Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	6 nm from Boston Harbour. 2000 hours. A mayday call ricocheted into SHIELD headquarters, and no sooner did Signals decipher the problem than an alert went out. Stargazer -- that's Jane Foster -- send a broadcast, and any agent cleared at level 3 or higher gets the nitty-gritty details. It takes 10 minutes to scramble a Quinjet, another 20 for the sprint to Boston. During that time, debriefs are issued with cool precision, Jane deeply regretting not bringing a scarf to go with her suit. It's cold in October. "Double-check your coordinates, or else you get the joy of a polar bear swim in the dark. Not recommended." Nightfall descends over Massachusetts Bay, making the black water and the deepened blue sky practically indistinguishable from one another. MV Zim Harwich stands out for two reasons. The big red freighter bobs among several patches of fire on the water, evidence of burning cargo spilled over the side. A column of smoke is backlit by the fires ablaze in several shipping crates stacked up four and five high across the deck like a kid's LEGO set. Waves heave and lash the Zim Harwich, her bow sinking down and rearing up. No chance of a smooth drop down there, but at least the agents have a lit landing pad. Dark smoke and soot conceal a good portion of the deck, and even high-powered scans show few signs of movement. That's consistent with the report of the crew being locked up in the hold near the water line. However, a small black speedboat clamped to the freighter's hull indicates some kind of trouble. The US Coast Guard is on its way, but mobilizing a ship and sprinting through choppy waters never turns fast. General traffic bound for the port has been ordered out of the way. It's SHIELD and their targets alone.
Natasha Romanova	At the helm of the Quinjet is the Black Widow herself. In her black bodysuit, with a black cap on her head, Romanoff looks back behind her. "Okay. We're on approach. Those of you deploying, prep up and get ready to go. The door opens soon, so get ready to jump. We got a nice light show down there for deployment, so you have plenty of ground visible...." She says as she looks back to the jet's controls. "Nevermind if its fire..." Nat mutters to herself as she reaches a hand up to adjust some controls on the holo display above her head. "Door is opening!" She shouts then as the Jet's interior goes to dark red lights that are thrumming and strobing as the rear door starts to lower down and the wind rushes inside!
Sara Pezzini	Suiting up for Sara first requires undressing, which she has no modesty about. No reason for yet another outfit to end up destroyed when she can save it by just removing it. Witchblade isn't as thrilled by that, the thing seems to thoroughly enjoy shredding clothing, but in leu of the emergency, he cooperated. "I can take two with me to the deck," she states once the tendrils of metal have finished forming the armor over her body. "Ensure a safe landing for Cael and one other. How we handling this fire? Water isn't an option. Could try depriving it of oxygen, depending on the size, will need to see if the target is present. That I can contain with Witchblade." Sara isn't normally a leader type, she takes orders and follows them, but in a situation like this, she wasn't certain which member of the team was the leader, so her comments are offered to all in general.
Cael Becker	Cael was strapped into one of the seats on the Quinjet, dressed in SHIELD body armor with a layer of fire-proofing added, given the nature of the mission. There were extra toys added to help deal with the fire - like protective eyewear, and a small rebreather to help with possible poor (or poisonous) air quality. Who knows what sort of fumes the contents of those containers might cause?     As Natasha bring them in, she nods a confirmation, unstrapping and checking her equipment one last time. This was sheer madness - but honestly, what has she done lately that //wasn't//?     "Well - we have some suppressant foam. We can see if that handles it?" She remarks, hefting a backpack of the stuff over her shoulders now that she's on her feet, moving towards Sara for the offered lift down to the deck of the ship.
Jessica Drew	A last-minute mission run-through occupies Jessica as they bank into the final turn that will take them over the target. She sits strapped in next to Michael, who she has oversight for, wearing standard-issue black tactical gear (fire retardant with built-in armoring) with an ICER in its holster. She will grab an FN Herstal from a weapon rack and rappel down with the rest of the team as they come in low.
Gothic Lolita	Aboard the Quinjet, Lolita goes through the briefing in silence. It's been a minute since she's been out in the field, so she's trying to make sure she does everything by the book. That'll hold up for maybe five minutes. As they hit the dropzone, the mecha rises from her seat and smoothes her dress. (Today, she could be Wednesday Addams doppelganger. Collared A-Line dress, black tights and the chunky heels. She probably did this on purpose.) As the door opens, GL steps towards it, looking down at the chaos and fire below. Her lips twitch upwards as she just steps out of the hatch. Without a parachute. The mecha careens downwards, all five hundred pounds of her, slicing through the air like a knife. Her eyes flicker across the cargo containers as she gets Fancy. At the top of a stack of containers, she extends a hand, electrostatic tingling at her fingers. She clings just enough to redirect her fall, only to release and do it again on another container, slaloming across the deck as she bleeds momentum. It doesn't take too long for her to bleed enough that she's not going to punch clean through the ship and instead just touches down a ''little'' heavily. She smoothes her dress again and gives a sniff.
Sam Wilson	Onboard the Quinjet, Sam is busying himself with a final pre-flight check of his wings, standing in the cargo bay so no one gets clipped. He's in his usual SHIELD-emblazoned body armor, but given that what he does means he's exposed to high-intensity winds and it's damned cold out, there's the addition of a thermal suit beneath, and a gaiter around the lower half of his face, which conceals a rebreather he's also wearing, like Cael.     "Roger that," he says over comms to Romanoff at the front of the jet. He's at the ready near the door, waiting for it to open. Plan is to go in high, do a surveillance sweep, and then address the fire. To Sara, he says, "Redwing and I are loaded down with compressed suppressant foam rounds," while pointing a thumb over his shoulder, to indicate the drone docked in his wingpack.     Black Widow calls the door opening, and then the Falcon is gone, freefalling for the space of a heartbeat before his wings deploy and he's soaring.
