Streets of Myth and Legend

[rassafraggin]

OOC> Merrisol says, "PREMISE: Bleys has been hunting down Fat Bleys and traced Rhyddid to one of his heroic legend shadows. Fat Bleys is the Top Hat of Street Fighters there and has been approached by a headhunting outfit to offer to take care of Bleys, who has been gradually usurping the shadow's legend. The Legend of the Streets. In return, he must lure Caine into this shadow, where their technology will work."

You paged (Caine, Bleys) with 'Evenin', just have to get the kidlet tucked in'.
To (Merrisol, Bleys), Caine pages: Awesome. Wait, *Bleys* is in on this?
To (Merrisol, Caine), Bleys pages: Yah!
To (Merrisol, Bleys), Caine pages: O shit :)


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Author: Bleys Held By: Bleys
Date: Thu Jan 10 18:26:12 2019 Focus: 0
Title: Streets a-Bleys
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Created via Figure of Legend (STY-FL): battle bonus-token discount-all persistent shadowfind story-token token-6 type-pattern
Gift description:
This character is adept at building his own personal legend in Shadow, and creating a surrounding mythos. More so than other initiates of the Pattern, he is able to find and shape places where he is a god, or an otherwise legendary figure, enabling him to raise Shadow-based resources more quickly and readily than others.
A mythos shadow of this sort should be represented by a 0-point token created with this gift, detailing the place, the legend, and how the character fits into the mythos.
This gift can be used to shadowfind mundane resources, such as troops and wealth, at a Focus discount. All such tokens must be associated with a mythos shadow. Where appropriate, these tokens can be used for scene bonuses (such as use of a personal bodyguard), or for story purposes (such as troops in a flagpole conflict).
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Token Description
Big Bleys reigns supreme. His adoration posters are everywhere, slathered across the massive billboards that crowd the skyline and haunting the darkened alleys at street level. He's the Final Boss in a globe-spanning, techno-urban nightmare where the individual is measured by his or her ability to rock flowing locks and to brawl with noisy, flashy style. He's the kingpin of the corporate pyramid threatening to crush the colorful crew of mini-bosses and mooks supporting his girth. His legend as the Conquerer is years old, and retold as a swift, brutal, coin-op fueled fight to the top. His easily-pierced persona was that of a darkly appealing upstart who boasted a slick mullet, killer windmill kicks, and sweet gun-fu moves. With MegaCity's dastardly villains brought to heel, the anti-hero attained legendary status and an undisputed rule. While still plagued by everyday crime, MegaCity was renamed UtopiaCity, but in Bleys' pursuit of ego and excess, it is now known by its slang term: MeTopia. The world, its resources, arts, media and muscle are at his beck and burp.
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Gossip CQV: Fri Oct 19 12:57:48 2018
UP-Crime: ubiquitous known by connected, trace cost 1, expires 05 Apr
Title: The Most Dangerous Game
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From the underground gambling dens there comes talk of a mysterious tournament featuring a most intriguing new game - Primoprevaricae. The rules of play are unusual and even veterans are hard-pressed to match it with any games in their past experience; not only that, they cannot seem to score an invitation to this no-doubt ultra-exclusive event. However as the rumors travel, incredulous dealers speak of an unbelievable grand prize, something akin to a blank note, although it isn't necessarily coin on offer. The unnamed backer, it's said, claims the means to award things which are worth much more than the mountains of gold so casually acquired in shadow. Personal things. Intangible things.

Speculation on the game varies from teller to teller, but they all agree there is a special card deck involved. In one prevailing version, the mythical participants who ante up are given a starting hand of two. One card bears a face and is held, while the other is in play. Contenders have the option of playing their hand solo, or else they may wager with others to create an advantageous set. Each round that plays out sees either a winning hand emerge or eliminates one or more weak parties. The latter being the case, the maneuvering begins anew.. until the next call. How strange.

It has become so much of an underworld fascination that high-stakes dens in different localities have offered to host rounds, in hopes of gaining some insight as to the gameplay minutiae. Because.. something is missing; some important detail that must elevate the tournament to life or death stakes, given the magnitude of the supposed prize. Perhaps it has something to do with the other card, the one that is always held and not revealed, except by the eventual winner..?
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General Setting Description:
With floor to ceiling windows spanning all five walls of this narrowed pinnacle of the MeTopia Corp skyscraper, the ruler has the grandest view of the capital which sprawls away in every direction, lit primarily by huge billboard ads. Each one invariably worships Bleys, displaying his pampered, powdered face at every opportunity. The glossy sheen of the stronghold's shatter-resistant glass filters out much of the tawdry corruption of the metropolis, while the citizens at street-level experience it desperately in full. When they look up, they see a dark tower climbing into the mists to the electric sting of an endless guitar riff.

To the image of Caine, Bleys appears. It's not trim Bleys, but rather fat Bleys. Haughty heartburn Bleys with a thousand yard stare that focuses by degrees. Moisture on his forehead and wearing a white suit and orange cravat with a goose-egg sized diamond pinning it. He enunciates like there should be an formidable echo accompanying the suite he occupies. "Caine.. Caaaaine. Brother.. Ahhh, you look well."

The image of Caine seems moderately surprised at the image that comes into focus. "I suppose you mean my health," he remarks dryly. "Because you can't possibly mean my clothing." Then he smiles, finishing buttoning his coat. "What can I do for you?"

To the image of Caine, Bleys dabs at his forehead and upper lip with a bedazzled hankerchief. He wheezes with effort as he sits forward and makes a *hueeeeeee* exhalation sound like old air from a dilapidated and duct-taped leather sofa. "You can help me. Save me. Please! You must come to my aid, immediately. He means to kill me. He's here.. the.. the pretender." Huuuuwheeeeeze

The image of Caine actually leans slightly back as Fat Bleys leans forward, though his expression remains pleasant and interested. He takes in the plea with the same expression, his eyes narrowing slightly in his mask of interest. There's some quick thinking going on behind those dark eyes. "Hold on a moment," he says, holding up a hand; the Sigil writhes like Bleys's stomach muscles. "You weren't too talkative last time we met, and now it oh, brother, help me from the maurading stunt double that happens to fight really well?"

To the image of Caine, Bleys seems to try and lean forward, like he could crawl closer, Grudge-like, and just be in Caine's face. He rears back at the appearance of the Sigil. Bleys exudes some qualities for a perceptive soul. He is genuinely afraid for his life. But there's so much more beneath the layers of insulation. He grabs his scabbard for reassurance around it's middle girth, but does not draw it. Rhydidd looks smaller in his pudgy hands but that is at least the real deal. It's a real beacon of truth in this trump call. Bleys is currently in a stronghold where people love him, but he's not comfortable. He's stressed, irritated, afraid and desperate to get Caine there. Bleys' request for assistance comes with additional omitted bagged. Small 'tells'. Shifty eyes, the perspiration, the request for help is 'honest' but there's a lot more to it that he doesn't want to speak aloud and let Caine know about. This call did not come out of the blue. There's been rehearsals for the moment, but his acting ability is only going so far based on legitimate fear for his life. There's an equally important reason to Bleys to grasp for Caine's assistance, and it's not to his Brother's betterment. "He will never defeat me without the sword. The two of us can deal with him without further loss of property. He's using 'your' sneaky ways rather than mine (lie) so I need you here.. now. Immediately! I'll talk your ear off and make up for lost time if you just come and finish this once and for all! Damn you, name your price and it's yours and I'll see it done immediately afterwards (lie). You can trust me (Bwahahahah)!"

