sunnydalealum | (no subject)

That hurts, enough that Spoon's entire face shifts; eyes gold and muzzle extending, claws forming on hands that are still gripping the disks. The giggling, however, doesn't stop; even as his body goes back to human-norm and he decapitates the guard.

"Werewolf!" shouts the lead zhirel, from where she's fighting with Faith. She's good, to have lasted this long against her; the brief distraction costs her her footing, and very nearly that broken jaw.

The guards, though, react to that. Three bring out nightsticks, reversing the grips and shucking the outer black covering to reveal gleaming silver. A fourth reaches for his walkie-talkie (call it in, standard procedure), and drops his hand with a muttered curse.

Spoon's eyes get rather more crazed at the sight of the silver, although he doesn't lose sight of the here and now. He sheds the long, bulky coat to expose a body coated in weaponry and explosives, howls enraged hate, and moves like the fist of an angry God.

There is no mercy, here, no pause or hesitation. No pretense at human speeds, or human strengths. The next little thing and he could, so easily, become nothing but destruction on two malformed feet.

And as much as Wells would give an eyetooth, or an eye, to get that silver out of the picture, Spoon's just become about a thousand times more dangerous than any damn metal. Simplest thing to do?

( an attack on one shall be considered an attack on all )

There's no bang with this gun, but three times the firearm jerks in his hand and three times it spits fire and metal. There's absolutely no question of his intention now.

There's not much question of Faith's, anymore, either.

She doesn't have a gun, hasn't willingly put her hands on one since she pointed one at Angel, but she doesn't need one, not in quarters this close.

Her opponent is good. She's better.

I know he doesn't need it, and if he ever found out I asked he'd probably shave my head or make me do push-ups or KP or something, but look after him for me, Faith.

Andrew had asked her that, made her promise, when he told her exactly how weird the situation was likely to get. Faith's not sure if he really knew it was her he was talking to, in that moment, or if part of him thinks it was the other Faith he was asking, the one he was friends with, the one who, apparently, people trusted.

(She was there for Angel when he needed her, when you weren't, and you'll never really forgive yourself, will you, for not being the Faith who helped to save him?)

But damned if she's not going to do it anyway, because Andrew asked her, and she likes the Sarge, and fighting werewolves with silver is tantamount to torture.

It's not just the leader's -jaw- she's trying to break, now.

There's a guard trying to pick up one of the dropped silver nightsticks.

A Slayer barrels into him amidships, and the crack of his ribs splintering is audible even over the din of hand-to-hand.

Jordie pivots, draws back her arm, and hurls the nightstick out through one of the plate-glass windows -- then one of the zhirelin is at her, and she hurriedly blocks the blow.

None of the attackers get anywhere near Buffy. This is partly her own skill, and partly the fact that there are two Slayers flanking her whose job it is to see to it that she survives.

This leaves her the breathing space long enough to notice when one of the zhirelin and one of the uniformed guards exchange a fleeting glance, and then turn to make for the stairway door next to the elevator bank.

"They're going for backup," she shouts, pointing. "Kennedy --"

"On it!"

Spoon takes a precious moment to fight memories back, then dives back into the fray with wristblades and disk again. He didn't bring the sword because it requires too much space to swing it. He's chanting while he kills, however, and he's killing what he hits; "Payas leitjin-de Hma'mi'de. Thar'n-da s/ yin'tekai. M-di H'chak/M-di H'dlak!"

Faith hates killing people.

Hates it even worse when they're just young, misguided Slayers, like she was once, and she thinks that maybe, maybe, if they had the time, if she had a chance, she could just talk.....

Every time she sees the light go out in a pair of human eyes, she feels something inside her dim in unison, just that one step closer to the absolute blackness that's been haunting her for so long.

They don't have a choice. She knows that.

But people probably said that about her once too.

No one's saying that about her right now.

Definitely not the young woman who's shrieking a name over and over as she fights her way through the mêlée to the side of the girl Faith just dropped.

Desperate fury is in her face when she looks up from the body, and launches herself at Faith with a blade in each hand.

When someone sounds as if they have nothing left to lose, they are probably at their most dangerous. Wells leaves off what he's doing and lunges for the girl himself as soon as she starts shouting. He's going for a flying tackle, if he can- like the one that once brought down a wolfed-out Ryan, although the one that snapped Ace's neck would do just as well under the circumstances.

The flying tackle carries them both into one of the room's support pillars, ripping free about half of the festive pine-and-ribbon swags and sending them to the floor in a shower of needles.

One of the blades in her hand scores up Wells's shoulder before they land, but it's not silver; the wound's already healing before he gets to his feet.

(She doesn't.)

