(Ballroom); Dietrich, King, Vanity, Alonso, Zen

[Lust]

There was a certain air of elegance that the White House offered in its highly-polished floors, and that elegant dignity was carried through the floors and walls and into the man that greeted them. She'd seen Lord Dietrich before, but never in person; news didn't do much justice to that pretty face of his. Nice facial features, good shoulders.... Too bad their objective was to kill him. It was always a shame to kill beauty in the world. And tehre were others in this foyer, also not too bad to look at... one needed to smile, and one just looked decidedly uncomfortable as he glanced her way. Ah, that was a look Tanandra knew well! ”I’m afraid we won’t be serving a meal today, nor were we prepared for an extra three guests.” Oh well. She wasn't really here for a meal, anyway.

Lord Dietrich turned to walk down the hall, motioning for them to folow him. A delicate hand reached up, Tanandra twirling the small Tootsie Pop in her mouth lightly as her eyes moved over from Alastor to Zen. Honey-coloured eyes lingered as she toyed with the hard candy, a playful smirk teasing at the corners of her mouth before she turned her gaze away to follow Vanity and Dietrich to the grand ballroom. Guards were posted outside, and Tanandra looked around the vast room as Vanity took a seat at a tiny table with Lord Dietrich.Such a wide, open room... During lavish parites this room must have been exquisite, but right now the emptiness felt almost foreboding. Yes, they were three immortals and special toy against a man for the moment, but Tanda knew better than to underestimate anyone based on presentation alone. Lord Dietrich would not be in is position if he were weak or a fool, and this much open space seemed like a good place to try and pen one's enemies in a disadvantage.

Standing, Lust's eyes drifted back to Dietrich, listening carefully as he began a delicate dance of flattering a person as powerful as he and then stating his perspective on things. And to be fair, Dietrich had a good eye for observation, and were it in the cards for Vanity to make such a move, it would have been most interesting; Creta and Drachma were both incredibly powerful countries. The two of them uniting would have given the world a pretty hard shake. The citizens of Drachma all adored Vanity (as far as Tanda could tell or cared to know) and would easily be swayed to anything that came out of the pretty little princess' mouth. She watched as Vanity shifted slightly, letting out a soft chuckle. Like watching a cobra curl back before rising to fan her hood and try and scare her prey.

Tanandra remained silent, listening. Vanity was right that the Queen had the most powerful moves of the chess board, but it was funny almost that she fancied herself as the queen and most powerful. True, the Queen was most powerful strategically, but the game was not won by the capture or kills of the Queen; it was all down to the King. In the end, all pieces were at the King's disposal for his victory, not the Queen's. A king and rook would switch places in a castling strategy and could easily catch a striking queen off-guard, especially if the queen was too sure of herself. In truth? The way they were here now, facing the White King head-on was more the tactic used in the Poisoned Pawn strategy; offering a piece in a powerful position only to be sacrificed and leave the line of sight to a checkmate entirely open for the other king. It was a good move, and hard to counter at that point. But that's all this and Vanity seemed to be to the actress: a beautiful, poisoned pawn by the world's most ambitious King who would have all, regardless of which pieces were sacrificed.

[Guest]

Dietrich couldn’t help but crack a smile during her rebuttal, chucking softly to himself. Ah, the young were so stupid. ”A shame that Hild’s gone,” he says, rapping his fingers against the table. ”I was hoping for the opportunity to kill her myself. But, I believe congratulations are in order. You have reached the other side of the board, and been promoted to Queen, a peasant that has risen to the higher ranks. But, you’re still a pawn, and, as such, you fail to see the big picture. You’ve crossed into Creta with little resistance because of my goodwill, and because I value my pieces. Unlike you, I see their inherent value in the grand scheme of things. Amestris is but a step to me, but an end for you. So, while you imply I’m a frail, weak king hiding behind a row of pawns, I’m afraid you’ve got your analogy wrong a bit: I’m the player, Alena, and an experienced one at that. A queen is something to be used sparingly, not brought on the frontline. It’s high-priority, high-threat, but a resourceful player knows that, if they’re smart, they can simply get another one. If Hild was thrown aside so quickly, what makes you think you’ll last? Whereas me? If I lose here today, it’ll be a calculated decision, a gambit hindering on more than one factor, not this… Drachman Roulette you’re playing right now.”

He winces, his hand slipping under his coat. ”Sorry, still a bit sore from my last trip into Drachma.” He smirks slightly, taking in a deep breath before exhaling slowly. ”So, you have no problems with me or my country, but you invade my territory? Not that it was subtle, considering the troop buildup, but not so much as a call? Now, if you truly are a queen, you would have taken initiative, plotted. If RIOTE is of no concern, then shirk them, wipe them out. Rid this world of them, and I would’ve helped you into Amestris. But this, what we’re doing right now… Not so friendly. Not exactly a good place to start. Crossing my border, destroying my property, killing my people… No, you’re a rookie, Vanity. Unlike you, and the other world leaders, I grew up to be in this role. I was taught and trained how to use a country, how to run it. I was, quite literally, born to be King. Not a false king, not an ‘el presidente’ or ‘Chancellor’ or whatever your title is, but King, meaning I was born with the right to rule. Prime Minister is but icing on the cake.”

Taking another deep breath, he sighs, his face scowling at Alena. ”If you make it into Amestris, it’s only because I value my country over Amestris. But, rest assured, if you do, I’ll make sure your people aren’t getting back out through Creta. The Hand of God itself will come down and wipe your forces off the face of the earth. I will bombard your ports until rubble and dust is all that’s left, from far beyond the horizon. What allies do you have?

“Now, you shared a secret, so I’ll share one as well: I control the seas, where the Esparian privateers and Gelemorte fisherman operate because of my good will. That also means I control ninety percent of all trading, Alena. Xing, though it claims to be neutral, has established many times that it will side with Amestris, for what little that poor excuse for a country can offer. Still, that’s your only alternative scratched out right there. Aerugo is but a negotiation away from working with me. Carraig likes to pretend it operates on its own, but relies on Creta for money and food. Esparia? One political movement away from siding with a pro-Republic government. And Amestris? One word and we’ll drive you back to your pathetic little country, or I can have all trade with it ceased immediately and watch the country rot from the inside, with or without your help in carving it up. Face it, Alena. If you want Amestris, you need Creta. If Carraig can’t maintain their population, I doubt the barren wastes of your Motherland can. That means your people will begin to starve, and eventually dissent. I’ll sink every trade ship daring enough to enter your waters, Alena, whether they’re Cretan or from any other nation. So don’t walk in here and act like you’re holding all the cards, because you can’t make a damn thing happen without me backing you up. I have the money and manpower to deal with whatever you can do to my country, and while you have a sizeable army, might I remind you that only a few task forces held back the counter-offensive posed by Amestris’ combined districts?”

He chuckles, wincing slightly. ”And Alena, the queen is the most mobile piece on the board, sans the Knight’s ability to jump over other pieces. But, the more skilled the player gets, the more he or she realizes it’s a worthless piece. Once mobilized, you go on the offensive, and you get greedy. Lusting for victory, you zip across the board, hungry to take your opponent’s pieces. Whether pride or vanity, you go too far, you get in far too deep. Suddenly, you’re not in control of the situation, but your opponent is." In a swift movement, Dietrich draws Order from under his jacket, three rounds from the pistol letting loose into the woman sitting before him, two in the chest and one in the head. "And that's when a skilled player strikes, gentlemen," he says with a smirk.

The doors to the ballroom burst pen, his guards armed and armored, rifles raised. Standing up calmly, he motions to Thum and Cravetz, both standing behind him, to come forward. "I trust you can handle things from here, Sir Ito?" he asks, beginning to walk away. "I shouldn't keep Sullivan waiting any longer."

[Aurelius Schwartz]

Ah, misinformed miscreants lingering about his method, speaking self-indulgently of him as if he were a black King without misanthropic ways. What folly, straying so avidly from the board that the pieces and players have become black and white chess. Have they forgotten about the grey? Have they ventured so far from the truth as to constrict themselves with the rules of a simple game? To manipulate and control pawns--to scavenge the board for another player's pieces was child's play. Why not raise one's eyes from scrounging the board and see what behold's the other player's gaze? Win--to simply win holds no meaning, but the process of it. This process determines a personality: offense, defense, sacrifice, gain, pawning, reigning is all the same strategy, leading to a single vantage point. Victory is for the selfish, a place where a King, Queenless or not, can swing a velvet robe over his shoulders and hold his hands out before an empty world filled with buried coffins. He then laughs throatily, boasting his skill to the sky because there is no longer anyone left to listen. That is chess: a useless vial creation, suggesting that two halves sit and talk silently over a conflict that cannot be solved.

Chess is limited to the board--limited to four points drawn together in what geometry calls a square. A square suggests a box; a box has boundaries, unbreachable by rules pulled taught for the precise purpose of making one think harder to overcome the other. It is a useless scheme used to over think, forcing one's hand to do what one would never do otherwise. Armies are disposal men, yes, but they are men all the same. Men are not wooden painted pieces--plastic sculpted symbols of royalty, they are flesh and blood, consciousness, and the ability...to play their own game of chess if they so chose. Real life and such a game--such a daring insensitively--is incomparable to reality. Those partaking in the comparison of such have lost touch with the weight of every action, every pinprick of decision--have fallen out of the grace of seeing every detail of the puppet, the string, the puppeteer, and the stage as just that: a stage. There comes a time when the game ends--when the audience leaves the hall and ventures back out into the world accomplished or unaccomplished. That--that is when the victor is truly determined.

Hild was never the Queen. He was never the King. RIOTE never breathed as pawns, but died as heroes. In essence, he hated chess and all its counterparts, yet there are those around him who incessantly insist to use it as an analogy all too often that it becomes habit. However, that too, is an advantage over those under its vied hypnotism. He appeared today to bring reality with him--to extort truth out of the printed lines between the black and white. And flip the board over to a blank slate, folding it back into whilst it came: a box--a box much like a single coffin in the expanse of freshly turned soil under the mislead gaze of a King obsessed with falsity. He appeared before them all through another door behind congregated Cretans, his carrier, an incognito 94' Accord, discarded along the street. Footsteps traced up the main stairway, face lost behind the hat of a poor surveying soldier who happened to first venture his path. As the door creaked open, the hat fell away, the stolen uniform unbuttoned down unto his feet to show the figure of a man so many feared--so many hated.

Aurelius--black tie loosely hung around his neck, a white undershirt laced with a man's blood, a trench coat, also black, billowing out in human breeze, white boots laced up to his knees against leather still black... A smile all too amused piercing through wisps of wind-whipped raven hair hanging along cheeks down to the middle of his back while bangs obscured litigious mismatched eyes, leering a haze of red and blue just as dual as black and white. They spoke, voices adrift through the walls before he even reached the room, waiting for the familiar sound of a guess--waiting to witness the shock and the breakdown of an empire of confidence so erectly built. “Do you know what the most powerful piece in chess is? The Queen,” Vanity had said, challenged in the next exchange by a man obsessed with confidence. His needless words scurried like mice across her reddened lips if only with his blood. The Queen: the most mobile, the offensive, the greedy that lusts for victory from the removal of the opponent's pieces, going too deep into the fray to exert anymore control...

A gunshot: the epilogue of a sad ending, brought about by presumed miscalculations and underhanded quick action. It echoed so suddenly, so expectantly, that when Aurel came through the door, he paused ever so slightly in crossing the short distance to Dietrich in the room. His Queen had died, her blood spilling viciously from three holes. Head lolling across the tablecloth, she stained everything around her in crimson tears of what would be loss. Was this a vague feeling of what she witnessed upon his own taking of lead? His own stumble too close to reality made him nearly revere those like Dietrich who lost themselves in games. The metal now producing headaches in his skull was a constant reminder of his own past words "I care about you"--the cold caress of the barrel--Vanity's sweet countenance remaining evermore in the sound of any single gunshot.

Blood dried against the strands of splayed blue hair, wounds healing quicker than one can blink, pushing out repugnance of having ever once died. Aurel raised a hand slowly, the air vibrating with an intense void where one's very gaze surrendered to the depths of something where nothing--absolutely nothing remained. Checkmate. His lips parted with sound, voice embracing that very velvet robe across Dietrich's shoulders enough to tear it into shreds. "But my Queen, even when sacrificed, does not die."

[Guest]

"And that's when a skilled player strikes, gentlemen," The gunshots resounded and emerald orbs widened. The rounds tore through her flesh, jettisoning blood and hewn sinews with three sequential sprays. He turned, an in an instant, the Automag was at hand, cocked, loaded, and raised.

"ALENA!" He screamed, the roar resounding through the ballroom and wreaking it with the simple volume. He had turned, but he didn't crouch; the blood was already drying, and footsteps upon the halls behind them heralded a new presence. She was fine; but he had failed. In a game of reflexes, a game of waiting, the bodyguard had hesitated and another life had been chalked up against the board, another one of the homunculus' many souls exhausted with three rounds.

