Endlessly Spinning

"... Very well," Serta nodded in affirmation, looking back to his cup and taking another sip of it.

Mave's spiel on the OVER-unit held his interest. As far as he knew, his universe didn't have one of those - not yet, at least. If they were his best shot at getting back home, then perhaps he didn't need to worry so much. However, there was still an air of uncertainty surrounding that possibility. Serta felt an obligation to be available to his linemates, and not knowing where he was had the taurloid put his drain on in the first place: he wasn't sure if he would have been able to recharge or re-energize himself!

However, if what the barista said was true, and he was going out of his way to assist him in his time of need... It would be awfully rude and inconvenient to suck his savior's reserves completely dry. As weird as it was that Mave didn't seem to react to it.

And, well, he did made him his first-ever cup of coffee. It was a free, delicious experience to comfort him, at that.

The end of his tail tapped the ground.

Finishing his cup off, he got up to place it in the designated bin before making his way over to Mave. He would turn down his drain down before approaching him. The taurloid still kept it on, but if he were to follow Mave with the drain at full power then the vamploid would've been dragging his feet sooner or later, in Serta's mind.

He walked out the door and looked over to where Mave pointed - a stark-white building stood there that contrasted with the rest of their surroundings. He looked over to Mave, his stressed look softening slightly.

"... If I cannot get back right away... What can be done in the meantime?" He asked quietly.

Despite passing the taurloid on his way to the door, and the exhaustion that followed that he'd only begun to suspect came from said individual, the moment Serta followed after him the blond found that... it wasn't as intense as before. Why...? Perhaps he'd only been imagining it. Perhaps he really was running low on reserves.

As a self appointed guide, it wasn't as if Mave could simply leave. How strange, to make this journey with a living individual and not someone or something that had traveled too far past the other side.

Violet eyes still slid to the machine beside him, hands sliding to rest in his pockets, pose taking on a relaxed posture. "While I doubt our Guardian Unit will leave you waiting for too long," it simply wasn't like an OVER to leave loose ends hanging, "I... suppose you could stay with me."

He inclined his chin upward with a tilt of his head, back towards the building they'd exited from-- more so the floor that was above the coffee shop, the balcony overlooking the sidewalk with a little bed of flowers handing from its sill. "I have a spare bedroom, and a recharging station I rarely use nowadays."

Inescapable, the eyes of a deity in their own realm. Rho knows it as he trudges forward, as he fights his own mortal coil to stay conscious.

Keep. Moving.

A command. A mantra. Steadfast, in spite of the blood left in his wake. Pain a motivator. A need to get somewhere less open, less exposed before–

……….

Dreamless darkness overtakes him. It offers little respite, little in the way of recovery, but it is instant. For once, sleep is more blessing than curse, if only because he is granted the mercy of nothing in between. Returning to the world of the living is far less gentle by comparison. Where the GodHunter finds himself upon waking is hostile territory. It is trained, the way he reaches for a blade the second he senses a presence. Only slowed by the screaming of his muscles. His fingers find neither sheath nor scabbard, instead cradling that near fatal stomach wound.

Weapons removed. Again. Not that he has the strength to lift them now. Even weaker than before.

Silent disdain is offered for the God of the wasteland, his commentary unwanted. Even if they agree. Rho is slower, more careful to try and move himself as he tosses aside the sheets with his free arm. His other wraps around that most grievous of injuries in preparation for his body’s protest.

Tired. Dizzy. Hungry.

Sensations hit him all at once as he rises, a grimace the first real break in his expression. Finding cool tile underfoot is a small comfort, but it is not enough. This place is not safe. An instinctual knowledge in his core. There is magic here; the kind that kills.

Rho is heavy with exhaustion as he passes his host by, pausing to lean against the doorway for support. They both know he won’t make the descent down the tower, can’t attempt it again in his condition. Yet still he is restless, still he is compelled from slumber.

A starving, wounded animal– aimless and weary.

It's fascinating, watching the GodHunter get up, as if pulled by some unseen force. There is no higher power tugging on him, none that was Godly, that is. Dragged by the spirits of fury and desperation, by the mortal coil that had been slowly closing around his neck.