The image of Caine has lowered the marked hand, since, after all, it was a harmless gesture, and ponders the image before him thoughtfully. "I'm no good against him straight on, even without his blade. It would be more effective if I came there through my own indirect means. Where are you?" He unbuttons his coat enough to take out a slim book with a pencil.

To (Bleys, Merrisol), Caine pages: Well, I think I'm going to feed the location to Slim Bleys and offer *him* help. ;)
Long distance to (Caine, Bleys): Merrisol thinks Caine's caution is reasonable. Thought he'd want to fact-check, to be honest. ;)
To (Bleys, Merrisol), Caine pages: Last scene with Fat Bleys was not friendly. :)
From afar, to (Caine, Merrisol): Bleys laughs.
To (Bleys, Merrisol), Caine pages: So this was jarring and set off the gut check.
You paged (Caine, Bleys) with 'Gut check...'.
You paged (Caine, Bleys) with 'Bleys should've won that!'.
From afar, to (Merrisol, Bleys): Caine laughs.
To (Caine, Merrisol), Bleys pages: Mah gut, mah gut mah gut, check it ooout.

To the image of Caine, Bleys flaps his hankie and blots again. There's a bit of a relief that it appears that Caine has at least nibbled at the offer. But he's still nervous and duplicitous about the entire reason for demanding Caine arrive post-haste. "Oh, it's just a little place I graced with my presence some time ago. It occurs to me I may have shown y.. Wait.. Blasted memory.. So hard to get the versions straight with 'him' around again. You might find it a bit garish, but there's no shortage of shadows here when the neon isn't prevailent. Mmmm, yes. But they do love me here, oh yes. And I love them for it. I think it has echos of some of the more Begmantic shades. It's a bit corporate I'm afraid, reminescent of that poor old dustball that croaked. I say, why don't you take my hand and come over. I have drinks. I have shadows. I have many divans."

The image of Caine says nothing to the offers, scribbling without breaking the connection. "I think I do know that place. Yes, it has a good selection of shadows. I'll be able to prepare something to pin the skinny boy down, and you can finish him much more easily. Might take me a couple days, so maybe you should put a wall of flunkies in the way?" He finishes writing and tucks the book away, smiling. "Also, considering what will make this worth my time, and we'll have a talk when I arrive."

To the image of Caine, Bleys smiles very wide, and a partial grill of precious stones appears on his pearly whites. His eyes are just 'begging' to see what Caine's writing down, and it is driving him spare. The prospect of it being delayed does ratchet up his stomach acid though. He grimaces and feels the burn. "Days? Oh.. Oh.. If that's 'necessary'? I mean, I've seen you think on your feet. Plenty of times, you're so quick upstairs. I mean.. of course I have my adoring minions. You'll love then really, but are you sure you can't just come now? I have a table set right now. Some things will get cold, and others will get hot. Everything will have to be reset!"

In the Trump image, "As I said, and you might know, I am absolutely poor at direct confrontation," Caine replies. "Just showing up there would be direct. I need to gather a few things en route and set up. And even that in a hurry. I'm sure you can work out what to do with all the door and drink. Now, I should start immediately, shouldn't I?" His eyebrows lift.

To the image of Caine, Bleys flaps his scrap of cloth and lets it flutter to the floor. He fidgets with his hold on his sword and adjust his cravat. "Yes, absolutely." Out of view of what trump can portray, there's distractions to steal away at Bulbous Bleys' attention. Some sporadic problems with the lights. Bleys' face turns to the window and looks up to the advertisement-rich skyline and scowls. "Such a pain in the tights." he seethes to a lackey. "Increase security at all checkpoints.""

The image of Caine is reaching for his sword in its scabbard as Bleys looks elsewhere, as if putting the final touches on departing with haste.

To the image of Caine, Bleys drops the connection, and just at that slim moment before it is dropped, he's got this almost.. apologetic look.. to other presences in the room.

Despite the assurance of their open-carry presence, the bodyguards should have had nothing on the thick entourage of personal aides, stylists, mediamen, tasters, fawners, poets, and artistes. Surrounding their leader like a couple of extra layers of gem-studded velour, they are armed to the teeth with kits, bullhorns, spritzers, handheld fans, and fold-out stepstools. While they would have been perfectly watchful and hushed when Bleys speaks, and otherwise primp and lavish Bleys with accounts of his greatness...? These minions are paying an unseemly amount of attention outwards, and only looking at the fat cat to cast him critical looks for his attempts at deceivery.

The image of Caine, as soon as the image is gone gone, waits a minute, then puts the sword back and pulls out his deck. He pokes a fingertip through it for a moment and picks out one card, gazing at it with a furrowed brow.

To the image of Caine, A dashing Bleys is there for the contacting. It certainly isn't the last fella. He tosses back his hair and wipes his cheek with a hand bearing a fingerless leather glove. He's wearing a headband. His eyes are sharp and all a-twinkle. Where he is dramatically dark with the way shadows and light carve up the backdrop.

In the Trump image, "Brother," Caine greets with a smile. "I just had the most remarkable call from your doppleblimp, and thought maybe it offered a chance for us to take him out. Interested?"

To the image of Caine, Trim Bleys licks at the corner of his mouth and arches an impeccable fiery eyebrow. "I thought there must be a reason for that short piercing headache. Felt like someone was eating over my grave." The offer brings an intense hope to his eyes again. "Yes! But how? I'm currently knocking in teeth, and ducking into very 'convenient' blindspots to catch my breath. This damn place is such a grind!"

The image of Caine smirks. "The old boy may have been trying to think too hard and it leaked. Oh -really-? Well, I'll be brief, then. He seems to be holed up in one of your old places, high tech, used to be called MegaCity or MegaMart? If the place allows, we could take in tanks." He says this with some muted excitement. "I'm on my way out on state business, could make time if you want."

The lower infrastructure where the data moles and copy writers spend lives is much like a warren of cubicles, and each cluster is connected by patrolled hallways. The lesser-populated service corridors is where we find our New Challenger. Exposed climate vents and crawling hot water pressure pipes thrum to mask his movements and the occasional jet of steam cleanses his pores. A body recently kicked up against the wall partially muffles the crackle of radio chatter. The poor concussed bastard fails to answer the check-in for that floor's search, which means there'll be a small flock of roaming combatants arriving in the next minute or so.

To the image of Caine, Bleys blinks and considers. "Yeah, this tower is the tallest and has the most girth, so I figure he must be perched at the top. It's where I'd be." There's a lot of atmospheric vents of steam where Bleys is. Real good for the pores this when it's just right. Just the right amount of moisture rather than flop sweat. He massages his chin and starts attempting to skulk but still looks like he's on stage for some production. "Oh, I think it would oblige that sort. There's enough jazz in this place for all manner of tech. Hey, if you can make the time, do it bro." There's a crackle of radio chatter from a dropped walkie-talkie in the background. "Sounds like there's more company soon. I'll take any assist, especially if it means a resolution!"

The image of Caine blinks at that. "You're already there? If so, I'll make my way over."

To the image of Caine, Bleys nods, whispers loudly, "One minute." He stage-creeps with his back up against a wall where a series of pipes gush 80's music-video levels of steam. "Yeah, alright."

The image of Caine watches, doing an obvious critique of his brother's sneaking skills. The result must not be a ten out of ten. "Will call when I'm in shadow." And he turns over the card.

The staggered chimes of elemavators arriving at the current floor herald the arrival of some fresh opponents. "We know you're here, stalker! Assassin! Show yourself!" The voice radiating from the patched PA system gives uncertainty away, a hope that the challenger has already moved upwards... perhaps the via service stairwell. Not too obvious, but a clear way to bypass some levels and reach the exclusive tower. Not a trap at all.

The image of Caine vanishes.