Aurelius rose. He'd heard of him only before in passing, but the presence spoke worlds of him before the man arrived. Uneven, miscoloured eyes; the leader of RIOTE in all his glory, Chaos incarnate. Vanity had told him of Hild, too, and the unfortunate end she'd had to meet; but as her sinews sewed themselves back together around the empty bullet wounds, the copper rounds from the SIG pistol regurgitated, it seemed that this Queen wouldn't accept death.

"But my Queen, even when sacrificed, does not die." A truth in all its finality. King smirked in response, his stomach growling, a gurgling for revenge, admonishment for the attempted murder of his quarry, as he turned fully to Dietrich's back, and raised the pistol in both hands. The round was primed, locked and loaded into the chamber, barely inches before the barrel with cordite and propellants ready to detonate in a dazzling display to deny the dainty damsel's death; a rebuttal in kind for the sin he'd attempted to reflect onto the homunculus, vanquishing Vainglory a true impossibility.

"And the King ain't gonna get put down, either," Calloused fingers tightened on the trigger and squeezed, once, twice, and thrice. Three rounds meant for the leader, three rounds payback, ideal punishment, reparations that had been paid. Two for the posterior of the chest; and one for the head, the base of the cranium. If he executed Dietrich von Vermont here, truly, he'd receive a hero's welcome in Moscow; but in his mind, King doubted things would be as simple.

Cartridge casings expelled themselves from the gun's chamber in sequence, touching the floor with a light ting as they did so, smoke rising from the receiver as his Queen, his employer, his quarry rose from beyond once more, ascending through death as a matter of simplicity, the triumvirate of rounds ready to vanquish her would-be slayer. Glory, for the Sekretar. Glory, for Drachma. Glory... Glory, for RIOTE.

The gun swayed afterwards to the auburn-haired guard, Elastor, finger a millimetre from tightening as the hand switched from Creta's to theirs. He'd failed his leader; but had it been intentional? She'd died on his watch, because he'd done exactly what Dietrich was talking about, being a 'skilled player'. She'd died on his watch because he'd needed an excuse, a trigger - she'd lost one of innumerable lives, and he got to pull a pistol on a very human, very mortal Prime Minister.

And, now? The Cretans were faced with three immortals and a man whose reputation preceded him so much that despite his human blood, he was heralded as unkillable, invulnerable. The announcement had been made: the field set. The gambit had been played, and, suddenly, the truth spoken. In Drachma stood three homunculi, and their leader. The glutton of souls, the vainglorious leader, the lustrous lover, and, finally, the man born of darkness, he who idolised Death, he who wished to clutch the Reaper's scythe...

A smirk lined the grey-haired homunculus' lips as he prepared to fire upon the redhead Royal Guard once more.

[Guest]

For many, the worst part of battle is getting to it. The taking of positions, the bark of commanders, the rumble of feet marching in step, occasional whisper of plans unknown, fear taking over. What if the battle plan fails? What if our division is sacrificed for another? What if more enemies than expected show up? What will happen to the families? So many what ifs and unknowns and maybes create an atmosphere of dread and tension.

For Pancake, it was the worst part of the battle for completely different reasons.

"Booooooooooooooooooooooored!" He shouted in line as he was marched towards the White House to defend it from the oncoming Drachma forces. "Bored bored bored bored bored bored booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooored!" The other soldiers in line kept up discipline but were all alarmed at just how eager Pancake was for a fight. His skin itched in anticipation and his tentacles sat on his back, folded back so they weren't noticeable but desperate to burst out and wreck havoc. The rain spat across his helmet, though whenever he thought no one was looking he took it off to feel the wetness in his hair. The commanding officer had decided that, seeing as he needed the most room to fight in, that he should go at the very corner of the formation, but this gave him the prefect spot to hear two corporals judging a plan of defense and discussing what was happening within.

"Sir," one said, unaware of their eavesdropper listening intently, "- should we not form a much more defensive line on our front and leave the Drachmans already inside to the Royal Guards?"

"Negative. The Drachmans already in the White House are an unknown strength, but they are more formidable in strength than in numbers. His Majesty will keep them at bay for only so long, and we must be prepared for the eventuality of the Royal Guard submitting. We keep a tight battleline at both front and rear, and reserves in the middle to fill any breaks in the line."

Pancake didn't think twice about the implications of what was being said, other than that the fight was already starting inside the White House. His infamous grin, all tooth and no softness, spread across his face as he fell backwards, disappearing from the formation into the confusion of marching soldiers. From there, it was merely a matter of getting in. He slipped to a side of the White House that was abandoned; too difficult to attack, too unimportant to defend, but for a lone soldier Pancake only had to use his automail arms to clamber to a glass window, punching it open and forcing his way into the White House. He discarded his armour like a bad habit, for it made it far too difficult to use his tentacles effectively, but finally he was prepared for battle. He gingerly walked into the ballroom, overlooking the precedings as if he had arrived from the king's own chambers, ready to strike like lightning and found Dietrich, king of Creta, and the Drachman Sekretar, Vanity, the enemies of the day, face to face...

... talking...

"... stop this silly conflict, end RIOTE for good, and establish you as the rightful leader of Drachma... ... think I’m just a pawn in this little game RIOTE is playing, however, what you don’t know is that the Queen in staring right at... the queen is the most mobile piece on the board, sans the Knight’s ability to jump over other pieces. But, the more skilled the player gets, the more he or she realizes it’s a worthless..."

Pancake's teeth gritted the more he heard, his fingers curling like talons before forming fists of unbridled rage. War wasn't about friendliness. It wasn't about talking! This wasn't a tea party sitting around Netherfield House with Mr Bingley and the Bennets, this was a battle! His rage didn't subside until finally people started to shoot at each other, Dietrich shooting at the Sekretar and beginning the ensuing chaos.

"OH FUCKING FINALLY!" Pancake screamed, rage burning across his face as he leapt down to the ground. The tiles shattered under his tentacles as they caught him, leaving him midair as if he stood on air. He glanced across his potential opponents for a split second before his eyes locked straight onto a Drachman of hair most pale to be a stony grey, tall and muscular, having let loose three bullets from his gun and ready to fire a fourth. Pancake landed his feet onto the ground and pointed right at him. "YOU! YOU'RE GETTING FUCKED UP! RIGHT NOW!" He barked, before charging to him like a banshee was on his tail, driving a fist into his cheek, then another and another. Each punch was brought with the force of a bomb, with full intent on pulverising him until there was nothing but a quivering pile of giblets. Upon the third second of beating, two of Pancake's tendrils punctured the man's stomach, raising him off the ground in a wide arc as Pancake roared enthusiastically, the adrenaline pumping through him like petrol in a car, before tossing his quarry with enough force to hit and collapse a wall, which fell like it was made up of nothing more than paper mache.

A moment of silence as Pancake caught his breath.

"OH MY FUCKING SHIT!" He yelled triumphantly, raising both his hands in the air. "DID ANYONE SEE THAT?! I FUCKED THAT GUY HARDER THAN A PRISONER DROPPING THE SOAP! I'M A MONSTER TRUCK THAT WALKS LIKE A MAN!" He grinned wildly, giggling like a schoolgirl and beginning to jump up and down excitedly, before his jumping became a constant thumping stomp. "I'M THE FUCKING BEST AT EVERY SINGLE FUCKING THING I SAY AND DO!"

[Guest]

"Where you sat down, aren't you getting wet?" Deity woke up from her daze. Her eyes soon found to be in place on a man. He seemed lost as well, but lost in a different way. He knew where he was going, Deity was lost. She was without real knowing of what she wanted or where she was going. A soul so whimsical upon this chaotic and confusing world. Her eyes were soft and yet so.. confused. He.. offered a hand to her? Someone he didn't know? It seemed... so illogical. Yet she couldn't help but feel her mind overwhelm with a brief blissful happiness. This man... he was willing to reach out to her though she could just ignore him. "Let's go."

She didn't argue. Her own phone was probably going off, but she didn't bother to check. Shifting, under the umbrella, she would straighten herself and stand up straight. Her eyes watching him, then the focused on the world before them. There was an emergency, too bad she didn't grab Zen's coffee like he had asked. That was her revenge.. for the other night. Was she cruel to take revenge on an unwary man? Perhaps, but it wasn't something too bad. With latte in one hand, she used the other to share the umbrella. Steps so close she could almost touch Elastor, yet she made sure not to. She wasn't someone who liked being touched in any way, even if it WAS just shoulders. Nothing provocative, but irritating nonetheless.

They had arrived to the White House. The walk was foreboding and silent. A silent paranoia and panic slept over her. Quiet, before the storm. Her heart lurched. Something bad was going to happen. Was today.. The day she would die? It gave her a sort of tingle of excitement; a thrill. Ice shook down her spine. Was that..fear? No. She simply felt, all over odd. Today was so much different than she imagined, and actions were about to get worse.

The negotiations were starting as soon as she walked into the room. She looked at Zen, as per usual, she looked pissed off, but in actuality, she was satisfied. No coffee for you, haha! She snickered inwardly, but her face was more serious instantly. Something.. wasn't.. right. Her eyes looked at the guests, albeit most beautiful, they were... different. She'd never seen them before, ah it seemed she never read the memos. Looking towards Zen, she had given him a brief salute. He was her commanding officer and then she turned to look at the table. This seemed rather, a bore. She wasn't one to sit and listen to others, but this was a time where she was needed. Though she didn't know why, truly, she still stood there.

For a while, she stood by Elastor. Her eyes watching the games before her. A brief moment, she looked to Zen, as if waiting. Did he have orders for her? He seemed to completely ignore she was even there. That was okay, she was fine with being invisible. She'd spent her life surrounded by suffocating wants, now was a time to relax. How ironic, she was relaxing in a time of tension and yet.. This was not true relaxation. This was a pitiful excuse for her to take her mind off of her annoying life. Her heart skipped a beat.

Realizing she had zoned out, Deity decided to pay more attention. An ominous feeling would float on the air. ”And Alena, the queen is the most mobile piece on the board, sans the Knight’s ability to jump over other pieces. But, the more skilled the player gets, the more he or she realizes it’s a worthless piece. Once mobilized, you go on the offensive, and you get greedy. Lusting for victory, you zip across the board, hungry to take your opponent’s pieces. Whether pride or vanity, you go too far, you get in far too deep. Suddenly, you’re not in control of the situation, but your opponent is." Wait. What was going on? A loud three gunshots shot through the air and Deity stared with wide eyes. What-Her eyes turned to see one guest bleeding profusely. The ballroom, had become a war-room.

Expecting retaliation, Deity straightened her back, her hand pulling out a gun from her purse, as indiscreetly as she could. Closing her umbrella, she paused to see a man. Chills. THAT was what fear was. Something about this man.. was giving her the chills. He almost seemed like a devil. It was tight in her palm. Was she willing to kill? Her finger itched and she looked at the new man whom had come in. She had a choice now. Her latte had fallen from her hands and the following action, was a bit disorienting. Her hand clenched the umbrella. With a great force, she unclicked it and from her hands it would fly onto the table, between the guests. The thing skidded, then it would burst open, 'popping' into place. It would work long enough, as a distraction, she hoped.

The next action, she had no idea why she even did it. Pure instinct. Her hand rose and with no inkling of knowing where or when she had moved, her trigger finger twitched. Bang. From beside Elastor, her own gun went off, and towards the unwelcome guest. The bullet had a mark for his chest. In terms of Chess as they were playing, she supposed she was only bishop. Yet bishops, covered half the board in movements. She was unfeeling of emotion on her face. KILL IT! Her mind screamed and then she could hear it silenced. She was going to die tonight, she could feel it. However, her actions, would they help the king in any way? She prayed that someone could do something.

The frontlines.. like she always wanted. Her eyes found that odd voice yelling in her head. The man she hated was here? However, internally that flame was nothing compared to the pure instinct and thoughtless adrenaline that pumped through her. It was as if her heart knew she would be dying, here soon. Try and kill the devil.. Well, perhaps, he wouldn't notice it was HER who fired the shot? After all, there were a lot of people in the room. However, she was the one with the gun that still steamed. All of this in a second, before she turned the gun and pointed towards the table, as if that was intimidating in some way.

Fear me. Yes, it was possible to fear a woman as fragile as Deity in looks. The tattoos that covered her wrists were no longer visible to her. It was all faded, as if everything was slowed down. B-Bmp...... B-Bmp.. the long pause between heartbeats... panic. She didn't even pause to see if the man had been affected by the bullet, instead she from her position, quickly darting to Dietrich's side. Where was the king? "LORD DIETRICH!" She had bellowed, as if that would help locate him. Someone.. save us.. From somewhere inside of Deity, she could feel tears well up. She could swallow them back, completely apathetic as always.

[Guest]

There was so much more to a person that what meets the eye. Everyone has a hidden story about them that they don’t want to reveal, the truth is locked away like a caged bird begging to get out and flap their wings. Vanity sat there calm and collected as Lord Dietrich rebutted her statements, filled with hot air and actions of a trapped cat against the wall. His claws were coming out because he thought he was in control.