Spoon is still doing his very best impression of yautja versus demonic bunnies through the uniforms. The next one in his sights gets a shot high and to the right on Spoon's chest, getting a growled; "Fuckin' sold out to the cows, didn't you?" in return. Also a sucking chest wound.

Something heavy and blunt hits Spoon on the back of the head, shattering about his shoulders.

(It is, in fact, the office chair from behind the reception desk.)

"Who're you callin' a cow, dog?" snaps the young woman who threw it, in an accent not entirely dissimilar to Spoon's own.

The door to the stairway opens again, and Kennedy staggers out, favoring one foot.

"Sarge," she yells across the mayhem, "I lost 'em, we're gonna have company --"

And breaks off, to block a kick aimed at her face.

Faith, not being Buffy, is not given to making pithy remarks in the heat of battle, so commentary on Sarge's tackle will not be forthcoming.

She might be thinking something about werewolf dung, motorcycles, and why it's a good thing they can't fly, but she won't say it.

(Maybe later, though.)

She spins around, just in time to block a knife headed for her throat, driving her own blade into the hand of the girl wielding it. The girl hits the floor on her knees, her expression stunned, and Faith hits her over the head before moving to the next
Slayer
target.

Wells' head comes up sharply at that and he rolls to his feet, taking only so long as necessary to grab the weapons off the downed girl. No sense leaving them for someone else to put in his back. "You heard her!" he bellows to the others. "Put your backs into it, ladies, I fucking plan to!"

At which point he demonstrates by turning and going after the nearest of the enemy women with the knives of the fallen at a speed he learned from Bar-born practice sessions with Cassandra Cain..

Spoon rips the head off of his latest dance partner and sends it back at the girl who broke a chair over his back at speed. "Not girls you bloody brainwashed bint, COWS! The fuckin' Bovine Menace! Cows are the fuckin' leading cause of," whoops, someone to the left. He should hit that person with sharp things, "evil in the entire bloody world! Werewolves? The cows did it! Cybermen? There'll be cows! Even the cybernetic fear monkeys had a bloody BULLET PROOF COW!"

... okay, now some of the zhirelin are starting to back off from Spoon.

Until the leader (shirt torn on one shoulder, blood streaking her face and matting her hair) shouts hoarsely at them to hold their ground. "You heard her, we've got backup coming --"

Correction: they've got backup here, pouring out of the stairway door. Another half-dozen zhirelin, and a full twenty Security uniforms ... this group not nearly as human-looking.

Three of them have crossbows, with silver-tipped quarrels already nocked and aiming as they come in.

"Again with the fucking cows."

Yes, Faith takes a second to actually facepalm.

"Swear to fuck, Spoon, if you don't stop it with the cows I'm gonna kidnap you to Iowa and leave you there."

Of course, while she's saying this, she's also still killing people. And things.

And things that are also people.

"Shit!" Wells swears under his breath. Those crossbows are bad fucking news. He checks his gun- two rounds left- well, the girls will just have to make up for that.

Some men have catechisms for when they shoot, and some have litanies.

( each of them will assist the party or parties so attacked by taking such action as it deems necessary including the use of armed force )

Wells just has a handful of treaties. But they work really well when he needs to focus. Those two bullets find their marks, and then he's back into the fray, the god's black knife slipping through the air and seeking its own targets quick as an inhuman hand can make it go.

The third crossbow-wielding guard is hit by two Slayers at once, high and low. He manages to throw both of them off, but only at the cost of losing his weapon. It slides across the floor, and one of the zhirelin dives for it.

Before she's quite gotten to her feet, Jordie slams into her. There's a moment's tangle of arms and legs, and both girls are now grappling for the silver-shafted crossbow.

The zhirel -- it's the same one who threw the chair at Spoon a few minutes ago -- is taller than Jordie, and has the reach on her.

She's damn well keeping that crossbow, though. Which is why when she manages to dislodge her it's with a thrust, rather than a blow.

That was a mistake, she realizes a second later, as the green-haired Slayer comes right back at her. A more decisive blow with the stock of the crossbow itself sends the smaller girl reeling back, blood streaming from her face.

It would be poetic, you know, to say that Spoon howls Jordie's name. He doesn't. He dives for the zhirel who touched Jordie - Spoon's favorite - with murder in his eyes.

His golden eyes. And his claws, his shoulders, and every single other line of his no-longer-clothed body as in mid-leap he loses his grip on a human form. Fast, they called him, and loud. He's faster, and louder, and quite frankly the only way it could be worse is if he were a bitch and Jordie his cub.

The zhirel's neck snaps with a dull crack a merciful instant before the Brown Wolf, uncaring of wounds taken, rips her throat out and turns for another victim.

"Oh, fucking hell- SPOON! SPIT! RIGHT NOW!"