the rather unruly and self-confident monochromatic mercenary. To say their relationship has taken a turn for the rocky would be a vast understatement, but on part of the Violet Butterfly she's not precisely displeased to see Domino; she can think of many she'd trust more, but - when all is said and done - precious few who possess quite the same sentiment as so adroitly expressed by the Ghanaian. There's a lot to be said for 'getting the job done'; better to level a few buildings or even take a few lives than lose many more by hesitating.

Besides, whatever points Domino lost in their last, catty trading of words...

She regains in her blunt reminder to Kwabena. Betsy very almost laughs.

"Agreed," she says instead with that by-now familiar mixture of hard steel and good old British humour. "Though the same goes for you, Miss Anthropy." Violet eyes shift to take in Domino over her shoulder, another quirk of the lips driving home her message to the chaotic gun-for-hire. "That said," she cants her head and turns back to the dark corridor, her tone now positively wry. "There's some kind of forcefield on this corrior. We need an electromagnetic pulse... or just a localized explosion. Where's an expert when you need one?"

Meanwhile, SHIELD's finest is heading thoroughly away from anything rampantly explosive, the discovered corridor much flatter and longer than the one facing the hotchpotch trio inside the hotel cum military bunker. More brightly lit, it also contains a rail along which a magnetic gravlift is designed to run-- demonstrating technology on much the level of the earlier miniguns. The corridor curves slowly around, passing underneath the beach to find what is likely the same facility beneath the resort. So far, so handy, and so quiet...

Until there's a hiss of hydraulics echoing from several hundred feet down, and soon the stamp of a dozen or so booted feet. Heading with brisk rapidity toward the beachfront. The shout of orders in Japanese - easily identified and translated by Danvers if she pauses to listen - identifies them as a group of particularly militant Far Eastern mercenaries.

Certainly well-armed if not well-trained.

Nothing like a fun outing with the coolest person formerly in your school. And this is /nothing/ like a fun outing! Stuck in a pitch black storage container with a lot of suspiciously human-shaped containers, trying not to breathe too loudly in the pitch blackness while it's taken into the facility, trying equally hard to hold onto the contents of your stomach while the box is shaken and jiggered and moved uncomfortably through the pitch-blackness, peering into the impenetrable pitchiness and seeing absolutely nothing, not even the partner you're supposed to be with... and, in case it wasn't mentioned before, it's PITCH BLACK in this thing! Jubilation Lee has had more fun on a school night, that's for sure. "Um, Logan? Is this your hand I'm holding?" she whispers nervously into the PITCH BLACKNESS, hoping he can hear her since there's no way he can see her. "Please tell me it's your hand... 'cuz if it's not, we're in /sooooo/ much trouble..."

There's a similar glance passed back to the group's psychic. With eye contact maintained, Domino slips a knife free from its Kydex sheath, holding it point down in the same hand that's holding her 'almost but not quite a rifle' pistol. "Hey, I -prefer- keeping things quiet when it can be helped. Makes the job that much easier when up against unlikely odds."

However, taking the front line with a woman that both has, and knows how to use, a sword is ..actually kinda cool. Between these two, the lead of their infiltration team is fairly well covered.

"I'm no electrician, but explosions would royally screw the pooch for subtlety. I can take a shot at it if we don't have anyone better for the task." All she has to go on is chance. There's gotta be another way around, though. Right? It might be hard to explain why she should go messing about with that forcefield to begin with, and even more awkward to explain if she manages to take care of it without being very skilled in such matters!

"For the record, I'm /not/ throwing myself into another damned force field," notes Kwabena. He eyes the electromagnetic discharges warily, then looks between Psylocke and Domino with a frown. "Don't you both go getting any funny ideas."

Still, it worked last time. Kwabena eyes his free hand, then looks at the tunnel. Maybe if he just /touched/ it, his atoms wouldn't get scattered so badly?

No, that's a bad idea.

Quickly lowering his hand, he turns around and looks back behind him again, still watching their backs for trouble.

Hearing the Japanese words, Carol just grins a bit. She shakes her head, the motion making her blonde locks shuffle a bit on her shoulders. She steps back into the shadows of the large container behind her and... she does something almost out of character. She waits... patiently. She doesn't have long to wait though, before the bootsteps get closer and she steps out of the shadows in front of a half dozen troopers. She knew they'd be armed with plasma carbines and so when she speaks up in Japanese... ... they react predictably Plasma fire lights up the hallway and some strikes Carol, being absorbed harmlessly as she simply sighs and steps forward. A weapon is yanked here, an elbow sent in to strike (gently) into a ribcage. She's pulling her punches because otherwise this would just be murder. She is however, enjoying having the ability to do this. And of course, stealth is forgotten. They're calling into communicators and crying out as she strikes them. Several of their shots, aimed at her, or simply taken as she strikes them, blast into the walls around them, down the hall behind them, into the container she was using for cover... it's all very chaotic.

If he /could/ see right now, Wolverine would be scowling; in the pitch blackness of a storage container, though, such expressions are wasted.

"Yeah," he mutters, slipping his gloved hand away from Jubilee's. "Stop talkin'; we're on mission, kid." The metal-clad mutant has been still and - barring any necessary interaction with his young companion - silent since insertion. Weaponized humans, he figures, are unlikely to do much talking on their way to their new owners; it would be suspicious. The last thing he wants to do his blow his cover. "Can't--ggh!"

Of course, if something were to happen - say, stray plasma blasts slamming into the container and rocking it about - to suggest that the cover is no longer necessary...


 * SNIKT!*

... he might be inclined to do something drastic, like cut his way out of the container and make a bee-line for the first guy or girl with a gun he can see. Given the nature of the operation, people with guns are /usually/ the best first targets; experience has taught him that there are precious few human weapon traffickers given to spandex wardrobes. Despite the nature of their mission, he makes sure to sheath the claws before mixing it up with any of them. After all, there's an impressionable young mind not far away.

Without the imminent need for telepathic communication, Psylocke isn't getting anything more than the most residual readings on her two partners. Domino's a difficult one anyway; it's not as though she'll give willingly, and there are certain codes of politeness the kunoichi prefers to observe when dealing with her powers. Outside of emergencies. Infiltrating the underground facility of a black market ring dealing in the smuggling of human weapons? Just another day.

"No, you're not," comes the telepath's immediate reply to Kwabena, her lips pursing as she glances into the darkness just as another arcing bolt of electric light floods the corridor. His sacrifice wasn't just heart-rending on an emotional level, but physically and mentally trying on he and she both; for all that it might have led them to, she'd not wish to repeat that experience. "But we're a little beyond subtlety. I told them to come and collect their shipment; I *don't* think they're expecting us inside. I'm honestly just hoping they haven't got the equipment to warn them when the doors are open. Let's find out..."