Any normal human would have long since collapsed, long past dead the moment their spine had cracked against his pillars, past his fang sinking into their gut like a skewer. Red eyes flash as they watch the human move, the slow plip-plap of blood splattering against tile, the floors drinking each splotch greedily.

That instinct is the truth. This place was not one meant to give life. It was meant to take it, the Wasteland was its name and call. To save a life would take a gentler hand than his own, an effort made that he had little experience in. The attempt had been made earlier, but equally the Mortal had woken up quicker than he'd expected.

What's the point, if you're going to die on me just after I've discovered the tales about your skills to be true?

Of course, that resistance had been exactly what the God had been looking for.

Though he hadn't intended to trap and contain at first, it seemed that there was no other choice. The book in Kane's hand snaps closed, discarded on his chair as he rose to follow. Babysitting it is. His fist curls into the back of the Hunter's scruff, well aware there would be little push-back.

A step is taken, the human in hand, and the world shifts. They're standing before the bed that had once been behind them, and he drops his charge back into the plush sheets. Do I restrain him? The injuries would likely be made worse that way. A last resort. So instead his arms cross with a sigh, exasperated. From that expression meeting him, perhaps the feeling was mutual.

"This would be easier if you didn't fight. I'm aware you don't wish to pass onto the next plane bedridden, but brandishing your blade." How irritating for the both of them. "The longer you take to stay still, the longer it will take for you to heal." New company was always the most annoying, regardless of the face that he'd actively made his own this time.

His fingers clack against his greaves impatiently. "If there is something you're looking for, it will be found quicker if you speak up."

Rho’s hand presses harder against the blooming warmth under his bandaging. His expression is steady, finely attuned to every shift the immortal makes. There will be sign of weakness, no flinching, even as the wound bleeds heavy through cloth.

His fang is tossed back, and caught in kind. His body strains from the quick movement, as if covered in the wasteland’s thorns, but the Hunter’s posture does not sway easily under pain. Returning his blade is neither a show of good will nor confidence. It merely is. Just as they are, now in the limbo of a battle unsettled.

“……………”

…is that all? Rho wants to scoff. Most would have asked some ‘favor’ for sparing his life. Would have bargained for something they did not deserve. Something they could never earn. That they are the same kind of beast in the Wasteland God’s eyes? What an arbitrary reason to spare an enemy’s life.

I would not have done the same for you.

They are killers of different make.

It does not come from a place of overconfidence. Not when the God’s muscles are still tensed, still ready to move should he strike. Respect, for the wild animal that prowls the tower. A pity the damage is too great for the Hunter to do more than bare his teeth now.

It would be a good way to die. An opponent worthy of claiming his hide. An end snatched prematurely from the jaws of fate by some false sense of kinship.

“Fine.” Rho turns, the all too well known weariness of blood loss starting to take its toll, to blacken the edges of his vision. Have to rest… without the luxury of an immortal’s regeneration, there is no choice.

“…my blade… will come for you.” Not now, but eventually, like all the rest.

You are no different from the other flies, God of the Wasteland.

They say you're supposed to let an endangered species run free, so that it can make more of its own. They also say that you're supposed to keep watch over them, to make sure they don't kill themselves in their fight for survival. A wolf would not be able to cull deer on their own, no matter how smart the dog was.

Even as the GodHunter skulks away, heels clacking loudly in the silence, red eyes watch his every move, a constant judgement. Doubt meets him even with the acceptance of fate. For that, it would be odd for the Deity to meet it with satisfaction, but that is exactly what transpires. His teeth look like any human's; they are sharp.

"I look forward to it."

...But while it is not bravado, there is still something to be said about a wounded animal crawling away to die where it won't be bothered. This mortal was no different, and he didn't expect anything less. This, the God senses in a few shaky steps retreating down the long stairway up to his throne room, and then halt.

Usually Provinces were too loud, too bustling with bodies and every day life for such a small thing to be noticed; but that was not the case here. There was no one to be a distraction, no worshippers to crowd the air with their incessant prayers. This was his space, after all, and he had no desire for useless company.