Bang, a silver bullet hit her chest causing blood to splatter across the desk. Bang, another silver bullet pierced the other side of her chest. Bang, the last and final bullet shot directly at the center of her eyes. The crimson tears spewed in every direction as her body went limp and fell forwards. Her long locks soaking in the blood tears of so many people she killed before her. Drops fell down her arms, dripping off the tips of her fingers. It was easy for Dietrich, all he had to do was strike at the prime moment and the symbol of beauty would be defeated, laying in her own pool blood.

Or so he thought.

Alena, the grand Sekretar of Drachma was not an easy piece to figure out. Only a few selected individuals aside from the homunculi knew the truth. While there were originally only seven deadly sins, and eighth was created to bask in all the vainglory. The poisonous beauty graced this earth and took form in the body of Alena. This was the first time she ever felt a bullet against her body and instantly she felt fear but remembered the essences of who she was.

"But my Queen, even when sacrificed, does not die." His voice was strong and dominated the ballroom. So he did end up following her and would proved he would be there at her side through the thick and the thin. Aurelius, the man so many feared was standing behind her, symbolically raising her from the dead.

One by one the bullets dropped out of her body, in the order that they entered. A blazing, electrical, red light streaks around her body as a psychotic laugh fills the ballroom. Both palms grip the table as she stands to her feet, flipping her hair over her shoulder and staring at the back of the man who just killed her. All three bullets fell to the ground and the holes were now regenerating, thanks to her philosopher's stone in the heart of her lips. She couldn’t help but laugh, laugh at the fool who thought he was in control. He didn’t know jack and that was obvious and the look on his face had to be of sheer terror. Dietrich was left with little options, but this battle was just the beginning and now it was time to unleash the power of Vanity.

“I hate losing, and there is no way I’m going to die by the hands of a man like you.” Her voice breaks the silence as she stands there with both hands gripping the desk in the pools of her own blood. She knew King and Lust both knew their duties, take out those around while her lips were thirsty for Dietrich, now more than ever. With Aurelius by her side, she had no doubts that Dietrichs head would find itself lost in a dream for eternity.

Alena pushes forward, leaping up and over the desk. Her body was agile and quick as she uses the seconds after King's happy trigger pull towards Dietrich to her advantage. At the moment she leaps over the desk and plants her feet on the ground, she releases an invisible poisonous gas from her mouth, known as the kiss of death that was directly spot on towards the grand Lord. She lunges forward after the release of the kiss in an attempt to tackle Dietrich to the ground with her.

[Nyx]

Sitting upon her perch, Nyx watched in dedicated silence, protecting Alena from afar. And for a while, it was working well, she had her bow trained on the guard of Dietrich's that looked most fidgety, most likely to shoot first. Should any pull a gun at all, whether to shoot Alena or not, they would recieve an arrow to the eye, and nobody would be any the wiser as to who fired the arrows. So all she had to do was-

Bang.

What? She hadn't... but... No, that wasn't... What? Dietrich and... And, Alena, and... Blood? And he shot her and... And... It wasn't a guard? But... But... Whaaa?

"BULLCRAP!" She didn't care anymore if she was seen, heard, what of it. Screw that. She'd FAILED her ONE MAIN ASSIGNMENT. Screw orders, screw Creta, screw everyone, she was going to avenge the queen. Chaos ad broken out in the ballroom, as she leapt from the tree to the ground, moving with grace and speed until...

Aurel?

Aurel was there. Oh, okay. That was reassuring. He would avenge Alena. She didn't have a thing to do but take out those guards. Aurel had everything under con-

Bang.

Wait... What? That came from... Glancing to the source of the bullet, she saw a woman aiming at where Nyx had last seen Aurel. She... She shot Aurel? No, Nyx looked back at him. He was okay. But her feet were still moving. As she moved she let fly the arrow already cocked to her bow, taking out the guard she'd targeted earlier, through the window. Her job had changed. Daemon could handle the bombs. her new job, assigned by herself, was to protect Aurel from anyone not in the ballroom. So she yelled at the shooter, "DON'T. ATTACK. AUREL! Kings inside, pawns outside, understahnd? Ballroom for important payapal, and victims. Outside for everyone else." Gah, the Cretan language. Ah well, she'd gotten her point across. And that meant two things; while she spoke, she had drawn Mortis, and was already stabbing and swinging at this intruder. And in her screw-all mentality, she'd even invoked her alchemy; With the most strength she could employ without tiring too quickly, she'd enveloped herself in a thin, nearly invisible field of flames. Bullets would melt at her beck and call. No distractions from her slaying of this pesky mosquito. Aurel shouldn't have to worry about fools with guns that have no business being near him, let alone standing rather than kneelig before him.

Now, however, was not a time of worrying over repercussions of future; alchemy shortening her years, being reprmianded by Alena or Aurel for breaking direct orders to wait for a signal, leaving a blind man to detonate bombs around Creta- none of these mattered to her. All that mattered at the moment was that she fight this woman who had made the ultimate mistake and was about to make the ultimate sacrifice, a life for a life, though the catch was that she'd failed to take that life. So come hail, sleet, or snow, fire, wind, or water, of Nyx and Deity, Nyx planned that one should not leave the palace's outskirts alive; specifically, not Deity.

[Elastor Ito]

"Little late, ain't we, Ela?" ...Why was he here? After almost getting them killed... over doughnuts?! No response. Elastor would not reply to that uncalled for rhetorical question. He rolled his eyes and moved somewhat nearer to Lord Dietrich in order to thwart his undying desire to harm that man in some mild shape or form. Being late suggested there was a specified time of meeting, in which there wasn't. Being late suggested that he had not immediately come from his surveillance duty the moment the text was received, which he had. Being late was something Ela never was, so being called out incorrectly by a man he'd rather see dead in a gutter than work with was unacceptable. Despite that, he said not a word, letting the unwanted emotion simmer out under his boots. WAIT. Had he...had he just called him Ela? Ela?! It was a name--a nickname no one else dared to use for threat of being maimed. He allowed only one person to call him that without experiencing the death glare now leveled at Officer Howler. And he was not about to mention who that person was, too distracted with recklessly burning holes in the distance between where he stood and where that man did. The man with moldy cotton candy hair immediately changed his object of attention, going for a file on the table that did not concern the auburn-haired royal guard in the slightest. His own attention shifted as well, letting go the initial reaction to demand he never call him Ela again. Icy blue eyes filled with hatred raised to focus precariously on RIOTE. The word even in his mind oozed like poison, coursing through every nerve trained on the hilt of his sword or the gun strapped around his leg. They were talking, and he was listening to every minuscule word, tearing them apart for just a simple hint of hostility.

He was unsure of his opinion on chess, listening half-blindly to the names of pieces he didn't much care for or bother to understand. People who played such games had a lot of time on their hands, but Ela, Ela worked to ensure that Lord Dietrich had that time to indulge in chess. The man beside Alena moved, alerting Ela immediately of a possible threat, but he only casually was removing his sunglasses. He scoffed silently under breath, adjusting his position to nearly brush shoulders with his King out of paranoia or out of caution, either was fine. That man's aura heralded hostility, green eyes coming to train on his own. Ela didn't meet them directly, lingering on the confident smile that suggested that no, this was not a meeting--this was not a ballroom, but a war room: that which was never intended to give rise to passage. His hand moved a couple inches towards his gun, foot positioned under the long, thick cherry wood table just in case. Just...in case the tension broke. The speech escalated, Dietrich's words aching on into boasts of power before returning again to the game. "Suddenly, you’re not in control of the situation, but your opponent is." His King's Order was drawn quickly, barely registering in his head before the trigger was squeezed once, twice, thrice...and the blue-haired woman of Drachma--of RIOTE fell forward in a pool that matched her lipstick. Ela at first did not move, only eyed Dietrich as he finished his speech with a slurry of pride, turning for the door out. "I trust you can handle things from here, Sir Ito?" Of course. However, in the time it took for his King's smirk to fade away with his last words, a man appeared in disguise. Elastor had turned his head to watch Lord Dietrich leave before handling the rest, but found a pair of red and blue eyes taking control of the scene instead, blocking the King's exit. Aurel's voice came out like the moans of a million, holding spotlight to the grave where a zombie was born. No, not a zombie, but the life of a homunculus. She could not die. Alena wasn't human. Ela witnessed her heal, saw the bullets push out and red electricity dance upon her skin until she rose again to her feet, flipping a spill of blue stained red around her shoulder in defiance of death. ...What?

He didn't have time to think--didn't allot himself it as his eyes immediately flicked back onto the man whom he suspected. "ALENA!" The silver-haired man screamed, jarring Elastor out of the stupor that came with seeing something that should only be allowed in fairy tales. He slid his position again closer to Dietrich, blatantly ignoring the man who had just entered, trusting Deity had him in her sights instead. They backed each other up, and strange trust was in place for his teammates regardless of how he felt about them personally (coughZencough). Suddenly, but as expected, a hand cannon was raised by that man beside Alena. "And the King ain't gonna get put down, either." Three shots were fired, but before the trigger finger was anywhere near its destination, Ela kicked up the table, foot already tangled in the legs, hands positioned to fling it. Bang, bang, bang the bullets lodged themselves into the deep cherry wood, thick with years of polishing. The table slammed back down sideways, a man Ela knew as Pancake bursting into the room like a wild animal, and throwing himself over it at the man who had fired the gun.

"LORD DIETRICH!" Deity shrieked through the blaring sound of splitting wood.

"YOU! YOU'RE GETTING FUCKED UP! RIGHT NOW!" The lumbering man screeched in Cretan, Elastor barely picking himself up in time to see the first fist slam home. Another gunshot went off, but he didn't have time to turn and see where it had been intended, only that it was from Deity's gun. Alena approached the table, leaping over it like a skilled catapult at Dietrich, but the Royal Guard was already in her path, Zen scattered just to the side of him, but not in close enough range to stop her. That left it up to him. She seemed to not have noticed Ela behind the table, distracted only by the kill, focus only on Dietrich. He unsheathed his sword, thrusting his leg out to trip her while going for her neck. Regardless of immortality or not, he would kill her for ever having attempted taking the life of his King.

[Guest]

The death glare locked, Zen unwittingly unaware of it, blissful in his own ignorance. Then, the first shots resounded, and Zen sat there amidst the chaos as it unfolded about him. Files spilt open on his lap, Polaroid photographs dropped to the floor. The pistol at his waist hung as a heavy, useless weight; Vanity fell, and just like that, the Sekretar of Drachma herself had been executed. "ALENA!" Her grey-haired bodyguard lashed back out, unsheathing what appeared to be, veritably enough, a cannon appeared in his hand, trained on no-one other than Dietrich himself.

Violence continued to explode around Zen, spiralling and cycling about his head, intermingling with the cacophony of... well, loud noises. The rounds drilled into the desk, and, luckily, came to a stop - one, barely an inch from continuing onwards and shearing through Zen's head itself, with the last-minute 'trajectory alterations' that Ela had made, kicking the desk up into the air, to impressively catch all three.

The table fell back down horizontally, and unclipping Calamity from his holster, shuffling back conveniently into cover and flashing a mad grin back towards Elastor. To Zen, it was just like old times. To Ela, it was probably the absolute epitome of 'unbearable'. Infact, Ela's personal glossary probably held a rather large, graffiti-smeared picture of Zen at one of his most inopportune moments, grinning like a moron, as the actual definition of 'unbearable'.

His subordinate launched another shot off into the near-distance, and Zen rolled his eyes as the echo faded, the room crackling with sparks of near-explosive tension. The pistol sat firmly in his clammy hand as beads of sweat formed on his brow, hazel eyes interlocking with lavender as he grinned that moronic grin of his, except, now, an element of competition interwoven. "Nice move," He said casually, cocking the pistol. It was good, at least, that they'd sorted out that little terrorist hiccup before today. "Actually wanna try killin' somethin', instead a' just playin' the defensive?" Zen eased the hammer back with a click. "I don't really like the waitin' game."

With that, he threw himself over the table, out of cover, and launched three rounds. Two more spun towards Vanity, and, as his training stated, he moved immediately then, cycling onto a new target. But... it was Tanandra. His night-time movie favourite. He paused, and hovered with the sights lined with her chest, that warm, luscious brown skin... ah, fuck it. She was probably a bitch, anyway. Most porn-stars were. All semblance of conscience had left the room long-since, anyway, and the 9mm round exploded from the barrel, leaving the cartridge casing to hit the floor as the detective sunk back into cover, smirking at Elastor.

"Yer' turn now, Ela," He grinned, the light flashing against his teeth again, still entirely unaware of the seething hatred the auburn-haired guardsmen bore for him, checking the pistol and blowing away a light tendril of white-grey smoke from the barrel with a grin. Zen flashed a quick look towards Dietrich, then Deity, and then the weird new guy. Then the reality hit him... wait a second... he'd just fired at Vanity...! No, he'd just fired at Vanity? Was this some false apparition?