Martin Blackwood	Martin rises from his seat, he adjusts his body armor and shrugs. "I know I can't fly that's for sure!" he calls out as he checks the gloves of his armor. "So I would appreciate a bit of a lift if I could!" he says to Sara. His eyes are slightly averted (even if *she* isn't worried about modesty doesn't mean he has to share her disregard).     He takes up another of the fire suppression foam backpacks and calls to Black Widow, "What's the protocol for any survivors?!"
Jane Foster	On the Quinjet, Jane remains aboard, strapped in and armed with the technological eyes on deck down below. "Eyes on, ears on." She adjusts the rotation of the burning container ship below, aligning it on the secondary holo screens projected in front of her. Dots mark the fires, blinking steadily red as the temperature increases. "Our primary goal is acquiring Burberry. No one makes off with our package. Falcon, the event anyone takes off, you are primary on pursuit until we claim the others." Awaiting affirmation, she glances to Nat. When it comes to fieldcraft, trust the expert. "Let me run the biochem signature on the suppressant foam against the chemicals reported aboard and see if that's doable, Becker." Switching windows takes a moment. "We have twenty-two civilians aboard, five potentially missing. Getting them off is our secondary focus, using life rafts on deck if the ship is compromised. Expect hostiles but I'm not detecting any yet."
Michael Erickson	Perched in a jump seat in the back, the tall, quiet man called Erickson - as spelled out on the name patch sewn into the pocket of his black fatigue jacket - sits next to Agent Drew. No weapons, no gear, just the simple black fatigues and a pair of jump boots. His eyes track faces, costumes. Taking notes, always. The robot girl, dressed in fashions he saw first on a Tokyo street thirty years ago. Pezzini, dressed in basically whatever metal decides to make an appearance. Others, like the Falcon, he knows from his past work. Going to be an interesting mission.     But he needs no rebreather, no rapelling lines. "I'll see you down there," he informs Jessica, getting to his feet and like the Addams-machine he simply steps out of the Quinjet's hatch when it opens, swan-diving gracefully into the frigid air over the burning tanker.     For a moment, he falls like a human meteor, but then there is a faint flash of violet light - one can almost see it from the jet, if one is looking out the hatch - and the man is replaced by something else. Gleaming red, articulated metal, the machine that Michael shares his existence with spreads its arms wide. Broad aerofoils like Isis wings edged in razors unfurl from the underside of those arms as the figure falls, a combination of an old hood ornament and an anatomical model, its head a sleek, swept-back helmet whose faceless mask is set with a single shallow 'V' as its visor. Glowing with the same violet light, it leaves a trail in the dark as the figure plunges toward the ship. When it lands, its meteoric velocity will like the Gothic android be arrested only in the last moment, and its bulk lands upon the deck with a clanking rumble.     << Erickson, >> he reports over comms, baritone voice somewhat distorted and metallic. << On deck and waiting. >>
Jane Foster	Aboard the Zim Harwich, smoke seethes in a growing cloud. Flames spread from one compromised metal box to another. Gothic Lolita lands into a steamy, smelly miasma that probably doesn't bother her, though the heat is fairly intense. Michael's sharp-edged wings wont have much problem either, but the vibrations of their landings are a dead giveaway, ringing the ship like a bell. Fire isn't concentrated on the deck but scattered widely, strategically blocking the view from the bridge or a hatch entry. Locating the hatch is another matter through the darkness. Almost a bit /too/ strategic. As the SHIELD team descends on swaying ropes or the wing, one of the containers bobbing in the waves tumbles over. An acrid stink filling the air intensifies as seawater meets heated chemicals, and the box predictably explodes. A shockwave ripples through the air, testing the grip of anyone unfortunate enough to not have shielding or supernatural reflexes. The Harwich heels to the side and straightens, sending more boxes careening over the deck with a screech.
Natasha Romanova	Once the Jet is cleared, Natasha looks to her SHIELD co-pilot and then shuts the rear hatch again. The Quinjet banks hard to starboard and breaks back for the cover of sea, a nice layer of fog is not that far out. The jet's engines roar and the craft whips back up in to the air to overwatch from above. <"Keep close together, team. Try and work as one. We don't know precisely what's down there either, so keep your senses peeled."> Romanoff says over comms to the group, while she brings the jet in again with a bit more altitude now, just incase...
Sara Pezzini	Sara delivers Cael and Martin to the deck of the ship in a safe location and was just starting to lift off and back into the air when the explosion rocks the ship. A dip and dive upstairs allows her to avoid the majority of the wave, but it also shows her just how many of those containers are out there on the water. <"Witchblade reporting," she says into the comm. "I'm going to get those containers away from the ship, more explosions like that will sink her"> Even as she speaking, she dives back toward the first container. The water was already inside, there was no putting an end to the explosive possibility. Grabbing the container with both hands, she uses the force of her flight to literally shove the container across the water and away from the ship. <"Might want to try and get the other containers secured on the ship again."> She then adds, heading for the next container.
Cael Becker	<<"Great idea. Who has experience securing shifting cargo containers? No one? Perfect.">> The ship heaves with each swell - and Cael is starting to question the wisdom of her being here at all as a crate screetches towards her - and her stomach starts to rise up to meet it. Cael doesn't have a lot of experience on boats. In fact - Cael doesn't have //any// experience on boats, and with sudden and worrying clarity she knows it's only a matter of time before she hurls.     She tries not to think about that, though - instead she brings around the nozzle which will dispense fire suppressing foam, and activates it so a spray which quickly increases in size when it makes contact with the atmosphere starts to eject from it. "Let's go fight some fires," she mutters.
