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Still no signal from Meg. By this time she should have shown up, even if everything else has run into a wall. Especially if everything else has run into a wall.

Twenty Slayers and two werewolves can't stay unnoticed for long. They're not inside the Somebody Else's Problem field yet. At least the winter weather means nobody will look askance at their long heavy coats -- but it's a gamble that nobody will be able to tell they're all concealing weapons under them.

Buffy's pacing back and forth in a slow prowl, shaking her head. "Something's gone wrong," she says flatly.

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Wells grins- not a nice thing at all- and looks to Buffy. "Seems to me that if he gets there first we've got a better chance of picking off the defenders, so long as we beat the silver-carriers to the punch," he says.

Buffy nods shortly. "Leah, Marina, you're with me guarding the wounded." Her lip curls a bit as she says it; hanging back is not her preferred place in a fight, and it rankles. "Kennedy --"

The other Slayer nods back. "We got it."

And grins at Harry. "Right, Sarge?"

"Too fucking right," Wells agrees. "Right- Spooney, you're on point; the rest of you, shift it, they're gonna need us up there."

Spoon nods, rolls onto all fours, and then bursts out of the relatively safe position like a sprinter headed for the finish line. He's not going for clean kills right now, that's what the girls behind can do. Spoon is going for maximum chaos, which means that scratches, bites, or picking people up and using them to hit other people. Whatever he can do, he's going to do. He'll heal anything not either instantly fatal or silver-related, and he's counting on the Slayers to keep the silver from killing him.

There is something very primal and satisfying about causing chaos instead of limiting himself to clean kills. Spoon is going to have to talk to Wells and Father Anselm about this, later, he dully knows.

Mostly he knows that he's coated in blood, most of it isn't his own, and it feels good to be doing what he's doing.

Really, really good.

Nobody's really doing clean kills right now. The object isn't to kill the enemy, it's to keep them occupied.

It's hand to hand, tight and churning and messy.

Three of the zhirelin are sideslipping the main fight, heading for the toppled tree, with the clear intention of taking out the minimal cover.

They're welcome to try. Wells knows the girls have their orders, so they don't need him in his current position. They need him where he can do the most good- between the fighters and the ones who're going to be giving them trouble.

Let's see if he can beat those girls to the tree, then, shall we?

Buffy's seen them coming.

You know what's fun about cheap tree ornaments? They shatter beautifully on impact if flung at high speed.

There's a barrage of red and gold spheres coming at the zhirelin, like some bizarre reinterpretation of a snowball fight.

This is a good time for Faith to make a 'returning-to-wakefulness' noise, right?

Well, regardless of whether or not it is, that's what she just did.

".....What.....Buffy?"

Waking up from being stabbed and seeing Buffy standing over her brings back not-so-good memories, but hey, they're past that.

Right?

"Where's the Yuppie Princess?"

That would be Kennedy.

"Fighting," Buffy answers briefly, and pulls another ornament off the tree to throw.

Oo, this one's pointy.

The girls have a clearer run, but Wells is capable of some genuinely frightening bursts of speed when he has a mind to. Before he tried to run four minute miles, after all, his life depended on just how quickly he could cover the hundred meters and get out the door.

Someone's gonna get punched before they get to a point where they can do any actual destroying.

Spoon is in the thick of the mess, wounds opening and closing as fast as they're made. He managed to pick up a fairly short and light something at one point or another and is using it to beat its buddies. Equal parts weapon and shield! Rock!

The something's allies aren't amused, and are trying to get near enough to take the wolf down with silver.

Unfortunately for them, the wolf's allies have other ideas.

Meanwhile, Harry's ringed by the three zhirelin who were going for the tree.

The one in front has a rather nasty bruise rising on her face from his punch, but is still on her feet. She spits blood to one side, works her jaw a moment, and bares her teeth at him. "Didn't your ma ever tell you it ain't polite to hit girls?"

"Christ Almighty, are you ever barking up the wrong fucking tree," says Wells, almost laughing. 'Almost', because the lifelong habits of a football hooligan mean a high speed low, sweeping kick meant to get the girls off their feet, or at least off balance.

Football hooligan, meet double-dutch champion.

She leaps over his kick, and closes with him in a body-block before his feet are quite under him again. "Wrong fucking tree? Try this one."

The entire fallen tree shakes with the impact.

Wells' breath whooshes out of him on impact. He's pretty sure several of those cracking noises weren't the tree. Not that it matters- he's gritting his teeth against the pain and putting all his functional elements and strength into shoving back.

Edited 2008-01-04 05:42 (UTC)

Faith is still not entirely with-it, but she's conscious enough to feel that impact.

You'd have to be dead not to feel that impact.

She tears a branch off the tree, takes up a position, and aims it like a dart at the nearest not-one-of-hers that she has a clear shot at.

The term clear shot is relative; they're behind cover for a reason. But the branch goes over the tree's bulk and passes close enough to graze the zhirel who's just been shoved back by Wells.

Those needles sting like a mad bastard.

Spoon and his collection of girls are bloody close to breaking through. Of course Spoon needs a new club, as the last limb of his old one finally broke off and he's back to the old standby of bite, spit, drool. Sometimes, just because he's an arse that way, he's drooling on things that are only wounded.

There. He's got enough room and enough leverage to get on his feet and start swinging again, and he's in an aggro enough state to do something he wouldn't normally do. Very deliberately, Wells clasps his hands together and starts swinging them about so that the metal-clad part of his forearms serves as a bludgeon.

The obvious block for that is to grab for the arms, immobilize them.

Two of the zhirelin ought to be able to do that, right?

The bracers Wells wears were designed by Hephaestos with the express intent of melting any Autons that attempted to do exactly what the zhirelin are doing now.

There is a sudden sharp terrible stink of burning as the white-hot snakes of sheer heat strike upwards at Wells' would-be captors.

Flesh and clothes catch fire, and the screams cut through the incredible din of battle: for a fleeting moment, everyone's attention is diverted.

It's enough to give Spoon and Kennedy and the rest of her team of Slayers the opening they need.

The line of defense is still standing, but it's got a dozen holes in it by now.

Spoon picks something large and ugly and performs a picture perfect football tackle...assuming that the football players are werewolves and other non-human things. His aim is such that large-and-ugly hits rather a number of smaller things (and people) resulting in something rather like a bloody game of dominoes.

Kennedy's already shouting "Go, go, head for the stairs!" before Spoon and his quarry hit the ground.

She's in the lead, and the other Slayers pour after her.

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milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com - 2008-01-10 05:35 (UTC) - Expand

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