Vice City - Washington Beach

"And I ran, I ran so far away, I just ran, I ran all night and day, I couldn't get away."
Vice City, a city perenially bathed in the sun of the coast, palm trees swaying gently in the breezes. Looking at the city, noone would know how deep the corruption ran, or how bad the crime was throughout the entire city. Various gangs control much of this tourist and retiree haven, and the situation is ripe for an enterprising thug to make a name for himself. What makes this city different from all others is that time doesn't seem to have passed here. While much of Terra Zone firmly emulates the 21st Century, Vice City is stuck in the 1980s, where big hair, loud clothes, and conspicuous consumerism was in. And the music can't be beat, no matter your taste.
The beaches of Vice City are world renowned, glittering sand stretching as far as the eye can see, and hundreds of beautiful people out enjoying the summer sun. Surely, this is the safest part of the city... if only because there are fewer cars here than elsewhere.

It's a bright and cheery morni- wait, no it isn't. It's four o'clock in the afternoon, and mostly cloudy with a chance of rain, the air disgustingly humid and hot, especially in the middle of Vice City. The occasional ocean breeze does absolutely nothing to mute the stifling heat any, and for the most part people are taking it easy.

Except for the three people in black and red uniforms making their way through the city. Junior had rolodex cards of thirty eight individuals, and split them up almost evenly among himself, Rion and Piastol; the goal was simple. If you found a person who matched the person in your file, you shoot them. As such they've only managed to find a single person, a young man that had been, according to the rolodex card, arrested numerous times for drug dealing. And now he was a pretty splatter painting in his apartment.

Junior, riffling through his cards, is very glad that the cleric uniforms could adjust their temperature to compensate for the weather, else wearing heavy long-sleeved black jackets would be more than a little problematic. He pauses halfway down a sidewalk, peering intently at one of the photos before studying a man .. delivering milk to a Mom and Pop grocery store. Picture, man. "Hm. Alright. Mike Fitzgerald." A little red dot is marked on the card with a marker, before Junior pulls out one of the two guns he carried, ignoring the startled yelps from a pedestrian or two..

And shoots the milkman right through the head.

Slick sits in the front seat of a car and bounces a bit, restoring his health.

The humidity bothers some, but not all. Particulary not cyborgs who are fitted to survive any extremeties. Ziggurat 8 has his own fish to fry in Vice City. The SOCE has sent him here to recover some funds obsconded with by a 'businessman' they thought was legit. Suffice to say that has already been taken care of, and the perpretrator sent to the police (for all the good it'll do).

Since Ziggy left his transport some distance outside of Vice City, due to the high crime rate he didn't want it to be stolen so easily, he begins the long walk back to the outskirts of the city. He's dressed in a long cloak which covers the lower half of his body, and his left arm. He may still make heavy footsteps, but at least he doesn't immediately look like an outsider. He STILL gets some odd stares, though, dressed in such a heavy cloak, in the current heat, and not sweating at all.

Conviently, his current path seems to intersect with Junior's within a few minutes. The cyborg hasn't noticed him yet, but they're almost within range of each other.

School's out for summer! School's out forever! o/~

Gum strolls along singing aloud to th song pumping through her headphones keeping her blissfully out-of-tune with the world around her. She had a purpose for being here, even if the weather was awful. Swimming! ... Which sadly was put on hold since, well, the weather was awful. However this did leave her with one other of her favorite sports to partake in as she rollerblades around twirling a can of spraypaint menacingly. Where to go, where to decorate. Hrmhrm.

Ah, the sweet aroma of perfectly (il)legally imported rum, is there no equal? Probably, but right now the darkclad man enjoying the ambiance of the beachside bar couldn't care any less. A shame that it came with loud conversations and that strange man calling himself a 'texan' and asking the hooded stranger if 'he knew what he was saying' at every sentence.

But save for those minor disturbances not even worth a knife in the eye even if the doppleganger did want this man to, as the locals so jovially put it, 'shut the f*** up'. His attention was solely on the glass he held, enjoying the appearance almost as much as he did the taste.

Screaming humans? A common thing around here, must be some reckless driver again...yet Dark Link didn't hear the ensuing bump or tire screech, perhaps they found a new reason today? One of those 'flashers' he saw once and shortened his career simply for doing such a unwholesome act, perhaps.

