ArchivedLogs:Stairway to Heaven

Stairway to Heaven
(get it, 'flak', 'flak gre--' okay i'll shutup
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah	2013-07-24 During the Morlock raid, Jackson and Micah catch a little... FLAK!
Location <MOR> Below New York
Buried beneath the bustle and noise of New York's busy streets, the world underneath the city is a quieter place. Quieter, but far from deserted. Occasional ladders, often rusting, ascend to the city above and are evidence that at /one/ point these tunnels had been in use, or had been planned for it; perhaps by way of maintenance, or access to subways or sewers. These stretches have been abandoned by civic infrastructure for some time now, though, but occasional scraps of evidence -- discarded food wrappers, piles of tatty blankets or moldering old mattresses, sometimes voices carrying echoes through the dank concrete -- give evidence that /someone/ still uses these tunnels. The rumbling of subway trains sounds frequently through the walls, many of the train routes accessible through various doors and openings. It's always kind of a /process/, making Morlock supply runs. Or at least getting a pair of heavily-laden cart into the sewers unseen; a process involving a good deal of illusioning on the /outside/, a bit of forcefield-construction ramps on the inside, a little bit of /sliding/, a little bit of finagling. But /eventually/, there are two tall shopping carts that have been slid down from an access hatch high overhead; /eventually/ there are two men to join them! Jackson is not really dressed for an extended tromp through sewers; he's in capri pants (black, with vividly coloured peacock feathers embroidered up the legs) and shiny purple Doc Martens; his lightweight blue t-shirt reads 'I'm one of the bravest girls alive' across the chest. Glittery blue-green makeup, and a cheerful light-blue eyepatch with a glittery purple heart on it. There's a moment of delay after he successfully guides both carts and Micah down to the ground, where he just stands, inhaling deeply, turning his face up towards the narrow slit of sunlight still streaming in through the hatch. He digs a pack of Skittles out of a pocket, offering some to Micah before taking the handles of one cart to start steering it towards a nearby tunnel where they can tuck it out of the way for collection. "'ll tell Hive t'tell Jim t'come grab 'em, if he hasn't done already. Or send a body, anyway," his thick Southern drawl echoes faintly in the dank tunnels. Micah might be more appropriately dressed for delivery-making, or he might just be wearing what he always wears. His olive T-shirt depicts a Darwin inspired sketch of finches with 'adaptive upgrades' that are largely technological in nature. At least his faded, patched jeans are rolled up over his sneakers in an attempt to keep them a shade cleaner than they might otherwise become. Since both of his hands are busy pushing at the handles on the second cart, he just sort of lips a red Skittle out of Jax's hand as he passes. Crunchchew. "S'kinda quiet down here today. I'd gotten used t'bein' spotted most of the time we drop things off anymore. S'a little short on sentries right now, don't it seem?" He props his cart next to a wall before heading back toward the sliver of brightness that marks the passage back home. It isn't long before the two of them -- Micah /and/ Jackson -- would hear a peculiar sound emerging from the pit of those tunnels they begin to navigate. It's a sound like... buzzing? Humming? Hn. Actually, as far as Jackson goes, the sound is oddly familiar; as it grows slightly louder, he might even recall where he last heard it /from/... ...but if /that/ isn't enough, the sudden sight ahead -- dimly lit! -- of a floating drone will probably be a sufficient reminder. It's been a few months since Jackson last met the OSCORP MURDERDRONES; they've actually undergone a few notable improvements since then. But the basic underlying concept of the MAV remains the same -- four powered, swiveling turbines that keep a basket-ball sized body afloat, equipped with cameras, transmitter equipment, JAMMING equipment, and -- perhaps most relevantly -- a few low-powered weapons. Humming as it swings about 15 yards down and stops, its lens swinging to focus on Micah and Jackson. And /then/-- Two men. Dressed entirely in black; black body armor, thick black fabric -- their faces cloaked beneath metal masks that doubly provide low-light vision and a HUD. Their assault rifles are probably what Jackson and Micah are noticing first; their voices, gruff and spoken through a face of metal, second: "DO NOT MOVE. HANDS ON YOUR HEAD." That's