Ah. Collapsed again.

When the human would eventually come to, he'd find the God nearby, this time, a book in hand. He doesn't raise his eyes to look over, attention on the page he'd been reading. "You won't be able to leave, bleeding all over my floors like that." There was the soft crinkle of a page being turned. "I don't wish to babysit you to recovery, but your actions are making that seem to be the only likely future for us."

That scent is still strong in his muzzle, metallic tang still on his teeth even after wound seals. It had been so very little, a mere taste of addiction. Disappointing, as the human’s hand slips away, but ultimately unsurprising. Voluntas’ claws loosen, allowing his companion to draw backwards.

“Ask.” Direct, but not scathing. No, his thoughts are already elsewhere, self loathing hot in his chest. The rules fall away at the sudden coldness in his companion.

…had that been too forward? Too much? In the moment it had been thoughtless fun. Too caught up to consider if… don’t do that again. Chiding. Don’t ruin this. Desperation. Not with him. Anything to keep this precious thing. Swallow your feelings.

Volt’s posture slowly straightens, his provocative air burning away in a flash. Control yourself. Fingers curl around the stem of the goblet, a frown where once fangs rested. Focused, sharp senses await what will come. A question, the sound of Vesper’s voice laced with their intertwined magics. The Infernal’s mouth opens on command, urged by the contract between master and familiar.

“KiZ'met.” A name that comes with wisps of gold flame from the corners of the demon’s maw. “…is the other wrath demon.” A brief lopsided snarl begins to form, but fades. Misplaced fury. Temper yourself, Voluntas.

“I do not know where you heard that name… but we have not spoken in many years,” started again, his tail curling loosely on the floor beneath him. “I know the rumors.” Constantly followed by them, then and now. “…your real question is not who is KiZ'met, but who is he to me.” A statement, a fact. By now the magic of the command has long since left, yet he continues all the same.

“He does not fill the void, Vesperling.” His attention drifts to the swirling red and black in his glass. Contemplative. “We can choose a great many things in this life, but we cannot make ourselves fit what we are not meant to. He and I are not compatible in that way.” Volt’s cheek rests on his free hand, eyes returning to the human’s face. The Infernal’s demeanor softens, even if he’s hesitant to say more.

“…but there may still be someone out there, even for a beast as unruly as myself.”

The other Wrath demon. Yes, Vesper had... known there was another, but not their name. Not what they were to Volt, if they even were anything to each other. If they even knew each other. Of course that had been a naïve thought-- for there to be only two of them in the entire existence of history, of course they would know each other.

... Especially when it was KiZ'met's name written on temple walls and warnings of disaster, not that the Necromancer went out of his way to find it. Truthfully it was comparable to learning about a brand, and then finally noticing how common it was to find it, that it was everywhere.

What was that kind of presence to Voluntas, the Wrath Demon of Fire?

There is only desperation in asking. I need to hear it from you. Vesper had heard them all in rumors, of course. Where had he heard that name? Where hadn't he? The Wrath Demon of Ice. If Volt was the immediate, burning of repentance, KiZ'met was the cold sinking of the inevitable. Up until some few decades ago, they were always together, like two actors that were always paired together as the perfect couple for a movie. Balancing and contrasting each other in every way. The ideal.

His Infernal knew the rumors too.

...And cuts them off abruptly.

It's so startling, the blond can't help the way it feels like the floor falls out from under him. There is something almost wistful in the way gold eyes stare down into his cup, but they meet the Summoner half way. It was him that you were talking about. Realization, yes, but the answer given wasn't what he'd expected. ...Not compatible, how...?

Despite holding that gaze up until that point, he finds his stare dropping to his own cup, the alcohol that glimmered in the dull club lighting. "I don't really get what you mean as unruly," is finally said, to the tequila, to the flashing lights, to the presence across from him. "...Never had trouble understanding you once we..."

Talked... it out.