Cloudy, with occasional rain... But for right now, there isn't any rain, unless you count the rain of blood and gore splattering from the wicked. Killing random strangers doesn't bother Piastol at all--after all, she spent seven years of her life doing precisely that--especially since they are, according to these index cards, hideously villainous, just like the pirates she hunted. Really the only thing bothering right now is a radio message from a certain someone; while she'd normally be very happy to hear from him, this moment is a touch inconvenient... A good thing he lets her go. Sort of a good thing, anyway. Emotions are so complicated that way.

Accompanying her fellow clerics, Piastol regards Junior's kill. "Nice shot," she comments almost idly before rifling through her own index cards. This is probably a remarkably inefficient way of rooting out evil, but she's used to it, really. --especially since sparing nary a glance at the bloody encounter now as they pass by is George and Ryan Westerly, brothers in crime, wanted for multiple counts of assault and battery, rape, and murder. Piastol frowns at her two cards, checking the pictures against their faces to make certain she's got the right persons--then takes out her own marker, marks them both with dots, and lifts her pistol to shoot the latter through the chest twice. George's reaction, naturally, as more civilians begin to scream and run for cover, is to scream several select curse words and pull a gun of his own, but the Angel of Death is quick to gun him down too.

The blue-haired girl then hands the marked cards to Junior, allowing him to see whose filthy lives were just extinguished. "Firearms really are a great deal more convenient than bladed weapons sometimes," she remarks.

13 rolodex cards. Held together by a simple bit of twisted wire commonly referred to as a paperclip. And calm with the crack of pistol report, two of these cards are snapped out between three fingers and considered by the narrowed, green gaze of the cleric trio's own token Galerian. Bootsteps on baked pavement, a black coat hem tapping a knee following the line of a stride over the prone corpse of a mark leaking crimson on the sidewalk, and Rion's stepping away from his two companions.

The blond cants his head as he pulls his gaze from the two slips of cardstock up to the sign of the aforementioned Mom and Pop grocery, a motion smooth again when he lowers his chin to send a veiled stare into the shop. Customers. Mom and Pop themselves. A pistol nestled heavy in one palm on the golden-haired cleric, weighing a shoulder to an angle hanging, and a nudge into its holster inside Rion's coat in favor of a little red pen.

Check. Check. Two little red dots. Two marked cards tucked into a pocket hidden in his coat, and stoic as you please, a certain rare-to-smile Galerian strides easily into the grocery to greet the owners. A few customers, each in the kind of dull, restrained shock of realizing death was right outside the door, and quite possibly would have a few more appointments in the immediate vicinity.

The dark-haired 'pop' of the two owners - black market trafficking, class A felonies - has the presence of mind to ask carefully, "Pick up or drop off?" Rion's smile is very faint, a mere quirk of the mouth at one corner, when he looks up abruptly from the act of adjusting a glove.

From within the store, there is a shrill screaming and a sound not unlike an over-ripe melon being splattered against something solid. The shop clears of customers fleeing in all due haste by the time there is a single shot fired for the other of the owners - underage prostitution ring participation, one count of suspected murder. Rion steps back out, wiping a smudge of blood from his cheek with one hand.

Needless to say, the Fellowship has already gotten a call; unfortunately, the first person on hand to handle it was one of their newest members. In this case, Slick. He may have help, but even so. "I &@)in'..." he mutters to himself, as he throws his hands up in the air, drawing a pair of three foot long lead pipes toward him. Gripping them tightly, he shifts them both to one hand for a moment, pulls out a 40... and /eats/ the thing, bottle, cap, and all.

"What the &@) is goin' on on Slick's turf!?" he yells, hoping at least one of the offenders will hear him. "Well... Slick's... kind of... turf..." He's a little new at this, though, so you'll have to forgive him. Shifting one of the pipes back to his free hand, he pounds them against one another, creating the scraping of pipe on pipe for a moment, and then gets ready for what he's pretty sure is gonna' be a pain in the ass. "Boys, get over here! It's time!" Unfortunately, Slick's call for help only yields... a couple Entrees. /This/ was going to be interesting- the Entrees are notorious for running and hiding.

"What time, boss?" one of them asks, looking down at his expensive watch with a confused expression. Daily feeding time isn't for another half an hour!" He grins at this, though- he's an Entree. He likes food.

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me," the other says, rubbing his stomach.

"No, fatty! It's time to kick some ass!" Slick replies, slamming his steel pipe into 'fatty's' stomach and sending him down. Oops."