From afar, to (Bleys, Merrisol): Caine's Dream Scene for attacking FatBleys: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1mTJS0L_Hs
To (Caine, Merrisol), Bleys pages: Yes! :>
You paged (Caine, Bleys) with 'Hah!!'.

The security detail posted to every door of the tower and strolling the wrap-around balconies consists of smart sleeveless leathers, decorative sweatbands, and sunglasses. Weapons bandoliers are full of shiny gear, though most may favor the blinding skill of their fists in fingerless gloves. Their walkie-talkies constantly buzz with status reports. In the upper echelons, the mood is still calm and the guards fresh and stalwart, but given the frequency of raised voices and meaty thuds through the clicks of static, all is not well in the MeTopia structure. What's worse is the increasing prevalence of glitches in the billboards, as underdog supporters manage to capture various feeds and temporarily replace the beloved face with one that, while strikingly similar, bears obvious differences in presentation and attitude.

RPG: Bleys declares that he has the Dramatic Disguise (SKL-DD) gift
RPG: Bleys declares that he has the Epic Panache (FGT-EP) gift.

You paged Bleys with 'And the Bosses get more difficult. And the secretaries less susceptible to his panache.'.
Bleys pages: What hellworld is this?!

The hellride was fast enough that a reply bird could not keep up with Caine. By the time he's ditched the motorcycle his horse became and read the note, there's really no time to scribble a note before he's wrapped in his urban invisibility cloak and walking into a small security airport on the outskirts of MegaCity. Caine's flown the things in the past, and makes use of the helmet, and is airborn before the bodies can be found. Once in the air, he turns his arm to focus on Bleys's trump, slipped in the neoprene sleeves he wears on both arms.

The tides of favor are still shifting, and need no polls or surveys to be known immediately. One just has to look into the streets to see spontaneous skirmishes between citizens for Governor Bleys and the recently formed support for the upstart who must be his younger, evil-er, and a little less sweaty twin. But he's sweaty in a *good* way. Looming over them, and blocking most of the horizon line in any direction, are the brightly animated digital billboards that extol the governor's endorsements and deeds, to rousing rock anthem accompaniment. Lately, the content has changed to querulous ads to rally the general populace to his aid. Even these are usurped at intervals by hastily edited, disjointedly scored, video copy of the New Challenger, punching, blasting, and flourishing his way from one crazy combat encounter to the next. The cacophony to the senses seems to have driven the populace to martial madness. The en-masse defection of the Hair Stylists Union is very telling, however. The up and comer Bleys is finger-snapping his way to glory! Then again, he still has to get past the glassy upper echelons of the MeTopia Tower, their powerful bosses, and less-susceptible secretaries...

Bleys has certainly been busy in the tower of the turgid tyrant. The amount of sweet chin music he's dolled out has covered at least three albums worth. It has been exhausting, mentally, because of always needing a punchy one-liner after dealing out finishers. It's also been challenging to make sure damage to his garments is allowed to be correctly cosmetic. That was a fun attempt at first, but the upper echelons of the Tower are full of opponents that are physically taxing. And without that sword, he's doing improvisational weapons that are better dramatic than pragmatic. His attention is distracted by the acrobatics and the like, but he can be reached during one of those lulls after making a quip about boots to the head.

High above the city, Caine glances down at the little activity and at the larger boards, and then back to what he's doing with the controls. In a shadow called Earth, he might have called this an Apache Longbow, but this is another world, and it's a Longbow but just different enough that he has to work out what he does and doesn't want to risk pushing. The basics there, though. Finding a stable spot, he trumps his brother to check in.

Bleys pants within a stairwell hoping his chaps will last the next few floors. He finger rakes his hair and completes the Trump connection. "Bro, where the hell? Need some back up, as much as I love all the heaps of personal glory."

"I brought air backup," Caine replies, and so it sure looks like it, from his surroundings. "Chopper, with..." He squints past the card, then back. "Hellfire missiles and some other fun. Where do you need me to shoot, other than at the top and not at, I guess, the plebian stairwells?"

Through the hazy smoke trails of mob fires lurks other dark dragonfly shapes through the mid-altitude sky, most of them distant blorbs. Corporate and news helicopters circle, but refrain from entering what must be restricted air space several city blocks from the MeTopia Tower. The dense thupping sound of whirling blades underscores the guitar hymns pumping through the PA system.

The obnoxious public address system of the shadow blares to life with some real Ministry of Truth mojo. Governor Bleys comes on with some blustering. "Loyal citizens! The unwashed masses swell and threaten your benevolant administrator's rule. Gather at the base of the tower and barricade the entrances! Keep the vermin out! We are close to neutralizing the intruder!"

Through the Trump connection, Bleys is peering at those surroundings and seems generally surprised that air support is incoming. "You don't mess around, do you?" Bleys cranes his neck. "I'm heading for the 80th floor as soon as I catch my breath. I'm close to him, but need to get my own two eyes on him to confirm. You know what will happen if we don't get close enough.. He'll slip away and appear to flame out in a big way. Just don't bring the place down on my head." Bleys might even be visible at some point through the ridiculous amount of glass panes that make up the tall skyscraper. Him and the mob of foes running and doing parkour on the other levels to cut him off or search.

"I'll be careful," Caine says, peering briefly ahead at the tower and back. "I'll try to spare the stairwells until you're up there, and then open up a distraction. No sense spooking him until you get in range. I'll occupy their security."

The pinnacle of the Tower is a good dozen levels of executive might. Glass-walled, yes, but reinforced and monitored closely, as though the occupants were subjects in demand for reality television. From what one might have heard or gleaned of the surface-to-air measures, there is an initial perimeter beyond which a vehicle may be shot from the skies to crash down in a less-important sector of the city. Past that, the intruder may need to be forced away by finer means.

Bleys pushes the wrist derringers back up the inside of his forearms with loud shlik-shlik's. Some sleight of hand replaces the knives at his shins and a toothpick between his lips. He angles up against a stairwell door, listens. "Copy that." He hears something he doesn't like and flattens himself. The door is blasted off its hinges and careens down the stairwell. "Thank yooooou." He leaps up and launches himself into the gauntlet of grenade tossing heavies while others lay down suppressing fire.

OOC> Caine says, "Strategically, once I head in, things go down. I can't pull off a prolonged engagement there, so Caine is going to assess first."

Caine takes his attention away from the card attached to his forearm and surveys the distant tower thoughtfully. Easing the craft into a turn, he sets a casual course to circle the tower, checking out what he can see of the ground, and the other craft in the air. He's high enough above the others not to crash into anyone, but well outside the space they're all avoiding. "This could have used better planning," he mutters, listening to the radio chatter.

Bleys gets into the thick of another fight and catches sight of himself partially reflected on the inside glass pane. It's just the sort of thing to give a second wind and get perforated by throwing daggers. He twists away from the serrated airborne menace that clips his toothpick out of his lips, hair flips and back flips. A short sequence of excessive parkour between himself and some foes almost becomes a dance off. "You'll need to wake up pretty late in the afternoon to get the better of me!" Hup. hah! Ho! He's finishing them off and racing upwards.

From afar, Caine is likely going to rush in when Bleys gets closer, pop countermeasures, and try to mess up as much as he can, then get out. There's no way he's going to last in a prolonged fight here, and it's possible he won't even with the fast attack plan.

The Tower is ringed by an administrative park, mostly low-rise structures and multi-level parking garages topped by domes that could serve as hangars. The outer edge is a majestic swath of fountain-studded garden paths. However, some study of the fountains' uniformity and placement suggests a function other than purely lavishly decorative. Police barricades have been formed beyond the perimeter, but there are already breaches where mad bouts of street-fighting have overwhelmed security.