Vesper takes to his feet, knocking his chair backward as he did. "Sorry. I'm a hypocrite." An apology, but one he'll follow through with. His fingers curl around the shot glass and lifts it to his lips in a sharp one-two motion. Liquid courage, or something. "It's you."

"The person I've been more interested in than Raz-- Voluntas," again his tongue sparks, and again he talks through it, though far faster than before, without the calm that came with betting it all, "it's you, okay? It's you." As soon as it's left his mouth, the room feels too claustrophobic with all the bodies and strobing colors, dizzying despite only one glass not being enough to sway himself usually.

"I--" I need to go. Already spinning on his heel and jacket in hand. "--I'll see you at home-"

Shrill nodded to both initial questions then answered “Direct contact. The Lycan virus grows barbed nanite ‘fur’ all over the softer sections of a reploid’s armor and that fur breaks off and burrows into whatever touched it. It can even temporarily infect humans too but it only leaves an infectious rash on them.” If Shrill knew just how vastly different his world was to Zero’s, Shrill probably would’ve mentioned some of the more interesting parts of history. Like the outcome of his world’s Eurasia crisis or the existence of superhumans called Adepts.

"That it's even a minor threat to humans is... concerning." If it was any guess, he'd pin it as likely a chemical reaction, though if the infection was... worse than he envisioned, then...

"I'll keep an eye out for it. It would be best to prevent this from spreading any further than it already has."

A small grimace crosses the girl's expression then at the mention of food.

" i don't know if this is something you wanna eat for, " she admits. " i mean—-you could if you want, but like i said: this sort of thing? it's heavy, and i don't think it's the kind of topic you'd bring up at a dinner table. you know. for a reason? "

Bringing up serious topics would kill anyone's mood to eat after all, even if the food was beyond delicious. To have a good meal in front of you only to waste it because of a couple of bad feelings... She didn't want Psi to go through that. Has he even eaten yet? Maybe he should before she starts dropping everything on him.

So she gently pries herself from the embrace, giving the other a trying smile.

" you should probably go get something before we talk, though. i don't want to be the reason why you can't stomach anything for a while. don't worry, i'll... i'll take the time to sort out how i wanna say all this while you're gone. "

"No, that was--Tsk." There was an exhale of a sigh from the reploid, his hand rising to ruffle his bangs awkwardly. "I was making a suggestion for you, Sam. This..." He speaks slowly, cautious in the way someone talks to a small creature; not condescending, but careful.

It's not just Psi speaking, but X, the protector of Humanity, the Maverick Hunter. Funny how the past never seemed to leave him. "...Seems like a situation where you will need to keep your energy up." Humans did that. That thing where they would neglect themselves because their appetite would die due to certain subjects, reactions, experiences. "I'm not organic, and I don't need food the same way you do."

For something, anything that made this girl feel that way, even as she pulls away his hands clench subtly, and then relax once more. "The last thing I'd want is for you to hurt yourself just for sharing something with me, okay, Sam?"

"...But if you need me to step away so you can take a second, I can do that." It's hard to see her look that way. Hard to change a mood once it'd soured. "I'm here for you for as long as you need."

@thegatesofinfinitespace replied to your post “Jing Yuan has appeared! What to do?”:

"...." It takes a truly exceptional individual to embarrass the Jing Yuan of today with silence. It's been so long, the feeling is almost novel-- as if he's been transported back to his youth of centuries past. Death does have a rather humiliating presence. "...I am at your service, old friend. What can I do for you?"

Don't look at him like that, it's not like he was asking for any of it.

One gets the impression he's disappointed. Or not, it wasn't as if the God had said anything aloud, at least not yet. There's no need to try to mortify the Immortal, though his presence alone seemed to be more than enough.

"...Sleep, perhaps." Is it an accusation? Despite the phrasing, surprisingly not a threat.

Turns out playing decoy is easy when your target is this irrationally angry. The alternate Vile couldn't settle on a place to direct his blind fury, the delegates nearly forgotten in the chaos of a few moments. Whatever he'd come here for, the three of them seem to have waylaid the original plan.

As long as it keeps everyone else out of the crosshairs.