Sometimes it's hard to find targets, sometimes it isn't. Junior had chosen simply at random; that they've found this many this quickly meant they'd run out of cards soon and be able to go to the beach. Excellent. It might not be the most -efficient- means, but it certainly has that random Act of God lottery feel to it, doesn't it? "They -are- more convenient, most of the time. And generally faster too, but bladed weapons sometimes require a bit more finesse." He preferred guns. That Rubedo is apparently not concerned of the death toll he and his clerics are causing ... shouldn't really be too surprising; he had been bred for war, after all. And it's for a good cause. "..Hey, wasn't the younger one wanted in New York too?" He isn't quite sure. Either way, it's not a problem any longer.

He is not aware of slowly converging forces of varying good or evil. Probably wouldn't care even if he did know. As Rion emerges from the store again, Junior gives the blood-spattered Galerian a gloved thumbs-up. "Not a bad record so far. Wonder if we'll get all thirty eight today."

...Hello, Slick. As the pipe-wielding man pops up, Rubedo studies him silently for a moment before going riffling through his index cards. "Hm. Not in my set." He tucks his cards into his jacket pocket and regards the taller individual evenly as Rion comes up with the right card. Slick? What kinda name was Slick? He's not gonna do anything yet, though. Rion's card, Rion's kill.

The sound of engines not from this world can be heard, as a Ghost cycles is making its ways through the streets of Vice City. With his google down over his eyes as he tears down the highways and byways of this large town, Meis is just enjoying the ability to peel out and only get a passing glance from the rather jaded people in down.

"Man... I am starting to get the hang of these thing," Meis offers with a small smile as he weaves past a couple of cars. He is making his way toward where the shootings just took place, but then again, he was there just half an hour ago.

Ziggy MIGHT have just passed by Junior with a nod and a greeting, he might have just walked on by everything, if only he hadn't see Junior give a thumbs up to a man walking out of a grocery store covered in blood.

The subsequent panic from inside the store is more than enough to tell the cyborg something isn't right.

"Junior." He says with his normal clear, assertive voice, as he walks up behind him. It's not really sneaking, anyone could hear Ziggy approaching a mile away, unless he was cloaked. (well, he IS cloaked, but not, you know, 'cloaked' cloaked.) "What's going on here?" Ziggy doesn't make any accusations yet, as Junior's friend he's going to hear him out first. He's willing to give Junior the benefit of the doubt that there must be some reasonalbe explanation he's associated with someone who apparently just commited a murder.

Multiple gunshots, normally they were shortlived firefights but there was something odd about this, something...not right. Leaving two bills marked '5' on the table, the doppleganger promptly leaves the establishment to go see what exactly was going on.

Of course, a relatively short hooded man may draw attention normally around here, but the gunshots and panic was doing a fantastic job of drawing the attention AWAY from him and also made the task of finding the source much simpler: just go opposite of running people.

Arriving at the corner of the street, Dark Link didn't exactly expect to see a boy, one of those girls he heard be refered to as a 'punk' due to hairstyle and yet strangely familiar and a relatively normal looking man, even if messy and bloody looking man.

"Somehow, I doubt they are with the ones named cubans..." muses aloud the doppleganger Hylian, keeping his arms under the garnment but throwing his head back once to remove the hood to allow his eyes to adjust to the full brightness of the sun. "Are you simply looking to get killed by the local police for wanton murder, or is there a purpose to this slaughter?" he even asks aloud, his gaze settled on the 'punk'esque girl. The sight of the familiar android does not bother him much, until he gives the boy a name which brings a second look as the shadow knight decides that the boy is not to be underestimated or underprioritised should this result in further bloodshed.

Rounding a corner Gum finds herself face-to-face with what seems to be a brewing standoff between Peacemakers and street punks. She stops rather abruptly given she's smack dab in the middle. Not the *direct* middle, mind, but that is where the street spat her out. "Uhhh..." A glance is given to the pipe weilding Slick and his boys, then towards Jr. and the gun weilding Peacekeepers. Then she glances down to the single spraypaint can in her hand blinking at it a moment. "... No, no, don't think this'll cut it."