Now that Bleys has won through to the executive level, it is much easier to spot him from from any given angle, and not just because that is where the movement is thickest. Each floor is an open plan and approximately two-hundred feet across, so on a level plane with a clear line of sight, one could look through one side straight through to the other. Massive conference tables and catered buffets form the backdrop for the Prince's newest challenge, to gain access to the grand elevator shaft for the governor's personal ups and downs, or else take his chances on the stairways connecting the windy outside balconies.

Caine grunts as he circles, wishing for a cigarette. He checks the systems he has as he considers, then flips on the pilot night vision system. Training it on the top of the Tower, he checks for signs of muzzle fire and such, the characteristic sign of a Bleys, in this situation. Other situations, he just blazes without the aid of technology, but in this case... good to be able to see where the fight has reached before Caine makes his mad dash to unleash hell.

A circular reconnoitering from afar reveals the presence of another black chopper outfitted with side guns, just hovering slowly up the levels as if it could sneak up behind Bleys while the fellow is occupied with the tiger shrimp cocktails and collectible groupies.

Fiddling through the police and security radio frequencies picks up various sitreps regarding the chaos around the city, near and far, as well as traffic control chatter issuing warnings to the civilian operators. There is one channel crackling with covert jargon, suggesting the target, "Primo", has not taken either of the bait options. The question remains whether the company holds up their end of the deal, or cut losses and leave the idiot "Vanitas" to his fate in the pinnacle.

Bleys must have a smoked kipper or else. He's making a run for that well-stocked buffet, which looks formidable, when he's stopped by art appreciation. There's ice sculptures of him. One as The birth of Venus. There's one with champagne shooting out of his.. The sound of guns dramatically cocking themselves has him skidding to a halt to stare across the floor to the well-armed guards with big dakka-rifles that have the drop on him. Bleys wishes 'he' had a cigarette handy now, as well as some mirror shades. It's an executive stand off as a chopper's wup-wup-wup provides a distorted auditory backdrop backbeat. "I don't suppose you're here to cater?"

OOC> Bleys hopes the rest of the radio stations are all wacky DJ personalities with gnarly soundboards.
OOC> Caine says, "Where does the action look like it is?"
OOC> Caine laughs.
OOC> Merrisol says, "What sort of sweet optics does the Gaspache have?"
OOC> Merrisol says, "Gaspache.. MegaCorp knockoff."
OOC> Caine says, "Night vision for sure, some magnification."

Bleys is on the 80th floor engaging with the security there. The non-combatants seem to be gathered on the sidelines and cheering in a ritual manner, incorporating a repetitive sequence of fist pumps and catcall poses.

Caine leaves the frequency with the odd planning chatter on and studies the chopper close to the building a moment, tracking what side it stays on, before completing his circuit with his own craft hiding, at a long distance, behind the tower. As the bursts of light seem to reach the 80th floor, he gets a reading of range to the Tower from his spot, and engages the radar systems, the infrasred suppression system, the jammers, and then the engines. When he breaches the no-fly zone, it's at a nimble 170 miles per hour and climbing, level with the 80th floor.

What Bleys can't see are the forces stationed on the storeys above, who seem to be biding their time in the eventuality that he makes it up to their level. The Gubernor's suites are still some floors higher than that, and milling with nervous commotion. It becomes a strong likelihood that the channel chatter is originating from an individual there, as the voice curtly requests a pick-up for his people from the helipad. The operation is dead in the water.

The lingering chopper responds to the call and ascends abruptly, giving its position away as it climbs past the 80th floor. Then wavers, pivots, and regains control. Seems the pilot has visually picked up Caine's approach. Eyes on possible target. Hold fire, must verify "Primo".

The cloaking measures are enough to get the craft blowing past the preliminary sensors which would have tripped the proximity alarms. As it is, the radio demand for protocol comes in a belated squawk, and the fountain mechanisms rumble to expose the silos for missiles that ought no longer be deployed. Still, a couple are popped off in hopes of throwing Caine off his run.

OOC> Caine says, "o shit"
OOC> Merrisol says, "A piloting roll to break past the no-fly perimeter. 9 sounds good."
RPG: Caine challenges a difficulty of 9. Caine chooses Resolve. Caine almost succeeds.
OOC> Merrisol nods, in this case an "almost succeed" would involve damage but not a crippling amount.

Bleys throws his precious self into an amazing shatner-esque roll and the automatic weapons start chattering away. Elaborate table dressings, sculptures, trays of shrimp and plated foods are picked apart by the hail of bullets. Panes of glass punched through and then obliterating into cascades of scintillation. Screams from the onlookers, a dog chasing its tail, bottles of brew exploding from near misses. Bleys goes over a buffet table as bullets stitch after him. He shoulders the table over and pops a shrimp into his mouth, the tail poking just past his lips as his pistols pop into his hands. "You're all 'so' fired." Bleys pops up and does some downsizing with his handguns.

OOC> Caine says, "This scene would be directed by Quentin Tarentino."

Now that he's truely /arrived/, Caine reduces speed and deploys both flares and chaff, lighting up that side of the MegaPhallus with bright burning magnesium suns. It might help shield him from radar and laser seeking things, but he's on limited time now. The Hellbane missiles are /right there/ for him, but... Bleys is in there. He reaches to engage the chain gun, and then there's -another- sort of missile, as his systems scream suddenly about something getting through the countermeasures. The explosion rocks Caine's Gaspache, cutting his run severely and dropping him a couple hundred feet before he regains control.

OOC> Caine says, "See, Bleys? I love ya."
OOC> Bleys says, "Twue wuv!"
OOC> Merrisol sidesteps to avoid getting any bromance on him.
OOC> Bleys needs a quick truck-in on my eyes as I look out the broken window
OOC> Caine grins.

If leapkicks, gunfire, and one-liners on the executive breakfast level aren't enough, the two combat choppers appearing at just about opposite ends of the open suite really helps scatter the screaming personnel. Loose paper and napkins are sucked into flight about the room, adding to the plays of light and shadow while the chemical flares dazzle through the windows, shattered or intact.

The other helicopter is a motley of custom elements, appearing to belong to a paramilitary outfit rather than MegaCorp or the Governor's assets. The operatives on channel are demanding confirmation regarding the rogue chopper's presence, but the glancing missile hit serves as a clearer answer than the radio garble. The mercenary craft tilts and hoves a neat circle around the tower, seeking Caine even as he regains navigational control further down.

OOC> Bleys says, "Ah right, I have to remember to be jealous of counter measures."
OOC> Caine snickers.
OOC> Caine says, "If you had rhinestones, they would dazzle SO MUCH right now."
OOC> Bleys says, "Damnit"
OOC> Bleys says, "I'm going to take my chances on the stairways connecting the windy outside balconies."
OOC> Bleys says, "Rather than that elevator shaft mentioned earlier."
OOC> Caine says, "You are a nutcase."
OOC> Bleys says, "Better chances for flocks of white doves out there."
OOC> Caine says, "Big cajones."

In lieu of the exclusive glass elemavator for BigBleys' personal effort-free conveyance, there is a system of sheltered staircases winding up the sides of the super-high pinnacle. It gives the structure a ribbed appearance, accessing the steel balconies encircling every level. Needless to say, there are security mooks with nerves of steel posted at intervals. The recent scare with the choppers and the ordnance have a lot of them thrown to the paneled floor or in some cases, over the side. Aiiiieeee!

OOC> Bleys says, "Ribbed."
OOC> Caine says, "Ribbed. You did that."
OOC> Merrisol says, "Be thankful they aren't glistening at the moment."

