Knights of New Syracuse IC

KNIGHTS OF NEW SYRACUSE

Welcome to New Syracuse: a city of towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, of lights, sounds, smells and tastes home to all the manifold niches of the human race — from the beautiful and glamorous, the rich, the poor to the ostracised and alienated. From the gleaming peaks of the business sector's spires to the rusting dockyards it is every inch a city of the early 21st century, and within its bounds of steel and glass and concrete something new is stirring. The people and authorities of New Syracuse are beginning to wake up to the existence of the supernatural: beings and people possessing strange and often dangerous abilities, people with the power to change the world as we know it... or bring it crashing down about our heads.

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Flight 1041, London Heathrow to New Syracuse. A jumbo jet filled with tourists, businessmen and sundry travellers, all whiling away the monotonous hours reading newspapers, magazines, books, plugged into ipods and mp3 players, tucking into a sub-standard pre-packaged airline meal or over-priced Mars bar or simply sleeping soundly, draped over an unwilling neighbour as the captain announced that they would be arriving at their destination in 20 minutes. The Atlantic ocean stretched out beneath them, from horizon to horizon. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.

It was then that something changed in the air. Several people — an assortment of rough types, dressed casually — rose from their seats and began making their way down the aisle towards the front of the plane. As the men passed, anyone alert and watching might have been able to make out the bulge of a pistol here, a flash of something sharp there, perhaps a briefcase that clinked with the sound of its metallic contents. Most, however, failed or chose not to notice any of these things. The vale of normalcy had not yet been pierced.

At the front of the plane, where a sliding door adjoined the cockpit, a flight attendant — a young, pretty thing, probably her first week on the job — intercepted the troupe's leader. She began to speak, the words barely audible from beyond the first class seats, and then her eyes widened. She let out a brief, high-pitched yelp, cut off by a hand over her mouth. The men proceeded into the cockpit. Nothing more was heard for another minute.


"...This is your captain speaking," the voice over the intercom sounded a lot less sure of itself than it had a few minutes ago, "I need to announce a... an unscheduled change of destination."

"For your comfort and safety," he sounded neither safe nor comfortable, "I will ask that you all re... remain in your seats."

Soft whispers and rustling began among the passengers, as anxiety crept into the air. A man stepped back out into the aisle: a heavy-set figure wearing a balaclava, gloves and a trench-coat. The passengers fell silent as he swept his gaze over them. His name was Ezekiel Nuramov, though few enough would know it, and, somehow, he had just hijacked their aircraft.


Soon enough his henchmen followed, nine other men, and they spread out across the plane. They were looking for something, or someone. The stillness in the plane was almost palpable as the men began to roam the aisles. All of them seemed to be armed. Nuramov stayed where he was. Not even the children dared move a muscle. The plane began to tilt, changing course for shores unknown. If there was anyone aboard willing to do something, anything at all, their window of opportunity was closing fast.


((Players who have signed up on the OOC may now introduce their characters, as passengers aboard the plane or otherwise.))

UPDATED Character Sheet: Ezekiel Nuramov:

Charlie's mind was struggling to keep up with the events that were unfolding.

It was just supposed to be a trip back to my apartment...

He looked around his surroundings for anything that could be used as a make-shift weapon, but stopped himself. This is an airplane. Anything that remotely looked like a weapon was probably confiscated back in the airport...

But he saw the guns. He saw the knives. It was amateur's work, but even more so for the security that had let them through. They weren't going to fire a shot, only threaten people. The knives on the other hand...

He got up from his chair (frightening the elderly couple sitting next to him as he did), turned and started walking down the isle, loudly proclaiming his need to go to the bathroom. The thug directly ahead of him bore the signs of wearing only a knife; no guns.

He grinned.


"Steph, what the hell are we supposed to do?"

Stephanie looked at her boyfriend, Ben, and snapped at him, "Shuttup! Just shuttup and let me think."

"But what are we gonna do? They have guns, Steph!"

Good lord, sometimes he can be incompetent...

Steph continued to ignore him, and instead twisted her hand around slightly, staring at the person who appeared to be in charge of the hijacking. She felt her way into his digestive system and planted a cluster of synthetic pathogens right above his stomach. Give them a few seconds to reach that acid, and he'll be having the worst stomach ache of his life.