Hazel irises and white sclera widened in unison as he threw another anxious look over the makeshift-barrier-table-thing Elastor had set up. Zen wasn't entirely sure it'd block bullets, especially if the hefty priest fucker started up, but it was better than nothing. However, what was really on his mind was the blood patch on the floor, the puddle where seeping crimson and hewn bone had been not a moment ago. Where the corpse of Drachma's leader should have been gushing, losing life-fluid by the second. And she stood above it. Intact.

What.

Zen had to keep himself from passing out as he threw his body back into cover. Okay, well, regeneration... that was something new for the books. Something to just take in and deal with, despite it surpassing all ANATOMICAL LAWS. People got shot. They died. They CERTAINLY didn't heal from fatal bullet wounds, and an exit cavity like that. HOW WAS SHE STILL ALIVE?! Zen felt his brain snap into hyperdrive, and a synapse somewhere detonate and explode, turning part of his cerebellum into mulch as he started to break down. What, would the grey-haired bodyguard recover from his goring, next!? Or the porn star just take that bullet and regurgitate it like it was no big deal!?

[Guest]

There were many words, and tensions were getting more and more heated as bodies moved from the dining hall towards the ballroom, a light figure slipping over rooftops to maintain a clear shot. From the words being said by all parties..... It was only a matter of time. Rebecca laid back down and readied her rifle, sights focusing on various potential targets on the inside of her special helmet. She recognized certain figures immediately, and it only made her grimace to see the numbers on each side. God this mission felt like an absolute shit storm and nothing had even technically happened just yet. Her skin was crawling with nerves, whispering dark promises of a red dawn to greet them the next day. No. She could not allow that to happen. So why the hell was she so on edge. "Aurelius just arrived. Priority target." SHIT. Why was the head of RIOTE here?! FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK. "Edi, I want--"

She didn't get to finish her sentence because gunshots rang in her ear. Shit had just hit the bloody fan.

"Oh bloody hell..." She whispered, looking through her scope down into those large windows below. People were moving too fast for her to get appropriate targets, except.... For one. Aurel. Lining up the shot, she took a deep breath and held it, feeling her heartbeat slow within her chest. Her alchemy would be of no help here, only the skills she had acquired over the years. With one little pull of her finger, the trigger clicked back, propelling the bullet forward and to its determined target at high velocity. She readjusted from the recoil and fired again, not even pausing to register the sound of breaking glass. There was no room for subtlety now. If people weren't alerted to something being wrong by now, they certainly would be shortly.

And the enemy would know that she was here now. She could only offer so much help from the rooftop and so she lowered her rifle, pushing herself off as she raised her arm and bent her left hand back. Clicking a button on her wrist, a dart shot out and plunged deep into the facade of the White House, burying its burrs enough to support her weight. Giving a little tug, she hopped up onto the ledge, pulling a couple of discs looking objects out of a pouch at her waist and took one last deep breath. Exhaling slowly, she jumped. Her body was suspended in the air for but a moment and downwards gravity pulled her, swinging her towards the building with all of its chaos inside as she tucked her legs into her chest. Her black body suit gleamed with a leathery reflective quality to it, the light seeming to glide off of the sleek helmet obstructing her features from view. Another window shattered as she made contact, twisting her wrist to one side to disconnect the wire as she came rolling into the ballroom about ten feet behind Dietrich.

Without stopping, she rolled to her feet and straightened, both hands now holding those circular explosives and pressing the center to arm them. With one good chuck, she sent them flying out in an arc towards the clump of enemies that were getting descended upon by raging Cretan militants. One exploded above them, the second following in its wake. But the explosion wasn't a fiery explosion of doom or anything, no... It was something far more subtle. An EMP blast was sent out to disable any technology that those RIOTE bastards were carrying, extending into about a seven foot radius each. She prayed that none of her own teammates had run into the blast. As those little EMP grenades went off, Rebecca was already moving quickly forward with her pistols drawn, stepping up beside Zen and aiming at the one with the brown hair and sharp blue eyes in the midst of those other RIOTE soldiers. His perfect suit was bothering her to be honest. This was a sneak attack, and ambush upon the seat of Cretan power, and he was wearing a perfect suit? No, she could not allow it. She fired off two shots before running forward to pull Dietrich back and out of the way of the temptress that had bewitched Drachma.

At this point, her only worry would be that either A) Her own teammates wouldn't realize she was on their side and attack her. B) Alena would make it to Dietrich. C) Her EMP bombs had done more harm than help. "Dietrich, Ge' back!!" She called, holstering one of her pistols so she could grip his shoulder, shoving him a few more steps away as she lined herself up as a second line of defense after Elastor. Well, she had certainly made her entrance if it was late.

[Lust]

Meetings were an unforutnate evil of life that couldn't be avoided and had to be dealt with; Tanandra knew this very well. Every time she met with her agent to discuss new movies, ad shoots, shows or contract renewals, there was a meeting and it was always rather droll, but Tanandra was always exceedingly well-informed, preparared for small, civilized battles and negotiations. But those were her battles, and she was more than happy to take them all on and decimate all bad offers, countering each one effectively until she got the best deal. After all, she was Tanandra. Few other models had commanded their own careers as she had or come so high, and now thanks for Aurel would never have to come back down. However, it was for Aurel that she was here now, in this grand ballroom with Creta's handsome Lord Dietrich and Vanity listening as they each batted pretentious banter at each other.

They were still prattling on about chess, talking about themselves and trying to fan their feathers and plumes to seem more dazzling than the other... Really, it was funny how similar humans at their base were to animals. The many wolves and peacocks that roamed the halls and gardens of Versailles were all well-bahaved for the most part, but still animals; the male peacocks would still raise and fan their great tails to impress mates and intimidate others. The wolves would still growl and wrestle, nipping and snarling until one was pinned and made to submit, maintaining order within the large pack. Humans were no different at all. Pretty wors to impress and intimidate, trying to get a civilized upper hand. God, it was a good thing Tanandra had stopped aging or she'd be an old lady before either of them got to a point.

She gave a gently pat to Alonso's arm, her instructions for him to tend to Vanity's need and eliminating Dietrich standing as she turned away from the conversation she was an audience to. Simply standing there holding her breath was boring as hell, and the vast openness of the ballroom around them was making Tanandra uneasy. Their objective as to take out Dietrich, but in a room like this? It just screamed 'opposition'. Tanandra turned away from the conversation, stepping away from the four of them. The room really was exquisite, and Tanandra couldn't help but wish she'd been able to come here under different circumsta- Three gunshots. Tanandra whipped around, aghast as Vanity fell forward onto the little desk. Tanda's hand went to her mouth in pure shock. Chess was a funny thing. There were strategies, and tactics, and there was always a victor one way or another. Or, you flipped the table and shot the other player. Less stubtle and tact, but just as effective.

All hell broke loose in that breath, guards bursting in to gun them all down as the violence erupted. The surprised scream that left Tanda's blood-red lips was all her breath at once, her body crumpling into a green and black glittering heap on the polished floor. The bullet shot true, blood seeping from the wound of her heart and pouring from her breast to pool around her body on the shining marble floor. Honey eyes searched and found Alonso, the look on her face one of shock, pain, and utter heartbreak. That man... He.. He shot her! So this was death? It wasn't at all how she'd picutred it would be for her. Being shot in the heart made for a good E!Hollywood True Story tragedy, but in a place like this? Where was the flair, the glamour? A death like this would leave no good mysteries, no sparkle, and dammit that HURT! But the room went quiet. Alena was shot and bleeding to death on the desk. King had been shot through a wall. And now? Now Tanandra was laying in a pool of her own blood, turning her gaze to her shooter, the look purely woeful and almost confused. "The actress... hasn't learned the lines... you'd like to hear..." The words came as a caressing whisper, Tanandra controlling her voice just enough to make sure it would reach Zen's ears before she let molten-gold eyes close, accepting death.

.......And THAT was why Blood Roses won Best Picture and why Tanandra Collier had won Best Actress! Her portrayl of Lady Macbeth was something that had let her sink her teeth into the role she understood so well, and what was this little tryst than simply an encore performance? Aurel had come in, sounding somewhat amused at the situation, even as soldiers fired at him. Tanda's orders hadn't changed, but she'd have to make a point to tell Alonso to help protect Aurel while he was at it. But sure as Aurel breathed, wounds were undoing themselves. Vanity rose to her feet first, unharmed, but undoubtedly pissed. King would be just fine. And slowly, almost artistically, the bullet shoved itself back out of Lust's beautiful chest as the wound closed, blood withdrawing and drying. Gracefully Tanandra moved to her feet, brushing off her dress, ignoring everyone around her. Merde, this was a Dior dress! That floor had better have been pristine. Tanda knelt down, full breasts threatening to spill free from the bust of her gown as she picked up the spent bullet with one hand and reached for a ribbon in her dress with the other. The black satin ribbon pulled, sliding out of her dress and the long mermaid ruffle falling away from her body with it, leaving a very short and very tight upper part of the dress clinging to her thighs.

Golden eyes looked to the bullet and then to Zen... the one who'd sent it to her. "A Cretan musician's words come to mind," Lust purred, her Rouenian and Esparian accent heavy on the Cretan words as she took slow, poised steps toward Zen, her heels clicking on the marble. "Shot through the heart, and you're to blame. You give love..." Tanandra Collier had zeroed in on Zen Howler, harmlessly plinking the bullet he'd shot her with at his chest with her fingers, the used metal bouncing off his body and landing on the floor with a soft clatter. Tandanra was nose to nose with him, sharing his breath as she smiled, the golden wolf's eyes not leaving Zen's for a second. "...A bad name~" Crimson lips that were arched in a perfect, thick-lipped smile moved forward, pressing against Zen's mouth in a motion that was both commanding yet oddly tender, and very, very brief. The very tip of her tongue flicked out teasingly before the actress pulled away entirely, still smiling in a way that almost very plainly purred "Se coucher avec moi" There was no danger in her kiss, unlike Vanity's, and no malicious intent in her eyes as the nails of the hand closest to Zen began to extend downward slowly.

[Guest]

Daemon let out a low growl from his spot by the tree. Something in the air had changed - it was now far beyond the typical feel of an area keeping its troops in check. People were moving in, and too many people at that. Even he, who'd been in this place for so long and knew what was natural and what wasn't, was taken off guard by the commotion. The echoing footsteps rang loudly in his ears, only to be interrupted by the sounds of gunshots inside the building known as the White House.

"Dietrich," the chimera growled impatiently. He was supposed to wait for Vanity's signal for any sort of detonation, but he hadn't even really placed any of them. Only one had been left hidden in the bushes a few blocks away, the others were still on him. Allowing himself but a few moments to think, he dropped the remaining explosives under the tree and ran toward the building. Something told him that if there was an altercation going on, Aurel and Nyx would follow. At this point, nothing Vanity would say or do could possibly stop him, save for killing him. Of all the things in this world, none were so important to him as being by Aurel's side, serving him, and protecting Nyx. It was that which gave him a purpose in living. Dietrich had - unconsciously - neglected him, and as a result, the weapon had changed hands.

Long legs made swift, long strides, allowing him to move past most of the soldiers before they even realized he was there, taking them by surprise. It wasn't long before he made it into the room from which the gunshots had come. Once again he was inside the castle of Lord Dietrich, but this time he wasn't on the Cretan's side. Maneuvering here would be a simple task, as this was a building he'd been in many times before. With the exception of the now disrupted furniture, he could have pointed out all of the important things: doors, windows, the corners of the room, anything at all. In fact, that's how it was in the entire building, not just this particular room.

He had entered on the side opposite of Aurel, where Vanity and company had made their entrance. The loud, roaring voice of a man was overwhelming, and the bat chimera let out a pained growl as his detonator dropped out of his pocket. He was so caught up in the confusion that he didn't notice, and instead turned his attention from the obnoxious volume of one man to the voice of a woman.

"Dietrich, Ge' back!!"

"Dietrich," Daemon hissed, focusing on the woman's location using the sound of her voice. Pushing off of the ground full force, the ex-militant sprinted directly to her location. At this point, he felt that if Dietrich was out of the picture, then things would be much easier to get a grasp on. Aurel and Nyx would be much safer then. A bullet whizzed past his head, breaking the rubber band that kept his hair tied up, but he did not falter. He would soon be standing in front of the man that he'd once called Lord and the few people that stood between them, but would throw himself at the woman who smelled of metal and gunfire. Of course, he wasn't sure if there was anyone else in the way other than that woman, Vanity, Tanandra, and their respective targets. He could only hope that this was a straight shot...