As Caine gains some altitude again after the missile hit, he's drifted a bit away from the building, though still well within range to use his armaments. As he orients on the building again, there's that moment of decision: the chopper or the penthouse? That radio chatter just before the explosion tugs at him, clicking into context. Primo, and Lard Bleys's strange behavior. Run for it now, focus fire on the chopper, or continue the mission. Save himself, or gamble on being able to handle this. Caine settles his jaw into a grim look, one that is very clearly visible, seeing as he's in the front gunnery seat of the Gaspache. And he ascends again, rapidly, even as the chain gun comes to life under the nose. The heavy weapon begins sending 30mm high explosive rounds rapidly into the Governor's penthouse floors, almost like he wants to pop the top right off the building. That every tenth round is incendiary was probably the original owner's idea.

There are better gunslingers than Bleys. If his gifts were more pragmatic than show boating. It does save him from getting outright killed while the scenery is chewed up by high velocity rounds and turned into yet more shrapnel. The hard work of the caterers explodes in puffs of flakes and gooey globs of real cream filling, pink curls of savory crustaceans and champagne pyramids. It's all very glorious and gratuitous and some glass powder filaments blow up along one side of his torso and embed almost fashionably. Glimmer Bleys runs out of ammo and resorts to grabbing a 2-piece carving set as the bodies slump to the ground. This Bleys shuns the exclusive shaft and goes for the ribbed winding accessways. He runs that gauntlet and its mooks with the intent of no stops but much sass.

The dense coated glass had cracked and burst from the intense fire fight within; it is absolutely no match for the barrage of metal jackets pouring out of those cannons. The spectacularly designed floors dissolve in concrete dust and glass shards, wood chips and organic mist, while the guns blaze up the levels. The sound of it drowns out even the booming external public address speakers. Chunks of balcony and twists of rail fall away, luckily for Bleys he gets a slight headstart outrunning the mayhem on his way up.

You paged Bleys with 'Permission to have BadBleys confirm Caine is in the choppah? Whether he knows for sure or not, he wants the mercs to shoot that shit down.'.
Bleys pages: Yeh!
Bleys pages: It's the worse thing right now so definitely shoot that crap out of the sky.

Rounding the edge of the tower to line up a shot at Caine's craft, the merc chopper reveals itself just as there is radio confirmation from the fatcat himself. That's him, damn his hands, he's on the fraud's side, that backstabber, get him get hiiiiim! Something to that effect? Not that he would know for certain! Stopping the wholesale destruction of his stronghold is paramount. The Gatling on either side of the chopper lights up, tracing a tight line to meet the rogue's ascent.

OOC> Caine says, "Difficulty on a full evade there?"
OOC> Merrisol says, "Can challenge another 9."
RPG: Caine challenges a difficulty of 9. Caine chooses Wits. Caine succeeds.
OOC> Caine says, "Whew."
OOC> Merrisol says, "Yo blades stay spinning."
Caine pages: Are any PCs on that merc chopper?
You paged Caine with 'Nopers.'.
From afar, Caine :)
Long distance to Caine: Merrisol D:
You paged Caine with 'There's maybe a puppy though.'.
Caine pages: Just making sure I don't send a Hellfire at a PC.
Caine pages: Puppies will have to be sacrificed.
You paged Caine with 'Monster.'.
From afar, Caine.
Caine pages: I think the merc's ammo can punch through everywhere but my vital engine stuff. So probably can hit the cockpit if rolls go poorly.
You paged Caine with 'Here's hoping!'.
From afar, Caine D:

Caine is just stopping his terrifying burst of fire when instruments report a blip of radar jamming ahead of the gatling's barrage. Throwing the stick to the side, the Gaspache peels off its focus on wrecking the building and slopes off away from the other craft, then jerks to the right, heading around the building again. Radar comes up again as Caine flicks more switches, engaging the guided 'fire and forget' systems for the Hellfire missiles. "I don't know who you are, but..." he mutters.

Bleys' curses are lost in the gorgeous amounts of certain doom nipping at his heels. It's a long one though that takes up a complete exhalation of breath. He drops everything just to put everything into as much speed as he can muster. A single slip might be the end. Thinking of how much he must spare the dozens of secretaries years of tears here, he gives it extra effort. A mental pat on the backside is warranted if he can grant them this gift of himself.

Caine pages: So how do you feel about guided Hellfire missiles? Might be OP, I'm happy to do a challenge or just miss for effect.
You paged Caine with 'As it's the first round and they should be seen as competent, I would say they launch some chaff for an early detonation somewhere between the craft.'.
Caine pages: Sounds good!
Caine pages: RIP distant news chopper.
You paged Caine with 'This just in----'.
From afar, Caine grins.

OOC> Caine waves the Bleys pennant furiously!
OOC> Merrisol says, "Assuming Caine did launch a missle or three in that pose?"
OOC> Caine says, "Let's assume he did, yeah."

Before Caine's reign of damnation is cut short, several storeys have been reduced to smoking wreckage and a skeleton of exposed infrastructure. Miraculously, however, Bleys has managed to clear just enough stairwells to come upon what must be the reward level for his efforts. A gleaming showroom awaits him, rotating display cases of trophies, mementos, and favorite weapons; a noveau-mode sculpture sporting his many man-watches, sparkle gloves, and smart fedoras; underlit platforms upon which a glossy black roadhog and cherry red convertible beg to be draped with scantily-clad bodies. And a well-dressed bevvy of hand-to-hand specialists set there to defend these treasures with their lives.

Bleys pages: Lots of street a-fighting here at first surely. But Big Bleys is still a floor above?
You paged Bleys with 'Yeah, he's a floor or two above. And a couple floors higher still, the very top and the helipad.'.

The string of rounds chases Caine on his swerving maneuver, blowing into the administrative park to rack up the collateral damage. The guns whirl empty for a few precious moments as the chopper climbs to find a better vantage on the airborne prince, when he shows his own fangs. The merc pilot pivots their craft as the cockpit squeals alarm, and the gunner lets fly a spray of metallic shrapnel to confuse the guided missiles. One detonates in a concussive bloom to throw the chopper in a temporary spin, while the other spirals off to obliterate a chunk of the tower midway down.

Not one to rest on his laurels, Caine is in motion again around the building, fully visible to those with enough spare time to see the screaming craft outside while they battle the other wily prince in the vicinity. Together, it's a formidable air and land power combo. Movies will be made of this moment, blockbusters, with Bleys holding the top billing and Caine relegated to 'Helicopter stunt double #1'. The life of a covert master is lacking in sparkle. He must make his own smarkle, either by flares or, as he attempts now, by sneaking up behind his enemy to fire some other ungodly device at them. He seems to be going for line of sight, for it is only when he sees the other that he fires the cannon again.

On the balcony levels above the showroom, some operatives have run from the governor's living suites to support the merc chopper. While they might at first be mistaken for super-loyal members of BigBleys's style entourage, with all their bling and coiffure, they have thrown off all pretense, and pulled semi-autos and submachineguns from makeup kits and floral bouquets. As Caine is peeling around the smoking executive tower, they too are in motion, taking their opportunities to unload bursts of high-velocity fire at the Gaspache as they go.

Bleys comes skidding in and stops with a double-clop of his booted heels. Of course this would be so well guarded. Look at all that fab collection. All rightfully his because. There's another rumble through the bones of the building with Caine and his current dance partner dealing out thunder and steel rain. Bleys has to resist contacting Caine via Trump and outright distract with some comment or sitrep. Bleys tugs on the hem of his fingerless gloves to make sure they're snug, and then polishes knuckles into palm. He clucks his tongue as a stand-in for audible knuckle cracking. "That's my brother out there.." He comments as he moves to the center of the room for the melee combatants to ring him in. "This isn't a competition of me against you all. It's more a race to see who gets in a shot at your bloated boss first. A missile or my fist." Bleys taunts dryly. "I think I might throw him out a window and see how many floors high he'll bounce. Ready, go!"