"Doubtful," Rion answers of Junior's inquiry about the odds of them taking out all thirty eight marks today, and goes on to elaborate, while he leafs through his rolodex cards, heedless of people scurrying down the street to put distance between themselves and the three clerics. "This is a big city." Eyes close, and he continues with a tone akin to a sigh, "Unless, of course, they started -walking- up to us--" The Galerian's gaze flicks up from the cards in gloved fingers to peer through blond bangs at the apparent leader of the small group - namely, Slick, with his lead pipes.

"Like... that, for example." Rion glances away from Slick and his entourage of Entrees, apparently to discover Ziggy's presence for the first time. His reaction is almost ridiculously nonchalant; he merely holds up a single card and blinks mildly at Junior, Piastol and Ziggy. "Eliminating useless garbage from the gene pool." The excellent thing about having a uniform that was black and red was the way it made bloodstains hard to pick out, and since he'd wiped away the smudge on his cheek it's not like he just emerged from wallowing about in a poll of it. Unmarked, the card is tucked atop the others and spirited into a pocket.

Dark Link's question is left to Piastol to answer, as he was looking in her direction. Gum, too, isn't given so much as a glance, though not out of disrespect more than distraction - Rion Steiner has his sights set on his presently pipe-weilding mark. He steps into the street, one booted foot set back and his posture tilted in a backwards lean, arm lax with its firearm at his side. "You're that eager for death?" Leatherbound fingers beckon, crooked, while he lifts his chin in bland defiance, eyes heavy-lidded. "Come get some."

Slick ignores the Entree's whining, and walks toward Rion and company, spinning his lead pipes around as if they were, in fact, a pair of swords. "I don't /like/ that &@). This is /Fellowship/ turf, and it's /our/ job to take out the trash!" he yells, pounding those blunt instruments together yet again. "And I ain't eager to die- because I'm gonna' kick your ass! --That sounded right, right?!" Yuuup. Definitely still new at this.

Regardless, he's gonna' fight, even though the Entree that didn't get hit in the gut is running away. He raises one pipe above his head, and lowers the other; rushing toward Rion, he aims the upper for his head and the lower for his legs, in an attempt to cause some serious damage. Granted, they're only lead pipes- he isn't using a trash can or telekinesis /yet/- and he isn't busting out the Grand Slam, so this shouldn't be too bad.

Slick strikes Rion Steiner with his Lead Pipe 'Swords' attack.

Ziggy's approach isn't missed; some things are hard to mistake. Junior rolls his eyes slightly but maintains a surprisingly businesslike attitude and demeanor. The uniform stood for a lot, and part of that was putting aside normal reactions in favor of doing a job. "As Besra said," he replies mildly. "Cleaning up what nobody else would." A short gesture to Piastol; for the time being they're going to do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Once Rion finishes with Slick, they could continue. It shouldn't take too long, by Rubedo's estimation.

"..And no, we're not Cuban." Dark Link isn't left alone, no sir; Junior studies the short person (not as short as Junior is!) with interest. He already knew he didn't have anyone like -that- on his rolodex yet. "If any nationality, I'd be Russian. And I'm not worried about the local Police and what we're doing." There's somethign distinctly un-friendly in sharp blue gaze. "After all, this is just the dredges of the city. Nothing anyone's going to miss."

Let's review. There are three - and more, if you go inside the grocery store - dead bodies, killed by gunfire, and the only people with guns right now are Junior and company. For once, EVIL isn't responsible. "...Nono, that didn't sound right at all. You gotta have more /feeling/ behind it, like you really REALLY mean it. That was more a drive by fruiting sort of retort."

Junior said just what Ziggy didn't want to hear. "Cleaning up?" There's a clear hint of disapproval in his voice. "It appears to me like you're murdering people." The cyborg is honestly surprised, he knew Junior wanted to do things his own way, apart from the Palace, he never thought he would wind up finding some way to justify a killing spree.

"What gives you the right to choose life or death for individuals? This isn't a warzone, or a battleground. Regardless of their guilt, and regardless of whether or not they would be prosecuted for their crimes given the justice system in this current zone, you have no right to go around claiming the lives of people who have no chance to fight back." Ziggy removes his cloak and looks down at Junior with a stern and demanding face, and makes one simple demand.

"Stop this."

The fact that his elbow-blade is drawn should be enough of an implication of what he intends to do if Junior doesn't comply.

