2007-08-05: Army At His Heels


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Summary: 'Tis not seasonable to call a man a traitor that has an army at his heels.

Dark Future Date: August 5, 2009

Army At His Heels

Abandoned Street - Chelsea

Who plans to get into a gunfight on their way to buy groceries? I mean, honestly. If she'd known things were going to get this complicated, Kate would have at least pulled her hair back. Crouched behind a broken down car on the side of the road, she reloads her pistol. "I'm kind of busy right now," she shouts at the smalltime gangbangers that apparently assumed they'd found an easy target in the skimpily clad socialite. What they didn't count on was that she's no longer concerned with protecting that image. Not that she'd ever go out of her way to hide that she still remembers all the firearm training she went through as a detective with the NYPD - and still practices it - from a few small-time crooks. If it weren't for the punk throwing debris at her with what's apparently some low-level telekinesis, she might have been out of this mess already. "I really don't have time to play with you right now, guys!" Is it a crime to run out of milk? Gawd. How many are there? Five? Six? This should not be this difficult. Only one of them seems to be evolved - or at least only one of them seems to have an ability that can be used offensively. What one lacks in God-given abilities, one can make up for with a gun. Kate knows that better than anyone else. And now would be a really, really bad time for her ability to kick in.

Beat-up jeans. A coat a couple pounds too heavy for New York in balmy August. Black, plastic-rimmed glasses that are so large that they obscure almost half of her face. A ragged and faded nearly-black cashmere scarf that hides a little more. A black crocheted cap that binds and hides away the nearly back hair that hasn't been cut in over two years. This is the sight that has become Trina Mah, although currently she'd much rather not be perceived as such.

Cutting through the street that was once a beautiful part of Chelsea, the lean woman is on a mission. Her hands are pushed deep in her coat pockets, one of which is wrapped tightly around a ring with a single, worn truck key attached. She's nearly back to her vehicle when the sound of gunfire cracks upon the afternoon air, and its introduction into the atmosphere sends her instinctively scurrying for an alley.

In that alley, the coat is unzipped, and a Glock extracted from a pocket deep within. Thin, agile fingers immediately dive back in and pull out a magazine, loading the firearm with a darkly practiced ease. Once the thing is in her hands, heavy and warm from being held so close, the young woman zips her coat back up with the key safely inside and starts towards the sound of the skirmish, hugging the walls of ruins that were once magnificent brownstone houses and storefronts. After all, someone might need help. If it's two gangs, she decides somewhere along the way, she'll leave them to killing each other in a bloody splatter. Unfortunately for her, Trina doesn't find two gangs. Rather, she finds a woman pinned behind a car and a clear shot of one of the men looking to kill her. Fortunately for Kate, neither does Trina recognize the other woman.

After finding a sufficiently tucked away spot, the Saints' mechanic takes a deep breath and holds it. Might as well get down to it, she tells herself. Once the breath is slowly released tightly pursed lips, the woman spins out of the little nook and makes her play for the clear shot. Time to start evening the odds.

Gun ready to go again, Kate pops up to start firing through windows that were busted out by bullets only moments ago. Something sharp goes sailing past her. She only realises it when she feels a rather noticeable clump of blonde hair fall at her side. "Oh, no you did not just do that!" One bullet hits its mark and a kid - can't be older than twenty - hits the pavement with blood pooling around his form from a shot to the chest. One down and four… five? Is it five now? Her eyes sweep the scene and she makes a mental count before dropping down behind the vehicle again, letting bullets ping off metal and embed in upholstery.

When Trina's bullet hits its mark, it's a non-fatal wound. There's a clatter as one of the kids, older than the one who fell with a gaping hole between his ribs, drops his gun as a significant hole is torn through his gun arm. It's a shot that, by looking at it, he quickly realizes is not from their target. It's from another angle. An angle that makes them partially surrounded. There's a sharp hiss as he watches blood pour between his fingers, and then he bellows out across the Dead Man Zone to that 'Easy Mark' behind the car. "BITCH!" Then it's his colleagues in crime who get the next eloquent address. "The Bitch brought backup!"

Needless to say (but we'll say it anyway), this causes something of an argument on the more manly side of this shootout. There's a pause in the shooting as Kate's attackers scatter for more comprehensive cover. The yelling, however, continues. "We gotta get outta here!" "Don't be a pussy!" "I NO PUSSY! YOU DE PUSSY!" "SHUT UP, BOTH OF YA!" "FUCK YOU."

Obviously, they are a highly organized group and well prepared for any situation with a myriad of contingency plans.