Jane Foster	Aboard the Zim Harwich, the ship slowly rights itself but not without threatening to topple several boxes atop Michael and Gothic Lolita. A swift landing gives Cael and Martin very little time to get their bearings through embers flying around before one of those crates comes crashing on them. Lung-scouring vapors further make breathing tough -- smart call to bring a respirator of some kind. Once Cael disperses some of the suppressant foam, the fluffy grey substance immediately expands and further reduces visibility. But it's better than being barbecued.
Jessica Drew	"Copy that, Control."     Out and down, the rappel line whizzes between her gloved fingers. Jess feels the sting of the cold air on her face under the black hood and goggles, snugging her head.     The backpack she carries, heavy with mini cartridges of fire retardant, and rebreathers for any rescued crew, unbalances her just enough to set the line into a spin during the descent.     Michael glows as he drops like a stone, passing her on her spin down. The heat from the edge of the blast pushes against her back, increasing the swing.     Finally, releasing like a trapeze artist ten feet above a tall stack of containers, she falls into a crouch to spring up and run to its edge. With her arm extended, an inch of bared skin exposed to the cold, she releases a gossamer thread of webbing, spidering onto the smoky deck below. She hears clanking, distorted discharges in rapid fire like a string of fire crackers going off nearby, followed by another loud thump, their position obscured by the chemical miasma.      Over general coms, "Copy that, Witchblade. Drew here. Going for crew rescue."
Gothic Lolita	The boat lists, and only GL's hair and dress move. She's locked herself to the metal deck because Magnets. It's useful. At least until the containers start to shift. She frowns at this, considering her options. She could probably lift one pretty easily, but that's not just one moving. She unlocks the magnets and moves, jumping upon the shifting containers and leapfrogging across them as she moves. It really looks like she's playing a game, her body language is so ''casual''. <<I could just rip a hole in the deck.>> She stops on one of the sliding containers, surfing along the deck before she just jumps clear. Of course it's into a pillar of caustic smoke, but, hey. She doesn't breathe. She can't ''see'' but other sensors seem to be alright. She moves through the smoke, making for the hatch, heedless of the heat and fumes.
Sam Wilson	"Roger, Stargazer, I'll keep the air clear." The Falcon has begun his flyover of the container ship, and though his body is buffeted by the concussive force from the explosion, he's high up enough that he recovers swiftly with little altitude lost. And then Sam's training in military evacuations and rescues come into play as he gives the ship a critical look. Sara calls out concerns that align with his evaluation. His drone, Redwing, detaches from his wingpack and zips away. "I'm getting an analysis in of the containers right now, I'll start flagging the ones with the most structural instability." Unseen to anyone, Sam is grimacing about the environmental impacts of all this.     Because seriously, who knows what's in those containers?     Speaking of. "Stargazer, can we get a chemical analysis? I don't want any of our compressed suppression rounds to trigger some kind of chain-effect." It's one thing to be on the ground dispersing the stuff, but when you pack them under intense pressure, add in some combustibles so that they become projectiles, and then shoot them around? Look, he's had the chemical handling training that most SHIELD agents go through.
Martin Blackwood	Martin isn't usually a firefighter, he is usually an EMT, but as a SHIELD agent he is aware that he has to wear a lot of hats. <<We should've brought out magnetic boots>> he says over the intercom, getting a handle on the sway of the ship. As one of the cargo containers moves toward him and Cael he makes a strange gesture with his hands and blue-green energy coalesces before the pair of them in a semi-dome. It's not perfect and it's limited in size, but it will have to do for now.     He takes a look at Cael and follows her lead, activating his fire suppression dispersal unit and working on the greater flames, visbility be damned. Better to be blind than to burn to death.
Michael Erickson	The rocking of the endangered vessel sets Michael on his defensive; the machine-body's feet extends talons to keep itselef anchored, but the massive containers stacked so delicately in normal conditions are sorely pressed to keep from gravity's embrace. One falls from its high perch, burning as it is; Michael, though stumbling on the deck from the list, plunges down towawrd him, threatening to immolate and crush him at once. But he is ready, and though his strength is 'only' sufficient to lift some twenty-five to thirty tons, he is a relative weakling in the fraternity of superagents - so he does not dramatically hoist the thing out of mid-air, he simply steps forward and deflects it with a great shove, sending it skidding across the deck and very nearly plunging overboard.     << I'm all right, >> he calls over the link, turning toward Jessica now. << Can you do anything with your webbing to keep those things secured, Agent Drew? >>
Natasha Romanova	Nat observes the explosion from the sky. "Great. Even the water is dangerous now..." She murmurs as she adjusts some scanners on the jet's readhouts. She shifts the ship around to aim the nose at the vessel below. <"Group, I'm deploying some drones to get additional light down there."> She says in a dry tone of voice over team comms. Her eyes scan the Jet's systems and she notes the name of the drones before deploying them. "'Baby Birds'?" She asks her co-pilot who just shrugs. Natasha shakes her head. "I'm not calling them that." She grumbles before tapping the release system. <"Awesome Sky Lights inbound."> Nat says over comms then. From below the Quinjet a squadron of drones unleash and swarm the sky to turn on bright high-lumen lights to shine down from above to help give more sight where shadow was before.
