2008-01-31: Into The Fire Extinguisher


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Summary: After spending the morning getting Heidi out of the hospital and into a hotel room, Peter gets a call from Jack to pay a visit. The visit doesn't exactly go well for either party— or Jack and Trina's apartment.

Date It Happened: January 31, 2008

Into The Fire Extinguisher

Jack and Trina's Studio Apartment

It's rare that Trina leaves Jack alone anymore. Very rare. Nonetheless, she appears to have stepped out while he was napping. Relatively freshly-risen, he's dressed only in light, two-button slacks and a sleeveless shirt that leaves his tattoos and track marks equally exposed.

He's not really sure what time of day it is. With the blinds tightly drawn and a steady supply of drugs in his veins, it doesn't really matter.

The rich, wafting smell of freshly ground and brewing coffee fills the expansive studio apartment. Having long since given up on the French press, Jack is now leaning low enough to watch liquid filter through his Mr. Coffee and down into the pot.

He might be making breakfast if he hadn't already given up on food.

Breakfast? Brunch might be closer, where lunch would be more accurate.

There's a bit of activity in the building, but a lot of the residents are out for various daily activities. Shopping— work— food— hobbies. There's the sound of someone playing their music a little too loud down the hallway, but at this distance it's barely a dull thump from the base. Of course such a thumb could get annoying after a time…

There is a polite knock on the door, though. It was a phone call that brought Peter here. One from Jack. Maybe he's come to his senses— maybe his girlfriend/fiancee talked him into it. He could teleport in, but knocking on the door strikes him as more polite. More of a guest and less of a trespasser. After getting stabbed in the back once already… there's caution and suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

It seems he's not entirely sure how to take the invite.

Jack head jerks to the side expectantly at the sound of the knock. He straightens from his vigil and makes his way to one of the kitchen drawers, where he fumbles around until he comes up with a loaded syringe. Rather than waste time tying and prepping, he injects a far larger dose directly into his chest cavity than he ever has before.

The better part of a minute later…

There's a sheen of sweat on the Irishman's brow and he appears out of breath when he finally opens the door. "Peter," he greets him in a friendly fashion. "Come in. Cup of coffee?"

That cautious look doesn't fade. Peter's paying attention to specific cues being given off, and he may not be liking what he sees. He could have been working out, though there's doubt and distrust that makes him worry otherwise.

"I'll pass on the coffee. I don't really need it." Coffee is for people who need to feel awake, in general. He constantly feels awake. Except for the rare times when he doesn't. "Is Trina around?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the man as he steps inside. If the woman is around, he'll have some reason to think that this is actually a social call. He learned his lesson. Fooled once by Logan. Fooled a second time by Jack. He's not going to turn around this time.

Jack seems a little disappointed, but his only response to the refusal is a slight shrug. He doesn't get a cup of coffee, either. Instead, he lounges back against the countertop and gives his head a slow shake. "No Trina," he replies. "Just us. Thought we could have a little… exchange."

Already, his pupils have dilated and his breath is fast and tremulous. Suddenly, he's holding a ancient Webley revolver, which he calmly levels at Peter's head.

He was right to be suspicious.

"You're a problem, Pete. I mean to solve you." The threat is emphasized by a .455 caliber gunshot.

Suspicion justified. There's a flash of expression as the gun discharges, eyebrows lowering and mouth shifting a bit. It's a look of disgust, betrayal. Even a hint of anger. Peter doesn't even have time to raise his hand, the bullet just stops in mid-air, a few inches from his face. It could be reversed and thrown back at the man. Aimed for his chest, his head, his shoulder, his groin… anywhere really. But it will drop harmlessly to the carpetted floor.

"I'm not the problem, Jack," he says in a stressed voice, now raising his hand in preperation for the next volley he expects to follow. A week ago he might have agreeds, laid down everything to die, but that was a week ago. There's too much he needs to live for.

This man and his problems included.

Jack does discharge four more rounds, but it's more distraction than attack. While the last shot still echoes, he drops down to the floor and yanks open the refridgerator door as an improvised shield.

"You don't get it, Pete!" he shouts from behind his limited cover. The sound of him scrambling through drawers and cupboards rattles through the kitchen. Too far gone to care or feel fear, flecks of spittle spray from his lips as he crows in premature victory. "You can't stop us. Nobody can!"

This time, with his hand raised, Peter doesn't stop them quite the same. A few of them deflect to slam into the wall beside him, while one in particular twists and turns in the air. It stays there a moment, as if he's considering what to do with it. The fridge door suddenly springs a rather good sized dent and hole. A hole with a bullet lodged in it. The force should also serve to attempt to close the door, unless he manages to brace against it before that happens.

"Us who?" he asks, moving closer. He keeps one hand raised, a defensive pose. "Where'd you get the drugs, Jack?" he asks, emphasizing this question that his fiancee asked once before.

When the bullet pings off of the door, the entire assembly slams into Jack's back and rocks him forward. Several bottles of condiments are shattered in the process, dousing him with a mixture of ketchup, cocktail sauce, and something vaguely brownish. "OOF! Drugs? What's wrong? Feelin' like you need an edge?" His tone is light and singsong. Teasing, even.

Then he leans out and rolls the kitchen fire extinguisher toward his 'guest.' That's what he was digging for. Before it comes to a stop, he breaks cover and dives into the living area. When he lands, he plugs the extinguisher with his last bullet and turns it into an improvised grenade.

The explosion isn't stopped. It knocks Peter back, making him slide out of the kitchen and back into the main living area. When everything settles, there's a rather good amount of damage in the kitchen. The countertops have major damage, the lower doors splintered and broken. The contents held under them pushed away, broken by the debris. The fridge door has a much larger dent, and the tiles will need to be completely replaced. Even the carpetting leading out of the kitchen has major damage. Peter, somehow, landed on the table. Breaking it, breaking through it.