OOC> Caine waves the Bleys pennant madly!
OOC> Bleys has the worst idea with that roadhog and helicopters.
OOC> Caine says, "FatBleys+Roters?"
OOC> Bleys says, "Many chooseyourownadventures"
OOC> Caine says, "So many."
OOC> Merrisol says, "Balcony mercs can interrupt Caine's launch, or he can launch and take fire on his flank."
OOC> Caine says, "I'm protected up to 12mm rounds. I don't think reasonably they are going to do anything at all."
OOC> Caine says, "Unless they want to throw a safe at me?"
OOC> Merrisol says, "What if they're also yelling AUHHHHHH! while they fire?"
OOC> Bleys laughs!
OOC> Caine says, "Shoving the pistol at the targets speeds up the bullets, I hear. And grabbing your crotch."
OOC> Caine says, "I think submachineguns are in the 9mm range."
OOC> Merrisol says, "Yahhh, they were anticipating a fleshy target standing roughly 30ft away, possibly in the midst of saying, "Bleys, what the fucking fuc-""
OOC> Caine laughs.

Big Bleys is very much under attack by his own entourage at this point, but in the name of preservation. His toadies and personal assitants are literally pushing and shoving at him to get him towards the executive escape hatch to the roof. There waits his own velvet-interior helicopter being hastily prepped for launch. But the big fella can't pry his hands off the microphone of the P.A. system. He bellows into it, and his voice is thrown from every surviving speaker on the exterior of the building. "It's you, isn't it? You're out there, you're at the controls of that war-machine. I won't forget this, brother!" He works at trying to buckle on his scabbard as his entourage still fight to get him moving. The microphone is squeezed so hard it squawks distortion. "I could have been rid of him! He's so close, I can feel my taint itch! Unicorn's tits! I won't forget this, Caaaaaaine!"

OOC> Caine laughs. CAAAAAAAAINE!
OOC> Merrisol waves a tiny pennant for Gubernor Bleys
OOC> Bleys shakes two fists for dramatic effect, jowls jibbering.

Caine slides past the line of shooting men like a showboat boi on the red carpet, all fashionable kevlar armor, classy bulletproof glass, and attitude. The bullets provide the sparkle, striking the armor and delivering some terrible scratches to the matte paint. As he rounds the building, looking for the other chopper, FatBleys's PA system busts through the noise to mock him. "Thaaank you," he quips to himself, and the Gapache ascends again, turning to face the roof. He was already prepped to fire anyway, and fire he does.

OOC> Caine says, "That felt like he's about to escape, either trumping out or off the roof, so gambling on it being a roof departure."

Recovering from their previous countermeasures, the mercenary craft rises from the thick billows of smoke to turn and face Caine's new approach.. only to see him abandon his advantage and slide upwards. Banking to give chase, the pilot gives it his very best to get behind the prince's chopper this time, the gunmen within holding on for the ride. At that moment, the direct hit to the helipad and its perched luxury craft results in a terrific explosion crowning the tower, followed by a rain of flaming debris over a fair radius.

Bleys is involved in a veritable montage of punches, kicks, ear boxing and last second dodges around some of the precious collection of things. Thinking of how much he must spare the dozens of needful things years of re-collecting here, he gives it extra effort. A mental pat on the purse strings is warranted if he can grant himself this gift to himself. "Damn it!" He doesn't have time to knock them out or throw them out. Dislocating a knee or shoulder here and there, he's once again on the run and has trouble behind him and in front of him now. Onwards and upwards! His nose hairs are quivering at the close proximity to his alternative self.

Caine pages: You know my first thought there is for Caine to move directly backwards from the explosion.
Caine pages: The merc chopper is right behind me?
You paged Caine with 'Yeah, a took a Crazy Ivan swerve to get in that position.'.
Caine pages: Yeah. So I think I'm going to collide with you, by /accident/.
You paged Caine with 'Accidentally pushing his rear rotors through the windshield purely by accident?'.
Caine pages: If you're armored, might survive it. I think my tail rotor won't though.
Caine pages: Or see it happening and present the side to be struck. Something like that.
You paged Caine with 'It's not brand name, more of a fictional attack chopper with convenient weaknesses. But we'll roll with what happens.'.
Caine pages: Ok, I'll just pose the backing and we'll see what happens. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEE--

Caine wondered where the escape was, and there it is. Cutting off the more mundane means of getting away from Bleys is useful. The flying shrapnel from the explosion is less useful to his rotors, and the Gaspache reacts to it by suddenly swinging straight backwards.

With his escape plan ruined, there's no where for Big Bleys to go conventionally. Up isn't much of an option, and down is now cut off by the appearance of upstart Bleys. There's a nice big empty space to stare across at each other. With eerie near synchronicity, they point fingers at one another, and then get really angry at the perceived copy-catting. The poor entourage are caught in the twilight zone. Spontaneous misgivings and traitorous flipflopping! The entourage starts fighting with one another. That leaves the finger pointers to advance. Well, the one without a sword advances cautiously, and the large one with the sword begins to slowly draw and stand his ground.

"You're quick but you can't trump out quick enough."
"Correct, but there's time enough to carve you in two."
"Eat me."
"I will."

The once majestic MegaPhallus looks like a wax candle that has seen better nights. The upper balconies are a treachery of burning fusellage and flopping support rails. Guards and operatives alike lay slain or incapacitated, while those who retreated in time come to realize that Bleys has also slipped through their fingers.

The dogged pursuit of the merc chopper has brought it directly behind Caine at enough of a distance to dispatch a payload of railfire into his tail. The guns whizz hot just as that gap is closed by a rapidly reversing Gaspache, while sizzling scrap wings off his spinning rotors to randomly pepper the merc craft. The burst of rounds pound into the prince's chopper at close range for a second, swing wild as the pilot makes to evade a midair collision. Too late, as a blade clips Caine's tail rotor and twists out of the assembly. The craft upturns on its side, spanking the Gaspache with the rest of its rotors, denuding itself of flight capability in the process.

OOC> Caine says, "o wow"
OOC> Merrisol visualizes Caine A-Team leaping into the suite and facing the conundrum of figuring out Which Bleys is Which! Aaaah!
OOC> Caine laughs.
OOC> Bleys points at each other. Him! Shoot him! I'm the real Bleys!
OOC> Caine rolls a die quietly.

It's truly amazing how fast an advanced aerial war machine can go from a thing of deadly beauty to a hot mess in an instant. A shocked curse escapes Caine as he's fired upon from behind, before he's flung into trying to control the craft as the situation becomes much worse. The Gaspache tail isn't severed, but one couldn't call it a part of normal flight operations anymore. The craft wobbles quickly into a wild rotation, throwing the wrecked tail around like a big kevlar bat. Amidst screeching instruments, the prince struggles with the controls as his chopper drops in a barely... oh, not at all... oh, he's got some lift there... oh, that was a bank of windows on the way down... until, still spinning painfully, the Gaspache plows through some trees in the park and comes to rest, not exploded, in the park far below.

OOC> Merrisol says, "All according to plan!"
OOC> Caine grins.
OOC> Merrisol wonders if Bleys can run a +compare against himself.
OOC> Bleys says, "Going to go out on a limb and guess.. no."
OOC> Bleys says, "stop hitting myself! Stop hitting myself!"

RPG: Caine challenges a difficulty of 12. Caine chooses Force and the gifts BLD-OB and STY-CC. Caine almost succeeds.
OOC> Merrisol says, "Almost succeeds in forcing the choppah into the ground."