Jane Foster	On the Quinjet, Jane sends off another alert to deflect the USCGS from getting any nearer. A skipper of a cutter is no doubt loudly asking for answers. <"Got it, Falcon. Stand by, I'm uploading the official dispatch now."> A few moments later, the manifesto scrolls up with the joys of condensed nitric acid, sulfuric acid, alkyl xanthate salts, benzol, ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. The latter is the real problem, given its status as a high-powered explosive. Whatever blew before isn't the ANFO or the fertilizers in compartments, otherwise they might have metal shards going airborne and half of Boston flattened. <"Analysts affirm we shouldn't have a reaction between the foam and the cargo on deck. Benzol will be a problem but it should be stored midship per the Port of Miami. Fitz can patch through anything else."> Muting the mic for a moment, she reads over the display. "I am not replaying the Halifax Disaster in my head right now. Adding magnetic boots to the next mission criteria at sea, mm?" Aboard the Zim Harwich... Down on the deck, things are still heaving and troubling since the ship has to negotiate that great demon: weather. Another crack runs through the ship, a succession of pops and hisses barely audible over the burning and slap of seawater sheeting across the deck. Spotting the hatch is one thing, but the slog across isn't easy to reach the relative safety. Half the metal door is warped out of shape, the edges welded to the side of the metal frame by some recent attack that leaves it warm to the touch still. That isn't in any way normal.
Sara Pezzini	With Redwing pointing out which containers have hazardous, going to explode materials, Sara kicks it into high gear and goes after them first. Uncertain as to the structural integrity of the containers themselves, she continues to employ the 'shove them on the water' method. If she can tip them over to put out the fire, that is what she will do, if they are too far into the 'on fire' stage, she will heft them out of the water and literally use the discus throw technique to get them away from the ship. Coming out of a spin, with the new lights in the sky, her eyes narrow slightly toward the container ship. <"We got a speedboat on the port side, clamped to the hull. There's no markings," she reports as she heads for the next container. "It's low to the water, stealth capable... confirmed, you got company on that ship... and this was a planned attack, no accident.">
Cael Becker	Cael continues to fire the suppressant foam as the cargo crate careens towards them. "Shit shit shit," she mutters under her breath- only to watch it get deflected by the strange partial-dome of blue-green energy.     She'll take it.     "Ni-" she starts to congratulate Martin, before she abruptly finds herself incapable of speaking. Instead, she finds her dinner rising up in her stomach, and it ends up spraying across the deck of the ship, which is now extra slippery. Greeeeeat. After wiping her mouth on her sleeve she mumbles, "Mental note: I don't like boats."
Jessica Drew	Knees bent, swaying with the boat, Drew acknowledges the suggestion from Erickson, grinning into the caustic chemicals at Romanoff naming the drones, "Copy that, Bird."     A crash behind her speeds her forward. She lashes containers on the run, twapping webbing haphazardly across stacks of containers swaying with the listing ship.     She makes her way to the main hatch going below into where crew last reported themselves. She arrives to unexpectedly find it welded to the deck by some strange high-energy explosive, entombing the crewmembers below.     "Erickson, come to me amidship to the main hold. I need a hand." Hand to her earpiece as she examines the hatch, "Copy that about incoming." Then, the agent crouches to try to work the hatch open, a wave hitting the side of the ship rocks her hard.
Gothic Lolita	GL takes a look down, her sensor suite swapping through the visual spectrum, thermal and ultraviolet. With barely an eye flicker, she tunes out the hot spots on the deck, looking deeper in the ship. <<Found em~>>, she singsongs through the group band. <<About a dozen in the hold, probably the hostages, another six or so moving really ... purposefully around the dozen, and another handful high in the stern higher up.>> Not really feeling patient, GL reaches down, driving delicate looking fingers into the metal of the deck before she starts to peel it like aluminum foil, opening up a hole big enough to jump through. Which she does.
Sam Wilson	Redwing has a chirpy, extremely robotic voice as it opens up multiple one-on-one channels, directing those dealing with the containers. Given that it's a computer, it has no issue with maintaining several conversations all at once. It is also very cheerful and just happy to be here, because that's the personality it has slowly developed as Sam learns how to program it.     So if-slash-when Sam's robot bird son achieves sentience, it *probably* won't try to take over the world.     "Got it, Stargazer. We'll begin deploying fire suppressant foam." And then Falcon is doing so, firing several rounds from an arm-mounted gun. He's focusing on where the fire is raging the strongest, trying to contain it and make it easier for those on the ground. Er, on the ship's deck, rather.     Meanwhile, Redwing is managing to multi-task effectively in the way only robots can. Something pops up on Sam's HUD, and he switches to the classified frequency to report, "Getting a possible location on Burberry, somewhere in the stern. Not on deck."
Jane Foster	In the Zim Harwich, there are emergency lights running off a generator and lights that any container ship should have in a fire absent. The eerie darkness stinks of hot metal, oil, and fuel atop the chemical-laced fire. The hole which Gothic Lolita rips open leaves a ragged drop down into grim darkness. For all the grand size of the container ship -- and she's a grand dame -- the design is quite simple, with a longitudinal hallway running on either side, separated by plenty of steep stairs and waterproof doors. Walkways running through hatches leads into large holds. Skeletal steel beams fill a cathedral-like space full of crates, so many sea crates. Putting Burberry, a package probably no larger than luggage, in here is really a needle in a skyscraper-sized haystack. Jessica needs more help to rip the door open to the hatch, and enjoy the sights of melted steel on the other side, several handguns and a very strange dagger severed diagonally through the blade. Scratches gouge the walls. Detritus -- cigarette butts, a fallen cell phone stamped to bits -- litters the floor, probably left by the crew. There's blood, too, enough of it to suggest someone got brained before being hurled away.