And where is Trina in all of this? She is staying put, eyes closed tightly shut as she leans against the brick wall that is currently against her back. On her lips, there is a quiet pleading that escapes in a whisper so soft that it's barely even audible to her. "Please just go away. Please just go away. Please…"

"That's right! The Bitch has backup!" She does? Kate looks about, a little bewildered. Who's backing her up? She leans heavily against the side of the car, ready to start shooting again if she must. She really did not bring enough ammo to keep this up much longer. She'll have to remember that the next time she writes up her grocery list. "How about you boys just run along home and leave me be? Nobody else has to be hurt!" She holds her breath, listening intently. C'mon, please? Please, please, please.

And then? The car shifts. Kate's eyes grow wide as saucers and she scrambles away from the vehicle, "Shit!" But there's no other cover around here. Where are you gonna run to now, Big Heap Terrorist's Wife?

Kate's voice is heard. It doesn't register. Rather, it prompts Trina to look around the corner and see that the woman is running away from the car, her hand stuck back into her handy dandy magic marshmallow coat. It's probably a wise choice on Kate's part, given that the car she was hiding behind is not giving her a lot of options. But only having one option rarely makes it any prettier. Perhaps that's why it is that the absolutely ridiculous looking woman finally steps fully out of her hidey spot and starts racing towards the outnumbered lady's position with a glimmer of something on the air, battered black boots pounding against the cracked and neglected concrete beneath her feet. Girly's got a forcefield. "HEY! HEY, ASSHOLES! LOOKIE WHAT I GOT!" To her credit, Trina has also pulled a special something out of her sleeve. See, she's spent gratuitous time around Jack and Elena, and that has only translated into a preference for carrying a whole new brand of party supplies. In this particular instance, it's called a grenade and it's gonna make this scenario look a little brighter.

In what seems to be nothing more than a matter of moment, several things happen as she closes in. Trina lowers her forcefield. Trina hurls the grenade into the dead man's zone and then dives for Kate in as close to one smooth gesture as she can manage. And then the forcefield comes back up. Please, stranger lady (who isn't really a stranger), don't shoot her, too? Please?

Kate doesn't shoot Trina, but she does cry out in surprise when the other woman rushes her. She curls her arms in on herself, bracing for impact. And for the impending explosion from the grenade. The two women go tumbling on the pavement, the car soars over their heads, crashing through the wall of what was once a rather impressive brownstone, and then the grenade goes off.


After the dust settles, there's no more shouting. No more gunfire.

Good job, Miss Mah. Unfortunately, the reward seems to be Kate's own firearm pressed against her saviour's ribs. "Thanks," she breathes out heavily. Can't be too careful.

Trina feels large hunks of debris as they impact with her shield, each one drawing a snarl of pain from the woman. And then all is still, leaving only the dust of the explosions to swirl around the little dome of fresh air in a dirty cloud. She lies there for a moment, collecting herself. And for that moment, she thinks the worst is behind her. If the would-be murderers haven't fled, they're dead. Of that, she is reasonably sure. Her applejack cap hangs off of her head at a haphazard angle, black hair starting to poke out from underneath the bent brim. As her forcefield finally lowers, allowing the last of the dust to swirl about them as it will, the slender Saint moves. Intending to lift her hands to fix it and then pry herself off of the chick she just rescued, she feels that muzzle push in painfully against lean muscle and bone.

"You're welcome," Katrina mutters darkly, eyes closing once more behind those ridiculously proportioned sunglasses and her Glock being left on the ground as her hands slowly curl into tight little balls. Her energy spent from shielding the pair from the blast, she realizes that any half-assed field she could possibly get up in time would be too weak to actually do her any good. No, instead, she merely inhales a sharp breath and prepares for what will hopefully be a short-lived pain. This is what she gets for playing the Good Samaritan. It entirely figures.

Whatever Trina's expecting, it doesn't come. "We cool?" the woman beneath the Saint asks. "Just want to make sure you weren't just saving me for yourself, or Homeland." Kate's hazel eyes search to make contact with the pair hidden behind dark lenses, but only come up with a close approximation.

It is, in actuality, an event that lasts for less than a second. For Trina, however, Kate's question is forever in coming. When her ice blue eyes open, they are narrow slits that peer back down at Kate. And that is when realization dawns. She knows that voice. That face. It's not a not particularly happy realization for the grease monkey, for those viewers playing the Home Version of this little game. "Hate to break it to you," she replies in a low growl, "but you ain't that important to me." A pause follows. Then an enormous, transparent grin full of false amusement lights up Trina's face. "Actually, on second thought, I think I'm pretty fuckin' proud to admit it. But let's just keep that between us girls, huh?" The smile quickly fades after that, leaving the real question to be asked in a voice filled with irritation. "Can I get up now?"

Kate withdraws her gun and nods. "I know you. Petulant little spitfire? You must be Trina Mah." She tucks the firearm into the back of her skit and scoots away from the other woman. "It's been an age." She smirks, but stays in a non-threatening position on the street.