((EDIT: OMG, FRIST. Btw, Delta, don't think I didn't pick up on you strategically placing this first fight in an environment with no possible weapons. >:U ))

Tobias Thule was snoring in his seat. He had been listening to his iPod for the last while, and had fallen asleep while doing so. The captain's voice jerked him awake.
"Ahawhawaha... What's happening?" "...all re... remain in your seats." Tobias detected the quiver in the captain's voice, he himself being a voice manipulator.
"This doesn't sound good..." Tobias muttered. Tobias himself was very good at martial arts, though not as good as his favorite superhero as a child, Batman.
The lady sitting next to Tobias was named Ellen Hazell.
She leaned nervously next to Tobias and whispered, "Why are we changing destination?"
"I don't know, but it doesn't sound good." They both looked intently at the man walking down the row of seats. Tobias had an idea. And so did Ellen.

Among the clear blue skies and the massive, blue sea of the Atlantic, the white plane stood out as a white beacon in an almost entirely blue landscape, to which the burning yellowish-white sun painted a jaundice hue. A single man, flying home after a business meeting, only awoke recently in the plane because of the light entering his windows. Wincing at this light, he could swear it was already sunset, with the painfully bright, late sunlight piercing in through the left windows to his jet-lagged eyes.

Only problem was that the sun was over the top of the plane, and could not be visible from any windows at the time of 11:00 AM.

Jess heard something going on outside of the overhead luggage compartment. She had snuck into the plane by cramming herself into the suitcase of some unsuspecting passenger while they weren't looking, and had somehow managed to get past security. Maybe there wasn't any at all?

She slightly tilted the door open to see what all the fuss was about. Her compartment was situated at the middle section of the plane, and towards the front were several armed men, who were scanning the seats, as if they were searching for someone. Jess became scared. She didn't know whether to jump out and stop them, or to shove herself back into the luggage to hide.

Underneath her, she could hear two passengers silently argue with each other. One sounded like a man, the other a woman. She heard the man refer to the woman as 'Steph'. "I sure hope this Steph person doesn't mind me hiding in her suitcase..." Jess thought to herself.

Hunter stared out at the ocean from his rooftop outlook. "How many times have I done this" he thought "A least ten, but never in such a populated area..." Nathan shook his head quickly, he was a thrill-seeker, he shouldn't be scared of a few people seeing him. He got up and stared to step back, his body smocking as he did so. When he reached the end of the roof, he ran forward. As he ran the smoking increased, eventually turning to fire. The fire spread out, making the outline of a dragon with it's wings spread. Hunter body changed to cover this outline, scales formed over skin, hands and feet became claws, a tail grew, his neck became longer, his head grew horns and became more reptilian, his body became larger, and wings formed. In only a matter of seconds a young man was replaced with a dragon that flew out to sea. Any witnesses probably thought they were seeing things.

It wasn't his preferred method of flight. It was crowded with simple minded people, there was little room for movement and little tolerance for open conversation. However, he didn't feel like he need to move or engage in the mindless squabble that these people practised so frequently. While plane flights were redundantly long from his perspective, throughout the entire time he spent on the metal bird he was rarely disturbed. Short of a library, a plane was probably the most likely place where one could find quiet humans. Therefore, short of a library, a plane was also a good place to read a book.

Or, in The Storyteller's case, seventeen books.

Occupying the middle five rows of the seven seat wide central column of the economy class section was an entire ward of elderly people. Life is short (relatively) so why waste it in a retirement home with stale air when you can take a plane to America and join a horde of tourists?

In the third of those five rows, sitting in the fourth of seven seats was an aged-looking man wearing a cloak with a very large hood that was draped over his head. It was dark brown, almost black, and the hems were lined with orange and white fabric arranged in an Aztec pattern. However, his choice of clothing was dwarfed in strangeness by the fact that he had read through seventeen novels — each at least an inch thick — and had re-read four of them, all since the beginning of the flight. At the moment he was reading the Bible, an oddity among the many storybooks he had brought with him.