Martin Blackwood	Martin nods and doesn't seem perturbed by the sea sickness of Cael. <<We can all have boat leg>> he says, putting out another fire and managing to keep his footing, only barely as he wades through the waves and sick on the deck.     He taps on a device on his arm and checks the readout it produces. <<Alright. We need to get in deeper. Better chance of triangulating. Stern, Falcon? Got it.>>
Michael Erickson	<< On my way. >> The razor-tipped wings retract into the arms of his machine-body as Erickson leaves the containers to the others; marching across the way, the metal beading with spray as he heads to where Jessica deals with the hatch. Once GL mentions the details of her scanners, he also activates his own, sighting humanoid shapes deeper in the structure as if the ship were made of glass.     << Confirmed recon data, >> Michael says as he comes up to Jessica and the hatch. << I can see the same numbers. Want me to cut this thing open? >> As he speaks, a weapon surfaces from the metal in the machine-body's thigh, as if regurgitated from organic depths. Sleek, black, long-barreled. It looks like a blaster from a 1980s games console. He takes it in hand, nodding at the hatch she stands by.     And then GL tears open the deck and jumps into the ship. So much for the stealthy approach.
Jane Foster	On the Quinjet, Jane updates the coordinates being conveyed through the receivers, and shakes her head. <"Give me a clearer picture. Widen your lateral arc. The transmissions only sync up directly on a narrow broadcast plane."> Working her fingers across the fuzzy image conveyed over the holo removes interference. <"Watch your six, you've got movement from below."> The cutting and tearing ruins any possibility of stealth, largely because the squealing metal and shrieking thuds conveyed through the superstructure might be heard. For anyone with sharpened senses, the cacophony is obvious. Two of the IR-haloed blobs move, converging from the midsection of the hold at a pace between brisk and aggressive. To reach the upper decks means climbing up the stairs, though they manage that quickly enough, dots pausing and advancing. The team in the stern proceed with their task, the irregular advance and tight formation suggesting they aren't going anywhere especially quick.
Natasha Romanova	Natasha at the helm of the jet keeps a watch on the 'Baby Birds' as they sweep about in the sky providing a wealth of bright white illumination. She spies the movement on the deck of the ship from people that definitely aren't theirs. <"Lighting up the enemies a bit. See if we can't confuse them..."> Nat says over team comms before she fires a barrage of red and green flares out of the Quinjet, not live rounds... mind you... just actual flares that pepper the sky with sizzling trails as they fly right down toward the enemies to provide more chaos and confusion to the foes below.
Cael Becker	"Yeah, well, why can't we?" Cael counters in annoyance. With her stomach emptied, though, she's feeling a little better.     Careful to steer around the slick section of decking, she advances on another hot-spot - firing off more of the foam suppressant, turning her head slightly away from the heat of the blaze. It was hard to imagine a worse hell than this slippery, heaving deck filled with flaming, poorly secured and explosive crates. She could only hope the teams going into the ship find and rescue the crew quickly so they could all get clear of this nightmare.     And then let the whole amned thing sink. Fuck this ship. Seriously.
Sara Pezzini	Out in the water, Sara continues to get the containers under control, and only when she is certain that none of them are still on fire and those that can't be put out are so far away from the ship that the explosions won't effect it, does she head toward the ship itself.
Jessica Drew	Jess stands back to let "Bird" do his work, "What could weld a hatch shut like that, Michael?" She turns her head away from the bright light of the laser he deploys.     Jess's heightened hearing can detect footsteps approaching the bottom of the stairway leading into the hold through the din of containers shifting, flares popping, and metal vaporizing. She unholsters her handgun to work in close quarters and descends the stairs, alert to incoming.     A figure slips around the corner, spider quick she fires.
Gothic Lolita	GL lands on one of the catwalks in the interior of the ship. The impact of her five-hundred pound frame bends it a little. Oops. She is not the stealth operative, despite appearances. She moves into the light, ensuring that her tiny, and ill-dressed for a mission, frame is visible to the ... whoever is doing this. She smiles at them brightly. "Hellooooo~ Wanna play?" She moves like lightning, the catwalk buckling under her push off. She launches herself at one of the goons in the front of the pack and reaches up to grab him by the face. It's like being hit by a linebacker. She stops short, standing amidst the small group, holding the man(?) by the face. "Your turn!"
Jane Foster	Sara's many crates are no longer bombs waiting to detonate, but merely dangerous to run into for smaller ships and boats. The Coast Guard will no doubt make a point of documenting where they are within the exclusion zone. Fires on the ship dimming to merely a dull roar under mountains of foam poured out until there isn't much left leave a sick smell in the air, the smoke still staining the clouds. A few crates still glow and crackle a bit without aerial assaults, adding to the fireworks show being speckled all over the ship. It's certainly hard to miss the Zim Harwich and admittedly most of Boston who can see is watching. They don't know the pitched danger to them. In the hold, Jess descends at a light-footed run much easier than her opponents. The first two people she encounters wear crew uniforms and have an unshaved, swarthy look. Gunshots fired directly at the first happen faster than he can react, and blood splatters his dark canvas shirt. A shout of pain resonates loudly. The second crewmember flattens to the wall to avoid a second shot and waits for his wounded friend to duck before he punches. And it would just be a normal punch, except for the electrified framework formed around some carbon-frame knuckles reinforcing his punch. To heck with brass. In the stern, Michael and Sam's triangulation will ping again. Gothic Lolita landing to grab someone by the face while he's busy sweeping a crate catches him somewhat by surprise. He gets out a barked word in a language that's nothing familiar. A figure in a tac suit another fifteen meters along stops, and draws a hilt from their belt. Ooh, how impressive. Until the blade starts unfolding into a singing metal form like origami.