Despite the burns and tears in his clothes, the bleeding on his back and face, he pushes himself back up, standing to look at the man. "You used to be my friend," he spits out, anger carried on his voice. "You're Elena's uncle. My brother's best friend. And now you're just a druggie. What happened to taking down your dad? Before those drugs of his turned people into what you've become?"

The empty Webley is discarded. Jack is already rolling to his feet. Despite his dive, he still didn't fully escape the radius of his little surprise. Tiny, twisted splinters of metal and wood have peppered his face and upper body. Emotionlessly, he extracts a particularly large fragment of fire extinguisher from the bridge of his nose, leaving him with a wide, ghastly wound that exposes bone and cartilage. The bit of shrapnel is carefully considered for a moment and then tossed aside.

"He was right. If you could only feel it, Peter. The power. The confidence." Spasmodically, the tip of his tongue flicks out to wet dry, cracked lips. "Pity you'll never get the chance. Now fight me."

There were more than a few pieces of scrapnel in Peter. A few things pop out as he stands up, forced out of his body as if by invisible hands. It's his own body pushing them out, forcing them out. A particularly large thump follows a metal piece. Teeth gritted against the pain, he shakes his head, looking disgusted at the man's current state. Fighting is not something he likely wishes to do, especially not with someone he once respected. "I have more than enough power, Jack. Far more than you could ever pump into your body."

As he says this, his eyes shift, gaining a greenish tinge to them as he moves forward. This power helped the Elena of the future spar against the same main. Maybe it will give him enough of an edge to land a few hits— he chooses to increase speed and maneuverability over strength. He wants to land hits, avoid hits, not cause deeper ones.

All he needs to do is knock a little sense into him. Which with him involves… fists. Swung in an untrained way that leaves him fairly open, even with the additional assistance.

The crazed Irishman doesn't duck. He doesn't dodge, he doesn't block, and he doesn't parry. Very purposefully, he takes the punch right on his chin.

"You're wrong," He insists as he wipes blood on the back of his hand. "Father said I'd be like a god!"

More than anything else, he seems angered by Peter's words. His grey eyes dance with a feral, unhealthy glow when he spits a mouthful of blood onto the hardwood floor. Grinning through reddened teeth, he advances with his long, wiry fingers hooked into claws. His careful training is forgotten in the face of a deadly, worthy enemy. When he springs, he launches the full weight of his body in a blunt, unsophisticated tackle that's designed to drive Peter backward and into the huge fishtank at the rear of the living room.

The fish had a nice life. A rather nice sized tank, many friends, a cat that could watch but not touch… They swim back and forth, minding their own business— til a back slams heavily into their tank. All the momentum and weight push straight through the glass, busting the top frame, springing a heavy leak of water in no way plugged by the body pushed through it. A few fish fall out immediately, to flop helplessly in growing pools of water. Now the cat can do more than watch…

Water that just happens to be mixed with blood. The blood happens to be from Peter, whose suddenly sporting a rather deep piece of glass right into his back. It slipped between his ribs, finding internal organs, and causing him to cough. There's blood on his lips.

Able to keep from going all the way through and sitting in the enormous draining tank, he shifts his hand, calling upon an ability that takes the green out of his eyes, trying to throw the man off of him, away— while he lifts his hand. The pitched ladder leading to the sleeping area rips off the wall, sending it flying toward the man who would use it every night to climb up to his fiancee.

When the heavy ladder slams into Jack, he's not able to shrug it off as easily he did the punch. It drives him to deck and sends the breath exploding from his lungs. Even in his drug-addled state, that hurt.

Now he lashes out with his own power for the first time. Still huddling beneath the broken ladder, he extends both hands toward Peter with his palms facing out. Immediately, every single sharp object that he can clearly bring to mind is sailing through the air as he relocates and throws them one at a time. Steak knives, a cleaver, and a carving knife come first, all from the cutlery drawer that's only a few meters away. Not content to simply throw them, he re-relocates some of the improvised weapons, popping them in and out of existance while maintaining their flight path.

Weaving the web of weapons is a desperate gambit. First blood leaks from Jack's nose, then his eyes, and finally his ears. It's painful. It's exhausting.

He clearly needs another dose.

A desperate gambit that may just pay off. Peter may be able to wave his hand around and dislodge one or two of them, but with them flying in and out of existance and relocating in mid-air— they hit. A lot of them. One slashes him across his cheek— that's the least of his problem. A cleaver ends up in his shoulder, buried deep, steak knives pepper his chest, stomach, his upper legs. One goes straight through his arm all the way to the hilt, arms he raised to protect his head when he realizes how hard they were to stop. He had no idea that the man could do that. No idea at all.

Bleeding, and barely able to remain on his two feet, he does the only thing he really can think to do. He closes his eyes. The place where he stood in the pool of water suddenly shifts, liquid displaced, filling in the area that his feet used to be. None of the cutlery falls to the floor, obviously taken with him.

Only the ones that missed or grazed him get left behind.

Coughing and gasping, the best of the high that's been sustaining his now spent, Jack sags wearily against the floor. Propelled entirely by instinct, he slides his hands beneath his body and tries to lever himself to his feet.

It's not happening. He hurts too badly. He can't see. There's something in his eyes. Blood. Too much of it to be good. Groaning, he sinks back down. Surrounded by the debris of his ruined apartment, all he can think of is getting his fix. Sometime during the struggle, one of his needles fell to the floor. He stretches his arm out, fighting against the pain, stretching toward his salvation.

Short. His grasping fingers come up short. Shaking and sobbing with frustration, he throws his head back and screams.

The loud, thumping bass from a few doors down continues. As far as the rest of the building is concerned, it's just another day in the life.

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