Well, cubans are off the list then, dirty russian it is...yet he had never expected to deal with a dirty russian boy of all things even if this boy hardly behaved like one of his age. "I see." calmly replies the doppleganger, crossing his arms over his rather unimpressive chest. "As much as I had never expected to agree with the machineman there, yes, you will have to stop." he echoes. "And due to your unlikely cooperation, you shall be beaten to a bloody pulp, then catapulted in the nearest salted body of water with your injuries still bleeding, and from there we will see how it goes." But this is only Dark Link's creativity speaking, as it is not the standard punishment. "Unless you surrender immediatly, then we may just skip to the catapult."

If the Galerian is impressed that his opponent did not back down, but rather pressed the attack and took advantage of his initiative, Rion isn't expressing it much beyond a lift of blond eyebrows. Like any living creature would, it's instinct to protect one's vitals, and for the psyker, that'd be his head - it pains him enough without having to deal with concussive damage from an incoming lead pipe. He lifts the hand with the pistol, braced against the palm of his other hand, to meet the down-swing of the first pipe and catch it against the metal of the firearm with a resounding clang. While his free hand slips to grasp the pipe, he grunts as a twist at the waist fails to absorb the impact of the second pipe sufficiently, leaving his leg a hot jangling of nerves.

He slides a glare sideways to Slick while he still maintains a grip on his first lead pipe, and from his throat ilicits a low, short-lived growl. "...Tch."


Cold metal - a firearm with the barrel digging squarely into the lowest arch of the other's ribcage. "Point blank range to a man with a gun? That kind of idiocy's damn -insulting-." Instead of firing, however, he roughly pulls it back with a faint grimace. "It'd be a wasted bullet." Red PPEC in his bloodstream simmers; Rion concentrates the low boil of anger to leaking out psionically, extending to the molecules of air directly around Slick's body, exciting air molecules until they burn. Random acts of vigilante violence and spontaneous combustion in a city street - what next in Vice City?

Rion Steiner misses Slick with his Is It Getting Hot In Here, Or Is It Just You? attack.

The heat shimmers in front of Slick's face; it disrupts his concentration, and he does get a little nervous as Rion talks-- fortunately, however, it's just a little heat mirage. Turning away and spinning to the side, Slick inquires, "What the &@^* was that?!" During that spin, however, Slick noticed something. Something useful.

A rock. Jumping backward, he gestures behind him- toward the rock- and then moves that hand in Rion's direction. The rock, despite being easily thirty feet away, complies, headed for Rion's head at high speeds. "You don't say that ^@)* to me. Take it back!" he yells, as the rock- hit or miss- flies.

Slick strikes Rion Steiner with his weak The Rock Says... attack.

As both Ziggy and Dark Link protest Rubedo's actions, the youth adopts a thoughtful pose, hand on his chin, gaze distant. "Well, let me think about this for a moment." Here he is, getting rid of people that didn't deserve to live anyway because of the Justice system's ultimate failure as anything even remotely useful, and Ziggy's trying to tell him it's wrong. "No." A flicker of movement draws both pistols from somewhere up /in his sleeves/, one gun pointed at Ziggy, one pointed at the doppleganger. "I'm disinclined to aquiesce. However if you both walk away I promise you won't be hurt. At least not by me. We're not here for either of you." Nothing personal, Ziggy, but when a cleric is in uniform, friendships and alliances no longer mean anything. You're not dealing with someone you know anymore, you're dealing with a Peacemaker. At least with even his weak telepathy, it's easy enough to keep an 'eye' on what Rion's up to.

Meis Triumph pulls up in his hovercycle, blinking to the battle scene that is just starting to break out. He doesn't do anything save stop his cycle, trying to figure out what the heck is going on here. "Um, I assume that the 'playing nice' thing is out of the question, right?" <

If Junior were dealing with MOMO, Shion, or even chaos, then he might have gotten quite a shocked reaction. Ziggy remains characteristically stoic as Junior points a gun at him. Still, the cyborg makes no move, though a brief glance is thrown at Dark Link, as he clearly doesn't like his ideas on how to handle Junior.

"Why are you here then, Junior?" Ziggy, it seems, is making one last effort to reason with the URTV. "Do you honestly believe that murdering a small number of individuals, criminals or not, will in any way make Videoland, or even this city specifically, any better? You want to improve Vice City? Go after the greater causes of its corruption. Don't murder people who may, someday, have a chance of redeeming themselves. What will you do when these people are dead? Compile another hitlist? How do you know your facts are not incorrect? How do you know you won't mistake one person for another? How do you know someone will not be killed in the crossfire? There are far to many variables that endanger the lives of those who are not your targets to justify this level of vigilantyism." Is that a word? Well, now it is.