[Guest]

Just as the woman lunges over top the table, Elastor sticks out his leg and trips the woman in the midst of her barreling attack at the Lord. Her body twists and she squeezes her shoulders tight up against her neck as she falls, causing the sword to slice right between her shoulder blades. Her body hits the grounds with a large thump. Almost immediately as the blood starts to drip down the back of her gorgeous gown, the wound heals itself. Alena didn't have time to play little games with the guard, Elastor. Her eyes didn't even look at his, she just keeps them focused on Dietrich. Toxic bacteria forms in the palm of her hand into a grenade like shape, and she throws it over her right shoulder back at the man whom was crouching behind the table. Upon impact of hitting the floor, the gas ball exploded into thousands of tiny particles that would cause hallucination of a persons worst fear for anyone that inhales the substance.

She was only a few feet away from the man whom her lips were craving. Dripping like honey, as she approaches the leader. She was like a wolf, staring at the sheep, waiting to devour.

"Dietrich, Ge' back!!" A woman demands as she yanks the man back by his shoulder. Her short hair sways as she moves, aiming a pistol directly at the homunculus. This little girl obviously didn't know who she was dealing with, however, it was honorable that should was doing her duty. She was beautiful, and it was such a shame that beauty like hers was going to be wasted. Vanity continues walking towards the woman, her hips sway with every step she took. Her dazzling red grown stained with a darker crimson red from her own blood.

"My foolish dear, I'm sorry that beauty like yours will be wasted..." Was all the woman says before blowing out her signature Kiss of Death. The toxic gas releases from her lips, expanding in ten feet radius from her person. If inhaled, the gas would cause paralysis almost immediately, and certain death if inhaled for too long. Vanity didn't' have to worry about her siblings, or even Aurelius who had taken a pill during the last grand mission that would protect his body from this substance.

After the gas was emitted into the air, Vanity continues forward. She slides by the short haired woman, ignoring her completely. Her focus was only on the man, the man whom had brought death upon her. Her fingers reach up, grabbing his shirt collar and pulls him into a deep kiss. Her lips were like honey, sweet and desirable. The longer the kiss, the more poison that would ooze out into his mouth. She holds onto his shirt with all the strength that she had, not allowing the man to escape the deadly lip lock. His eyes were rolling back into his head, and she knew it was almost over. Any longer and he would be dead, for now, unconsciousness was the key. Her moist lips broke free and she releases the man. He immediately crumbles to the ground at her feet, like a lifeless soul waiting to be placed in its grave.

"And that's when a skilled player strikes, my Lord." She uses his own phrase against him as she bends down and grabs his shirt collar as he lays there in his dream like stance.

This man was going with her, she couldn't afford to leave him behind in Creta. She turns, looking back at Aurelius with a grin on her face. "Let's get going, I'm tired of these pathetic individuals. The prize is in my hand and I'm ready to change outfits." She smiles and looks at a few of his personal guards. "If any of you dare to attack me, or anyone else in this room that is on my side, I will slit his throat!" She pulls out her knife and holds it against his neck as he rest against the floor.

(Izzy and I talked and agreed on this.)

[Guest]

Of course, he was a fool to think victory could be secured so easily. Three bullets? Not even the Esparians had change in governments as cheap as that. So, when he turned to look at Aurel, his heart sank. Just once – just once – he wanted thing to go to plan.

The man in the back sputtered off something, pulling out his gun, as Elastor grabbed his favorite cherrywood table and tossed it into the air. The bullets collided, embedding themselves in the piece of furniture with splinters flying off, several grazing his cheek. When the table landed… That’s when he realized he was in trouble. Daemon was charging around in the background, and Alena’s corpse… Or Alena herself. He was unsure at this point. Whispers existed of undying beings, but he never believed in them. Immortality was impossible, or at least it used to be. And there she was, her figure slowly approaching him.

His legs grew weak, shaking until he fell down onto his knees. Slowly, he felt himself lose control of his body, falling flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling above him. God, he hated that ceiling. Peeling flecks of paint, cracks, far out-dated chandeliers…

His vision changed as he felt someone grab him by the collar. Alena appeared, looking down at him like he was a broken man. ”Save your false pity for an actual person, Alena. You and I both are monsters in our own rights.” Unable to resist the kiss, his eyes soon feel heavy, and he slowly drifts off into a quiet slumber.

Well played, Alena. Well played.

[Le exit thread~]

[Elastor Ito]

Unbearable. That's what that grin was: the very definition of it. It was something that made one writhe inside, something you had to look away from, but somehow found yourself staring at as if thinking: 'is that really there?' It was there. And it was unbearable. Elastor couldn't help the minute eyebrow raise that deterred him from resembling a human ice cube, but he couldn't afford to silently harbor the high amounts of distaste that ravaged through his calm, cool, and collected interior. "Nice move," the idiot said, locking eyes with the redhead as if trying to irk him into some form of competition. The pistol cocked, Ela eyes lost on Vanity approaching all too quickly yet slow enough to configure the distance perfectly. "Actually wanna try killin' somethin', instead a' just playin' the defensive? I don't really like the waitin' game." A blur of words amid the chaos transforming into a wolf raising its head to howl--a wisp of fur casually blowing in frozen air whose sky, a dark blue, matched Ela's trained eyes. Gunshots resounded through the room from directly beside him. Zen was firing at Vanity, the bullets lodging themselves into her only to be recoiled and healed over again. Vanity's toes touched down beyond the cherry wood barrier, her other foot blindly shooting ahead into an unexpected trip. "Yer' turn now, Ela." He could taste the smirk.

She fell like a tree derooted, twisting as if in a hurricane to thwart his horizontal strike deep across her shoulder blades--no, it healed immediately just like the bullets. There was no stopping her... She didn't even take her eyes from Dietrich. Ela seethed, nearly fuming after her if not for a creation that resembled a grenade of some sort. He treated it at such, giving it a large berth after Vanity launched it over her right shoulder directly at them. Rolling backwards, he turned his head with a whip of sweat. "HOWLER!" A husky yell through the blaze. The grenade burst into fumes, covering the area in what could only be some sort of toxic gas. In case it wandered, he held his breath a moment, eyes grazing over the distance to see that his partne--the idiot was out of range as well. Confirming that, he thrust the blood off his blade and nearly sliced the knees of a female newcomer. His radio became static, their eyes met for a second, she was standing beside Zen, and "Dietrich, Ge' back!!" she was on their side. He allowed the King to be shoved away by her, and as much as Ela didn't approve of her methods, it took Dietrich out of the direct line of Vanity's charge, therefore deeming it acceptable. However, a very...very tall man ventured directly into the fray, careening around the table blockade.

"Dietrich." He made it into Rebecca's path, but remained out of reach of Ela's sword. RIOTE. He reeked of a foul play with nature, clearly blind, his hair let free from a wizzing bullet in which Ela nearly ducked away from out of sheer paranoia. What was this? Rebecca fired shots in the direction of Aurel, but no body hit the ground, she had to have seen the towering creature before her. A quick take-that-one-and-cover-me nod before he turned around, slinking just barely under the cover of the long table. Down. The other RIOTE woman slammed into the floor, drowning from a wound in her chest. Ela let his eyes waver to the scene for just a moment.

"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame. You give love..." Hah, who would have guessed, zombies could sing. He'd rather go deaf. The tip of his sword drew towards her as if magnetized at her throat, but instead of taking those few steps forward to slay her, he entirely averted his eyes to a halt. She was kissing that man. The immortal enemy with a hole in her chest was kissing Zen. He pivoted back around on his heels slowly. Okay. Alright. That did just happen. He would mourn for the man later. Maybe send him some of Nu's Bourbon. But that--that just no. His eyes refocused on the object of his plight, again thwarted by another series of events. "My foolish dear, I'm sorry that beauty like yours will be wasted..." Vanity tore through the bullets aimed at her, making it up to Rebecca in less time than Ela had allotted. He sucked in a tight breath, feeling his lungs burn unnaturally. Vanity's lips slammed violently against Dietrich's, forcing Ela's expression into one of utter shock. She got that close. They failed. The kisses? He didn't have time to glance behind him to confirm that Zen was dead from whatever the other female had done to him. He broke into a sprint, no longer caring whether or not he died trying. If he failed to protect his king, he was nothing. "And that's when a skilled player strikes, my Lord." He crumbled to the ground, looking hardly human for how limp his usually regal form was. Ela was light of breath, his blade thrust outward towards the man with white shoes. Aurelius, his teeth clenched into a hateful sneer. You did this.

"If any of you dare to attack me, or anyone else in this room that is on my side, I will slit his throat!" He attacked, head on, all or nothing. In the stream of movement, he felt his direction change. A wall appeared, his sword bent into it, causing sparks to fly up. He let go of the hilt, momentum carrying him straight into it. His forehead smashed into the concrete, but he didn't fall--not before seeing that wry, smug smirk slither onto Aurel's untouched face. Knees buckling, he plummeted to the floor, katana bent into a useless shape beside him. While his vision spiked into disaster, something else happened. In the moment he clung to consciousness, a deluge of explosions went off. An airship smashed through the White House, screaming the word retreat as it had already begun to tear through Ela's mind. Blood at his lips, finally he accepted defeat.

[EXIT MISSION]

[I figure the Cretans can hop the airship for retreat to the coast. Just someone drag Ela with them? 8D]

[Guest]

Things were happening fast. She fell back in her steps and tightened her trigger finger. It was a split second after Deity had shot at the man, that a guard was killed somehow. She wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but she wasn't going to question it. Her eyes shot to where the strike had flown from. A sniper in their presence? Beautiful! Her hands moved swiftly, one arm pushing straight down and into her inner thigh, as the other reached and pressed on a button. Her little device working like a chime, barely visible upon her. A hurried whisper was upon her voice. "This is Captain Deity Silver. This is no test! I am at the white house, I need a 'copter here and NOW. I repeat, this is not a test!" A woman Deity recognized filled her eyes and soon after her headset glitched out and her hands moved instantaneously to survey the field. Her footsteps had moved her a distance from everyone while her eyes caught in all of the wreckage.

Voices screamed, people shot bullets until the room smelled of blood, and gun powder. As Rebecca came in a woman whom was shot had revived and walked to her. A kiss, Pancake had destroyed the building as well as various others. What had happened in the time it took to shoot the man- WAIT HE WAS STILL ALIVE? Fucking Demon epidemic. A sickness washed over her and she straightened to keep from vomiting. They should all be dead and yet? Something had taken her bullet without a scratch now scathe upon her target. Impossible! He hadn't even moved. What was this? She couldn't even fathom what was going on. Zen was in danger somewhere along the line, but the man needed a kick in the ass. Of course she should probably worry since he was probably in a position where he could die. However, Deity was more concerned in establishing a retreat. This was a losing battle, fast and cowards got their lives to plot a way to get back. When did that limmo get in the wall? Ugh, this place was a mess in a matter of fleeting minutes.

The unspeakable happened, Ela had started to fight and ran into a wall that was created out of nowhere it seemed. Alchemy! This did not look good at all. The woman whom was on the table had crawled off the ground, to throw a grenade of sorts at Rebecca which would continue to cause mayhem. WHAT WAS GOING ON?! Where was the damn helo? She could only watch helplessly from the complete OPPOSITE side of the room, now. The group of zombies was starting to lean, thank God. What was with the talk of the woman? Deity could care less. She went and then.. kissed Dietrich? Mixed signals much? Logic was illogical anymore. Survival was all that needed. Some shouting continued as she demanded no one attack her or her teammates. Well, that no longer mattered.

CRASH. There went another section of the of the white house as the helo appeared with loud blades blaring. It hovered, a ladder dropped and Deity rushed forward. A reaction she had never expected. She was running.. for HER life? When did that make sense? SO long she had wanted to die, but now, she was ready to take risks to help herself and a few others. As she ran with swift movement, her arms grabbing at Elastor, she seemed hurried. Though these people had no reason to really attack them now, she didn't want to risk it. Elastor, he needed a doctor. Or at least, those were her thoughts. Why did she even care for this man she barely knew? It was as if she knew him from her first days. How odd that she didn't know anything about him.

"Sorry it took so long, Captain Silver." No cares were given. She ignored the man and turned to speak to the rest of those she was with in the ballroom.

It was odd that of all the people in the room, Deity was the one barking out orders. "LET'S GO! ZENITH HOWLER, GET YOUR ARSE IN BLOODY GEAR AND GET OVER HERE. EVERYONE GET ON THE HELO, NOW." If they wanted to they could listen and get out, if they used their smarts. Her body leaned down and she sighed. With a toss, her gun went sliding across the floor as if in surrender. Bracing her body, she pulled the unconscious man up and though she was struggling, she managed to get herself as well as Elastor to the escape pod, more or less. Once she reached the rope, a man leaned out and helped both in. Her body was exhausted and she barely could move. Adrenaline was a bitch that only worked for a few minutes and then pain replaced it. Elastor was placed upon a bed once in and rushed towards a back section of the behemoth. Still worried, she would lean out and help those who climbed aboard without a second's hesitance. No words spoken, but the defeat known in the air.

Afterwards, she sidled down into her own claimed seat where she coughed a few times from exhaustion. "And to think, I wasted a perfectly good umbrella." But her mind was more conflicted and worried for her comrades as the vehicle went off towards the coast.