Sam Wilson	It's mostly Falcon himself that zips across the ship from bow to stern, firing off a bevy of high velocity rounds packed with tightly compressed fire suppressant foam. He's doing what he can from above to keep the flames from spreading towards where they might block potential escape routes for the agents now down below deck.     "Blackwood, I'm sending Redwing down to do another sweep of the stern, see if you can get into place to help triangulate," Sam says over the comm-line, and shortly the red-and silver drone is dodging and left and right through the rave of flares and lights that fill the sky. It beeps happily as if to say 'is this party all for me?'     As the drone begins its methodical search of the area near the ship's sterm, focused the 12-16GHz frequency transmission range, Sam dials back in to the quinjet. "We're trying another sweep, stand by."
Martin Blackwood	Martin tosses his empty backpack of fire suppression epuipment on the deck and concentrates. He glows blue-green for a moment and then disappears from view.     Slipping deeper into the stern he does his best to avoid the mech's assault on the men in the process. His readout is still not perfect but the deployment of Redwing from Falcon is enough to help him navigate the crates.     Another check of his own readout at another crate and the frequencies seem to match. <<I... I think I've found it>> he says, sounding surprised over the intercom. His voice is pitched a little low, so as to avoid detection from the other three guards near him. Hopefully the mechanical maid will draw their attention.
Michael Erickson	<< Many different things, >> Michael offers to Jane, which is technically correct but not terribly helpful. << Depends on the technology involved. Could just be a welder. But since we're here... >> He takes a step back and squeezes the trigger of the elegant blaster; a pencil-thick lance of white light sweeps forth, piercing the metal easily. Sweeping a disc-shaped aperture through the hatch, claws grow from his fingers and he impales the section before it can land and give away their position - it's setting the hatch section down safely that keeps him from following Jessica right away.     But then there's gunshots, and he heads down.     He descends the stairs just in time for Jessica to see the one drop thanks to Jess's ICER rounds; the other swings and lands a hard dent in the bulkhead thanks to the exotic knuckles that he wears, and Michael does not fool around with returning the favor. The sleek pistol rises in his armored grip, and another lance of white light is spat from its narrow muzzle - piercing the man's shoulder, and going through into the metal behind him, cooking nerves and muscle alike as it goes through. He'll need major surgery to save the arm, of course, but at least he won't bleed out. Cauterization due to plasma will do that for you.
Sara Pezzini	A couple of swoops low over the deck allows Sara a moment to figure out what is happening where, and down the hole that Gothic Lolita created she can see a number of enemy combatants. She knows nothing about Lolita's capabilities, or what she is for that matter, so in her mind she sees a member of the team about to be over whelmed. Folding the wings in tight against her back she dives through the hole that was made then spreads her wings again to slow her decent enough that she can land /on/ one of the guys who thought he could just move right up on Lolita. The Witchblade gauntlet forms a longsword in her right hand as she lands, which is instantly stabbed into the man to keep him from getting up. <"Got your back GL," she announces, ready for the next one coming her way. "Don't worry about me, they can't hurt me.">
Cael Becker	The turmoil in Cael's stomach has settled to a dull roar, as she dispenses a little more of the suppressor foam. <<"I'll keep an eye on the fires and make sure nothing else flares up,">> Cael announces into the comms - because having the ship go up like a Christmas tree in July would be less than convenient for the mission.     As the ship pitches down from the peak of another wave, she finds herself sliding into one of the crates secured by Jessica's webbing. She HATES boats. It's official. That's going to leave a bruise...
Jessica Drew	"Eyes on unknowns. Crew maybe," Jess reports over coms before ducking a blow that leaves a dent in the steel frame of the ship. What the...? Another blow whistles by her ear; she strikes a crippling blow into her assailant's knee, and a shot sizzles over her shoulder, taking him down.     "Good one, Bird," she calls. "Let's go. How many up ahead?!"     Without waiting for his answer, she moves forward, a double-handed grip on her gun that swivels in a defensive arc. Footsteps patter toward them in, hunters on the prowl.
Jane Foster	In the stern... Paraphrased, so said the Gingerbread Man and it didn't go so well. Sara intercepts one of the quartet performing their scan, and his reaction is to fall back into a definite defensive stance, blade pierced through him or not. He bleeds red and spits out a harsh word at her. The tac-suited figure with the sword rapels off the metal crate they were standing on, hitting the hold floor when boots and gloves disengage. They rise up with the blade held at a particularly neat angle that reveals its odd, almost glaive-like shape once fully unfolded. Something about its edge reads as wrong to anyone with an eye for weapons, and the vorpal vibrations accommodating the expert way they whip the blade into a guard isn't meant to be comforting. No exchange of words; it's not worth the time. In the hold, the crew isn't about to stage a rebellion or respond to two (!) people running about. The remaining four responsible for casing the hold break up after a quick conversation when the noise gets their attention. Three fall into a wedge prepared to intercept. One more retreats back to the crew... and then there's no signature to follow at all.
Gothic Lolita	<<Targets found~>> GL singsongs through the comm band. She drops the man she grabbed negligently, stepping forward as the sword unfolds. Her head tilts slightly before she looks back up. Her smile hasn't changed, but her eyes have. They've gone entirely black with an orange symbol in them. Almost like the symbol on a computer's power switch. Her fingers roll in anticipation before she launches herself at the person in a blur of black in the dark. She swings a bodyblow at the person, pulling her strength down to Captain America level. Holding back because it'll be more fun this way! The Witchblade arrives and the mecha beams. <<They can't hurt me either~>> Gothic Lolita fights with abandon. She's a brawler who is of the belief that she can't really be hurt. She might be wrong, but it'll be a new experience so she won't be too mad. Probably.