goon #1, on the left. Both of them below the humming drone. "S'a bit quiet. The kids was meetin' Anole down --" Jackson's words cut off with that humming. His single eye widens; the remainder of his Skittles go scattering onto the filty tunnel floor as he backsteps quickly nearer to Micah, positioning himself between drone and the other man. His hands lift to his head reflexively; the now mostly-empty Skittles wrapper crinkles against his bald skull with the motion. "--- !" It's a wordless choked noise somewhere in his throat, gaze jumping from drone to soldiers to Micah. "... why are you always /right/," comes in quieter abruptly nervous complaint. Why, yes, those /are/ two men with guns! Micah pales, quite the feat for one already so fair-skinned. He takes the action that seems to be most prudent when faced with two men with guns, and does what he is told. Very, very slowly. His empty hands inch up toward his head, where his fingers tangle nervously into his mop of auburn hair. He swallows a large lump of /nothing/ that seems to stick in his throat before murmuring back to Jackson, "I kinda hate bein' right." One of the men -- #1 -- is taking a step forward. But then, #2 -- who has the barrel of his gun locked steadily on Jackson's torso -- goes rigid. And his voice, spoken through that harsh, grating mask of metal, rumbles: "Waitasec--holy /shit/. That's--" "Keep your hands up," #1 continues, before: "On your kn--" "HOME. Home-base. The King of Hearts is in the sewers, /with accomplice/. Please advise. Orders still stand?" #1 freezes at this announcement. And now, rather than pointing his gun at Micah, he's pointing his gun at Jackson. Both of them frozen in place, watching. The response comes -- a second later. Very calm, very level. A voice that would almost be /polite/, in another context; crackling over both men's radios: "--yes. Take them out." Both Micah and Jackson only get about a second and a half worth of warning before both men -- open fire. "Oh --" This sounds small, a tiny dismayed noise of surprise. There is a shimmer of barely-there prismatic light that spreads through the tunnel at that voice that comes over the radio, a solid wall that blocks off the space between the soldiers/drone and the other two men. Jax's hands are leaving his head in a hurry, to turn and reach for his phone. "-- Micah /run/ --" is pretty much drowned out by the sudden reports of gunfire. Bullets zipping to hit the shield and -- likely ricochet back rather dangerously into the tunnel behind them. "Gogogogo --" Jackson's attention is suddenly very /keenly/ focused on that grate behind them, on the light streaming in from where they entered. Micah was just about to move to comply with the incomplete order--pretty standard-issue in such scenarios, so not hard to fill in the rest of that sentence--when the excited radio chatter begins. 'Take out' means shooting...and then, shooting is happening! What he needs is cover! Also, maybe back-up? He freezes, just a moment, before Jax's orders come. Unfortunately, said orders are not easy to follow considering running is not an option. Micah is going nowhere at faster than a jog. He skitters sidewise to half-crouch behind one of the carts and begins retreating behind it. If one must go slowly in fleeing an attack, one should at least increase the attack's difficulty. Right? "I'm tryin', I'm tryin'... Worry about you, you're the one they're namin' things!" RATA-TATA-TATA this is the sound of gunfire rippling down the tunnel in short, contained bursts. "SHIT-FUCK!" is the sound that shortly follows as bullets proceed to RICOCHET off that shield and down into the tunnel; both the men step back! Putting more distance between themselves and that prismatic shield, both continuing to fire in bursts -- but now aiming for the base of the shield, near the feet. "Shielding! He's got shielding down here," #1 says, through the comm. "Come up the rear, QUICk we need more drones on the other side, put him in a goddamn pincer --" Ah. There we are. The sound of drones incoming from the /other/ side, now -- down from the direction Micah is heading. Oho! The shield holds steady; at the words from the soldier, another one appears! Also walling off the tunnel, a little ways down, creating a small chamber of space with Jax and Micah and the carts -- and their escape hatch. Jackson is still wide-eyed, somewhat /paler/ than he was before as he moves down to Micah's side. "-- they've got drones," his voice is veeery strained. "-- ohgoshthekids." For a moment he freezes, staring through the prismatic shield like he's considering -- actually running /towards/ the soldiers. "Naming -- what?" This pulls his attention back to Micah. And then up to the escape hatch. "Okayokayokay," he is -- trying determinedly to ignore the continued gunshots that strike his shield. Or the sound of approaching drones. Juuuuust focusing on their exit. His right hand lifts to cross himself, lips moving silently in prayer. "-- I can handle plenty enough worrying for the /both/ of us," he mutters in between this. Micah is trying his best not to cringe away from each gunshot. There are enough of them now that it would prevent any functional action. He edges toward that sad, promising glimmer of light, dragging the cart along with him. The tiny sound from his throat at the inevitable approach of more drones might be a whimper, but he steels his voice enough to speak. "Jax-honey, I think they know you. I think that code name was /you/. They're out to kill you specifically," he conjectures in a harsh whisper. "If you can get to the exit, you should get out. I'm slow climbin', you know that. They didn't say nothin' 'bout shootin' until you, so maybe..." he doesn't even complete the hopeful statement. Whether he actually believes he is less likely to be targeted or is just trying to convince Jax of as much is open to debate. "Fuck, how long can he hold onto those things?" #1 asks, bursts of bullets continuing; the two soldiers have taken up point positions alongside the tunnels, crouched beneath cover -- more or less just detritus that lines the tunnels -- but their assault never lets up. "Dunno. But he looks like shit. Keep it up," #2 says, continuing to fire. "Just need to hold him off long enough for the drones to--" Ah. There we are. The /drones/. They arrive in the direction Micah's moving, just a moment after the prismatic shield flares up in place. Instantly, the three drones pause, hovering before the shield -- and then there is the distinctive sound of THWPTHWPTHWP -- as the drones begin firing off tiny greyish-white BLOOPS of web-glue. Which hit the shield, splatting roughly across it. THWP THWP THWP! Trying /so hard/ to web Micah and Jackson, and failing! "Keep it up, mutie can't do this forever," soldier #1 continues, right through another RATATAT-TAT. "We got him pinned--" It is right about at this moment that another radio communication comes down through the line. That same, gentle polite voice from before, speaking -- apparently -- to multiple soldiers at once. Perhaps hard to hear over the sound of gunfire: "Turn on all lights. Flood the surrounding tunnels. Keep me updated on their position. In pursuit." And then, quite suddenly, the very-dark tunnels are... not dark at all. Suddenly, they are cast in a /brilliant/, near-eye scorching glow, as the belts of LED lights -- glued in strips behind the soldiers and attached to the floating drones -- kick on, FLOODING every space in the enclosure with enough wattage to kick-start your own miniature greenhouse. "Micah. Honey-honey." Jackson is watching the approaching drones; watching the webbing splat onto his shield. "I think you. Need to climb." There are even steps forming, of a sort -- faintly glowing platforms in the air to form a stairway up towards the hatch. They form -- very /slowly/. The edges of the other shields shrink, briefly, before stretching back to sit flush with the wall once more. "Slow is. Fine. Just. Get --" He's /definitely/ paler, words coming slower as a pallid dim glow flutters unsteadily around his skin. At least until that sudden /flush/ of lighting. He draws in a sudden breath, stands a little straighter where he's started to put his weight on the grimy-filthy wall. "-- King of Hearts?" This is only now, apparently, getting through to Jackson; there's /almost/ even a twitch of smile on his lips. Almost. Mostly he's still tense, teeth-gritted. The faint glow around him is washed out into nothingness by the sudden brightness. Though very /clearly/ relieved, he nevertheless stares into the bright lights with /puzzlement/: "-- Why would they." Before, "-- Nox," he breathes out, probably barely audible even to Micah over the rat-tat-tat of gunfire. "Jax, you don't get out t'light an' I won't have nothin' t'climb /on/," Micah points out, still edging his way toward the hatch--a bit faster with improved coverage from the shields and the appearance of light-stairs. Then everything is bright-bright-bright, and Micah's darkness-accommodated eyes are blinded by it. "Agh!" he cries out, belatedly clamping his hands down over tightly-squeezed eyelids. He continues stumbling in the direction of the lowest step, falling against it. He /crawls/ up onto the step, his field of vision full of greenish after-image, and goes on