entranceway | telepathic voice in your head;

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telepathic voice in your head;

[ Philip sits at his desk. He briefly considers setting the scene, tidying up the stack of papers, or-- What's the point? It's his office. Nobody is going to see him. But all of Genosha is about to hear him.

He clears his throat.

And rolls his eyes at the private joke, because even like that it's getting old. ]

Due to the series of recent events I'm forced to remind all fellow mutants to travel carefully, especially near the Ridgeback Mountains region. Do not travel alone. Do not underestimate what their misguided rebellion is capable of. And remember to listen to Her Majesty's daily broadcast for further updates and information.

Long live the Queen.

[ Because he sure as bloody hell isn't going to bother reaching out like this again anytime soon. He doesn't add as much, though. Instead Philip presses a tissue to his nose, and catches the blood. Shuffles around some papers, and takes the opportunity to pause, anyway, because when his mind reaches across the island again the message plays a different tune: ]

To all homo sapiens: Our world does not need to be like this. Why try to anchor us in the past, when you could be part of our future? We are offering our help to you. If you would like to accept it, report to the science faculty at Magda University to participate in our Human Evolutionary Advancement Research Trials. Don't let the coming days be your end. Let them be a new beginning for all of us.

Never forget this: You have a chance to decide your own fate, before it gets decided for you.

[ He combs through his notes. Nope, that's that taken care of. Jesus Christ, he'll need a stiff drink now. He fumbles for a bottle in his drawer, and the phone on his desk. ]

Private Text to Ford Pines
Since as usual none of what I'm saying gets through to your tin brain, get your bloody arse over here and give me a status report on the experiments.

[[ OOC: Plotting comment is here, my contact post is here. Philip cannot read thoughts, so any replies will need to happen through other means. He won't get his memories back until late on the fourth day, so feel free to post starters across all days accordingly (or contact me if you want to set something up!) ]]

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[A file is taken from the top of a stack of the things, its admittedly minimal contents carded through with brusque efficiency before one of the papers is removed, folded, and placed inside a jacket pocket.

PHILIP LAFRESQUE
PRIORITY ONE
Neurologically-based abilities, that which can penetrate thought and scythe through the mind and potentially influence the way humanity thinks - that cannot slide. The Resistance hasn't been entirely accepting of his way of doing things, citing his efforts as too radical, his methods too likely to draw unwanted attention, his goals too brutal. But that doesn't matter. With that sort of message piercing through every human skull, it can't possibly matter. Abominations like him can't be allowed to exist.

A laser-rifle is strapped to his back, a sidearm to his thigh, and then he departs. He travels by rooftop and alleyway, discretely, calling attention to no one.

It doesn't take him long to track down the first target. The file had claimed he's easily found out and about near the university campus. He kneels on the rooftop of one of the university buildings, hopefully far enough away from the target's estimated telepathic radius. They've never gotten confirmation. With any luck, he'll be able to act quickly enough to avoid neuronal consequences.

Kralie only requires a moment to match the photograph with the man he spies on the campus. He studies the similarities between the two, and nods. Close enough.

He removes the rifle from his back, braces the stock against his shoulder, and takes careful aim.]

[ He checks his watch. Itches at waiting alone. Bloody additional security drills, how big a task force do they really need for a bunch of ordinary humans? More accurately: How many of his regular bodyguards does he really need to expend for this nuisance? Philip rubs his temples. The world buzzes angrily at the back of his mind, and he wonders how far across the island he could stretch. Maybe when this is all over he'll finally have time to practice again properly.

He checks his watch again. Lets his mind wander across campus. Christ, they had an appointment, didn't they? Fifteen minutes late, and nowhere in sight. Not coming in from the street, not between any of the buildings, not at the library, not-- well, whoever those two are, they're definitely too close together in that broom closet. All right, moving on. But that was that, wasn't it? Not in the parking lot, not waiting in the basement where-- hang on, what's that?