Sam Wilson	Once the package has been located, Redwing's work topside is done. The drone swoops down through the air like the feathered bird from which it gained its name (there's a whole story there), and enters through the hatch. Redwing has no stealth system to speak of, but what it does have is tight maneuverability and a very minimal profile, so it reaches Blackwood's location with little issue, avoiding the centers of chaos. Then it chirps, quietly, to announce its arrival to the SHIELD agent, and helpfully shines a pinpoint light down into the salt crate. After a second or two, something clicks in Redwing's undercarriage and the single point of light morphs into an x-shape. X marks the spot! See, Redwing is HELPING.     Up above, Sam has done what he can from the air to combat the fire. He lands on Cael's six, and puts a hand out to steady himself on the container she's just fallen against. "You good?" he asks, just before the deck rolls underneath him and Sam too loses his footing, smacking into the container. "Ugh. Let me restate: you want to get the hell off this ship?"
Jane Foster	Holding back generally is fun. But when one's opponent has the age of an Amazon and the experience in dedicated warfare to match, that's a bit of a problem. Double the problem for dirty fighting, which means not just waiting for Gothic Lolita to hurl herself at the black-clad smuggler. Who does that? It's no fun. Instead, better to spring in a parkour run over one of the crates and bring the Clef blade up where its curious hook makes an exceptional cutting edge that splits through metal with contemptuous ease. Speed and efficiency can make strength a non-issue, getting under guards and presenting sharp, explosive bursts of movement. A fighting style refined in secrecy for ages is used on the edge. If the Witchblade presents itself by Sara stepping into the fray, the rotation of handling two separate opponents is extended like breathing in a shifting, problematic strategy. Redwing whipping around a few meters away in a crate is helpful! It means he isn't going to get dismembered by accident, though the fourth guard who isn't engaged sees a blur of movement and he dives after the salt. Ooh, salt! The best treasure.
Martin Blackwood	Martin is briefly distracted by the commotion of a combat behind him. And then there's a guard digging into the salt where the target they are sent to retreive is located. Can't have that.     He focuses and knows he can't move while producing both an invisibility field on himself as well as what he has in mind. There is a pulse of blue-green energy behind the man and what appears from the shadows, for all intents and purposes, is an alien.     A Xenomorph in fact.     It jumps at the unsupsecting guard, pushing him to the ground. It's maw opens and the second maw within slides out with a high pitched hiss. The lack of acidic saliva might be a give away if the guard has enough presence of mind to think that far. <<Gonna need an extract soon here>> Martin mutters through gritted teeth. <<Almost lost the package but... I've got it... under control... sort of...>>
Michael Erickson	Michael is no stranger to fighting in the close quarters that the belly of a ship provides - whether starfaring or seafaring, the innards of a ship are cramped, metallic, and tight. So when he sees the wedge of three men coming up on their position through the bulkhead, he does not hesitate; it is just the same as when he was with a boarding party of Imperial marines over Tethlas, when pirates nearly killed the squad with shard-guns were it not for the breaching rifles of the vanguard ahead of them. It's just metal, after all, and hardly the grade of starship hulls. Molybdenum steel, nothing so much as tissue paper.     << They're coming up, >> he tells Jessica as he raises the muzzle of the gun. << Three. The fourth has vanished, probably some sort of stealth technology like the speedboat. Be ready. >> Squeezing the trigger with a metal finger, the armor-body looses an extended beam of superheated plasma; the white lance goes right through the bulkhead at the corner of the turn ahead, piercing one of the two men in the back straight through the lower torso. Another organ transplant case, that - crying out and going down in a heap, his immediate collapse gooses the other two men ahead into the corridor. And, you know. Right into Jessica's sights.
Sara Pezzini	The new target presents herself, headed for Gothic Lolita. Her team mate had claimed invulnerability as well, but that sword being wielded is not at all your average weapon. Into her left hand a shield with the SHIELD emblem appears, while in the right the longsword bursts into flames. Even that's new to Sara, but she doesn't have time to speculate on why it happened. Using her wings instead of parkour, she moves after the woman with the fancy sword to aid Lolita. She manages to get in a couple of swings, and use the shield to block a slash and that's how she learns that that sword has an effect on Witchblade's metal. The blade goes across the metal, leaving an actual mark and slight divot in the surface of the metal. Then Martin calls for extraction, and that becomes the primary mission goal. Lolita would have to deal on her own, even if Sara hated the idea of it. Leaping into the air, she shoots up through the hole in search of Martin. She took him to the ship, she'd take him back, and Cael too if her partner was ready for extraction.
Cael Becker	"Turns out - I fucking hate boats," Cael answers Sam, bracing herself against the pitch of the ship as it ploughs into another wave. She doesn't know enough about ships to know it - but with no one at the helm? It's no wonder the ship is pitching so badly. "You can't see anymore hotspots from your vantage?" she asks.     It's only after Sam confirms that fact that she'll give a nod of agreement. "Get me off this thing," she mutters - swallowing back another heave of her stomach. Into the comm she adds, <<"Witchblade - Falcon's got me covered for extraction.">>
Jessica Drew	Michael confirms what Jess hears,rounding a container into a wide corridor walled high with cargo. He fires through walls, leaving her the more traditional approach.     "Giddy-up little doggies." she sings.      Bird's shots drive them forward. Jess unshoulders the P-90, firing ICER rounds in a wide arc, shooting now, hoping to ask questions later.     "You ready? We're going /now./"
Gothic Lolita	The biggest problem about fighting human sized opponents for Gothic Lolita is the fact that she has to hold back. Her directives and programming demand, or at least strongly request, that she hold back on the lethal force. Thus, she pulled back from 'Hulk-esque' to 'Cap does alright'. In this case, it doesn't go alright. The Clef blade sings through the air and bites into GL's arm. Not only does it bite, it ''severs'', the dense limb clattering to the floor. She, frankly, looks shocked. She stoops quickly to grab her arm, holding it to the stump to let the nanomachines do their work. It only takes a second for her to be able to let go, but she can't really punch with that arm now. Her eyes narrow, and she speaks aloud for the first time since the Quinjet. "Limiters: Off." The mecha rolls her neck and hurls herself at the person with the sword again. Her eyes glow orange as she brings all of her terrible strength to bear. The air itself sheers apart with the raw force of her swing. She aims for the face this time, a terrible thunderclap echoing in the cargo hold from the sheer force she unleashes.