Zain pulls as Vi reaches the summit of Goliath, yanking the intruder's armored frame right into charged fists in perfect synchronicity. It's enough to leave a dent in the Maverick's helmet, in the blue shield raised in quick defense. Vi already knows what will come next-- no version of him would be walking around in gear that couldn't handle stun weapons.

Vitriol in that familiar red optic landing on him.

An armored hand wrenches his throat, delivering a flood of manmade lighting into the Hunter's systems. Every sensor in his body trips, pain coupled with overwhelming feedback. Reckless. That'd been the point though, anything to get the gun aimed at here instead.

Keep it together, you've had worse. Errors pile into his HUD, Vi's damaged eye briefly flickering on and off with the random jolts of power. Funny. The purple reploid's clenched teeth struggle into a pained grin.

How predictable you are.

The harpoon lodges into the rider armor-- Vi being flung off of Goliath's shoulder in the disarray. No pain of impact follows, instead he finds himself caught in a protective embrace as Zain slides beneath the mech's unruly body. "Nice catch... thanks boss."

Not much time to shake off all that electrical damage and disorientation, have to move smart.

//...think... we can cut the cables at its waist?//

There's just a moment, when the supercharged glove of his former partner sparks around Vile-- Vi's throat and casts flashing shadows of electricity on the concrete walls, that he feels a strong sense of deja vu. The harpoon flies from his fingers like a buster shot, and he's pulled back into a different time, a different place. A similar situation.

Psi had hit the ground. He hadn't been fast enough. For the second time that night, the blond's body was moving for him. The ground went sideways underneath him as he used the shoes he'd been damned to wear to his advantage, the weight of Vi's recovering chassis landing snugly in his arms even as they slide into the far wall. Got you.

A glance down confirms that the Hunter is still functional, but Zain would know exactly how much the attack used to hurt, let alone what it felt like now after being more than likely upgraded. Red blinks up at him, but despite the coloring, he... knows it's fine.

"You're getting looked at later," is all that can be said in the moment, but he's letting the bodyguard up onto his feet regardless. //You're already aware it won't make a clean cut.// It wouldn't get all the way through even if they tried, but then again-- it wouldn't be functioning regardless after such a hit.

Or they'd at least have taken out it's-- There's a sharp whir again, so much deeper than the one that had sunk into his shoulder. Oh. Right. The muzzle of a barrel aimed their way, the intake of light like inhaling air. Zain's hand curls into a fist, core dropping. That would take out them and the wall behind them in their current state.

No time like the present.

The Commander is quick on his feet, a mad dash towards the Goliath's cannon. There is another swing that he ducks under, missing his hair by mere centimeters. His saber activates as he skids between the mech's legs, the plasma severing one side cleanly at the ankle. As it crashes to one knee, he scales its back to the cockpit, arm curling around the neck of the Maverick piloting it.

Vile's hand crackles as it nears his wrist. "Couldn't help but get close to me again, could you, pretty boy?" It's a snarl, no reminiscence of their past. Zain can't help but feel that pang of deja vu again, his heels planted on the ride armor's back. The room blacks out for only a second as the fingers curl around his, but his left was already hurtling his saber forward.

It clatter is distant in his ears, as shuddering as his vision was. Gods. It hurts. His whole being felt like it was fraying, his tongue splitting in his mouth. A fatal weakness, not that he'd been aware of it until this moment.

"Vi--! Now--!!"

’I don’t think you’d know what to do if I said yes.’

Rare, teasing confidence from the Necromancer. Refreshing, but it comes with an ulterior motive. One the Infernal detects right away.

Vesper knows he’s being studied after all, knows that this has become more than a mere drinking game. An ancient affair between those who trade in the intangible. They’re both probing for weakness, for silent secrets spilled in subtlety. Perhaps that is why the human starts to move, as if focusing on physical actions might mask what lies below the surface.

An intelligent ploy, as is the new scent in the air. Plip. Gold tracks streaking red, a phantom flavor in the demon’s mouth. Plop. Each drop hypnotic, beckoning. Plip. Daring Volt to drink, pulling at his inhibitions. Plip. Irresistible.