[EXIT THREAD]

[Nyx]

As Nyx approached fast, she saw the girl began to move away, before she even got a chance to attack her. Nope, nope, nope. This would NOT happen! She had come from ALL THE WAY OVER THERE, broken rank, and revealed her location to the enemy JUST to exact her revenge! ARGH! And this chick just went dip-mode!? Oh, screw that. As Deity ran for a chopper nearby, Nyx cocked an arrow toi the bow and had loosed it, but just as the arrow began its trajectory, her mind changed; catching the arrow by the lower shaft, she stopped it as its flight started, and instead plucked a feather from her wing; pinning it to the arrow, she fired it again, the arrow soaring high over the chopper, placing the feather, which floated down mid-way, right into Deity's hair, clinging to it as feathers do. "Lucky! You are lucky! I could have killed you!" SHouting over the roar of the spinning blades, she let it escape. Turning back to the ballroom, she entered as Vanity took Dietrich hostage and a stupid Cretan tried attacking Aurel. Passing by him, she gave him a brief look, meeting his eyes, before moving to be by Aurel's side.

Daemon, her partner within RIOTE, as fate seemed to favor towards, had also entered the ballroom, and Nyx did worry for him a little. Just a little... Cocking an arrow to Hemera's side, she gently waved the bow, strafing the room slowly, giving it a once-over; a watchful eye of steel searching for all those who dare oppose Aurel or RIOTE, easily replacable should it move like the Esparian panther and take its prey in a single bite of its single barbed tooth. Deciding her safety was no loner a prominent issue for the time being, Nyx let go of her alchemical shield of flame, with a brief flicker of red surrounding her, and a few wisps of smoke. Glancing to Aurel with the corner of her eye, she spoke, almost apologetically. "I wasn't supposed to leave my perch, was I? You aren't mad, right? On the bright side, I think Dae-Dae set off the bombs!~" That was a good thing, aye? She'd heard a thunderous FWOOMP noise, most likely the roaring of flames from the packages she and Daemon had placed prior to the now-time.

Whether it WAS a good thing or not was for Aurel to decide, and also for Alena. As it was, however, Alena's decision was not very important to Nyx at the time; whatever the Czar thought of Nyx and Daemon's mission's success or failure was irrelevant. Nyx cared only for Aurelk and Daemon's safety at the moment, followed then by Aurel's opinion, Alena's safety, and finally her own life. Of those five priorities, Alena's thoughts and opinions were not inclusive. Therefore, if Alena were to throw a plethora of angry comments and verbal assaults at the two, Nyx wouldn't even so much as register it in her mind. But of course, Alena seemed preoccupied anyways, so unless Aurel WAS mad, Nyx hadn't done too poorly; the mission in entirety was completed. And she now stood vigilantly by Aurel's side, to further ensure that he win this skirmish completely.

[Guest]

The guardsman had caught the bullets in the cherrywood of the table with three deep thwunk sounds resonating through the ballroom. That was no matter. He'd advanced, now; the pistol hovered over Elastor, with King's finger ready to tighten, that trademark smile upon his thin lips, ready to blow this man halfway across the room and into the next li- "YOU! YOU'RE GETTING FUCKED UP! RIGHT NOW!"

...what?

Smack. Before King could retaliate, a fist hit his face, one of flesh and bone. Two more collided with him, made now... of metal? It wasn't long before the barrage hit him, and, indiscriminately, he was being torn apart. If he'd had full control over his mouth as this self-righteous, and apparently rather hot-headed man tore into him, King would've yawned. He felt one of the metal tendrils pierce his gut, and push all the way through into the other side, puncturing what felt like his stomach, and grazing his kidneys and liver on the way out. Naturally, King's head bucked, and he spat blood all over the man as his eyes finally narrowed; that had hurt.

After the man finished rooting around in his innards, using some concentrated mechanical power pent-up in his strange, artificial metal tendrils, King felt himself thrown into the wall, blood trickling down his lips and soaking his chin solid as the liquid continued to gush into his mouth from as little as three punctured lower-body organs... it wasn't a good feeling, but the fact that King knew they'd regenerate... that was.

The wall shattered around him, crumbling; King felt sharp punctures dot and line his back, the outer layer of the wall veritably crushed. The environmental destruction had begun; the White House had a serious fucking beating to take, and King was starting to get angry. Blood trickled from further open wounds as the homunculus lay there, still, for a moment, grinning at Pancake, eyes falsely rolled back so that only the bloodshot whites showed... 'dead'.

The tendrils had opened a gaping wound in his gut, but what was worse that the contact he'd made with the wall had forced shards of brick and jagged cement blocks further into him at at least ten different junctures. And the worst was still yet to come; a block of rebar had pierced just below his ribcage, and King was now held fast to what remained of the wall, the breeze blowing in from light slats that Pancake had opened. He was strong; King would give him that. Still hands began to tremble, and outstretched fully, before, finally, eyes of the deepest emerald came to the surface, and locked straight on Gluttony's assailant as the homunculus took hold proper, a long, tattooed tongue, Ouroboros and all, ran gently over thin lips, creating a gentle film of saliva, touching and brushing over the metallic tang of dried blood - King's own.

A quivering growl turned to a steadfast grunt, and King rose one arm, letting grime, silt, dirt, blocks, and rubble from it; a pang in his shoulder made it clearly evident that the joint had been dislocated. King shook his head from side to side, shedding more embedded shards of rock with every movement, opening more wounds which closed up almost immediately. Raising his right arm, he fastened the grip tightly back on his left, and with a dull, weak grunt, snapped his shoulder back into its socket.

Skin, flesh, and sinews knotted themselves back together in unison, pale skin reforming, the only permanent damage done by Pancake to King's shirt; the entire thing was now soaked with blood, steadily crusting over the interior as a hand went to his ear, flicking a switch. A radio transmitter, an earpiece, that he'd hidden over the bridge. Fastened for one line of short-wave contact and one line only: the driver of the limousine.

"Vlad," King panted; his lungs had probably collapsed, but the souls of many long-dead within the stone of a heart he possessed were blowing them back up again, like a patched-up paddling pool. "Bring the limo through,"

The driver hissed back in response almost immediately, an incredulous tone upon his voice. "Through!?" Below eyes glinting with determination, and what could be seen as desperation and the makings of madness, King's quivering lips stretched into a grin as the fighting exploded, soldiers and guardsmen of Creta's king himself loosing shot and shell towards their assailants.

"The ballroom," King spoke with an element of finality in his voice. The driver knew what to do. With that, he grasped the irritating little earpiece, and tore it from the bridge of his ear, tossing it aside as he looked back up to Pancake, and, finally, down to his torso once more. The length of rebar metal was still protruding a good foot-and-a-half from his chest, dripping with blood - the last constant wound that he'd maintained, and, well, a length of rebar metal through your chest is going to fucking hurt, no matter what.

King tried to shoot a look over his left shoulder, but to no avail. He winced, a grimace forming on his chest - there was no way he could pull it out from behind him, and slipping off the front was going to fucking hurt. He was well and truly gored; there was a simple, singular way to do this, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. A low, guttural growl formed in the homunculus' throat, and he grit his teeth in determination as he grasped the very end of the rebar protruding from his torso himself, and didn't push - but pulled.

The might swelling in his chest coupled with the dull ache from the stick lodged in his chest turning to a sharp, hot, and near-unbearable presence quickly turned the growl to a snarl, and then the snarl to a roar. Pulling as much of the stick as he could through with a roar, King felt his insides finally stop swirling; his stomach, moments ago torn completely to shreds, had sewn itself back together. His legs involuntarily chattered against the tiled marble floor, and King gave the rebar one final grasp, shutting his eyes and looking up into the ceiling as he tugged with all the immortal strength he had.

The rock the rebar had been jammed into came loose, hitting the ground with a thud. Now that the jagged length of metal was all King had left, with the revs of the limousine coming close in his ears, he smirked, pulling it through all the way and carving an entry and exit wound just as large which healed up almost immediately, the length carving through a bloody, crimson arc in the air, the homunculus bucking forwards once more in surprise, more red spattering against his jacket and shirt, his attire now torn totally to shreds. His knees had taken more than enough time to repair themselves; now, he was truly free from the wall. A hand outstretched as the rebar length clattered against the floor; a hand to grab the Automag pistol. He hadn't fired the fourth round. That meant there were five of eight left.

Deep green orbs narrowed and focused on the tendril-laden man flexing and showing himself off. That bastard. King looked down at the orange light of the hall dancing along the engraved and adorned pistol, dipping in and out of ridges and trenches carved long-ago by hand, some Drachman working tirelessly as a weaponsmith to produce King a pistol of near-impossible quality. He swung the hand cannon forwards, and placing his left against the floor as a pillar of support, pushed himself upwards, and grasped the stick of rebar, finally.

He trembled and swayed for a moment, but, sure enough, stained with his own blood, his hair specked with white-grey plaster dust and crimson, King managed to take a steady stance as he patted off his own shoulders in a display of mockery. Lust took another bullet, and fell backwards; another soldier fired at Vanity twice more. King snarled, but knew his protectee would be fine; with a snap of his neck towards Pancake, he, however, knew that the smarmy, tendril-bearing man wouldn't.

"YOU!" He roared off at the man from what he remembered of the tourist language, his voice lowering to a raw, primal snarl. King locked his eyes on the man, and rose the pistol in one hand, quivering finger tightening over the trigger. Finally, he uttered that last phrase before he squeezed; his catchphrase, as stupid and immature as it was. "You're fucked, sunshine." In Cretan, it just had that ring about it.

Crack. The bullet carved through the air, splitting it in two, and smacking the very belly from the oxygen they breathed itself. Crack. Another round followed it, both making for Pancake, on target, the second a little less so thanks to the recoil sending the gun flying upwards in King's grasp. The grin stretched further across his face, and he didn't wait to see if the rounds struck; the man was screwed, either way. He'd just pissed off the world's number-one immortal bodyguard. And that really wasn't a good idea.

Smoke rose from the pistol's receiver, and not a moment before King rose the pistol again, the chaos in the room unfolded further, and erupted proper. If they thought that was noise, they were in for a treat. The grin stretched ever-further across Gluttony's face as those echoing, resounding revs followed up by two sets of clunk sounds - as if a car itself had just driven over two conveniently-placed low barriers just outside the ballroom.

CRASH.

King could only mouth 'surprise' as the noise hit the room, headlights blaring as Vanity's steed, the white-and-grey limousine, smashed through innumerable sets of stained glass and tyres squealed across the ballroom floor. King saw the airbag pop and slam the driver backwards as the room continued to explode with noise further, the acoustics accommodating the sound of the heavy, twelve-cylinder engine thrumming as the car veered off into the distance. Just what the King had ordered.

Though, of paramount importance wasn't exactly the car itself, but, more, what it contained. A duffel bag within, containing a few boxes of ammunition, and King's party-piece; time was of the essence, and as the car skidded off past the crowd, and past the violence, conveniently managing not to catch any of the parties involved, the homunculus fired the last three rounds off in an escaping Elastor's direction before the pistol finally clicked empty, sprinting over towards the limo.

He skidded along through the rubble, quickly checking the driver for any signs of life - fruitlessly - and finally opening the back compartment they'd emerged from not ten minutes ago. The homunculus' eyes lit up with fire when he saw it was still there, hidden haphazardly beneath a sheet, a single barrel poking out, orange licks of flame dancing across it in the light.

Darting forth, he grasped the weapon by a length of exposed leather sling, bringing it through, and brandishing it, slinging it forwards and over his shoulder, wrapping one hand against the grip as it finally set into place, and roaring off as the helicopter arrived. "YOU'D ALL BETTER GET THE FUCK ON," King screamed, raising the eight-barrelled monstrosity of a gun, taking aim, and launching one of the single buckshot rounds out through a gap in the wall, off towards the helicopter's side, snarling as he grinned to himself.

They were retreating, both sides. This would be fun.

[Guest]

Chaos continued to erupt within the ballroom for some time. "HOWLER!" Eh? Ting... ting... ting... OH. That. Zen eyed the makeshift grenade-object with some suspicion, until it started emitting noxious gas... yeah, that was definitely bad news. Flailing his arms in the air, he dove to the side and started spluttering from the mere smell of the gas, having only inhaled a tiny amount of it. He still felt a touch groggy.

"ITO!" He screamed for good measure, pupils dilating, feeling once more like he was very drunk. Lethargy grasped him and he almost blacked out... then, Tanandra Collier leapt on him. Yes. The Tanandra Collier. "Shot through the heart, and you're to blame. You give love... a bad name~" Oh, fucking excellent. He felt her lean down to kiss him, and then realised that Alena's sleeping gas was severely limiting the blood flow in his body. In other words, he couldn't get a rodney.

