sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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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' 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.

That was vile, and the stink is going to be in Wells' nose and hair and clothes for a long, long time, but it did the job. He breaks away from the site of the burning and charges after the girls.

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