Trailing off with a thoughtful pursing of lips, she rolls her shoulders and takes a single step forward, bringing her feet level before driving a knifehand chop past the second set of blast doors. Her fingertips penetrate the chamber beyond at the same instant that a blast of violet fire spirals up her forearm in a keen flash, culminating in a 'blade' of energy extending past her fingers. There's a second flash, a yet more rapid third and fourth in succession - like a batting of unseen eyelids over the opened portal. Hissing an intake of breath, Psylocke is driven back by the force of her own telekinetic strike, sliding six or seven inches before coming to a standstill with arm still extended and eyes wide with the shock.

"...if they've got the equipment to withstand *that*."

A few seconds wait reveals no further arc of electricity, the corridor remaining dark and silent.

"Well then. You said something about taking the lead, Domino?"

Over on the other side of the beach, the action is already hot; plasma bolts frying the air as the group of mercenaries frantically attempt to regroup around the sudden intercession of a superhuman. Carol's blows land clean and hard, her 'gentility' only ensuring she doesn't take life-- impact-resistant body armour isn't really designed to cushion the combined lovetap of a few dozen sledgehammers. They're simply outclassed, scattered even before the introduction of the X-Men's finest. ""

It's all the encouragement those still standing need to throw themselves to the edges of the corridor - spreading their grouping in a bid to keep from immediate range of the opponent they already know they can't handle. The commander meanwhile backs off quickly, reaching for the sidearm at his hip - which uses bullets rather than energy - and hammering with the other hand at a small device on the other side. The flashing of red lights and a howling klaxon echoing from within the facility proper leave absolutely no mystery why he does that.

""

"Easy for you to say," Jubilation whispers back, as she considers this to be a necessary interaction. She's quite aware of the scowl in Logan's voice, but then again, he does that so much that she no longer pays it much mind. "You /like/ the dark. I'm more of a sunshine and..." She breaks off as the container suddenly rocks. "UNGH! Hey, did this thing just get /shot/?" she asks in disbelief. Her question is answered by the distinctive sound of adamantium claws being unsheathed and moonlight streaming into the container. Their stealthy insertion plan seems to be officially FUBARed. "I'll take that as a 'yes'!" And out she comes, blinking in the dim light. Wolverine seems to be leading the way. Jubilation nods grimly and hurries after him, using well-aimed streams of plasmoids to keep any ambitious servants of Dai Nippon from getting to his back. "Totally got your back, Wolvie!"

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Doesn't it always, though? Sneak in, stick to the stealth plan, get where they need to go, then -someone, somewhere,- needs to do something which sets off the freaking klaxons! Domino slowly turns back to Psylocke, her expression more tired looking than concerned. "Again, wasn't me." This is why she works alone when she can help it! Away goes the suppressed pistol, out comes the assault rifle. If that's the way it's going to be, she'll ante up.

Dom quickly hurries forward, now that Psylocke somehow lowered the force field. "Nice job, Violet." Up ahead the corridor starts to slope downward. This is where she sets up, running to the edge then dropping to a knee with the rifle at her shoulder, covering the space beyond. "That alarm didn't come from us, so -who the hell else is here?- Did half of the damned city get invites and I didn't hear about it?"

Insinctively, the African takes a couple of steps back when Psylocke's brilliant telekinetic strike causes her to skid backward a little. He watches the aftermath, head cocked for a moment, before he stands upright again and grins. "Well, we should have tried that /last/ time," he murmurs, though there are intonations that he's not at all serious, but rather, trying to inject a little lighthearted banter into the situation.

He does it for himself, as much as for anyone else. In his attempts to force changes in his mutation which have always otherwise been instinctual, he's run the risk of becoming a torrent of uncontrollable emotions. He has to keep his cool, so that if the time comes when he needs to, oh, rage himself into an iron battering ram again, he won't completely lose his mind and go in a killing spree.

Untrained mutants. Always a wild card.

Coming upon the sharp drop, Kwabena looks over and down into the darkness. "Well, a drop has never hurt me before," he notes, before holstering his sidearm and handing it to Domino. "I'll go find out."

Without waiting for an answer, Kwabena throws himself into the drop in what would be to most a suicide dive. He spreads his arms and legs out as he drops, but upon striking the ground, there is no telltale thump of human flesh. Instead, there is a barely audible noise, resembling the sound a drape might make upon being swung open, for Kwabena's entire body turns into a cloud of black smoke instead of dying. Moments later, it reforms into the crouched form of the African, though his pants are all jimmied up. "God... damnit!" he hisses quietly, and takes a moment to adjust them while annoyed beyond belief. He snatches the ear comm off the floor, which had fallen out when he went all smokey, and plugs it back into his ear before creeping forward into the tunnel to see what he can find.

Listening to the officer, Carol just tsks softly,  Carol lifts her hand and eyes Wolverine, "What's up short stuff?" she asks as she points that hand at the officer and unleashed a photonic blast to try to take the commander out of the equation. "These guys are mercs, killers for hire. Why don'tcha show'em how much you appreciate that Logan?" Of course, she's walking calmly towards the commander as she speaks and fires.

"" Wolverine announces as he hurls a bloodied and unconscious man over his shoulder like a doll.

Logan learned to speak Japanese out of necessity--the product of years spent at the feet of gentle, honorable, enlightened individuals who spoke nothing but; figuring out how to piece together appropriately threatening declarations in the language took even longer.

"Stick t' cover!" he adds; this is entirely for Jubilee's benefit, given that none of them seem all that keen to take Carol on. He, of course, has no intentions of taking his own advice; one by one, the deceptively speedy savage slips behind mercenaries and brings them down with vicious, metal-assisted blows to their necks, knees, spines--anything he can reach to drop them without shedding blood.

The howl of the alarm siren surprises Psylocke no more than Domino; that shared look resonates on many similar levels, the same familiar weariness of one who's performed a thousand successful infiltrations alone, only to run into immediate mishap when accompanied by a team. The only difference is that the kunoichi knows something the inordinately lucky mercenary doesn't, and she wears a distantly concerned frown as she flexes her blade-bearing hand and follows into the gloom of the corridor. At least they can see now; even if the red lighting's somewhat creepy.

"Just a couple of friends," she murmurs with absolutely no trace of sarcasm, coming up behind the gunwoman now taking point as she briefly reaches out with her mind. She's got no hope of fixating on Jubilee at this range, without the shielded girl already aware-- but Wolverine is a signal both detectable and familiar. He's also very used to her sudden contact. She can only spare enough focus for a one-way link, but she transmits anyway.



"And you'll hear about it when--" Kwabena is in motion, and there's no reasonable way Betsy can stop his reckless dive. Violet eyes follow the man's progress over the edge and, with another step taken, just beyond it. A quick glimpse into the astral confirms he's survived, with a little glimmer of embarassment that makes her raise an eyebrow. "When I'm sure I can trust you," she rattles off the remainder of her unfinished thought distractedly, slipping around Domino and then tucking into an almost lazy rolling flip that takes *her* over the drop as well, landing on her shoulder with a soft grunt. Ninja or not, absorbing the impact of metal is never fun.