In some ways, this was good. Increased manoeuvrability, no possible STD transmission, and one less thing for Tanandra to break when she inevitably tore him in two. The pistol still waved about limp in his hand, like some other useless appendage attached to his body, and he watched as she broke away and then dove upon him. Ohgodohgodohgod. She was a mass of... nails... and... skin... and... sex... and... OKAY MAYBE THE BLOOD FLOW WASN'T THAT LIMITED.

With a limp grip, he rose the pistol in the loose hand, and, still groggy, feeling more drunken than ever, emptied the remainder of his magazine in her direction, then tried in a less-than-chivalric manner to boot Tanandra's flexible, light, and arguably limber frame off with size-12 black, steel-toed combat boots. He felt kind of like an asshole, but was a) feeling a touch too drunk to care, and b) ...she was a singing, regenerating, supermodel zombie.

The airship was a goalpost in the distance, his vision narrowing and becoming distorted. How far was it? Ten metres? Fifty? One hundred? The voice of Deity, his subordinate, resounded through the air. "LET'S GO! ZENITH HOWLER, GET YOUR ARSE IN BLOODY GEAR AND GET OVER HERE. EVERYONE GET ON THE HELO, NOW." Somehow, the voice sounded a lot like...

"SHUT THA FUCK UP, MOM!" Zen roared in response, slurring every syllable of every word, so only his crouched position and crunched face truly conveyed his inebriated anger, the words and sounds all but drowned out but the rotating of the helicopter blades. He turned back to Tanandra, and threw up a hand, still speaking drunkenly, as loud as he could over the chopper. "SO... LIKE... I'LL... CALL YA OR SOMETHIN'?!" The infamous line. With that, Zen flashed one more look to Rebecca, and grinned at her, planting his hands on his hips. "HEY MORGY! DON'T GET LEFT BEHIND, BECAUSE THEN YOU'D DIE, AND I REALLY SORTA' LIKE YA'," He stumbled further along to the helicopter with a grin, waving and tripping over his feet every time he stepped forwards.

"I REALLY LIKE THIS STUFF IT'S GOOD SHIT," He commented, raising a finger to the air to make a very valid point. The gas was very potent, and in a matter of moments, he'd drift off to sleep. However, some residual endurance did remain from his university days in the innate ability to continue walking, talking, and answering exam papers for at least a superhuman forty-eight hours before he actually slumped in a heap. Now, the gas was accelerating that value to about three minutes, but, that was more than ample time for Zen to make his great escape.

Speaking of which, he did hum The Great Escape theme as he clambered aboard the helicopter with a satisfied grin on his face, and a bulging presence in his undergarments, sliding alongside Elastor as he rose a drained and aching hand to stroke the man's auburn hair and then his face, aiming to splutter some strange remark. Instead, it came out as: "A bhurga dhyja ofmogon." And a blast of spittle as powerful as a shotgun shell coating the other man's face.

And then a limousine carved through the side of the ballroom, and, finally, a shotgun blast did hit the side of the aircraft. Zen pulled himself to a sitting position, and with what was left of his will, screamed towards Rebecca. "BOARD, YA' SILLY PURPLE-HAIRED SEXY WOMAN!" With that, he did slump down beside Elastor, placing his hands to the floor as a headrest, with a contented smile sitting upon his face, and the blood slowly returning to his upper body as the bulge faded. Somehow. Somehow, Zen Howler had managed all this, and to survive.

[EXIT THREAD]

[Aurelius Schwartz]

Echoing silence, rebirth against rebirth, the stagnant hand hovering over a hole, haunting the very seams of what is. Is it as unattainable as they all fathom?--A dastardly ploy to disrupt the makings of human life as it is--to undo all that has been done, all that has chewed up the world only to spit it out in fumes of endless construction and deconstruction? What is the attainable if not a means of striving towards the possibility of something being attained? Who defined the term but someone who attained something from nothing?--A nothing so vast he held it in his hands and still remained while everything else vanished into the vortex of his invented void, swirling effortlessly into another realm entirely, of which he sometimes felt he understood. Memories would sometimes lace together, shedding light and darkness together in monotone hues that expressed familiarity. I was there before, he would think, knowing all the while that maybe it was true. Hild was inside him, breathing for him, living for him, smiling for him. Smiling in a time when smiles were scarce, forcing the curl of his own lips despite the dust gathered there--despite the impossibility of the act for what he was. He should have died--should have slowly vanished under the surface of a clear water pond, tainting it with the plausibility of his own existence. Attempts of suicide he could not fight, brought to a climax by tiny, soft hands and whispered words. "I will live on... in my Aurelius... For..." For...?! For unspoken thoughts that ravaged his being--for something he could not guess, but already knew. That love, that serenity but a form of feeling he could not grasp entirely--could not comprehend as something even possibly pertaining to him. He'd lift the gun and pull the trigger. Let it end. Let it end. Let it end. A small measure of peace trapped under a glass jar, seeing all as the sunlight scavenges for every last remaining drop of humanity, sucking dry the everlasting dream of becoming something more. But to die? Was that not what he wanted all along?

"And the King ain't gonna get put down, either," says King ironically in his own tones--in his own visage of desire. Hild, what would you have done? Aurel managed a hiss that turned into a feral cough, lost emotion stuck in his throat and filling his eyes with query. Finish your sentence. Nothing came. Finish it. Only silence. He already knew. All along, Aurel already knew what was to happen, but to lose Hild before he lost himself--no, before he regained himself, was something he could not handle. For The World. For Father. For the balance that must remain. For the end of pain. For RIOTE. For you. For this you had to die. I'll be joining you soon. Being already joined with Hild was speculation. Aurelius had her soul, but he did not have her voice, her whispers, her touch, her smell--all had become ashes once lying on the linoleum floor in his hospital room. Because of that he knew--he knew the fleetingness of life--what his seldom unthought actions accounted to in the end. No, he just couldn't take it sometimes. Hild, I could have died then and it still would have worked. But she never understood. How could she without him telling her, but he couldn't tell her. There was only one person in this world that could know the Truth before the end--before the beginning.

“I hate losing, and there is no way I’m going to die by the hands of a man like you.” Stickily, Aurel tilted his head to the side, eyes ferociously glowing in the haze of growing hostilities. A gun was raised by quaking fingers: Cretan girl desperate to disperse the true devil in the room. Bang a shot was fired, spinning metal dragged immediately into the black hole about his fingertips. His mismatched eyes flickered into the depths of her, lighting flames everywhere inside. If that bullet had hit him, he would have died. If he died here by the hands of anyone but himself, the plan--everything would have turned to ashes like Hild's body through his fingertips. His eyes, bridging on anger, slowly filtered out the realization back into his calm demeanor. Before, such a thing would have never happened among company, but the multitudes of pain building in his head was beginning to have adverse effects, allowing emotion to ogle through.

Glass shattered, and two more bullets tore through the distance to disappear into his raging alchemy. Aurel's eyes followed the invisible trail out the window where feet soon touched down, belonging to another female too quick to judge. Within another few moments, his radio went dead. All the radios in the room went dead, faint hissing being the background noise beneath the exchange of hateful words. "Dietrich, Ge' back!!" Yes, Dietrich get back. We cannot have you die here just yet. Aurel's eyes took on an ethereal glow, sifting through the dim lighting of the once ornate hall. Lust went down, falling leafly in dramatics that rivaled the best death scene in film ever before. The gunshots faded, her eyes snapping open into song while Aurelius' attention deferred elsewhere.

"Dietrich," Daemon mouthed through the haze, allowing for Aurel to recall right then and there the first time he had ever seen the towering man. When he stole him away into RIOTE--when he gave meaning to a malfunctioned creature. He could give sight to the blind, but he'd rather watch the fickle attempt at finding the Lord like a hopeless deterrent from the plan. It was...mildly intriguing. Almost as much as Vanity tripping and falling on her face. But her focus was too conceitedly connected to Dietrich for her to realize how terribly entertaining she was. Aurel continued to observe, having not taken a single step since his arrival. He looked on as the blue-haired woman in all her glory smashed her lips fervently against Lord Dietrich's, sucking him dry of consciousness and leaving him there like a pile of worn clothes.

"And that's when a skilled player strikes, my Lord." Followed by applause, Aurel finally moved, waving away his black hole with an equally black look.

"Well done," he says quietly, his voice almost lost across the small distance to her. Vanity turned and smiled, evoking something that coiled within him, undefined and never understood. Could it be fear? Their limo crashed through the wall, screeching out of hindsight.

"Let's get going, I'm tired of these pathetic individuals. The prize is in my hand and I'm ready to change outfits." Aurel nodded, raven hair falling over his shoulders to hang somewhat in his face. But before he could turn to leave, the sound of running alerted him that someone was daring to approach. He didn't even look up before he knelt down, hands finding the ground to erect a thick wall. Alchemy burst from him, breaking apart the floor and shooting concrete ceilingward. The man, looking to be a royal guard, slammed into unconsciousness, no longer a threat. A strange satisfaction overcame Aurelius, allowing a smirk to form over the blank slate of his face while blood trickled carelessly out of the corner of his mouth. Down his chin it skittered into his collar where it soaked in and slowly...stopped.

Suddenly, copter blades penetrated all hearing, creating waves of wind overhead while more of the White House was ripped apart, this time for escape. Perfect. It was as expected. Remaining Cretans flooded to retreat, leaving their leader behind, neck to blade. Selfishness. Live to fight another day. Any other leader can fill the shoes of a monarchy. "EVERYONE GET ON THE HELO, NOW." Everyone? Hm. Aurel let a soft snicker fall out of his mouth along with another cough, more blood oozing out from cracked lips only to be wiped away onto his sleeve. A demonic look turned to capture Vanity again in his sights. To her, he knew he could not hide that blood meant something--something more than pain.

"YOU'D ALL BETTER GET THE FUCK ON."

"I wasn't supposed to leave my perch, was I? You aren't mad, right? On the bright side, I think Dae-Dae set off the bombs!~" He jolted to the side, swallowing the quick surprise that came with not expecting someone to be there who was. An eyebrow raised in inquisition, but soon fell again once he processed the words spoken.

"It's fine," Aurel murmured, hardly sounding like himself whilst trying to drag himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, wiping beads of sweat into his bangs. The agony was becoming uncontrollable, his eyes trying to reveal nothing before he looked back away from the little girl he could only wish would understand why he was doing what he was about to do. Vanity. He sought her feverishly, as if flailing through the dark until he reached her side in a heap of not what he should be. Smoke gathered, concealing them, the loud helicopter so close only they could hear each other. "Alena," he began, his voice rough like tree bark being hacked away under an ax. "I need painkillers of some kind now." Human. It reeked human. But that was the first step. Like this, he wouldn't even be able to complete the final act in his script. That's right, he was the puppet. This man, had strings attached as much as anyone else. He needed the screaming in his head to fade away, he needed to sleep for a while to regain the energy required for the first page, and he needed one person to understand. Without that, it would all fail.

"Listen to me carefully," Aurel breathed, leaning on her slightly as his vision spiked out of focus. "No matter what transpires, remember that I will be back. In any form. Without the necessary memories. I am counting on you to replenish that. Again, it all depends on you, Alena." They both managed to make it towards the limousine which was still functioning. The weight of Aurel's words was so strangely heavy and so strangely mortal coming from a man that spent so much time with those who could not die. The driver of the limo whose name Aurel didn't care to recall was dead. He turned his voice again to her, this time closing his eyes completely. "I'll just barely make it there."

[Lust]

To say that the grand ballroom was chaotic would have been a more than mild understatement; all hell had broken loose. What had been two world leaders having a pissing match with three uninvited guests watching had become a massive flurry of gasses, bullets, broken furniture, tangled limbs of soldiers dancing from both sides and now rubble and dust as Vlad drove the limo through the wall of the White House and into the ballroom. Not a bad party after all, though somewhere in the back of her mind Tanandra noted that she could do with a martini about now. Nice Rouenian one, with pineapple and Chambord shaken with the vodka. The lovely RIOTE operatives were all playing with Lord Dietrich's toy soldiers, and that was fine; Tanandra had no doubts in her mind that Vanity had her prey in her sights.

Entertaining as the thought of the powerful Lord Deitrich crumbling into vanity's toxic lures was, Tanandra had her own prey in her hands. He was cute, too. Nice face, good shoulders.... His hair was a bit of a disaster, but this wasn't really the time or place to refer Howler to a good stylist. Morticians were usually pretty good at what they did. Tanandra had rather enjoyed kissing him, letting herself explore a little as Zen began to go a bit groggy from the gasses swirling the air like water louching in absinthe. The party was becoming lively but wouldn't last long.

Dark laquered nails extended slowly, turning from long, well-manicured nails to long talons. Sure, she could jsut shank him in the gut and be done with it, but there were too many things going on all at once and too many already dancing in the rubble and smoke of the beaufiul ballroom. Besides, Tanda hated going to parties and not getting to have fun with at least one good-looking man. Even if that man seemed more and more dazed with every beat of his heart. Oh well, that wouldn't last much longer, either. Claws raked up Zen's torso quickly, the arm they were attached to only pulling back long enough to center above the officer's heart, ready to strike.