He has to look! Upstart Bleys gasps and hurries to the side of the building closest to the mid-air collision and Caine's craft dropping towards the Park. "Shit!" He has to risk a look. He just has to. Turning his back on Big Bleys, he goes to clutch the edge of structure and wind lashing in through broken windows, his face is pale and his hair tossed wildly about as he leans at the precarious drop to peer downwards.

Caine's opponent in aerial ballet looks like an ungainly whale in descent from the heavens, turning end over end with no such hope of achieving any sort of landing. Mercifully those within are senseless by the time the craft renders itself into base elements and a splatter pattern of flame over a sector of administrative courtyard.

No bright flash of flame meets Bleys's gaze far below, nor any sign of fire at the crash site. The Gaspache is a hunk of metal, but it is fortunately well-designed; the cockpit is intact. Within, Caine hangs limp from his restraints, helmeted safely but unconscious.

Bleys has been accused of many things, and is guilty of many things. Concerned svelte Bleys isn't great at being subtle and prefers a front on fight. He wants to be seen, and isn't great at the sneaking. Stabbing someone in the back? He'd rather stab them in the front. Surely he's got a moment to spend an extra moment to assess the situation down below from his vantage. Seeing Caine in the cockpit, but not on fire, well.. there's a positive there. It could be worse. But he's going to have to figure out how to get down there fast. How long are the drapes here?

Across from this building is one of the many other buildings that have billboards populating their scalps aplenty. As fate would have it, it's a hijacked billboard. Some news camera feed or security feed is trucking in on that top floor where Bleys+Bleys+Polarized entourage are having it out. Oh gods! Who is that creeping up behind Bleys! It's Bleys! He's swinging the golden sword. Bleys sees it and tries to be nimble and move into the stroke. They're wrestling for it. The camera shake is really annoying! Someone has been cut! Blood is squirting and Bleys' fingers are slippery. Bleys is tipping out, rolling out and falling out into empty air 80 floors up!

OOC> Merrisol says, "Safety First, guys!"
OOC> Bleys says, "He came out like a wrecking baaaaaall."

Though it isn't really possible for the city to fall silent at this moment, there is still a kind of hush in quarters where the usurped billboards feature the blow-by-blow. The ignoble deed of the Governor, followed by the scuffle for the sword and his imminent... downfall, inspires a chorus of gasps and shouts from the rapt populace.

Oh dastardly back-stabbing Big Bleys, you rotter. There's time to contemplate the sheer drop that might be uncomfortably close to the downed chopper. Falling away, he's staring with disbelief at the broken window where his doppleganger clutches his sword. The unsporting urge to not give fair warning is his downfall here. Rimshot. He still tries to lash out though, fumbling badly as he tries for his trump deck with blood slick fingers. Defiantly spitting out, "Your turn you bastard! You'll never last as long as meeeeeeeeeeee-"

Far below the thrilling finale between the Bleysii, Caine stirs. Then stirs more forcefully, lifting his head and fumbling for the canopy release charges. The survivor in him understands he's down in enemy territory, and his brain is kicking itself to Get Out. Unfastening his restraints, he stumbles without grace out of the crumpled cockpit, dragging the cloak he still wears along with him. The strange fabric seems to try to grasp at the grass and leaves, but finds nothing it can emulate in this natural environment.

OOC> Bleys says, "Can I ride the motorcycle down the sheer side of a blown up building? Tune in next week."
OOC> Bleys says, "Can I use defeated minions like barrel-of-monkeys and climb down?"

The ruin of the opposition sprawls nearby, having become merely a point of interest in a broader vista of destruction. Half of the governor's tower has been transported in haste to the ground level, the furniture and framework placement dictated by a truly visionary designer. From the wreckage, from the rubble, radio static can be detected through the low roar of incidental bonfire and the backdrop of a civil revolution. Legitimate requests for security backup or medical response are heard, naturally, but there are also snatches of communication from the hit team: Operatives ignorant of the chopper's swandive, demanding its appearance at the secondary extraction zone; one, already apprised, grimly advising radio silence and fadeback to the checkpoint; and one pigheaded bastard coldly stating the intention of completing the objective and obtaining the proof of card kill. Shouldn't that be.. a proof of kill card?

OOC> Caine says, "I have to admire that last one's focus on mission."
OOC> Caine says, "Since my next move is similar, the mission for Caine here being helping Bleys get his sword back."
OOC> Caine says, "Is the goal here actual assassination, or capture?"
OOC> Merrisol says, "From the unrestrained hails of gunfire, you can safely assume former."
OOC> Merrisol says, "Safely."
OOC> Caine grins.
OOC> Caine says, "Ok, then I don't feel so bad then."
OOC> Merrisol nods, only feel-good assassinations here!
OOC> Caine says, "Well, was concerned about being OP, but less so if the aim was actually to kill me."
OOC> Merrisol says, "I'm good with how it went down... which is nothing like I planned."
OOC> Caine grins.
OOC> Caine says, "Did we actually come to the same mental image for a confrontation at the top of a high rise in a high tech shadow?"
OOC> Merrisol says, "If you mean an attack chopper rising into view to mow down everyone dumb or terrified enough to stay standing, then yeah."
OOC> Caine laughs. Yes.
OOC> Caine says, "Classic."
OOC> Caine says, "I would love to be a fly on the wall for your debrief."
OOC> Caine says, "Caine is not good at the off the cuff close quarters, that's why he went for something where he could more easily control range. He's shit at the close in stuff."
OOC> Caine says, "That's why trumping in to Bleys, while he was actually in the middle of things already, was out too."
OOC> Merrisol nods. Also smelling something fishy about the situation, no?
OOC> Merrisol says, "Not... literally fishy, of course. >__>"

Bleys suffers a rush of feels over the vista and with his paws on his gee-whiz artifact. The former because there's bound to be some trauma over watching a version of himself bounce and bite the big one, and the latter because there's mental gymnastics sorting itself out after a bit of Highlander type stuff. He raises his gaze, and sees himself on the billboard, triumphant and flush of cheek. The love affair is renewed via bright pixels. "Right!" Step one is to dash off to the stairwell because here is still a chaotic danger zone. Step two is to get on that big bowel-rumbling motorcycle in the trophy room. Step three is ride that first class elevator right to ground floor and burst out with a throaty V-twin engine super obnoxious. And make for the downed chopper through as many plate glass windows as possible.

Caine turns and digs the one pistol he took off one of the guards while getting the chopper and starts off through the park, heading away from the great Tower and toward the nearest buildingage. He heard the radio enough to know that he needed to get away from the crash site Aye Ess Aye Pee. First priority: check what the hell was going on with Bleys. Second: get the hell out of this setup.

OOC> Caine says, "You see how our plans don't mesh, at all. This takes skill."

Survivors remain on almost every level of the edifice, even the chewed up ones towards the top. The glass elevator is a magical out-of-bounds zone, it seems, as Bleys and the Bleyscycle hum past and nobody gives him any guff. Perhaps something to do with the control pad operating via hand print. He who bears the whorls, rules the world! One concussed guard even salutes the elevator as it drops by.

Other figures are trickling down the steps from the marbled lobby, also a bit of a mess from when Bleys kickpunched his way in some hours earlier. They pick their way across the rubble in groups, fleeing the area as only harmless wimps can. Following more slowly are the predators, also intent on getting away with their lives, but ready to fight if it comes to that. Handguns and rifles out, six such operatives creep through the smoking wreckage, and make for one of the parking garages.