Rolling to a crouch with no more noise than Kwabena's curse, she joins him in assessing the tunnel below. Or tunnels, as it happens; what greets them is a veritable warren of identikit metal passages. All flashing red, all filled with the same distracting klaxon whine.

She takes in the sight - a half dozen exits all leading away from the rectangular chamber they're in, and no other decoration save a panel mounted on the wall to her left. Standing with a sigh, she steps over to this and examines it a moment before hitting a button. A section of floor against the sheer slope begins to raise with the gentlest of hums. Glancing up to meet Domino's eye, she spares a nod upward before turning to gesture around the room.

"We've got one shot in six of finding the right way in. We'll split up. Make it one in two."

Across the way, the Japanese mercenaries have nothing like that chance of surviving the conflict unbruised; they find their second opponent an equal to the first, the plasmoid blasts of Jubilee doing almost as much damage to those who are fortunate enough to even temporarily escape from the pair of powerhouse scrappers. Wolverine's swathe is most effective now, those fleeing the SHIELD operative finding themselves impaled upon metal-backed knuckles and hurled bodily from the walls. Within moments, only three remain, beside the commander; one eats a wild shot from Jubilee, another comes face-to-face with Logan and actually tries to go hand-to-hand, barely ducking an incoming strike and responding with a sharp kiai and an inside crescent kick /out of nowhere/. It's relatively impressive... for a regular human.

The third is the youngest of the group, pulling through by blind luck and readily placed to see Danvers aim the force of her photonic powers upon his cruel, brutal commander. The man is in mid-scream when he goes down. "" He's down like a sack of potatoes, his last wild gunshot going wide to caterwaul off the metal insides of the corridor, leaving only the penetrating klaxon in its wake.

Jubilation /is/ sticking to cover... if you can count being close to Wolverine as cover, anyway! It seems to be working so far, as she remains unscathed. She backs off a bit to bullseye the guy to the left of the one doing all the yelling. "Bing, bang, walla-walla bing-bang to you too, dweeboid!" she taunts, unable to understand a word of his language. "Wolvie, are you clear?" And about then, she catches sight of the woman in the stealth bodysuit... sort of. "Um, hi! Sorry if we weren't what you expected in your order, but there's no money-back guarantee. Take it up with our shipping manager."

"Trust is a two-way street, kiddo," Dom promptly reminds Psylocke. "Maybe if we're looking to have some in each other," she trails off with a sigh as Kwabena just ..does his own thing, "we might consider meeting under less tense circumstances. Just a thought."

When Ninjagirl goes down into the great unknown next, she holds her spot and waits for ..a lift? Oh, c'mon now. She could have handled jumping down there..! Probably! Gads, this is just embarrassing. On the other hand, when she regroups with Psy and Kwa at the bottom, she gets another chance to shine. Six corridors. Which way to go? Simple! Follow Lady Luck. Domino pivots around the room, looking at all of the different options before she makes a gun out of her fingers and points down one of the six. Regardless if the others follow, that's the way that -she's- going, damnitall.

"Still got your ear in place, Kwa?" she asks over the earbud comms, pushing down the hallway on slightly bent knees with the bullpup rifle held tight to her shoulder. She'll be ready for anything on the other end. Will it be ready for her?

Once Domino has joined Kwabena and Psylocke, he shoots her a momentary grin and a nod. "Still have my gun?" he asks, taking it when offered before turning down one of the corridors. As he goes, all signs of camaraderie and light hearted quippage are gone. He moves as stealthily as he might, creeping through the dark corridor on the balls of his feet, only responding with a quiet word into his earcom.

"Naturally."

It's too bad his shirt always seems to get shredded, though. It's a bit chilly down there, and the sweat he'd shed earlier is starting to cool.

Now ignoring the mercs, what's left of them anyway, Carol just eyes Jubilee. She raises a brow and says to Logan, "Isn't it a school night?" She smirks and shakes her head. "Just.. keep the kid safe is all I ask." she says. Anyone but Logan, she'd throw a fit, and have the kid kicked out of the op. But she trusts this guy to at least care deep down as gruff as his exterior might be. Anyhow, Carol just turns and starts walking down the corridor, "They came from this way. Shall we have a look see at what's down here?" She asks, her boots making her do that hippy walk that's always overly exaggerated in the movies.

Wolverine actually looks up from what he's doing - literally, he is holding up a semi-conscious mercenary by the collar - to stare incredulously at his teammate's attempt at speaking the language.

"" he offers to the man before driving his metal-laced brow into the poor man's face.

The black-eyed merc slumps to the ground, and another brave - and /skillful/, shockingly enough - man charges up to take his place; his assault and accompanying kiai are cut short when Logan grabs the man by his ankle, steps, turns, and /hurls/ him hammer-style towards the corridor. After dusting his hands off, the Wolverine himself heads that way, too.

"Might as well; wouldn't want 'em to miss their shipment."

Suspicion is not-so-gradually dawning that the patch-eyed mercenary may be substantially more than she seems. Even with Psylocke's foolhardy diversion in Slee's warehouse, there was no way she should have emerged unscathed from the ensuing firefight, and she's been in just a few too many sticky situations - at just the right time, in just the right place - for coincidence to keep excusing the circumstance of their meetings. This might go unnoticed, if the kunoichi hadn't had experience with similar powers. As it is, it's still just an inkling...

But here and now, she *knows* nobody present has any knowledge of this facility. Even with the most residual telepathic read, she could tell genuine surprise and mistrust at the actions she took to get them inside; Domino wasn't faking that. To so suddenly decide on a route--

Let alone for Kwabena to willingly follow her?

"You seem very sure," states the Violet Butterfly coolly, loosely canting the blade of her katana through the musty air of the facility as she starts forward in the indicated direction. It's the first sign of genuine trust she's shown in the mercenary - a suitable reply to her earlier statement, if not the chummy 'we should totally do lunch' that a more outgoing person (idiot) might present. "If this gets us killed, I reserve the right to withhold your fee."

She's at least smiling when she says that, moving to carry herself past Kwabena in a quick, quiet stride. Notably lacking the womanly hip-sway of Carol Danvers; a fashion model she might have been in a previous life, but she's a warrior now. The warrior her tomboyish inner child always wanted to be, and consequently absolutely fine with the fact that she walks like a bodaciously curvacious man. Whatever. Roxette would still say she's got 'The Look'.