As Ziggy finishes speaking, he abruptly alters his posture, and retracts his elbow blade. Unbeknownst to Junior, he's been sending progress reports to the SOCE ever since he completed his initial mission here in Vice City. Now he's recieving orders to leave Junior to his own Vices, as it were. "I'll ask you once more to stop this, you are /not/ doing the right thing."

A soft laugh escapes the doppleganger's mouth, greatly amused by the promise of no pain. "Oh come now, boy, you truly think that would dissuade anyone?" he asks rethoricly, drawing a bow from his cloak but nocking no arrow yet. His voice then shifts to something a little more dark and deep, even with a hint of sadism at the bloodshed to come, "You are on Fellowship ground, you will not walk around like you OWN this land because you do not, prepare to be forcefully evicted."

Only THEN does the shadow knight pull an arrow out, nocking it and holding it ready. "So, what hurts more, boy? Bullets or arrows? Shall we find out?"

One eye squints slightly as Rion grimaces a thin line of bared, gritted teeth, emitting an exasperated "Kch" for the trouble of an unfocused pyrokinetic attack that effectively fizzled right before his eyes. Wouldn't be the first time; it could either be a lack of concentration, or the levels of the proper chemical are too low in his bloodstream. With a mental reminder to inject Red before such instances just to be sure next time, the Galerian releases the pipe in time for the man to jump backwards and lays on Slick a smouldering glare.

Flying rocks can do a lot of damage. Otherwise, stoning someone to death would've taken a lot longer than most crowds will stick around for. The telekinetically thrown projectile should've hit clean, but for all that Rion's not even looking in the right direction, he happens to stumble half a step in the other direction -just- enough to halve the potential damage of the rock's impact, and only clasps his shoulder.

"You'll forgive me if I don't comply," Rion says evenly, lowering himself slightly into a crouch with his arm crossed to the opposite hip, fingers hooked into claws at the air, pointing inward. His hair begins to stir on an unfelt breeze. "I'll make you regret running into me today." Flinging his hand forward, palm facing Slick, the air in front of him 'smudges' as a bolt of telekinetic force rips through the air towards him.

Rion Steiner strikes Slick with his Nalcon: Better Than The Real Thing attack.

Ouch, telekinetic force. Slick is thrown backward by this mighty display of power; he hits a wall, of course. And walls hurt! "Okay, I admit you got a little potential, but I'm still gonna' kick your ass!" He gets ready to bring the hurt... and then /disappears/.

Where did he go? Which way did he go, George? The answer is simple: Behind Rion. He appears behind the psychic with a bit of a grin on his face, and says, "Mm... Boo," before taking another swing with his pipes- this time at the Galerian's midsection, rather than his head or legs. A varied assault is, in fact, sometimes necessary- and it makes it a /lot/ harder for your opponent to prepare sometimes.

Slick misses Rion Steiner with his More Lead Pipe Beating attack.

"Given Vice City supports the Fortress very heavily, any blow we deal to their economy helps things along," is Rubedo's mild response. "And it's good practice." Practice for /what/ might be the next question, but Junior doesn't bother to say. They should be able to figure it out. "I'm fine with playing nice, Mr. Triumph, if these gentlemen would simply walk away." He's got a massacre to get back to. At least, as Ziggy puts his weapon away, Junior comes to the conclusion that /someone/ has some sense here. He's still tracking multiple targets regardless, and wasn't looking forward to the fight that was probably coming, but he was here for a purpose and had no intention of leaving until there was /no/ other option. "..I suspect it won't, but you never know," Dark Link is informed blandly. "Never hurts to try." Arrows hurt worse, generally, especially when removing them, but Junior is no stranger to pain. "Walk away. Last chance I'm giving."

Well he tried. Totally unable to disobey orders from the SOCE, Ziggy has no choice but to leave. But he's not doing so without one final remark. "This is a terrible error in judgement, Junior. The people here are not soldiers, they're civilians, corrupt or not. What you are doing here is no better than an act of terrorism, and no better than the Fortress of EVIL itself. Trying to justify it by saying it will hurt EVIL in the long run is irrelevant."