Zen's arm flailed about useless;y, his body nearly limp. Nails began to make their marks when the gun cracked, firing into Tanandra's left shoulder. OW! MERDE that HURT!! Okay, fuck enjoying it. Her eyes narrowed darklydrawing a vehement breath to skip all the fun and go for the kill when it fired again and again, the gun drunkenly swaying as bullets grazed skin before lodging solidly into Tanandra's shoulders and chest. Claws lanced out and dug in, trying to make a clean strike and the force of the bullets persistently knocking Tanda back at this range until a thickly-soled boot met her chest, giving one forceful, final push that sent the moel back and away, carching her breath to heal.Gasses, gunsmoke, and dust from debris were kicked everywhere and lifted in a windy spray as an airship landed, the Cretan soldiers fleeing and leaving their "beloved" Dietrich behind.

Pained breaths sucked in through dark, blood-spattered lips, Tanandra's chest and shoulders aching as the bullets popped out one by one and tattered against the ruined marble floor. Well, this dress was fucked. Retreating, everywhere, everyone. Cretans ran for their miserable lives onto the airship, RIOTE soldiers holding the crumbling remains of the Capitol. Gold eyes scanned the fray. Hm. Her bodyguard was toast... Dammit. Oh well. Vanity and Aurel were alright, at least, and so was Gluttony. Not that she really expected them not to be, but a little reassurrance never hurt. Tanandra let out a soft, almost frustrated sigh, looking down at herself, the mess that was the White House, Alonso, and finally to the limo where Aurel was getting in and approached it slowly as the last of the bullets exited her body. Hm. Cretans. Terrible at dancing, kissing, AND throwing a good party.

{EXIT}

[Envy]

Envy was disappointed.

He had been hesitant on starting his own part on the plan due to no signal. He probably would have done it, had it not been this kind of situation. While he had some idea on RIOTE's behavior and methods of working, it would still be a bad idea to do anything rash. Getting this particular organization as an enemy would be bad. Extremely bad. And that was when Envy was excluding the fact that there were four other homunculi in the said organization.

Oh, but why the disappointment? He still has a chance to use it, right?

Well he doesn't.

Envy was fully aware of what was going on. He had taken a parade spot from the roof after the walls had shaken. He had climbed up there out of sight, of course. One could see a telephone in his hand. It was given to him by Vanity. He could use it to signal certain people near some very special warehouses once needed.

There was a loud noise to be heard for pretty much everyone who were observing the White House from the distance. Envy turned his head with everyone else even when he knew what it was. It was clearly a helicopter. It wasn't theirs, so clearly it had to be one from Cretan military. He felt that it was something that didn't need to wait for the signal anymore. Envy turned his device on and connected to the person he needed to. "It's Invidia". Weird code names were weird. "Permission to the release has been gra..."

His mouth prevented that sentence to be finished. The helicopter seemed to be... leaving. "They're retreating?" This could only mean one thing. They had succeeded. However...

"...nevermind". Envy finished finally finished his sentence and closed the device. Success meant that distraction had been rendered useless. Once again, he didn't get to do about anything.

This is why he was disappointed.

Helicopter flew quite close to Envy's rooftop. His whole outfit and his hair were all moving back and forth due to this. "Hey!" Some voice was yelling at someone. Envy ignored it. It didn't matter to him. "You, on the roof". Okay, now it did. He glanced down, only to see a man yelling at him. That person looked like one of those guards outside of the White House. "Come down from there. It's dangerous". This remark made Envy to look his surroundings a little. The building wasn't that high compared to the one where he had been in Amestris, but it was still probably tall enough to injure, maybe even to kill. On top of that, sitting on the edge did seem a bit suspicious. "Poor choice of words". And so Envy jumped off.

He did reinforce his feed a little bit during the fall. In hopes of accomplishing something on that day, Envy had aimed for the militant. Poor man seemed so confused. Thanks for his nonexistent efforts, it was spot-on. Asphalt was now a bit more colorful, as were Envy's feet and few people near the spot of landing. One man in particular was shaking from the event as Envy looked at him. Envy's face turned, surprisingly enough, into a smile. "He was right. It was dangerous". Not that it was a genuine smile. It's just that dissonant serenity seemed to be quite effective. The man finally got into his senses and started to flee, hopefully with a splendid trauma.

This was when Envy split off from that scene, running towards a nearby alley and proceeding from there, transforming the blood off his feet in the process. He would go to the warehouses. His smile had started to resemble a smirk. This trip, although disappointing, was looking a bit brighter now.

//Exit//

[Guest]

Aurel was still standing on the other side of the room. She knew she couldn't have missed him. What was that man? He was the Devil. That was the only explanation for it. She hadn't seen Drachma where he had summoned a black hole. She hadn't seen how he took death and spat it in the face. He was a man she did not have nearly enough information on. Her lips tightened as she stood between her King and the dogs of Hell. "Your grenades were effective. Watch yourself Tali." Edi whispered into her ear as Alena continued her approach. "My foolish dear, I'm sorry that beauty like yours will be wasted..." What? Narrowing her eyes behind her helmet, she drew her pistols and was about to fire when alarms beeped inside her helmet, telling her that a gas had been released. Had the homunculus seen through the dark of her helmet? Gritting her teeth, a mask formed over her nose and mouth within the helmet for safe measure as she didn't get to focus on Vanity for very much longer as a body collided at full force into her.

The air was knocked from her body as they went flying a few feet away, rolling until they finally stopped with her attacker on top. One of her pistols had gone flying from her hand, the other held tightly between her fingers as she coughed behind that glass that had saved her from whatever gas that had been. Shit. This really wasn't good. Her right arm with the pistol remained away from her body, and she used this to her advantage to crack the butt of the gun against her attackers head with all her might. She hadn't even noticed his presence in the room. That was a capital mistake on her part and it was costing her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dietrich go down, Alena and Aurel towering over him. Her crimson eyes widened slightly as she heaved and kneed the man as hard as she could, wriggling to get free. No. She burst free of Daemon and jumped back out of reaching range, about to aim to shoot him when a voice called out, "If any of you dare to attack me, or anyone else in this room that is on my side, I will slit his throat!" Only one thing was burning within her and it's weight was stabbing her it was so great. She had failed.

"LET'S GO! ZENITH HOWLER, GET YOUR ARSE IN BLOODY GEAR AND GET OVER HERE. EVERYONE GET ON THE HELO, NOW." She had failed. Alena sat there with a dagger poised at Dietrich's throat and she could do nothing to stop it. "SHUT THA FUCK UP, MOM!" Ela and Diety were already in the chopper and Zen was shouting unnecessarily. "He is not dead Rebecca. You must escape." "I sure as hell don't want to." She whispered to herself as the gas mask moved away from her features behind her helmet. A voice called her back to the reality of the situation that she was hating with each small step back towards the copter, "HEY MORGY! DON'T GET LEFT BEHIND, BECAUSE THEN YOU'D DIE, AND I REALLY SORTA' LIKE YA'," Wh-what? Blinking, she stared dumbfounded at the stumbling man, the words somehow.... It was the oddest sensation. She couldn't even really describe how that had affected her mood. She darted around the prone man and held her pistol ready just in case they decided to attack her.

A limo burst through the one wall and signaled that the enemy was leaving, holstering her gun as shame and disappointment washed over her. Good feelings were gone as she stared at them leaving, walking backwards as she could not tear her eyes away from Dietrich's unconscious form. "Tali-" "BOARD, YA' SILLY PURPLE-HAIRED SEXY WOMAN!" Breaking into a run, she swung up the rope nimbly and landed lightly inside the helicopter, her helmet hissing as she finally removed it to stare unobstructed at the scene below. Her short purple hair whipped about in the wind, but she didn't even notice it. Her expression was hard before she forced herself to go and take a seat, strapping in without another word. What words could be said in the face of this defeat?

[Exit Thread]

[Guest]

It all erupted in a moment. People shouted and screamed, guns boomed, fists were swung, bullets let out harsh whistles as they raced through the air in every direction. The chaos clutched at the souls of everyone within, emotions consumed and rationality disappating as blind instinct took over. Pancake was the only person not to immediately move, a wide grin on his face as he took the moment in, inhaling the air through his nose as if he could smell the panic.

Then he went to work.

Pancake's tendrils dug straight into the ground around him, burrowing deep past the mortar and into the concrete and the mud before he yanked it all up. The floor ripped up in chunks and drabs rather than one clean pull, but they were, for Pancake, perfectly sized. Not bothering to dodge anything, inviting an attack on him, he began to hurl the bits of floor in every direction. He failed to consider which side the target was on, or even if there was a target there; Pancake just wanted to fight. Over and over, chunks of stone, marble and plaster of paris were hurled around, crashing into either a person or the floor, Pancake had no care.

A voice made his ears perk.

"YOU! You're fucked, sunshine."

"Fucking hardly." Pancake thought to himself. He heard the boom of a gunshot, though he lazily swung his tendril to deflect it. He only saw something was wrong when he made contact, and his artificial arm flung back. Then a force tugged at him, powerful enough to literally throw him off the floor and straight into the air. Another crack sounded in the air, and Pancake felt something hot scratch his calf. Another searing hot and very large bullet.

Unfortunately, Pancake couldn't process the pain and get over it before he crashed through the wall... and another... before he finally slid to a stop in the White House Gardens, stunned and breathless. He looked to his leg. Superficial damage at worst; it stung like nothing else, but he'd be fine. He brought the shot tendril towards his point of view. Similar story; few people knew that the tentacles weren't actually metal, but simply carbon fibre with a convincing paint job. A lot of that had been ripped away, and the black of the material was pretty obvious, but he had hit the bullet at an angle that did the least damage to him. He stood up, the airship behind him filling the world with a noisy 'jud jud jud jud' from the propellers that Pancake found...

... most...

"Wait, it's over?!" He asked in disbelief. Horror entered his system at the idea that he had just been thrown through the wall and he didn't have the time to unfold that damage on who did tenfold. Everyone was retreating, Drachmans and Cretans alike. The battle was, as far as Pancake was concerned, over.

And all Pancake could do was sit in the grass covered in mud and dust, looking like a complete fool.

"... oh... fucking..." He stood up and began to pace from end to end of the garden, not noticing retreating soldiers and bombs exploding nearby. "No, this, I mean, nnnngh... this is... I, I can't, I..." His tongue stopped mid-sentence, his brow lower and lower with every attempted sentence. His feet carried him faster and faster, none of his incomplete quiet ramblings doing anything but making him angrier and angrier. "I just, I... nnnngh... I fucking... he's... fuck... I, this, nnnngh..." He stopped in the middle, panting a little, his teeth gritted in an animalistic rage before he let it out in a terrifying roar of purest fury, a message to any and all Drachmans whether they heard it or not.

"I WILL SLASH OUT YOUR STOMACHS AND STUFF THEM DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROATS!" He screamed into the sky, before all of his tendrils smashed right into the White House's wall closest to him. He pulled himself closer, looking to what remained of the carnage. The Cretans were getting themselves to the airship, the Drachmans to the limousine. Pancake looked to the airship first, not all that far from him. It was about to go, and Pancake, as confident as he was in his own strength, knew that even he couldn't fight the odds. This was one fight he'd have to pass up, as much as the idea of a retreat galled him.

Still, he could make sure everyone hurried.

He flung a brick directly at the limo, hoping to bury it straight into the bonnet. Instead, it pretty harmlessly but noisily ricocheted off, but it hopefully caught someone's attention. Pancake pointed straight at the man already in the limo; whoever he was looked pretty important, though he meant for all able to see him to pay attention. With a horrible scowl painted across his face, Pancake drew his thumb across his throat, that most universal of threats, before widening his stance and exerting every bit of energy he had in his body into his tentacles. They groaned against the brick, but the building had already been weakened significantly by the various bombs and conflicts, so it took a mere second for the entire structure to moan and groan ominously. More brick, more stone, more plaster of paris and dust fell from above them, as if the entire building was about to collapse. Considering its state, it wasn't far from it, but as Pancake stood backward, ending his boorish demonstration of strength, the entire roof seemed ready to collapse in onto the ground. Everyone in the building would have to be forced out. With that, Pancake turned around and coiled a tendril around a bar on the departing airship and yanked himself straight off the ground and into the nearest open door like lightning. He looked around to its inhabitants, all panting and beaten looking. He furrowed his brow in disappointment.

"Well, I'm not trying to antagonise anyone here... but I blame you lot for that." He said, looking outside of the window of the airship to see a great whump of dust emerge from inside the White House. A huge chunk of the ballroom had completely caved in. "See, I did that, because you lot don't pull your weight and I'm awesome." With that, Pancake sat down and began to sulk, immediately bored by the journey. "Wake me up when we get to where we're going, coz I'm fucked."

With that, Pancake closed his eyes and fell to sleep pretty much immediately.

EXIT THREAD

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