The passage of both groups now leads - whether by the wit of shared brilliance or by Lady Luck's turbulent design - to opposite sides of the same location. The passage through which Betsy, Kwabena and Domino move twists and turns wildly, growing gradually less clinical and more industrial as it goes - passing the requisite hissing pipes and clanking gears stored in utilitarian gunmetal-grey cabinets, all esconced in the sporadic black and red gloom.

Path number two is almost straight, as noted; leading to an open airlock hatch through which can be found the apparent destination of that storage container. A large underground warehouse, wall-to-wall with chaotically-organized rows and stacks of similar boxes. Some are open and visibly empty, while others sit as mysterious as the one Jubilee and Wolverine have just spent an awkward couple of hours in. All are marked with alphanumerics, all unique.

And all completely unguarded but for the dozen dispatched mercenaries.

Domino is all too happy to pass Kwabena back his gun. She does so with a warning, however. "You're down past half." She didn't need to count, she could tell by the weight and balance. Experience, baby!

Now her pay is riding on her decision? A tiny grin takes shape upon ebony-stained lips. "I'll take that bet." Confidence is one thing that she's rarely without, working with speed and efficiency as she helps lead the trio through the bendy passage.

"Now, I -know- I heard more fighting before," Dom quietly claims to the other two. Gunfire does have a way of traveling... She holds up at another bend in the hall, staring with both eyes open down the rifle's sights. "Is someone else taking all of the fun? Because I might be right cross if they are."

Then again, she -is- scratched up and slightly bloody. Having a break from the action is a blessing in disguise. She's just an adrenaline junkie, don't mind her.

Coast's still (eerily) clear. She risks a quick glance back to the other two then keeps pushing onward. Quick like the wind, smooth like the water.

Damnit, she's hanging around Psylocke too much, isn't she.

To Domino, Kwabena casts a simple, "Could be worse." Regardless, he keeps the semi-automatic pistol raised near his head, ready to be aimed at any surprises they might run into. Once again he takes up the rear, occasionally glancing back behind them in case they are being tracked.

"How big /is/ this place?" he quietly wonders. "It is beginning to disturb my calm." He looks back forward with narrowed eyes, while working to maintain that calm with steady breaths and a quieted mind.

"You didn't bring more friends, did you Logan?" asks Carol as she gestures towards the containers, "Or rather, you didn't have more delivered?" Her mouth quirks a bit as she asks that, and then she looks back to Jubilee with a nod, "You're right. Sorry kiddo. Stay behind us if there's trouble. I've written enough letters to parents over the years." That said, she might miss anything about to happen directly ahead... at least visually. Right now she does kind of have the heebie jeebies. Seventh Sense, wake up and gimme a clue!

"You heard it," Psylocke confirms what Domino already knew, with a slight nod of her head as she remains focused on the twisting corridor leading them deep into the facility's unwelcoming bowels. That scent is still in the air - bittersweet and musty. Like old preservatives in a forgotten hospital. It grows stronger the closer they draw to the warehouse. In the other converging group, Logan might place it best; because it's the match for a fresher, subtler stench found in the newly delivered container.

"And I felt it. But I can't..." The telepath hesitates, tailing off with a frown and a swift, nervous readjustment of her grip. It's rare that she feels her blade is a comfort - rather than a mere extension of her being. But her senses are going the uncomfortable opposite of wild. "I feel like I'm looking at something, without seeing it. It's there; but I just /can't/."

Vagaries abound when it comes to her gift-- perhaps the Professor or Jean Grey could communicate it better, but she's a neophyte by their standard. Might always be. Regardless, the warehouse is visible now around a final turn in the corridor, the edges of containers catching the alternating flash of crimson light. Frowning more deeply, Betsy quickens her pace, clearing the door as she directs a final order over her shoulder. Verbal signal aside, she sends - almost without considering it - an empathic burst to Kwabena. Sharing the calm she has.

"Stay behind. Cover me."

From what, she doesn't know, but it's certainly her turn to be in the line of fire. Taking a calming breath of her own, she steps out amidst the piled rows of crates. Her blade shifts to a two-handed grip, still held beside her but angled upward in preparation for a stroke. Her footsteps, even stealthy as they are, still echo faintly through the warehouse, reaching the other side - and the other entrance - a few seconds before she steps into a t-intersection.

Smooth like water, sure, but with her silhouetted back placed to the airlock.

"Well... okay. Just leave me room to blast," Jubilation replies. Honor, or at least teenage pride of accomplishment, is satisfied. She's fine with going on with the op. "Come to think of it, where's the outside team? Shouldn't we have caught up with them by now?" She's careful to keep her voice down; where there are mercs, there are inevitably /more/ mercs, and better to hear them first. Recalling something she did with Psylocke earlier, she begins thinking VERY HARD: 

When their psychic pauses from sensing weird vibes, so too does Domino. And, for the very first time, genuine concern crosses her expression. Concern for the unseen forces which she's sensing. Concern, even, for the woman who's sensing these things. Down here, stuck in this dark labyrinth, the meaning of the word 'ally' takes on a whole new level of meaning. Even if they aren't necessarily friends, they are in this mess together. They have to rely upon one another. To be entirely honest with herself, she'd rather not have to do this one on her own.

Not that her next comment suggests any such thing in the slightest. "Looks like I'm still getting paid."

When the order is given, she follows it. For once. The merc tucks herself into one side of where the hallway opens up into the room beyond, back to resting on one knee, rifle ready and finger hovering in the empty space between the receiver and the trigger. Another quick glance is passed to the side, this time to Kwabena. Sure the kid can tackle tigers with the best of 'em, but does he know enough about modern tactics to have the right idea on where to put himself and what to do?

Going by his earlier performances, she's willing to bet not.

"Keep your head down, your profile small, and your gun ready. Nothing to it."

He was certainly out of his league, but that was becomming... common. So common that should it continue, this could easily /become/ his league. In a very short period of time, Kwabena Odame has gone from mugging strangers in dark alleys with an empty pistol, to thwarting bank robberies, shaking up drug circles, and now, infiltrating human trafficking operations. It all seems to close in on him, along with that dank and musty smell, until his nerves are-

Suddenly calm.

Blinking rapidly, Kwabena slows up for just a moment, looking around himself curiously as his nerves suddenly relax. His confusion finally falls upon Betsy's back, and a grin draws across his face.



It's just a thought, but it may very well bounce back in time for her to catch it, like the telltale pingback of a sonar burst, telepathically speaking. It's a good thing, too, for as he trails the others into the t-intersection, and the crates become visible, his grin turns into a frown. Moving to the wall opposite Domino, Kwabena should be afforded the ability to cover the other half his monochromatic counterpart would miss. "They have been at this for a while," murmurs the Ghanaian. He looks across the way at Domino, and briefly observes the way she stands. He comes down to one knee as well, keeping his head back against the wall while watching beyond Psylocke and into his area of cover.