The elevator dings at its lower destination! *Daaaang* Bleys further heralds his presence when the doors open and the pop-pop of the motorcycle's engine roars into a potato-potato. "Gangway!" He guns it and peels out, his slippery back tire sashaying before more traction can be found. He yells super-stealthily at the top of his lungs, calling his brother's name. Competing with the sound of the vehicle and the accoustics of this damn place.

Some of the trick of evasion is stealth, at least until Caine gets to a place where he can kick in other tricks. This small park is not one such place, and the neon and glow leaves trees and low half croach running. With any luck, everyone will be too occupied to remember the mission, despite that guy on the radio. Cover-- then Caine hears his name shouted in the distance. The timbre is not one of hatred, as is often the case with the universe, or one of lust, as is often with his wife. That leaves... "Too soon," he murmurs, and keeps moving for the urban area in front of him. Range and cover, range and cover...

...Caine? Caine, he said. Caine. The derring fellow howling from the hog garners all the attention as usual, some of it decidedly the wrong sort. Lingering in the carpark, the operatives exchange glances, and take note of which direction Bleys is tearing away. They duck away into the garage, whether to regroup as planned, or pick up the operation on the ground floor, maybe even they are not certain.

OOC> Caine -.-
OOC> Caine says, "I really need to keep fully stocked on pain tokens."
OOC> Caine gets an idea. Looks at Bleys.
OOC> Bleys says, "O rly?"
OOC> Caine grins.

Bleys revs his hog and drives it towards the helicopter. If there's a mook in his way, he gambles on an intimidating hunk of chrome to help clear the way. Failing that, a boot. But wait a minute, he's got Goldie back. Some serious modern day samurai action could be on tap. Find the chopper! His brother could be giving out his last words to some pink mohawked person for all he knows.

The possible convergence of the well-meaning brother and determined assassins, if they're still about, spurs Caine to a swifter pace. His cloak is nicely weighted and doesn't billow, and he tugs the deep hood up as he runs. It's definitely a fashion statement to be running through a park, from tree to tree, wearing a black light-engulfing cloak with bad boy leather, but he came to kill and besides, he gave up competing with Bleys on fashion centuries ago.

Ringing the edge of the park are those fountain which more or less cleverly disguise those missile silos. They're still gaping halfmoon holes, like the remote operators are just waiting for that next wave of unauthorized Gaspaches to appear out of nowhere. Beyond, the streets and pathways out of the administrative park are closed off with steel gates, or that used to be the case. Angry supporters of the new challenger had been clashing with the old guard for entry, after the governor's megaspeaker call to arms. Since then, more and more of the billboards festooning the heights of the endless city have been turned, and feature stirringly orchestral clips of Upstart Bleys' glamorpuss journey from level zero to super hero. It will be a while for the populace is fully swayed to the idea of a champion who can still touch his own toes... but the thickest of street-fighting is over, or relegated to the urban backdrops for which such displays of finishing moves are considered fashionable.

OOC> Bleys laaaughs
OOC> Caine says, "Your PR team is /top notch/."

Bleys finally gets the chopper in sight after invading the area. He leaves behind a trail of wrecked lawns, topiary and tire marks over some of the misfortunate. Bleys comes to a halt within the park proper. He idles the steel mount a distance from the aircraft and peers towards the empty cockpit. Purposely keeping his eyes anywhere near another location that might be a bit whiffy and icky from a point of impact. He sinches his scabbard across his back while he looks for a blood trail or obvious signs Caine has been dragged from the wrecked chopper. "Damn it.. Is he still here?" He starts sweeping his gaze around.

As he gets nearer to the perimeter and assesses the reality of the nice park being more of a DMZ, Caine slows his hurry and starts looking for a conventional dark spot to hole up in long enough to trump Bleys. He's in edge already, the adrenaline from the crash still coursing around. But with magical cover so far off, mundane shadows will have to do. He hunts for tree cover, mainly against watchers from above. Spotlights, because that's what he would do.

The paparazzi are alive and well in MeTopia, even now popping up with their distance lenses to collect high-speed shots of Bleys setting his scabbard just so, and whipping back his hair and so on, whilst prowling through the ruins. A quick net transaction later, and those same pics are slideshowing across a prominent billboard. Interspersed are a couple of fuzzy Bigfoot-esque clips of a mysterious cloaked figure running through a sparsely wooded area. Some edits place haphazard digital question marks around the stranger. In one dogged display, the question marks have been replaced by valentine-type hearts.

OOC> Caine says, "Oh god."
OOC> Merrisol says, "Next stop: fanfiction."
OOC> Caine says, "The daring hotshot pilot who came to the aid of Our Hero."
OOC> Caine says, "Who is he? Is he single? Sales of dark hood cloaks spike."
OOC> Merrisol says, "He.. or she!"
OOC> Bleys puts a downpayment on Merrisol's PR services.
OOC> Caine says, "Look at those red dots on him now! Maybe they're tiny laser hearts! Tune in to find out!"

SvelteBleys is perhaps feeling maybe a little too exposed. Naaah, impossible. The ambient breeze is just reminding him of the bruises and lacerations demanding to be recognized. With the incoming trump connection, he snubs them. Bleys straightens his back and tilts his head just so. Same sort of mannerism to a dog hearing the word *snausage* somewhere in the house. His legs stick out to either side to keep him and the bike propped up while he receives the incoming trump connection.

"Mission success?" Caine's image asks quietly. He's BigFootCaine, the cloak lined in dark green, barely seen framing his face in the dim light. He at least his his back to a decent trunk, and he's croached. "I need to get out of here, place was a larger setup than I thought."

First responders are beginning to peel in past the gates, all *wee-ooo wee-ooo* sirens to warn people off the roads. There are civilian vehicles jockeying to exit from the multi-level carparks at the same time, ensuring delays for emergency service for some time to come. A roaring engine sounds out from one of the garages, as an armored truck muscles its way through on the sidelane, bypassing the traffic line and removing the pedestrian safety bar in the process.

Bleys pans his head about like a radar dish though it's a bit distractedly as he's engrossed in the call. "Where *are* you? For Pleats sake, I hate it when you do this. I thought you were twisted metal and here you are doing your disappearing act. Hey, I've got transport, we can burn out of here in style." His blood surges at the cinematic properties. "Success? Oh. Yes, yes yes yes. I think so, if success means I've recovered all I need. I don't know if the future will be pissed or pleased but that's neither here or where." A pause. "Uh oh."

Caine is patient with Bleys in ways that even his brother doesn't know. Even so, it's really being tested here, in this moment of high paranoia and fresh, open air feelings. He's in *sparse woodlands*, for shit's sake. This is Julian Country, and he can hear the banjos. Caine hasn't even seen the billboards featuring him, and /good thing/. "Right, I don't care about all that. But I'm glad..." He hears the sirens and such as well, but these are expected sounds, given the circumstances. "You do you, brother. Glad to help. But I'm trumping back home. Catch you there."

OOC> Bleys says, "Very well, but that means I need to spend time finding a stunt double to ride with me and hug me tight as we ride."
OOC> Merrisol steals the Julian line for someday use.
OOC> Bleys says, "Same."
OOC> Caine laughs.

Bleys seems like he's going to sternly object with a long winded advertisement for a road trip and sights between. "This place is close to this other place.. and bro, they love me there. It would be no trouble there." He might manage to get out quick enough before the sirens annoy him. And maybe he thinks he hears something in his brother's voice. The adrenaline is a little high right now in Bleys. "Oh.. very well! I might as well salvage this crotch rocket. See you back at home. Appreciated the help on this one. It was a real circus."

OOC> Merrisol says, "Gents, it's been a pleasure."
OOC> Bleys says, "It's been a real hoot."
OOC> Caine says, "Yeah, that was /something/."