Philip almost turns his head, but thinks better of it. That ability people always think he's got? It'd come in pretty handy right about now, because the extent of his mind reading boils down to educated guesses. Here's one, for instance: Hey Philip, that guy on the roof behind you, you reckon they're just there for bird watching?

Philip finds them, just within reach, though the stretch is an unpleasant one, like muscles that are barely just up for the exercise. He steps slowly behind a tree, hidden from view. In their mind he stays where he is, barely takes a lazy step forward, and checks his phone out in the open. ]

[He seems to suspect nothing. He has to suspect nothing. There's no measuring how far his influence would spread, but the target seems oblivious. Kralie checks his scope against the apparently unaware target one last time, and then lines up the shot. A single round straight to the head should do it. That polishes off most mutants easily enough, hot plasma burning through bone and terminating all conscious and unconscious thought. Quick, clean, and precise. He may be ruthless, but he's not cruel. He doesn't draw out anyone's suffering needlessly. He's not a good person, but he's a required person. There's a difference.

He counts the space between heartbeats.]

Long live the Queen, asshole.

[He fires.

It should score a direct hit.

It should...it should.

The man standing there is the target. He has to be. Right? Isn't he?

Right?]

[Up close he enters an unlock code; nine, four, three, eight, eight, zero, one-- --or at least that's what his rooftop friend could've seen, but then a bullet cracks the concrete, and it looks like it wasn't information the guy was after. Let alone bird watching. Jesus bloody Christ, all right, change of plans.

The bullet hits, of course it does. A perfect shot, if unfortunate timing. Philip turns at a sound nearby, and the bullet slams into his shoulder. He screams - tries to, his voice always unheard - and staggers backwards. From behind the tree Philip looks up, curious. He can't make out the shooter just yet, but he- quickly reaches across the area again. Just one. No back-up. At least not placed in a way that would give them away. All right. He'll have to focus on this. He'll have to take care of this now, thanks ever so much, couldn't have been an ordinary spy, could you?

He looks around, frantically, for the direction the shot came from. Tries to scramble out of the way, but doesn't know which way safety lies. He trips on a patch of gravel, and holds his shoulder, blood soaking through his shirt.

Philip walks away leisurely, the shooter's perch in his sights. ]

[It's not a direct hit, but it's close enough. Kralie tsks in quiet vexation. If he hadn't moved like that, this could've been a clean kill, and he wouldn't be bleeding out now. Inconsiderate of him, but there's mutants for you.

He takes aim again, oblivious to the nature of the target, oblivious to anything but the incipient victory at hand. Again he takes aim, this time for the target's kneecaps - if he shoots one or both of them out, the target will be easy enough to execute more efficiently. More effort, and certainly more pain for the target, but he should've thought of that before he painted the target on his pack with that telepathic broadcast of his.

The corners of Kralie's mouth twists downward in distaste as he fires again, twice in quick succession.]

[ The shooter isn't moving yet. Philip looks back to where he's supposed to be standing. Is he taking a risk, assuming those are just regular bullets? No, if this was a plot to capture him, then someone would be closer and-- not shoot for his legs, bloody hell! He clenches his fists.

He staggers anxiously, until a sharp pain in his legs brings him to his knees, and then his back, because the impact brings only more pain. His face, a twisted grimace of hurt, is buried in the gravel. He rocks to the side, bleeding, and stretches his good arm out for the phone that's fallen just out of reach.

--And now he can't check what the shooter will do next, can he? Better do something about that. Only so much he can do until he knows who he's dealing with, exactly, but...

Meanwhile, on the roof, a very obnoxious bee is now buzzing around Alex's head, just a little too close, and just a little too loud for comfort.