"Back up." remarks Carol. She moves between the big crates and Jubilee. "Now." Sure, she's not talking loud, but it's one of those things that an officer learns... a tone of voice that just brooks no arguement. It's easy to tell when she's giving a suggestion, and when she's giving an order. "The crates Logan. They're the source of whatever danger I'm picking up on." Notice.. she's not really worried about whether captain Adamantium will survive.... but she does try to herd Jubilee back away from the crates... and yes, she's shielding the kid with her own body if at all possible.

"Yeah," the tracker rumbles as he creeps right up to one of the crates Carol is trying to ward Jubilee away from. He doesn't /quite/ press himself up against it in the course of the examination that follows, but he does get awfully close; his nose is inches away from the surface of the thing as draws its scent in.

Following his teammate's lead, he thinks: |"Bets. I'm in a warehouse; the cargo /stinks/. Worse than the box we rode in on,"| as the bittersweet stench swirls through his senses.

The scent that greets Wolverine is certainly organic-- and alive, but not quite human somehow. A tainted mess of preservative chemicals mixed with flesh and a nearly familiar musk that may at least once have belonged to something identifiable as man or woman. But it's... noisy...

Noise. Being a telepath in this warehouse is like being underwater; everything comes through indistinct and blurred, an oddly booming resonance that distracts the mind from working /at all/. It's all Psylocke can do to suppress the rising panic, much like the sensation of drowning, overriding any amount of courage and confidence to tap into a primal root of emotion. Both Kwabena and Jubilee's attempts do get through, though-- friendship runs pretty deep, too. It's a comfort to her as 'allegiance' is to Domino. A confusion that perversely helps.



"Mmhmhmhm!"

There's little more immediately distracting than an unexpected human sound coming as though from the very walls around you. That message is torn away with a little burst of mental static, the resulting sensation something like fingers scraping, briefly, on a chalkboard.

"Looks like..." The voice that cuts in over the facility's integrated speaker system at least conveniently causes the klaxon to briefly cease - just as well, considering how thickly-accented said voice is. Clearly this man doesn't need to speak English very often. "Our players are all here." He's at least got the 'villain speech' down pat. "Traitors, meddlers, and weak little girls who should know better than to play with things they don't understand."

As the last syllable is clucked out, savoured entirely too meatily for the speaker to be considered anything but a couple sandwiches short of a picnic, the klaxon cuts back in. So far, so back to status quo. But the emergency lights only flash once more; and for several seconds there's just absolute darkness in the underground bunker. Beneath the alarm wail... there's another sound, or rather many sequential sounds. Click after harsh, metallic click.

Catches, being released.

Suddenly there's a veritable *explosion* of light and sound, the facility's main, very white and very bright lights flooding the warehouse as several dozen containers simultaneously burst open at one end. The clatter of thirty-something sheets of four-inch hardened steel hitting the stone floor at once is almost deafening, made all the more disorienting when the lights slam back off in the instant that a lithe, long-limbed humanoid shape lunges from the container nearest Psylocke with inhuman speed; it's all she can do to take the hit and at least slam up against the opposite crate with her weapon still in hand. "Twenty!" She shouts, as she finally gets a bearing on the blind spots within her mind's eye. "Maybe m-- hngh!!"

Metal bends and buckles as the lurching, malformed *thing* strikes out high, and misses by inches. Psylocke comes up in a roll, breathing more heavily than she should be; the pressure her senses are placing upon her is *enormous*. There's no more time to communicate, or for anyone to pay attention if she was: the 'maybe more' turns out to be prophetic, as more of the things come darting and leaping out of the shadows. They're back to the red emergency lights, revealing a veritable converging horde to Betsy's flank - in relative clear view of Domino and Kwabena.

A similar number - in reality fifteen or so - slip through the warehouse to converge on the other side. It would be sinister enough if they remained silent, but half of them are emitting a sort of low, pained groan as they move, and the others are just... very audibly *breathing*, a shallow rattle resounding beneath the malnourished prominence of ribs.

One such stomach-churning noise comes from the other side of the crate nearest Logan, right before his animal senses warn him of sudden movement, and a gangly-limbed lifeform blurs into an arcing, bounding leap to carry itself up and over, twisting in mid-air to lash out with overgrown, chipped and jagged fingernails toward his flank. Something trails from the damaged enamel, an ichorous sort of energy that sizzles and burns, unleashing a sharp kinetic impact.

Jubilation knows that tone. She's heard Logan use it. She does step back, though not too far; too far, and she can't keep Carol and Wolverine covered! "You can sense /danger/? Cool... wish I could." Wolvie's nose is usually just as good, but that only helps when Wolvie's /around/. She turns to watch their collective back, frowning at the surroundings. "It's not explosive, is it? 'Cuz this is /soooo/ not where we wanna be if something goes boom!" And suddenly, something /does/! Only it's not a bomb, it's a bizarre lifeform that's entirely too flexible to be normal. And it's got energy-tipped fingers! "Holy /fudgeballs/! Look out!" she shrieks, whirling and unleashing a double-burst of plasmoid-based fury at the monstrosity!

"Oh, -Hell- no."

Ever get that feeling that every move you make is being watched by some unseen force, waiting patiently for you to step into an elaborately staged trap? Like everything you do is just another reality show on TV. This is one of those moments.

When the lights suddenly cut out, there's one very important piece of training that must always come to mind first but oh so rarely holds true: Stay calm. Dom might be holding her breath as she scrambles around for the gunlight she makes a habit of packing with the rest of her gear, feeling around for an open rail upon the rifle to jam it onto. All the while things are evolving around the two groups, none of it beneficial to them. Or sounding to be healthy in the slightest. Panels fall, the room shakes, the odor is downright overpowering, and in the span of seconds things go utterly -freaking- sideways.

"Multiple contacts, watch your fire!"

It might dawn upon Domino later that only she and Kwabena are using firearms, but it's what comes to her mind first. Similarly, what first comes to her finger is the curved steel of the trigger.

Bam! Bambambam!

Flashes of light strobe around the cage-like muzzle of the assault rifle, the woman behind it staring and damn near breaking out in a cold sweat as she tries to stay calm, tries to make her shots careful and critical despite the itchiness in her fingers to crank out the lead as quickly as the action can cycle the brass.

She may not have seen the other group, may not have had any contact with them before. Right now, they know of her. The noise from emptying the rifle into that enclosed room easily competes with the klaxon for Most Annoying Thing Ever. The difference is that when every shot cracks out, it does something useful.

Her ally in arms is going to be out of ammo soon. Dom only releases her off-hand from the rifle to unholster and slide a machine pistol across the hall over to Kwabena. "Kwa, hold this point! Only friendlies get past us!"

