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<span class="mu-i">Rather than face the odds of competent opponents with heavy backup, the Slicer-Rat turns tail and flees, having suffered so much Psyche damage that all he can think of his his own safety.
The Rat-Pack pounding down the alley towards the waterfront catches sight of one of their leaders bolting for it, and stop up short, hesitant, struck by contaminants of terror. But on the roof above, and from the warehouse itself, and from the other side of the alley, more Slice-rats pour, knives in hand, heavy hearts set on cutting, and with a barked word and shout one of their bandleaders gets people moving again.
Cardinal Sin bears the brunt of it, but the Legion Fullplate, stoic and strong, wards off four knives and a set of sharp teeth. That's the job, isn't it? To man the wall. Fourth Dusk surely appreciates it.
>By The Book, -1
>You ended up defending *for* someone else, sheltering them.
--
Riv feels a blossom of heat as nearby woodwork and planks ignite, suddenly combustible.
--
Lagomorpheus shakes head and re-orients after slipping on mysteriously appearing ice. How odd. And then the sting of a knife finds them, as pursuers close in.
--
Something shudders the connections between Here and There and obviates distance, for a moment. Crates bearing Vanadian Seal fall sideways in, through holes in space that-- no-- sorry not-- oh. Here was simply there for a moment. Apologies, spatial geo-coordinates got scrambled for a moment there.
--
Amicus, too steel-spined to accept blissful unconsciousness, sinks slow but sure. His armor pings as it flash-cools into brittle slag around him, the stinging salt seeping into crevices that heat has cracked in the walls. One arm barely responds, skeleton more ash than anything resembling human bone. The other hand holds Mistil's surprisingly light hand, and she looks up, through the waters, green eyes wide and a soft smile. Nods, once. You could let go. She would understand.
The water, at longest last, is ... cool.
She hasn't felt cold for quite a while.
The last chain to break is the chain that binds you to this life, the animal need to live and breathe and secrete and simply exist, and beyond then, in the quiet acceptance of the Mothdream, you find yourself. They say that they who do not flinch have won their soul. Perhaps those who can see the drowning death approach and accept it can claim the same fame.
Mistil looks up, past Amicus, into the high sky twisted by the broken waves, and the shining sun beyond, and all the little things she has done to build a bonfire in her soul so virulent volatile it takes an ocean to quench.
There is a moment here, in the water that was briefly steam, where simple choices can be made. Sink. Swim. Push. Breathe.
Drag a little wet rat back to shore or try to save yourself.
>MASK PHASE
>Spider-Rat-Man is... temporarily indisposed in Other Places.</span>