Philip slips through the door, and hurries up the stairs. ]

Edited 2016-08-06 19:42 (UTC)

[This should've been quick and clean, and instead he's wasting time and ammunition. The longer he lingers, the more likely he is to draw attention. And now the target's groping for his phone, like calling for help will save him. One shot might be passed off as a firework or a stray mutant's powers going off at seemingly random times, but two is likely to call attention. Three, almost certainly.

So fine. He'll call for help. There's no avoiding that now.

Something hums near his ear, a tone drilling into his brain. He waves it away, but it keeps circling his head, disturbing his concentration. The third shot strikes the concrete harmlessly as a result, and he hisses between his teeth in frustration, again attempting to wave the irritation away.]

[ --Another shot? Well, he's almost on the roof. Better hurry, then. The bee continues to buzz, evading any and all attempts to shoo it away. Philip reaches the last flight of stairs. The door to the rooftop doesn't open. Nobody else is standing behind Alex. The wind blows through his hair. Philip arches his eyebrow. So that's the guy. Not a familiar face, at least not one he recognises right away, but he's only just stepping closer. The bee finally flies away. Showtime.

The bee finally flies away, and down below Philip stands firmly on his feet, not a visible scratch on him. He's on the phone, laughing at something very funny the caller must have said just then. He walks a few steps, forth and back again. Then he stops. Turns his head, and looks up towards the rooftop. Smile wide he gives Alex a cheerful wave of his hand. ]

[He blinks, and then that's - it's all changed. The target is standing, laughing as if nothing is wrong, and then he looks up.

Directly at him.

Kralie jerks back in poorly-suppressed alarm, one hand swinging up to grip the side of his head. No. No, he should've been - didn't he place himself outside the sphere of influence? Or maybe he didn't, or...

His nails sink into the skin of his scalp.]

It's not real.

[He hisses the words out between gritted teeth, squinting at the very solid, very real-looking target below, wanting nothing more other than to aim and fire and wipe that stupid smug smile off his face, but he's got to be false, he has to be a - a plant.

Something dissipates, and there's silence.

The bee is gone.

Kralie stands frozen to the spot, mired in indecision.]

[ Philip could say that he's only up here for business, for the standard sort of interrogation you'll wanna perform on anyone who tries to put a bullet through your head, but... well. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to that moment, to that look, just a little bit.

He can see the guy's face now, and when he clears his throat, it's time for the guy to see him too, standing on the rooftop just a few feet away, if a few feet further to the left than he really is, because there's a sidearm he'd rather not deal with later on. ]

So. Not the greatest idea you've had today, huh? Though I'm guessing you figured that out yourself just about now. Hi, I'm Philip. And you are?

[Shit -

Shit. He spins around, and there's a voice echoing in his head again and he wants to claw the thing out, excise it from where it's got no place in his skull, glowering at the target - the goddamned target that went ahead and crept up behind him, right under his nose.

He ignores the question, ignores the faux politeness, every instinct burning for him to rip out the sidearm and empty the clip into the target's chest.]

You shouldn't have come here. [He growls it out between clenched teeth.] This should've been clean.

[ Philip crosses his arms. ]

Right, well, that didn't work out. Let's see, you're not- completely surprised at what I can do, but you still thought sniping me from a nearby building would work out well for you, somehow. I can't tell if that means someone fed you bad information, or if you just thought you'd get really lucky. Or, well, if you weren't thinking at all, I reckon that's an answer.

[ No need to bother with the transition, it's meant to look off this time: Because in an instant Philip stands behind him now, just by the edge of the roof. He looks out at the campus, back turned to Alex. ]

We'll get back to the name in a bit. Who wants me dead?

[Obfuscation. Stepping around the issue. The world doesn't even skip or stutter, it's wholly seamless, and he's behind him. Kralie jerks around to face him - is it the real him? How can he be sure? How can he be sure?

He really should have brought some kind of destructive chemical compound to the whole building and wash his hands of it. Should've asked for more than just semtak from fucking Sanchez.]

People with standards.

[He snaps the retort out, drawing his sidearm with his free hand even if he doesn't yet fire it.]