When the lights go out, Kwabena's grip upon the pistol tightens impossibly, and his eyes dart around in a futile effort to catch hold of some kind of reflection, or glow, -anything-. This backfires miserably when the lights come back on in blinding fury, and he seethes in sudden ocular pain, squinting his eyes just enough to cause the images to squeeze through as a blur. The sound of latches releasing, though, followed soon by the banging of metal against metal... well, he can certainly figure it out.

Paired with the spiking of adrenaline, there's a crackling sound that goes unnoticed by everyone else as the skin and flesh of his hands begin to harden; his mutation taking form, perhaps even against his will. The sounds, the smell, the sudden noise of malformed feet upon the cold floor, it's all working him up into a frenzy, and turning his hands into something that, while malleable and still capable of being bent, is steadily hardening to a state stronger than iron.

The moment Domino moves and opens fire, Kwabena does the same. He puts himself out just enough, taking aim at a horde of beings that have begun rushing toward Psylocke. His semi-automatic pistol chews through a lot of ammo in a short amount of time, and follow three quick bursts of rapid-fire-bullet-expulsion, the pistol clicks dead.

And the creature he'd fired upon is still standing.

Casting the pistol aside, Kwabena drops down to snatch the machine pistol passed his way by Domino. He brings it to bear and loads the chamber, but it's too late. Four of the creatures who -had- been headed for Psylocke have now drawn their attention to him, and are bounding his way. Kwabena spins the pistol toward them, but it's batted out of his hand by an angry swipe. In the blink of an eye, they are upon him, leaping and grabbing at him like vicious parasites hungry for flesh and blood. Much worse, they are actually hurting him. Not presenting lethal damage, their fingers and nails begin clawing into his skin, which is halfway through its hardened state. Blood is drawn, and searing pain cuts deep into his flesh.

The Ghanaian collapses to his knees, and is nearly overrun, when his chest lets rip a ferocious cry. His arm swings through the air toward one of them, pounding with the surface of his hand so shifted by his mutation that it's akin to being punched by an armor piercing torpedo. The creature goes flying across the room, letting out a squeal of shock, and giving Kwabena just enough freedom to rise back to his feet and grapple with another of his assailants. With both hands he grabs hold of his second enemy, and squeezes with all of his might. The creature squeals in similar fashion, but fights back, and leans forward to bash at Kwabena's head with its own.

The African collapses to the ground, but as he does, his body immediately shifts from iron-like might into a cloud of black smoke.

"No," Logan grimly reports. "Just alive--"

In a loud and terrible instant, the creatures are loosed, and Jubilee gets to see for herself; the tell-tale sound of his unsheathed claws will have to stand in for whatever further commentary he may have had in mind. With them exposed, he's ready when an over-eager monster comes for him--even if his version of 'ready' entails that he lunge /into/ the blow rather than twist away, lest he lose an opening. He's less prepared - visible trails of energy or no - for the persistent burning that accompanies the strike, but the flare of pain surging through his nervous system just serves as motivation when he tries to force his way past its glowing claws to bury his own in its body.

Once he gets over the bleeding and the burning, he'll probably remember that these are /human/ test subjects; right now, though, the chance to extract payback is winning out over any future guilt.

With the initial surprise attack weathered, Psylocke remains much more guarded to what follows; even with the battle raging inside her brain, she's able to rely on her body's ingrained technique to instinctively evade the next raging charge of her much faster opponent. The creature - it's so hard to think of them otherwise - comes down hard with both gnarly hands, driving an axe-handle blow with such force that it leaves an impact scar in the metal floor. Cunning these 'beasts' aren't, and the over-extension leaves ample space for the kunoichi to smoothly spin out into a fierce lunge, dropping her weight heavily into her leading foot.

There's a parchment-like ripping, accompanied by a dissonant wet undercurrent, as her hundredfold steel slices clean through the elbow joint of one striking limb. Removing one hand from the blade's hilt, she leans into the same leg and coils into the left hip, her opposite foot pointing forward as she seamlessly transitions into a roundhouse kick that sends the wretched, hissing enemy heel over head. The ensuing impact with a nearby container would be considered loud, if not for the cacophony of bullets exploding from the red-tinged shadows.

Betsy keeps moving, in part to evade any stray shots, breaking into a dash away from Domino and Kwabena-- regretfully missing the alarming actions and apparent ill fate of the Ghanaian - darting through the stacked crates rung by nightmarish scarecrows to draw closer to the other group. Even through the din, she can follow that telltale *snikt*.

In passing her former opponent however, she almost hesitates. Almost forgets her purpose. Because with a glimpse of the 'creature's' consciousless face, that overwhelming, crushing sensory barrage suddenly reveals itself for what it is.

"They're--"

Pain. Suffering.

"They're human!"

It sounds ludicrous, and she's distantly aware of that even as she yells it across the warehouse. Perhaps it would be better to call them 'aware', which is truthfully what she means. Aware of what they do, and what happens to them, on a level that a free mind can't really begin to comprehend - there's no state like it save through absolute madness. Cursing her inability to stop and explain, Psylocke ducks a wild blow and sweeps out a leg, taking another clawed monstrosity down to the ground, before breaking into a handspring that brings her into visual range of Logan and Jubilee-- and another, familiar face she's not seen in far too long.

"Deeply, /deeply/ human," she pants as if this makes all the sense in the world, right before three more of the things close in. One springs straight for her, thrusting out an arm from which a tangle of wires and plastic tubes dangles, several connecting back up to its skull. There's a moment where it catches the light, revealing a haggard, skull-like face locked in a perpetual grimace, lips parched and cracked and eyes wide, unblinking. And then that extended hand bursts into light, unleashing a ray of sickly grey energy that slams into the kunoichi's chest.

Two more close from behind the trio, one bearing a more muscular frame as it crashes into haymaker-swinging combat with the SHIELD agent, and the other perhaps making the worst decision it could make - aiming for Jubilee in full view of an unaccosted Logan.

Worse, it has claws of its own, welded to the outside of the flesh and dangling more wires.

Jubilation's first blast has no effect. The second pushes the freaky thing away, but it keeps coming. "Ohfudgeohfudgeoh/fudge/... pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease PLEASE WORK!!!" she babbles, aiming at the thing and unleashing a full-power blast. She has no idea if she can hurt the thing or not, but whether or not /it/ can hurt /her/ is a non-question!

Clearly Domino needs to teach Kwabena a few things at some point. Why is he trying to chamber that pistol? It's already chambered! Precious, critical seconds lost, though to be fair making assumptions like that can be even more costly in the long run. Seems like they should find some time for basic training, if they're going to keep working together.

If he can keep from poofing away in a cloud of his own smoke.

"Sonuvabitch," she growls under her breath, snapping the rifle around to the one creature that managed to break their line -and- turn Kwabena into vapor.

Bam-Bam-Click!

Sometimes a battle is won not by force but by speed, nothing more than being faster than the opposition. When the bolt locks open on a smoking chamber Dom swipes the light off of the side and lets the rest drop to the floor, a pistol out and readied before the emptied weapon clatters to the cement.