creeping along on hands and knees. "I can't even begin t'visit intentions, hon, but also I can't really see right now," he reports. Try as he might to suppress it, tense-panic is starting to creep into his words. The soldiers are /ready/ for this change of lighting; their helmets are apparently designed to make sudden shifts in light have little to no impact. Although when it results in Jackson standing up straighter -- looking /better/ -- at least one soldier seems to stiffen and draw back in surprise. "Th' fuck--" "Keep firing! Keep firing!" the other soldier says, apparently having yet to connect the sudden surge of light with Jackson's apparent relief. Bullets continue to ping; the drones continue to thwp. "/Fuck/, he's getting away--" "Need more back-up!" the first soldier says. "Bring us the mother-fucking -- what do you /mean/ he's busy with a /tree/?! Fucking--" More gunshots, pinging ineffectively! "Okay -- okayokayokay," there's a slightly ragged edge to Jackson's voice. Even /with/ the sudden increase of light he is back to leaning against the wall as he continues forward, pressing a palm to his temple. The stairs widen, just a little bit more roomy, just a little bit more stable, as Micah crawls onto the first one. "Okayokay, I'm sorry. I can't -- I can't --" His hand slides down from his temple to press his knuckles to his lips. Around Micah, the light dims, a channel of space less glaringly harsh that leads up to the sunlight. Jackson isn't walking forward, anymore, though, with this change; just leaning back, head thudding against the cold sewer wall. "Okay," his voice is a little lower, but a little calmer, too. "Okay, honey-honey, just --" His teeth dig into his knuckles, hard. He closes his eye. His head turns away from the soldiers, away from the gunshots; when he opens his eye again it fixes only on Micah. Thin strips of shield flicker into life along each side of the makeshift stairs, too, like floating guardrails. "There's hand --- handholds, okay? Just reach for those. They'll -- you won't. Fall off the edges. And don't -- look back, it's still -- still /bright/. If you look. Back." Micah blinks repeatedly to clear his eyes of after-image and wateriness, still making his way along as quickly as he dares. Jax can't follow until he is out of the way, after all. He finds the next step primarily with his hands, tugging himself to standing and then pulling up onto the next step. "Thank goodness, ohgosh," his voice comes out as mostly a sigh, his hands feeling for and then gripping onto the guard rails. With this addition he is able to move more quickly, staying on his feet. "If y'don't want me lookin' back y'damn well better be followin' me." The sternness of his tone is clouded somewhat by a wavering hint of fear. "You hear? Keep movin'." "--goddammit it we can't get through, he shouldn't have--" "--how the fuck did he get his energy b--" "THE LIGHTS! SHIT! Brain, this is Pheta, /TURN OFF OUR LIGHTS!/" And the rat-a-tat continues, even as -- just as sudden as they came -- that blinding, brilliant light fades... ebbs. And goes off. Leaving only the steady stream of sun from that crack up above flowing inward, providing energy. "I hear you," though Jackson's voice is cracked, strained. He pushes away from the wall; his steps are decidedly unsteady as he moves for the stairs. Dragging. Slowly. Stumbling to his knees by the time he reaches the stairs but /clinging/ to the makeshift handrail as he pulls himself up onto the first. "I hear you. I'm here. Just. Please. Keep --" And then there is darkness again, or near enough in the wake of the brilliant ocean of light that had been there a moment before. Jackson's exhale is a ragged sob. His energy seems to be extinguished nearly as swiftly as the lights, weight sinking down more heavily as his hand falls from the railing. His head drops forward, pillowed against the crook of one arm on the next stair up. "-- going," he manages to finish. "Please." While Micah is reassured by the sounds of Jax following, the cracking of his voice does much the opposite. For lack of a better plan, Micah just keeps moving forward, clearing space for Jax to climb up behind him. Then the dark comes, and the sounds of Jax-movements cease. He turns, blinking /fiercely/, as if it will clear his vision faster. "No. Nononono. You do /not/ stop." He sinks back to his knees, grabbing hold of that arm where it grips the step with one hand, his other arm wrapping under Jax's opposite shoulder as far as it can reach. "Up. Now." Micah uses his own body weight as leverage, leaning backward, yanking Jax up none-too-gently. "The light is that way," he reminds