Perhaps Ziggy is a bit sensitive to this, he was afterall an anti-terrorism specialist in his previous life. It bothers him to see an ally sink to that level, in his eyes. If it weren't for his orders he'd stop Junior himself. As he begins to walk away he tries once more to hit a chord with Junior "The people you kill here like have family somewhere. Someone who cares for them despite being corrupt. You tried to redeem Albedo, despite all he has done in the past, far worse things than any of these people have may ever have done. Why do you have the privilege to try and redeem someone you care for and they do not?" That was a low-blow, indeed. But a fact, nevertheless. At any rate, Ziggy doesn't stick around for Junior's response, and is already moving away from the scene. He's going to let the actual 'authorities' for this city deal with Junior.

Gum throws up her hands in obvious disgust at the way this particular fiasco was turning out. Ziggurat's leaving, and Meis' arrival, are both rather strong distractions for her. "So steal all their drugs and replace it with powdered sugar or something! Right now you're acting as bad as the Fortress by just killing people! In front of children even!"

Meis Triumph looks to Junior, then to Ziggy. "Like heck you are... The guy is right. If you really want to make a difference in making Vice City a safe place, you should talk to me. I already have plans in the works for Vice." Meis pauses for a moment, mentally facepalms. Well, too late now. At least details weren't given. "Either way, this is like killing ants wandering around you house. You have to stop the source. This place thrives on random viloence. All you are doing is encouraging things here."

Dark Link glances toward both the girl and the Triumph, caring little for their words but his ear twitches HEAVILY at the mention of plans, his eyes widening. "Well, that was...interesting to hear, Mr. Triumph" he muses aloud, smirking faintly. He draws his bow string ever closer to his ear, "Walking away is not what I do, little boy, but please, let the song of my string soothe your existance."

Weird way to say 'eat an arrow in the leg'? Probably, but the doppleganger felt 'nice' tonight, which means he wanted to enjoy this a little.

Dark Link strikes Jr. with his weak ARROWED! attack.

The Galerian's eyes widen as Slick seems to simply no longer exist, and then it's a whirl of longcoat and scuff of boots on pavement, a gloved palm gripping down on a shoulder of a man that's appeared behind him and Rion twisting around behind him.

Rion takes advantage of a second worth of initiative to chuckle quietly past his opponent's ear, a green pill between his teeth, looking at a point beyond the man's head rather than directly at him. Tonguing the drug into his mouth and swallowing, he adds, "Even Birdman was less predictable." -Anyone- who can teleport chooses a new position right behind their target - it's a tried and true method of combat advantage. Unfortunately for Slick, he's fought with psionicists capable of spontaneous spot-to-spot teleportation before.

With an energy hum crackling between his fingers and in an electric arc between his narrowed eyes, the Galerian raises his palm near the back of Slick's head, the opposite shoulder leaning back. It goes without saying that his next launched attack is also Nalcon-fueled - another telekinetic barrage to the back of his head. This time, with his power amped up with Skip, he grimaces through the output of Nalcon roaring in his systems, crackling forth in a rapidfire series of blasts rocketing from his palm.

Even if his strike goes wild, he staggers back a step and clutches at his head, briefly crackling with white, thin bolts of electric-like psionic feedback.

Rion Steiner strikes Slick with his This Is The New S*** smash attack.

Normally, Ziggy might gain quite a spectacular reaction from that, except for the whole cleric mindset. He simply wouldn't allow it ... and Junior was quite good at using his very will to surpress knee-jerk reactions when he really wanted to. As such, even then, there's something unpleasant in steady blue gaze. Ziggy had a lot of nerve; hadn't he yelled at Junior for taking Albedo in? "Because it's my job, cyborg." But he won't stop him from leaving, he's got enough to worry about with Meis, Gum and Dark Link. Gum's comment only draws a soft snort and a light shake of the head. He looked twelve, this was Vice City. He doubted he'd find someone younger that wasn't jaded to fighting and death /here/. "Well, barring accomplishing something, it's good practice." And then he's shot IN THE FRIGGIN LEG. THE /LEG/. Which noticeably hurts, as the arrow cheerfully lodges itself somewhere about mid-calf and bounces there a little, quite thoroughly wedged in flesh. It's a snap reaction that has Junior fire back in a rapid snapped off pair of shots aimed haphazardly at the Dark Hylian, reaching down with other hand (where'd that second pistol go?) to snap off the offending arrow and leave maybe two inches of jutting wood. "Your song sucks."

Jr. strikes Dark Link with his Counterfire attack.

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