It is that intimate crimson thread that binds them, that compels Voluntas closer. “Careful, Vesperling…” Black claws close around that soft wrist, feeling the tantalizing pulse of lifeblood beneath. “You have no idea…” what buttons you’re pushing. “…what I am capable of.”

Their connection is filled with a frenzied energy barely under lock and key. A caustic high of venom and exhilaration.

“Oh I know you quite well… that there is a side of yourself you do not show, even to me.” …that you’re deranged enough to enjoy this. Yet, paradoxically it also means he doesn’t know everything, a point of unspoken irritation. Volt’s grip tightens, nails pricking at skin. Teetering on the verge of puncturing, of spilling more crimson with the slightest pressure. “…but I could always get to know you even better…”

Voluntas knows the human is reeling him in, pulling strings, but in the moment he does not care enough to stop himself.

A pointed tongue meets the tip of Vesper’s finger, dragging up the bloodied surface. An invitation accepted with impulsive flirtatiousness. A compulsion sated, temporarily. The demon is slow to pull away, vision fixated on the current object of his obsession.

Envious, wrathful impatience rattles away in his skull, an almost territorial instinct.

“…tell me, Vesperling. If not Raziel, then who else has caught your eye?”

His Infernal falls. Hook, line, and sinker. "I know enough," he responds in kind, watching the hand curling around his wrist. Pyromaniac. He can feel the tips of claws, so capable of gutting him as cleanly as a fish, so capable of taking as much blood as he had to give.

Voluntas' grip tightens, and the Necromancer knows his pulse can be felt just above the vein. Adrenaline. He doesn't have the Demon's fire and sharp teeth, but his grin rivals that mirroring him, trained and taught. They always say you learn habits from those you surround yourself with.

The tongue of a being of Wrath-- at least his-- is searing. This, the human has felt before, and just like before, it seals his cut closed with a swipe and no scar. The phantom pain burns and crackles under his skin, gives goosebumps up his arm. Don't get distracted.

...But he almost does, so caught off guard by the question asked of him. Unexpected in its abruptness, so very Volt.

So that was what it was. So shatteringly simple, and Vesper only wants to laugh. To scream. To run and cry. To reach across the table and drink from the goblet he knew would kill him. Would you despair, unable to have a soul corrupted with a billion fragments of others? Or would you simply be angry, that it wouldn't be the same?

Still, his smile stays, his heart stills. I could take it. That thing he'd been wanting forever. It's in my reach. There's a wrench in that line of thought; it wouldn't fix the cold knot in his gut. Something else first, it has to be asked. "I'll tell you, if you'll answer my final question."

It is with reluctance that the blond pulls his hand away, to keep himself from cracking. Severing the connection before he's let down, the way he feels he's going to be. They'd matched blow for blow, but... Right now, I feel...

It's almost a command, gold and his own violet magic curling in his throat. "Who... is KiZ'met?"

((If you're curious about what "normal" foods MZ can eat as a vamploid-- he's in the vegan category with some exceptions. Plant matter is easy to break down, and he can consume metals to a degree; usually he breaks down what he can consume and spits out the rest. Intaking more nanos (the vampiric quality of his where he eats other reploids and the same one that has passed onto Zain and Mave) can allow him to break down bigger odd chunks, but they still can't break down meats.

Fats, while they burn for longer periods of time, take too long and end up leaving a lot of residue that reploid internals can't really get rid of without opening up their whole chassis and scraping out the messy leftovers (you don't exactly design a machine that has to use the bathroom the way organics do, it would cause WAAAAY too much waste since they need a LOT more fuel to function, ALSO we'd likely end up in a very Horizon Zero Dawn future if that was put into even the minority of machines that CAN have the full human diet, and no one wants that lol).

Zain and Mave on the other hand can eat just about anything, though they are drawn more to their vampiristic qualities for consumption due to being vamploids as well. It is better for their overall internal health since eating reploids provides the immediate "nutrients" for their bodies compared to consuming foodstuffs.