How did they get here, anyway? Are these monstrosities the human weapons they were trying to -save?- The moral implications that they might be killing the very souls they had been trying to rescue... "Do -they- know that?!" she barks back to Psylocke, panic ever threatening to take control of her actions.

Instinct still overrules panic, driving Dom's aim a little to the left before the next shot slams out. In a flash it leaps across the room, ricocheting with a spark and a patch of deep red fluid before zinging across to the other side of the room.

Odds of picking up a spare and dropping two opponents with one bullet: 1 in 417,214

--and demolishing the klaxon speaker with the same bullet: 1 in 935,004.

"Slight improvement," Domino mutters.

The cloud of black smoke remains as it was for just a few moments, before reforming into Kwabena once more. He scrambles to his feet and quickly casts around to re-orient himself, only his usually unmarked skin is now marred by two sets of bleeding scratch marks, one across his left shoulder, the other strafing down the right side of his chest. The bleeding seems to have stopped, but it glows with a sickly, pus-like color, and seems to be causing the edges of the wound to blacken. Some kind of ill effect from the fingernails of that creature that had wounded him.

His reappearance draws the attention of the two who had attacked him. Enraged, they bum rush him again, only this time, he's a -little- bit more ready for them.

He also has to get himself a little enraged, too.

Turning to glower at them, he wills every ounce of anger he can, and feels his fists solidifying once more. Not lost are the words spat back and forth by Domino and Psylocke; in fact, the very thing he's angry about is the fact that they are now defending themselves against that which they came to save.

One of the creatures leaps for him. In response, Kwabena lifts both hands, coupled together into a two-fisted punch, which might seem as ludicrous as something Jim Kirk might pull in the old 60's version of Star Trek... but it works. The creature strikes Kwabena's hardened arms, and goes flipping end over end until landing with a crack against the wall.

The other creature comes bounding his way, and Kwabena turns to face him, raising his fists as if ready to engage in a good old fashioned round of boxing. "Come on, you ugly piece of..." No time to finish. A fist is thrown, catching the red light in a glimmer of steel, and the creature's face is flattened by the blow. No lethal damage, but they're both out cold for a while.

'They're human!' Psylocke cries as Wolverine draws his claws from the bounding creature's. Beneath the opaque lenses of his cowl, the wide-eyed mutant looks between the grotesque, twisted mockery of humanity and the fresh globs of blood clinging to his claws and knuckles.

/There's/ that guilt.

"Yeah," he quietly grunts, taking a step back to reconsider his options and clutch the fiery wounds running down his side. The steady report of gunfire from across the warehouse draws numerous winces, now; before, he could tune the sound out as he so often must, but the confirmation that each of those bullets could very easily be buried in an ultimately innocent human body makes it that much more difficult to ignore.

Human or not, though, when he hears, then smells, then /sees/ one of them bearing down on Jubilee, he only waits as long as it takes for Jubilee to stop hurling burning plasma into the thing before burying his claws into its back. Whatever guilt he might feel later pales in comparison to what he'd face if he had to come home with a maimed Jubilation in his arms.

"/Thank/ you," he growls as he withdraws from the creature; the words are intended for Domino--and almost certainly in vain, given the chaos; hopefully, the thought counts for something.

'Do they know that'? It's a loaded question; would be even outside of this frantic, horrifying battleground. While the destruction of the klaxon brings some small auditory reprieve, it does nothing to remove the pressing load of countless desperate, semi-conscious screams upon Betsy Braddock's mind. Now that she's parted the muddy fronds of confusion, each is becoming chillingly individual, separated into component, human parts. It's overwhelming. As though she were stood outside a gas chamber hearing the dying thoughts of every poor soul within.

Thrown back against another container, her chest aflame and heart pounding in her ears, it's all she can do to keep the wits to remember who she is and what she's doing. Somehow she digs deep enough to respond to Domino's cry regardless, her own voice losing its normal clarity, possessing a rough and ready edge that's utterly abnormal for the composed Englishwoman.

"They know *pain* and *anger* and... and *guilt!*"

That last horrifies her the most; that men and women so terribly wronged can then live in fearful shame that the actions they then take against their truest will defy the moral code they once bore. These weren't killers harvested from among the criminal underbelly; just ordinary people and ordinary mutants, as desperate to carve out their niche and survive as any other. Good? Kind? Merciful? Perhaps, and yet maybe not. All that distinguishes them from anyone else is that they were deeply wronged, and remain equally, deeply aware of that fact.

Suddenly, she's torn from her thoughts by the realization of her own existence. A single dictate: survive. Bracing herself, she jolts from the container to duck a striking limb, energy trailing from clawing fingertips that crash an instant later into hard steel.

"Worse..." Psylocke is able to pause for breath, but it comes in a stolen moment between evasion and the rapid resumption of a ready stance. "There's--" A high parry, purely reactive, the inner curve of her katana sweeping aside an outstretched arm before a second energy blast can rattle her, "Hundreds--" The reverse motion carries it through a perilously skinny torso with a deft twist of her wrist, cutting through papery flesh and splintering brittle bone. "More! They don't want this--" She pulls away and drops into a roll, blade held aside to follow her through the spin back to her feet, bringing her back into the trio's proximity. "They don't deserve this."

 To hell with being polite. Her command roars into the merc's mind. 

Violet eyes flicker between Wolverine, Jubilee and Ms. Danvers, in the same tremulous instant that a pair of like-tinted butterfly wings sear the air to either side. Behind the kunoichi, a crushing slab of telekinetic energy throws several of the stricken mutants back.

"We need to get out of here. Now."

Jubilation, retreating from the oncoming monster, halts, taking a few usteady steps back as Logan takes it down with an expert thrust of his blades. "Fudgesicles... thanks, Wolvie!" she says breathlessly. "But I think there are more of 'em coming!" She can see shapes moving in the dim light, gabbling voices mouthing gibberish... And then Psylock's words hit her. "Human... we're killing /people/? I thought they were like... like zombies!" Too many late-night horror movies, Jubes. "Oh... Em... GEE... Whaddawe /do/?" She holds her hands up helplessly, wanting to blast away at the hideousness, but unable to do so. Not against innocent people, no matter how monstrous! Fortunately, Psylocke is on top of the situation and not merely bobbing on the surface. Seeing her example, Jubilation prepares to sweep a few more of the creatures aside to buy her teammates time to leave. "I'll back you up, Bets..." Hopefully her friends will get out before her nerve does.

Instinct. Action. Self-preservation. So many conflicting thoughts collide within the mind that missing some critical detail becomes alarmingly easy. In Domino's case, the thought suddenly hits her like an open handed slap across the face: "Why are we still here?!" There's no one to save. There's -nothing- to save, nothing beyond themselves. She's steadily chewing through her supply of ammo and can only guess how everyone else is faring. They walked right into a trap, but are the exits sealed? It's an absolute massacre, yet they still have the ability to call a retreat.