through gritted teeth. "We almost are through, where the fuck is that back-up?" "--we got this. Just keep firing." The sound of that steady stream of gunfire is /probably/ not very reassuring to either of the two as they ascend that stairway toward the gleaming sunlight; the guards, now seeing Jax duck out of vision, are starting to step forward a bit more boldly -- you can bet your bumpkis that as soon as that shield goes down, they're going to be stepping through and taking aim at Jax and friends. The constant, steady PATTER of gunshots continues to assault their ear-drums; maybe they think the shields are weakening after a steady influx of LEAD. Jackson is, as usual, unpleasantly -- dangerously, even -- /hot/ to the touch, a fierce heat burning within him as Micah starts to drag him. The touch rouses him -- slightly, at least, his head lifting as he struggles a little bit higher. It doesn't last long; as he moves, the two shields spanning the tunnels start to shrink, edges creeping inward to retreat away from walls and floor a couple of inches. Jackson sinks back down; the shields hold where they are. "I can't --" His eye scrunches shut, then open again. "-- can't see. Real good. Right now," sounds oddly calm. Or perhaps just /exhausted/. "Micah you have to. I can't hold --" He starts to push himself up, again, a shaky somewhat uncoordinated shift of motion; it at least helps Micah's levering, though he doesn't do a whole lot to /move/ himself further. "-- the kids. You need to." Light is streaming down from that grate, the beam of sunlight /bending/ to cluster towards Jax. Around Jax. Growing into a steadily brighter halo around him and Micah. "Can't hold this," he says again. "You need to get home." In what is likely the most ungraceful manoeuvre ever executed, Micah manages to get Jax onto the step with him, half falling over himself in the process. "If I can get you in front of me I can /push/ you up the last bit. S'easier than pullin'. Mmn. /Physics/," he spits that last word out as if it were a curse, clambering around Jax to change positions. "Don't matter if y'can't see. I'll shove. You go up. Hands up now, feel for it." His tone is forceful, though the commands are telegraphed from shortness of breath at his exertion. Micah drag-pushes at Jax, wedging himself behind the other man. "/Your/ kids. /You/ need to. Light up there. They /will/ kill you without hesitation if they get hold of /you/." He bites down on his own lip hard enough to draw blood. "You have to help me, Jax, I'm not gettin' you up there all by myself." The gunfire actually fades for a moment when the shielding begins to shrink; the soldiers aren't saying anything, anymore. Maybe that's worse, in a way; they're fully aware what's happening. The silence persists for a full three seconds. When the next sound comes, it isn't gunfire -- it's a voice. The words it speaks perhaps enough to make blood run cold: "Fire in the hole!" The grenade rolls underneath the available space the shrinking shield provides, glancing off the side of the wall -- coming to rest somewhere about ten yards from Micah and Jax, below them. In about three more seconds -- this entire room is going to get /very/ bright and /very/ loud. "They'll kill you. Too. You're -- witness. They were. Going to shoot us both. /Are/ going --" Jackson's teeth grit. His fingers press against the next step up; he drags himself a short way before collapsing again. "Can't keep this -- fff. Micah just fff---" This devolves into just a shudder. A soft shaky rasping of breath, in the comparative silence when the gunfire ends. "/Go/," would be firm if it did not sound desperate, pleading. The walls are closing in around them -- somewhat /literally/; there's a shimmer of shield abruptly much closer, walling off the tunnel again in between them and the grenade. The farther-out shield drops, leaving empty space between the grenade and the drones. Jackson's hand lifts -- towards the handrail, though it doesn't make it the whole way before dropping. The glow of light around them shifts. Moves -- out past the second shield, a sudden /searing/ heat concentrated at the hands of the soldiers holding the guns. "Stop makin' sense," Micah gives in to the assault of logic in a barely-audible voice, his tone accusing-petulant, like a child complaining about life not being /fair/. "I'm pullin' you up. You just. You get your arms up once I go so I can pull. Okay? That's your one job." He hugs at Jax as he squeezes past him. Hands grip at the sides of the portal and he shoves himself upward, feet scrabbling for purchase on the wall to hasten his ascent. He worms onto the street on his