The whole point of sniping is that you're not supposed to notice until it happens. Someone tip you off?

[ Not a fan of straightforward answers, huh? All right, let's see what Philip can do about that. Not give one of his own in return, for starters.

He jumps from the edge of the roof without care. On the spot where he stood the building starts to crumble, cracks in its structure rapidly seeping across the rooftop, snaking towards Alex's feet. Already the roof breaks off at its edges. The floor underneath him shakes precariously. ]

[He doesn't anticipate that. The target jumps, Kralie lurches forward in alarm, only to immediately have his balanced disrupted when the building starts to tremble and shake. He grits his teeth. He nearly drops his sidearm.

Not real. Not real, it - it can't be real, what could possibly compromise the structural integrity of this so quickly, but his body shakes and he drops onto his hands and knees to maintain some level of balance, and his breath squeezes tautly in his chest before he grinds out the words, low and trembling and only subtly defiant, far too laced with uncertainty and fear:]

This isn't real. This isn't real.

Well, that's a relief, because I reckon otherwise this would really hurt.

[ Because the concrete cracks, the gaps underneath his hands and feet widen, and soon the entire structure breaks away. Alex falls with the rubble. Debris gets into his eyes and nose, while air rushes past him at an impossible speed. The ground races closer and closer and Alex kneels on a solid rooftop. Philip looks down on him from nearby, and cocks his head. ]

So. I think you were about to tell me something useful? You can start with your name.

[Shit -

He's -

He's trying to ground himself, fingers digging into loose rubble and doing a poor job of it as the ground cracks away in chunks and fragments in an abrupt, uneasy, unprecedented dissolution of the building's walls and internal supports, and he can feel himself streaking for the ground in a tumbling drop, coughing and twisting raggedly to claw the earth from his eyes and mouth and nose with little success.

He will die here.

He will die here as a nobody, unsuccessful and unmourned, and the target's voice drills into his head and this cannot be real and he is caught in spontaneous free-fall and he chokes out the only thought that he can catch and hold in his brain:]

Eat. Shit.

Edited 2016-08-15 20:27 (UTC)

Can't tell if that's an improvement over bullets. Probably not, though. Let's see, what's you poison? Critters?

[ Like spiders, crawling through tiny cracks in the ground, black and skittering up his legs, on and underneath his clothes, higher and higher until they cover him, until the smallest find their way into his nose, his ears, his-- ]

Something a bit more restrictive?

[ --mouth, whether his lips opened or not, because all the others are gone now, but that one, that one crawls down his throat thick and coarse, bigger from one moment to the next, stuck there and swelling without room to swallow, without room to breathe-- ]

Or I'll get lucky, and you're the low maintenance sort.

[ --out deeply, and in again freely, and the sound echoes in the pitch darkness around him. Black, black, black as far as the eye can see-- can't see more than the occasional flicker of something, a cold breeze coming from nowhere, and whispers of words too far gone to make out. ]

[He'd scream, but his airways are filling with things, and he jerks in an agonized, unsuccessful attempt to dislodge them, stop the maddening itch of tiny legs racing up his skin, scuttling into every orifice until he can feel it growing, swelling like overripe fruit, thick and dark and hairy and it had been just like this, the way it spun its silvery thread and orchestrated his every movement and his thoughts and his actions and his mind were never his own.

The thought is abstract, and he cannot trace its etiology, and he does not attempt to, and then there is silence.

There is emptiness, and there is void, and he crouches there, eyes flicking desperately to one side and then to another as he tries to track something that cannot be tracked. Everything is empty, an almost complete sensory vacuum but for the whispers of infuriating sound he cannot put a name to.]

Get out. [He grinds the words out and cannot hear them. He tries to scream them, and he cannot hear them. Everything is silent but for the hiss of wind over his clothing.] Get out of my head!

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telepathic voice in your head;

action let's say august 7th??

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