As Trina gets her clearance to grab her pistol and push off. She can't get away from the other woman fast enough, and she quickly shoves the Glock back it's appropriate place under her coat. Once that's done, the dark-spectacled woman sniffs and starts to brush herself off. "S'Katrina," she replies brusquely. "And I know you. Traitorous Bitchface. Oh, wait. No. That's just who you play on TV, right? It's Kate to your friends." There is particular emphasis and drawl placed on the word 'friends' as she speaks to the wife of Herr Buttmunch. "M'sorry," she continues, throwing an extra dose of Southern accent on top of the one that typically faintly twangs on her tone. It's mocking. "I musta gotten beat up a bit by the debris and just done got the two names all mixed up." Then, just like that, the exaggerated voice is gone, replaced only by the unamused, neutral lilt that she's taken to using. "Silly me."

The Southern in Kate's accent has always thickened up around others of that same ilk and this is no exception. "They don't call me The Bitch for nothin', sugar." The blonde finally moves to stand up, but she keeps her distance. "Little girl, you best be learnin' how to tell the difference between your friends and your enemies." When you make it to 29 (the second time) you earn the right to start calling other women 'little girl.' "You ask your Shepherd which side of the fence I stand on. You could do with a little less venom. We're all angry, Katrina Mah. We've all lost things in this war. But if we don't band together, we're gonna lose a whole lot more."

Save a life, get called a little girl. Trina, t'would seem, is not in a very good mood. Kate's presence is enough to crack through the usually reserved and quiet exterior of the mechanic and get right to the little ball of rage that burns deep down in her gut, and the girl rips the glasses off of her face so that she can glare more effectively. "See. That's your problem, *Kate*: You think just 'cause you're older and you're married to that savior husband of yours that suddenly I'll *care* about what you have to say. And I sure as Hell don't know what you're talkin' 'bout with your Shepherd nonsense. You know, well as I do, that hangin' with a Shepherd's a hangin' offense." The words are pointed. I know who you've been talking to. And he's gonna hear about it later, bet your bottom dollar.

"So you can take that blonde little head of yours and shove it up a carburetor for all I care. Or find somebody who cares more than I do about you takin' tiny bits of treason and throwin' it into your life to make it more int'restin'." Then a nasty little smile. She…. thinks about making a comment about a lack of spice in the other woman's sex life or how being older sometimes just makes you a nasty old hag, but her reason comes back to her just in time. Her open jaw snaps shut. Will. Not. Say It. Time has, at the very least, given her a modicum of control over that temper. Instead, Trina inhales and starts to put her glasses back on and fix her hair, hiding it back under her hat. "I used to listen to this preacher on the radio 'fore they hauled him off to the camps. Used to say, 'Mind your own house 'fore you tell people how to live in theirs.'"

Colour Kate stunned. "Time has been kind to you, hasn't it?" She actually looks… proud? "Words to live by." She crosses her arms under her chest and nods approvingly. "He really chose well when he chose you. I'm impressed." A tip of the proverbial hat. "You don't have to understand what motivates me. Just know that I am not my husband's ideals or my brother-in-law's schemes. I'm my own person, sure are you aren't just some carbon copy of that man of yours."

"In case you didn't get the memo, I ain't got a man." Trina's got a gawdamned hero, but that's none of Kate's affair. "An' you can tell anybody you got followin' you the same fuckin' thing. And, for the record, 'never said you were a carbon copy. But you stayed. F'your morals hurt so fraggin' much, you coulda left. Instead, you chose to make sure you were home to catch the play by play." A roll upwards of her eyebrows and a wide spread of her arms, Trina's nothing if not a little melodramatic. "And they said American Values were all gone to shit. Way to stand by him, babe!" Then both hands come back, lightly laying over the bit of puffy winter coat that covers her heart as her head cranes forward as though sharing a deeply personal secret. "You touched me. Right here."

"Right." Kate's temper is starting to rage, and it shows. Her eyes get just a little wider and her nostrils flare. "I am tryin' to be nice to you! I am doin' what I have to to keep my husband safe! I haven't got a whole lot left in this world, so I'm gonna look after what I do have. You don't like it?" The blonde turns her head to one side and she spits on the sidewalk. "Go fuck yerself." Hazel eyes narrow and she turns to start to walk away. "Thanks for the rescue. Live to fight another day."

"Ladies don't spit," the goofy-dressed mechanic chirps happily as a bit of advice, glad to have gotten in her ding at last. Eat that. That's for bringing your Petrelli ass near my boyfriend, thank you. That final bit of advice given, Trina turns on her heel and starts walking away, continuing in the direction of her truck. Her step is nearly a skip, Army boots crunching against the rubble and debris as her feet twist gleefully under her swagger. Not even a goodbye. VICTORY IS HERS. Yes, it is! AND SHE CAN'T WAIT TO TELL HER TRUCK ALL ABOUT IT.

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