A spent magazine gets snapped out to the side, the pistol slide slamming home on a fresh load amidst the clattering of polymer and steel against cement. It's then that she gets the mental signal, two words and one command. "Oh god. Pull back, dammit! Pull back now!"

-That's- the moment when Domino's luck runs out. Maybe these creatures still understood what's being said. Maybe it's her unwillingness to keep fighting. The back-swing of that double-edged power slams the albino onto her back, one of the monsters leaping out at her with claws and fangs out and ready, waiting. A surprised yelp sounds out between rapidly spaced pistol shots, riveting the former human point-blank even as it tears at her armor and carves into the body beyond. In the end it takes a knife from her wrist to end the skirmish, Dom wincing and muttering a dreadful "Sorry-" before jamming the honed steel into the side of its head.

The ruined body gets pushed off of her with a determined growl issuing forth from Dom's throat, not that of her opponent. "Five seconds, people! Get out!" Guns are dropped, grenades are drawn, pins are pulled, priming levers are released. Each hand lobs one explosive into the opposite side of the room before she swipes her gear from the floor and kicks back into a mad sprint, hoping, -praying- that all of the friendlies are clear in time.

Within the momentary break given by dispatching his foes, Kwabena is able to scamper over and snatch the discarded machine pistol granted to him earlier by Domino, having just caught a glimpse of it in the dim red light. Hardened fingers compress around the trigger, and he moves over toward Domino, prepared to flank her as they make a retreat. Psylocke's warning comes as a dull reminder that, once again, they will do what must be done, even though such a reality is harrowing to consider in actuality.

These people are already dead.

With a scowl of distaste firmly pressed into his lips, he begins firing, while backing toward the corridor in which Wolverine and Jubilee stand, and where Carol has been steadily holding off their unwilling attackers. The weapon unleashes in a fury, mowing through a couple of the tortured souls as he stays by Domino's side while she arms the grenades. Anything he can do to protect her while she's vulnerable.

It's ironic, for the weapon runs out of ammo the very moment she throws the grenades free. He spins around alongside of her, crying out needlessly but in pure instinct. "Come on!"

Before then, Wolverine and Jubilation were just figures in the distance, people he'd only acknowledged as being there, but have had no contact with. As they turn to run, he finally looks at them both, if even in a passing look. A certain grief has taken hold of his eyes, displaying that while he'd called upon his rage to affect his mutation, he was far from a monster... and, should she even possibly recognize him, far from the helpless young man Jubilation met in that dark place in Gotham City.

He says a silent prayer for their safety a moment before the grenades blow.

Wolverine's claws silently slide back into their housings so that he can grab Jubilation's wrist and start running towards--

Towards--well, wherever one could possibly find 'safety' in a warehouse full of hundreds of living weapons. 'Where the living weapons /aren't/' is a reasonable enough start, at least; as Betsy flings former humans aside, he rushes into the newly cleared space, eyes darting all around for the next safe spot all the while.

And then he hears the grenades hitting the ground--one after another, clattering innocuously across the warehouse floor. Once might've been a coincidence - a fallen clip, a broken scope, perhaps - but /that/ many small, metal objects bouncing along the ground could only mean so much.

"Kid!" he shouts, letting go of Jubilee so that he's ready to dive on top of her for protection if need be, "Cover your ears! Carol, get the hell outta here as soon as you're clear!"

Jubilation's eyes meet Kwa's for just a moment, surprised recognition coming first, followed by dismay. But the moment, and Kwabena, are past before she can really think about what just happened. Instead, she's got to worry about her own life, and those of her friends. "Did Bets just say /explosives/?" Wolverine's sudden grabbing of her wrist is her answer! And she's unceremoniously towed away to safety, where she covers her ears upon command. "Oh, this is /not/ gonna be fun..."

The ruined husks of humanity lurching and bounding through the musty air of the underground warehouse aren't the only creatures feeling tremendous guilt-- Logan feels it, Jubilee feels it, and though she'll not outwardly admit - not now, when she needs so much strength - Betsy feels it so badly that her heart breaks anew every second. A part of her carries the responsibility for this atrocity firmly across her own shoulders, too: she brought these friends and allies here, and perhaps in the darkness of her past she provided the impetus to the mysterious, sinister overseer of this facility to conduct his foul operation...

If nothing else, she may have stood in the company of the one responsible. Sometimes an action not taken is just as despicable, just as worthy of a guilt-ridden consciene, as an action that is. But there's no time for that. Five seconds isn't long enough for much.

"Run, Jubilee. Don't look back."

It's barely long enough to urge the one person here she might never forgive herself over to do exactly that-- get herself free of the ripping claws and the encroaching blast. She'll be glad, later, that Logan's actions have spared her any great share of the blame for taking these implausibly, grotesquely human lives. Now she just needs to know that the girl's safe. A part of Betsy was hopelessly naive in coming here today; believing she could stride in and save the day, even if cost a few lives along the way, that she'd walk out with head held high. Giving her-- all of them, a reason to be proud at what they'd prevented. Not only can they not win this...

In retreat, this is almost worse than a loss. And far worse than ignorance.

With the girl pulled away, Psylocke keeps herself at the rear, throwing off one last telekinetic burst before she follows the others through the wild mess of crates and somehow - desperately, fortunately - through the airlock to the other side, and the first rush of fresh air from the outlying passage. It's a short-lived respite, that first inhalation, coming as it does on the devastating triple impact of Domino's explosives and the accompanying scream of the earth surrounding the underground bunker. It's buried beneath a beach, hardly stable, all too prone to the seismic shudder triggered as the warehouse walls crumple inward.

Kwabena and Domino have a longer path to follow, but it's the chamber containing that horrific supply of agonized living corpses that goes first. The ceiling caves inward, dumping thousands of tons of sand, dirt and rock onto the pitiful creatures within. Storage containers tumble from their stacks, the thunderous noise lasting almost a full minute before all lies jarringly still for several seconds... and then the rest of the facility begins to follow suit. Metal corridors lurch, sparks flying as wires are severed under the sheer weight of the collapsing beachhead.

When all is said and done, the broken, battered, distinctly unheroic heroes alternately stand or lie gasping at the edge of a great, overturned gulley, the dilapidated remnants of the 'Lady Fortuna' resort capping off a tumultuous mess of natural matter, ravaged technology, and the retreating vestiges of lives that must - at least - be somehow glad for their release...

And upon the edge of the beach, one container remains untouched, the coffinlike boxes within all that remains of the former hundreds. Guilt and doubt may hang heavy amidst the pulsation of adrenaline, but this is far from over.