Because their entire forms are made of nanites though, this means that they (like the Xs) can eat literally anything-- even human foods-- with very mild repercussions. Every once in a wile they come across something they can't consume but they have less restrictions than MZ.

Psi (and by conjunction, Xanti since he's also an X) on the other hand can eat just about anything. On the basis that Dr. Light was way ahead of his time on design and function, his internal structure and the auto-repair-type nanos he uses actually is capable of breaking down anything to use for fuel, function, and maintenance, even the grease and leftover bits of fat that Zain can't have; even metal and things that are inedible to humans since anything could be broken down into materials that can be translated into patching wounds or energy.

The best materials though are actually things that can provide a charge, this means anything with citrus, sugar or acid is incredibly appealing to their systems; Psi for one has a huge love for lemons and sweets, and goes out of his way to mod E-Tanks with an extra "boost" for himself.))

The ride armor strains against their combined strength, the shrill grinding of its bulky feet on the ground is earsplitting. Just as quickly as the mech stumbles backward, a spiked fist collides into the bodyguard's torso, hurling him across the conference room.

'Vi--'

The force from the impact is enough to shake the building again, cries of panic rising up from the delegates. Followed by that sound. The atmosphere of fear only grows at the charging of a weapon, the X ushering another frantic soul out of the room.

Xanti turns in time to see it coming, but he's not nearly as fast as his partner. Zain is there in an instant, a flurry of particles solidifying mere feet from him. Using his body as a shield. A wince is spared for his boyfriend ...there'll be time enough for both apology and thanks later.

With one half of the room already to the exit, that leaves those closer to the danger. The X warps to a pair of diplomats taking shelter under the massive table, hands resting on their shoulders the moment he materializes.

"I've got you." Away again in a blink.

Vi groans as he pulls himself from the crater in the wall-- scans the scene. A hook jutting out of the commander's body, not great but it limits both Zain's and the enemy's mobility. Signal's still jammed; unlike his cohorts there will be no extra weapons, no teleporting.

Only one course of action then. Keep running diversion.

The purple haired reploid is nothing if not fast without the bulk of his armor, cutting across the space in fractions of a second. Another swat comes his way as Vi closes the distance. Sprinting breaks into leap onto the mech's arm, electricity streaking behind his ascent.

Now, his turn to deliver an overcharged blow to his alternate's frame.

"Bark less."

...Blocked.

Instant fury in the target missed, the way the singular red optic blazes as the source of his aggression warps away with more humans in tow. It redirects to the self-inflicted victim, a low rattle of a growl ringing from the throat. You never change.

Zain's glare is just as dangerous, malice shared two-fold, and yet they share an understanding in their fury. As if you did either.

This they level in a losing stand-off, the harpoon's chain clinking as each link is reeled in, the Commander along with it. His dress shoes have no traction on the tile flooring, slowly dragging him closer, but the disdain aimed at the Maverick only fuels his anger. "Again...!" It's muttered, throttled from the vocal chords, fingers gripping the controls of the ride armor blisteringly tight. "Always him...!"

A fit of rage casts over the blue and purple reploid, but the blond can see out of the corner of his eyes a blur of black. This same thing, the Maverick notices a tad too late, the haphazard swing of Goliath missing Vi by a hair's breath. Zero wraps the chain around his arm, yanking at the cannon it was attached to and the terrorist along with it, right into the waiting fists of his companion.

Vile's roar of fury makes the walls of their concrete prison shudder, the guard he'd raised as defense lowering for him to grasp for his alternate's neck with crackling fingers. More than stun-grade, EMP. Meant to immobilize and hurt. "Funny." He's not laughing. "We have the same taste in weapons. I'd been planning on testing them on that owner of yours. Guess I'll just make him next."

"Get your hands." The Hunter's hiss is through grit teeth, left hand curling around the harpoon. He rips it from his chest with a snarl, the bloodied tip glinting in the flickering lights, and takes aim. "Off of--" Zain coils his arm backwards, winding up for the shot. "--My subordinate!" It pierces into the joint of the mech's right arm with a loud CRACK, sparks crackling from the impact, knocking both the armor and its riders off kilter.