Why was he doomed to sit on a plane when he could cover the distance himself in a fraction of the time? Surveillance. The first world countries had developed a habit of keeping record of anything and everything that crossed their borders. Before the twentieth century, no one would have believed that a black speck in the sky was really a human hurtling through the air. Now, there were eyes in the sky and beyond. Planes, drones, satellites and telescopes. If just one of them caught sight of something unfamiliar, the rest would turn on it. The 'intelligence agencies', so paranoid and possessive and xenophobic, would hunt it down; try to find that flying man.

It saddened The Storyteller that the humans had made an effort to fill in the blank corners of the map. Their world, once so full of wonderful mysteries and dangers unknown, had been shrunk down to pocket size. Soon there would be nowhere left to hide anything mysterious and unknown. The Storyteller intended to change that.

It was at that point that the captain's voice came over the speakers, announcing an 'unscheduled change of destination', followed by the appearance of a man in a balaclava. It was only when the elderly surrounding him started whispering about it that The Storyteller looked up from the Exodus.

Commandeering a plane. Not a new story, or a very interesting one at that. It was, however, a hindrance: he was tired of bureaucratic island-hopping and this would only prolong it.

How many stories had the humans invented about planes? How many of them would be ironic enough to assist him? One came to mind.

He took his right hand off the Bible and held it down at the sorry space that was apparently called 'leg room'. A thick, scaly bundle fell out of the wide sleeve and fell with a thud to the floor. It was followed by another, and another, and another. Once his conjurations uncoiled themselves and spread out through the economy class section, he sat back and began to relax. This would be fun.

"Snake!"

"..remain in your seats."
A man tucked in between a sunburned woman and an incredible obese man, had stopped drumming his yelllowish fingers on the flights plastic table. He was chewing a gum, which hadn't calmed him since he had gotten onto the plane.
The man name was according to his passport; Ian Newfield. This was of course not his true name.
The man wore a black fedora, a black shirt with an open collar. Over this he wore a well used grey blazer. All the clothes fitted in with a nickname his bullies had given him. Like his nickname did the man have a sleek, thin, almost skeletal body. His whole posture reminded of a scarecrow.
The man's face wore the signs of a junkie or a very busy man. His grey eyes was surrounded by dark rings and he had stuble on his chin.

He looked nervously around the plane, fearing to see suited, serious men. He was relieved when he saw the hijackers. He also saw all the guns and knives. He calmed down, leaned back into the chair and started to drumm on his seat with his yellowish fingers.
He was safe. But he needed to smoke.
Needed the soft, soothing grey smoke to hug his lungs.
To embrace his throat, and clear away all his nervosity.

The man Charlie approached seemed uncertain how to react; primarily he appeared unwilling to let him move any further, and blocked the way.

"Snake!"

A woman somewhere in economy class was in hysterics, and a medium-sized snake of unknown breed was sent sailing across the aisle by another terrified passenger. The bubble of anxiety, that had so far been kept in check by implicit threat, burst spectacularly. Panic erupted. Men, women and children cried out, twisting in their seats frantically in search of errant reptiles, or attempting to stand up and move into the aisle.

The nine henchmen had their weapons out now, waving them at anyone attempting to leave their seats and trying fruitlessly to call for silence. Their leader maintained his position, scowling behind his balaclava and casting his gaze around for signs of any otherwise suspicious activity. Then his concentration, too, appeared to break and he winced, not quite clutching at his chest but hunching slightly as if he might. Stephanie's attack had kicked in.

The situation was quickly getting out of hand.

((Ezekiel: -1 tag, 2/1 remaining))

Without prior warning to the event, what appeared to be the sun burst into a piercing white inferno, with vibrations of a sonic boom to match, and headed in fast towards the plane. After a few seconds of staying in a straight trajectory, the white fireball veered slightly towards it's left, to a point where it was going to hit the plane's cockpit.

Reaching the cockpit, the ball finally discarded it's flames and revealed what appeared to be a man armored in some elaborately decorated silver and gold plate suit, tinted slightly red from the atmospheric burning, which covered every inch of his body, with a small Y shaped slit for a visor. For a medieval plate, it looked futuristic in a way, almost like an alien technology. for one, the visor slit was emitting a very bright white light, with whitish-blue smoke seeping through the visor and forcefully hitting the windshield of the plane from the high speeds.