stomach, pivoting quickly to reach arms, head, and shoulders back down. "Arms /up/," is called down hopefully...or as hopefully as can be managed. "Oh--" is all the soldiers manage before, WHA-BOOOOOOM -- the explosion /swells/ up on the other side of that shield, the drones suddenly battered by the force of a high-yield grenade explosion; they crackle and pop, their chassis rattling against the walls. Two are on the ground instantly, reduced to smoldering wreckages; one is still fluttering, nervously managing to stay in the air by means of its three remaining propellers -- one of them having been knocked out of commission by shrapnel. And then there are /screams/ -- yelps of surprise as /SEARING HEAT/ burns the hands of the soldiers on the other side of that shield; the men are stumbling back, one gun falling from hands -- the other still /clutched/, despite that pain, the soldier gritting his teeth tightly -- even as communication crackles over their radios: "All forces. Collapse to home. /Now/. If you encounter a four-armed mutant who isn't made of shadow, let her through." "Fuck," #1 comments, followed by: "Should we--" "Fucking -- HANDS fuck! He burned my goddamn--" "--/fuck/ we just blew up--" "Go," #2 says, gritting his teeth. "If he can fry our hands he can definitely--" "Th'fuck hasn't he--" "Just /go/," #2 hisses, but not before: "You hear me in there? You /fuckfaces/? We'll find you. We'll kill you. We'll kill your mutie friends, your mutie kids, even your fucking mutie /dog/, you--" The rest is drowned out by the the sound of their retreat. Jackson and Micah are left alone; the remaining drone buzzes at the shield for a few more seconds before -- turning. Swinging back into the darkness. Apparently, they are in the process of /extracting/. The hands that Jackson reaches up to Micah are shaking badly. They're also still very fiercely hot. He's sweating, they would be clammy if the heat was not drying them fairly /quickly/. The shield on the drones-side collapses very soon after that explosion -- soon enough that there's a wave of heat still lingering to follow its disappearance. The stairs below him are disappearing, too. And very soon after, the remaining shield wall. Jax's fingers curl through Micah's, though there's very little strength in his rather ineffectual attempt to /pull/ himself anywhere. "Okay, Jax-honey, I got you," Micah half-whispers down, sliding his hands for a better grip on Jax's wrists. His breath catches as his arms take Jax's weight and Micah starts to slide forward. He digs in with his knees and toes, the roughness of the road tearing at his jeans. "Alright. You just. Hold on. Can you. Feet? On wall?" He forces the words out of lungs half-collapsed by the force of gravity pressing his ribs against the edge of the hatch's opening. "I'm. Pull." Micah hauls back, trying to use the stronger muscles in his legs and trunk to pull his hips back toward his feet while dragging Jax along. It is an immensely difficult task with minimal leverage, but progress seems to be made. Painfully slowly. One of the soldiers pauses at the end of the tunnel's corner as they retreat; it's about 45 yards out. His compatriot has just rounded the corner and is out of sight -- which means he's the only one who sees, for a moment, that shield flicker out of existence -- and moreso, has an easy view of Jax dangling out of that grate, bathed in sunlight -- a brilliant /pinprick/ of illumination on an otherwise dark canvas. And, for a moment, soldier #1 is torn. The assault rifle still pointed at the ground. It's a long shot, but it's unobstructed -- and it's /clear/. And it would probably be so easy to just... The soldier's head tilts down toward his hands -- burned -- and instead, turns -- moving on, disappearing down the L juncture. Jackson's feet swing forward. Push against the wall, or at least prop there to take some of the strain off Micah. It is -- slow going. But eventually Micah's pulling drags him out into the sunlight. On the street outside there is little by way of movement from him. Boneless-limp drape on the asphalt, very shallow breathing. A distinctly unhealthy pallor and an equally pallid glow flickering around his skin, all but washed out in the sudden sunlight. Once Jax is finally sprawled out on the ground, Micah crawls forward and shoves the grating back in place over their escape hatch. It is a fortunate thing that the alley is quiet, because his next move is to collapse by Jax, just a pile of abrasions and overstrained muscles. He melts against Jax's side with a sudden shuddering sob of breath, then silence as he hides his face, pressed into the other man's shoulder.