But before anyone in the cockpit could take a clear look at this armored man, it spread two large, bird-like wings which were also coated in the plate armor, and due to drag, caused the man to latch onto the windshield on all fours, generating a loud crashing noise and creating several cracks inside the glass where his hands and feet landed.

Immediately, he pulled his fist backward, and punched the glass, severely cracking the windshield enough to let air to seep through, but not quite enough to shatter the glass completely. The pilot and co-pilot had better get out of there fast while the man's fist was still caught halfway though the thick windshield.

The actions of the goons scouring through the aisle had given Jess a chance to act. As one of the goons neared the compartment. Jess quickly opened the hatch and sprang out on top of him, grabbing him by the hair. The unsuspecting man was toppled forward. When he hit the ground, he reached for his knife, but Jess had already yanked it off him and shoved it quickly into her backpack. How she managed to quickly throw it in without wrecking her bag was uncertain. Jess then noticed one of the snakes slithering nearby. The man began to push himself back up, so Jess began to dart to the back of the plane to get away. When the man got to his feet, be was readying himself to chase after her, but he then heard the silent giggling of one of the child passengers watching him.

It then hit him that Jess had shoved the snake in his trousers while he was down.

The man with the hat had started to take large breaths as the panic had broken out. He prepared himself for the familiar pain in his chest.
Still chewing his nicotine gum, the man set down one of his drumming fingers harder than the rest. This was followed by an immense pain in his chest, as well as every magazine clip jumped out of every gun on the plane.

He really wanted to take a smoke now.

Ellen used her powers of Party Inducement (Which includes Alcohol inducement) to make the nearest guard drunk. He ran into a couple of seats before falling over, muttering something about cheese flavored tissues. Tobias, who had gotten out of his seat, moved towards one of the other guards. He walked behind the guard, then brought his hand out and hit a pressure point in the guard's neck having him get knocked out. He then hid behind a chair, and waited for another guard to come along.

As the man blocked his way, Charlie brought his arms close to his body, ducked and glided down the aisle into a spin-kick combination that landed the man right on his behind. He followed it up with a swift punch to the face. It was impressive to the bystanders.

If they had been watching him.

Charlie quickly grabbed the thug's knife before lunging at the second thug in front of him. He slashed at the man's chest twice, making a loose "X". He was careful not to slice too deep, for fear of killing the man through loss of blood. He kicked the thug's legs out from under him, now finding himself faced with the kitchenette at the back of the plane. He turned around and surveyed the chaos that was unfolding.

There were several snakes skittering about; how they had been introduced into the situation was the hardest to explain. One thug closer to his position seemed to have a snake down his pants, and yet another (further away) seemed to be in a some sort of drunken stupor. Close observation revealed a few unusual figures, most notably a girl who didn't appear fully fixed in the third dimension. Another man was drumming his fingers on his seat, only to slam his fist on the armrest. Along with that came the sounds of several guns being emptied of their ammunition.

It took less than a split second for Charlie to register this before he was running back down the aisle.


Steph, being closer to the front of the plane, got a good look through the cockpit door-window at the scene that was taking place behind the leader. As the window cracked, she darted up from her chair, leaving scarcely a second for Ben to attempt to grab her arm. She started running back down the aisle, but ran straight into a thug. Changing direction, she jumped over a few seats, but not before leaving the man a parting present: a slow-acting "bug" planted directly into his throat that would make it swell over time to the point of suffocation.

Unfortunately, this last minute attack stopped her from looking where she was going, causing her to trip over a man who appeared to be hiding behind a seat. She flipped over him and landed on her back, quick to pick herself up, and hoping that the man wasn't one of the thugs.

((Tala, that last paragraph applies to Tobias, if you couldn't tell. ))

Towards the back of the plane, one of the thugs cried out in horror and shook his legs frantically, finally resorting to pulling his trousers half-way down to dislodge what turned out to be a mid-sized python. The man whipped his gaze around angrily for the child-like figure that had eluded him. He started forwards, only to trip over his half-discarded jeans and fall flat on his face a moment later.

Four of Nuramov's goon's remained standing. Two of them tried desperately to recover their lost pistol magazines. One of them fumbled and dropped his clip again, wheezing as he struggled to breathe inexplicably. The other, close to the front of the plane, cocked his weapon and joined Ezekiel, who had moved forwards into the cockpit once more.


The co-pilot pushed past them, running for cover away from the figure taking the windshield to bits, and the pilot tugged at his seat-belt with one hand and raised the other over his head in fear of flying glass. Nuramov ignored them both, and advanced with his one gun-wielding henchman at his back. As the armoured interloper pulled his fist back for another strike, the hijackers' balaclava-wearing leader threw aside his trench coat and raised his left arm towards the glass.

In short sleeves, it became clear he was no ordinary man: Nuramov's arm was a jigsaw puzzle of interlocking sheets of dull, chipped metal, and as he raised his open hand at the figure attached to the outside of the plane, no more than three meters away, an intense blue light flared from Ezekiel's palm. The electromagnetic pulse lanced out across the cockpit and through the windshield.

Ignoring his wheezing comrade, one of the thugs had managed to get his act together and insert a spare clip into his gun, and began to charge down the aisle in pursuit of Charlie. He only managed to move about 6 feet before he too fell over. He looked back to see that Jess was hiding behind a row of seat and she had just stuck her leg in the way of his path. Enraged, he quickly sat up in a kneeling position and pointed his gun in her face, intending to blow her face off. Jess responded to the assault by hasty shoving her finger into the gun barrel. The goon laughed at her attempt, and pulled the trigger... only to have the handgun explode in his face, stunning him. As Jess began to flee, he lunged forward, grabbing Jess's leg in the process and hoisting her into view of the other thugs. "Look what I found, guys!" He yelled sadistically. Jess struggled, but her only hope of getting out of this now was if someone were to assist her...

A blue light emerged from the man's palm. letting his guard down for a moment as if accepting a peace offering, the figure was entirely susceptible to the blast at the time... that was, until the pulse hit him slightly off his torso and clipping into his left wing, generating an intense feeling the being knew all too well: pain.

The sheer momentum of the blast slid him off the right of the smooth windshield after failing to find a place to latch on to in time, followed by the insidious grinding sound of crushed metal as the figure crashed into the plane's right wing, barely off the jet turbine, which -luckily- didn't cause the plane to destabilize.

[Tags: 4/5] {WELL OK THEN DELTA}
[Frags: 3/3]

After a split second of shock and wonder, the man instead found another, more suitable way of entering the plane; the window. It was then that fired a golden hook out of a small slit underneath his left palm of his armor into the glass. After the hook latched on the rest of the window, he yanked the window open right out of the hinges, then launched another hook out of his other hand to reach the inside of the plane, barely missing a skinny, yellow-skinned man still in his seat wearing a fedora.

Not knowing that the window was indeed too small for him to fit in, he collided into the hull, denting it and panicking every person in the immediate vicinity. Making do with what he got, he manually tore a hole in the plane with his hands and entered the plane to see one of the invading men holding a strange, cartoony-like being in his arms. dropping the character in fright and clawing for a knife, he stood ready to attack the man, intimidated, but not completely frightened enough to run away. After the man calmly called for backup, The figure growled in a soft, yet high-pitched screeching noise and stood his ground, ready to see what attack the man would make so he could counter it.

'Ian' rose up from his seat. He raised his hands and in broken english told the people to calm down.
Something that was close to a lie, since the fedora wearing man walked to the cockpit of the plane with a gun flying up into his hand, reloaded and ready to be used.
Which the man did use.
Because in opposite of the other super powered beings that openly fought the guards, the man didn't have any respect for human life.
Why should he? He had grown up tortured, blinded to sympathy and empathy.
One shot.
A red flower bloomed up from a henchmens chest.
Two shots.
A crimson river now flowed out from the limp body.

'Ian' reached the cockpit. He saw Ezekiel, and his henchmen.
The plane suddenly vibrated. 'Ian' had, as the paranoid person he was, learned as much as he could about planes before setting his foot in one. The air pressure was going down.
As well as the plane.

Three shots.
The henchman was penetrated by three bullets through his chest. They continued through the hencman's chest and bored themselves through the already, partially, detroyed glass.

Eric, which was his real name, now shot the final shot of the magazine. It was aimed towards the leader, Ezekiel's head.
Eric or 'Ian' dropped the now useless gun.

The Storyteller had trouble getting back into reading his Bible. The humans were panicking, yelling, screaming, and trying to move. He entertained the notion of tearing the plane apart and making his own way to his destination, but an unfortunately timed event convinced him that surely by now there were government eyes on the flying vessel: the plane hit an angel.

Because it was covered in unearthly armour or that it was hacking its way into the plane via the cockpit window, The Storyteller was sure that the plane was being monitored very closely from one of those space satellites, or something similar. This transcendent being — whom he was otherwise glad to see exist without his assistance — was ruining what chances The Storyteller had of escaping unnoticed.

On the other hand, the chaos inside the plane would be enough to let him alleviate the situation to a degree while staying relatively under the radar.

He set the book down with a sigh as the elderly surrounding him continued to panic. He was in the dead centre of the economy class, so there was an equal number of people on either side that were too scared to let him pass. No matter.

He stood straight up, the seatbelt passing straight through his abdomen as if it were immaterial. He turned to his left and walked unobstructed to the aisle, through anything and everything that would normally have prevented his movement. He advanced through the legs of those still sitting, the armrests of the seats, and the bags on the floor, passing straight through them as if they were simply made of light. Naturally, this caused further panic on the part of those he walked through, but it added nothing to the pressure of the situation.

One of the hijacker's men sat in the narrow aisle between The Storyteller and the cockpit. His pants were half down, and one of the snakes was coiled about his feet. Being an adult human sitting up in the middle of a very narrow aisle, he was nothing short of an obstruction.

The Storyteller kept walking, but rather than just ghost through the man, he figured he would remove the threat altogether. Just as he put his foot down, just eleven centimetres in front of the man, the carpeted floor opened up into a circular portal of purple and black, with black lightning snapping about the perimeter. The man fell into it instantly, swallowed by the darkness. The portal shrank back into a singularity before The Storyteller's dark cloak passed over it, so he walked on solid — but still airborne — ground. That portal led to The Storyteller's realm, a realm where beasts and beings and lands and devices of tales and stories existed. The same realm from which he conjured his serpents.

The python slithered after the cloaked figure and lifted its head up high. A wrinkled hand accepted it by the neck, and from the point of contact, the python's skin turned to a dark wood. The snake straightened out and became long and thin as it turned to varnished mahogany, and its head morphed into a narrow zig-zag shape. The Storyteller continued to walk undisturbed, now with a tall wooden staff in his hand.

One of the thugs — one whom had trouble breathing — made a daring effort to raise from his semi-doubled-over posture to intercept the old man garbed in a cloak that left only his jaw and hands visible. He raised his gun — complete with its full clip — at the man's chest and barked something along the lines of 'stop'. What was visible of The Storyteller telegraphed his acceptance of the challenge: his lips curled up into a grin and his hands clenched the shaft of the staff, which was held diagonally off the ground.

The choked thug wouldn't stand for having his bluff called, and so decided to make an example of the elder. He steadied his hands, took a careful aim, and fired a hollow-point at the chest of the cloak.

The bullet hit the man in the back.

For just an instant after the shot was fired, The Storyteller opened up two small, identical portals in the plane. The first was on his chest, the second was all the way up in the cockpit, facing back down the aisle. The bullet went straight into The Storyteller's fantasy realm and then came straight back out, sped down the aisles of first, business and finally, economy class, and caught the man on one of his ribs. Not a fatal blow. Then, it was the old man's turn to move, and several heads turned to see it.

If one phrase could describe how The Storyteller moved with staff in hand, it would be 'he could move'. He charged forward at sprinting speed, without the requirement of any kind of impulse, with his cloak billowing all around his body. The first blow landed straight down on the thug's head, and the reaction force on the staff sent it spinning the other way to strike the thug under the chin. He was lifted clear off his feet and arced backwards through the air. The Storyteller followed through with the backwards-spinning motion of the staff and struck the thug mid-air on the small of his back, committing to the attack with both arms outstretched.

The thug landed heavily on his back, bounced, and slipped straight into a waiting portal that closed the moment it swallowed the dying human.

After a small neutral standoff, the man dashed forward and aimed his knife toward the figure's stomach, only to have his knifed hand forcefully grabbed and disarmed by his opponent. He then reached for a gun laying on the ground, to which he dived for, but yet again, the armored man reached him and yanked the weapon forcefully out of his hand, creating two bullet holes in the top of the plane while doing so. grasping his red hand in pain, the man cursed out the fight and made a break for the door to the economy class to call for backup, only to be met with a sharp, near fatal pain in his back; the pain of a barbed grappling hook.

Yanked virtually out of the air, the figure released his grappling hook and caught the man by his neck, staring at his eyes as his foe's feet kicked aimlessly at the ground, only barely over it.

"I've made my judgement." he spoke.

His voice displayed almost godlike traits; deep, ethereal, and slightly distorted, yet heard clearly throughout the section of the plane they were in. without hesitation, he proceeded to walk over to the hole in the plane he made and let him down, only to forcefully kick him out of the hole. A small scream lashed out, hopelessly lost from the sound of the wind entering the hole, looking briefly at the cartoony character he apparently saved in the process, only to shake his head, thinking that he must be imagining things.

Seeming to brush off the event as if it was nothing, he reached for a kite shield and a short sword behind his back and made his way over to the economy section, only to find a man gunning down two of the hijackers, and aiming at Ezekiel, the man who shot him off the windshield.

((@Isak: For future reference, it might have been better to describe inflicting a non-lethal wound on Nuramov and remove one of his tags; it's still easy enough to work with the NR system, but I think it doesn't quite flow as well. ))

The wind howled and an alarm sounded loudly from the dashboard of the cockpit as the plane depressurised; across the aircraft, breathing apparatus deployed from the overhead space. The more aware among the passengers grasped at them and pressed the devices to their faces as air escaped through the hull breach.


Eric's last round grazed Nuramov's head. The man bellowed as the bullet tore his skin and drew blood. Clutching the side of his face with his right hand, Ezekiel walloped his attacker with a vicious back-handed blow from his metal arm, then turned to face the armoured figure advancing up the aisle.

A blue light built in the palm of Nuramov's cybernetic hand, charging for another EMP blast.

"What are you," he growled.

((Nuramov & Eric: -1 tag — 1/1 and 4/3 remaining respectively))

He opened his wings wide open in a defensive combat stance.

"Guess."

Raising his kite shield, he readied himself for the familiar blue blast that hit him off the windshield, planning to counter him by tearing his robotic arm off with a hook and a well-placed sword strike after he shoots.

Behind the shredded remains of his balaclava, Nuramov registered a mixture of confusion, anger and fear as the figure's appearance sorted itself in his mind. He took a step back, jostling the empty co-pilot's seat behind him, and let loose another blast from his palm.

"ебать!"
Eric sweared as he was knocked back. He now lay on the plane floor with a pain in his chest and head.
He had accidentaly swallowed his nicotine gum. While the terrorist spoke to the angel like figure, Eric rose up and found one of the pilots which he walked towards.
He grabbed the pilot.

"Where is the parachutes?" He growled at the pilot with his broken english. His voice was hoarse of all the cigarettes and had a nasal tone to it.
"Where are they!?"

((Tags: 4/5 Frags: 3/3))

The shield damped the force of the blast from the EMP, but the pain surge of the electric blast was still very, very powerful. The figure underestimated him, and produced a horrible, nerve-shattering screeching sound, loud enough to vibrate the metal of the whole plane. The EMP found a way past the armor on his already burnt left wing...

Tags: 3/5
Frags: 3/3

Unable to muster up enough sheer will to launch a hook, he instead dashed towards Ezekial, relying on the cooldown and charge-up times of the EMP he noticed earlier, then bashing him into the co-pilot's seat with his shield, quickly grabbing his robot arm afterwards and tilting it away from him, and swung his sword upwards to the elbow joint in an attempt to bisect his arm in two pieces.

This maneuver was designed to disarm an organic blade-hand, but it is unknown if the metal that made up his arm was strong enough to survive the slash.