Jane Foster	In the stern... the Xenomorph's sudden appearance is questionable in the dark. But the black, monstrous alien emerging earns an atavistic glare from the fourth member of the party formerly sweeping the stern. Others might run from being jumped, but he jabs at it, slashing and kicking to get away. Slithering out from danger is high on his priority list. A stunned second look follows Sara with her fancy wings, shield, and sword combination, but only for a moment. Because a fancy maid descending in a rage undermines the weakened, listing structure of the container ship. Already harmed by fire, shockwaves, and choppy waves, Gothic Lolita landing to confront the Coda smuggler breaks the ship's back. Or accelerates it as the jarring force dislodges several heavy containers that topple like dominoes. One wrenched metal beam cracks. The shockwave sends a rattle in all directions. Metal groans and pings as bolts shear, metal breaks, and she doesn't wait. The figure in black dodges up in one of those nearly unbelievable leaps, slashing through the crumpling metal divide. The blade can go through the stern and fling her out into the water, which is well or good. But the sea's just as happy to come in, leaving stunned people in the stern -- all three of them, anyway, to be caught -- and Michael probably scrambling to escape.
Sam Wilson	"It's just this boat in particular you hate. We'll go out fishing in Louisiana some day and you'll learn to love it," Sam says as he rubs at his arm where his elbow smashed against the container. Just a bruise, though, nothing broken. "We've put out the worst of it," he confirms. And then they have to go through the awkward maneuver of getting Cael up into Sam's arms, though he assures her that he has to carry everyone this way when he's got a +1 he's bringing with him from the ground.     Eventually, they're up in the air, though. The less said about the whole take-off, the better.     Below deck, Redwing swivels around in midair to confront the guard. It lets out an shrill, aggrieved beep before it deploys a line, and the two-pronged tip sinks into the guard's skin. A bright buzz of electricity fills the room as the drone zaps the guard with enough electricity to knock your average human being unconscious, before the line is retracted. Then it turns back to Agent Blackwood and goes beep-boop, before it tips itself to the side. Like it's saying 'You ready to get out of here?'     And then, in Martin's ear: "REDWING -zzt- READY FOR EXTRACTION!" Clearly, the drone is sticking around until it knows Agent Blackwood makes it out too.
Martin Blackwood	Martin nods to the drone. <<By all means, please>> he says. <<Oh, but first,>> he turns to Witchblade, <<Pezzini, we need the crate. Target is inside it.>>     He drops the invisibility field from around him with an exhale of breath. He'll be glad to get out of here and not drown on a sinking ship.
Sara Pezzini	Sara zips in to land by Martin. "You grab the crate, I'll get you and the crate... hurry, I have to go back for Lolita." First get Martin to Quinjet with crate, make sure he's safely inside with package, then dive, dive, dive. She can carry Lolita, even though she has no idea how heavy she is, super strength comes with Witchblade. So into the ship interior she goes to grab the Gothic Lady. "Holy balls you're heavy!" She grunts, but still picks her up and heads back toward the Quinjet.
Gothic Lolita	Lolita is, in fact, very heavy. Five hundred pounds of superdense metal and nanomachines. Which is why it might be a little disturbing for Sara because GL giggles like a teenage girl when the Witchblade scoops her up and complains about her weight. "I just can't stop eating sweets," she says with a laugh. She lets herself be carried though. This might be a real first for her.
Cael Becker	Cael makes no comment as Sam gets them both airborne.     Well. Almost no comment. "...we really need to get those wings lessons in," she mutters under her breath. Maybe he doesn't hear her, over the sound of the swells, and the wings, and the wind whipping in their ears. She continues to struggle to contain her stomach - hopefully it all gets better once they're back on the quinjet. "What about the civs?" she asks in a louder voice. She feels a little guilty leave that task unfinished - but there were others on top of it - surely.
Jessica Drew	All hell breaks loose. Jess can feel the ship's death knells through her feet. She breaks into a dead run toward the hostages.      One last man guards them. Drew doesn't stop to chat but shoots, urging them, "Up, up on the containers and out of here! Anyone hurt?" She hands them up one by one, while Michael works his alien magic, "You good there?" she asks one with blood on his clothes.     To the quinjet, "We have twelve hostages incoming, waiting for pick up."
Michael Erickson	With the groan of metal and the roar of fluid thunder, Michael finds that unlike a hull breach of a starship, whereupon the void seeks to yank everything out to visit, the structural damage caused to a ship sees the ocean to come /in/. You know. To say hello. And, well. Forget that. << I don't have to worry about breathing, >> he tells Jessica, striding past the fallen men to the hatch leading into the hold. << Can you collect those fellows while I tear us an escape route? >> The hatch opens easily, of course, and Michael enters the hold whereupon a number of terrified people find themselves face to face with the red, violet-eyed demon that is the machine-body, the manifestation of the will of the Shi'ar Empire, an avatar of death that many worlds would know to toll the doom of nations.     But in this case he's just scary-looking as Hell.     << Follow us if you want to live, >> he intones in his metallic voice, distorted by the machine's external speakers - and, marching past them to a section of the dek above that's tilting above the waterline, just...vaults upward, buoyed upward by hidden antigravitic motors and with claws again uncurling from armored fingers, and - in a flurry of red limbs, sparks, and spalling metal - begins to inexplicably tunnel upward through deck and hull alike to open up a shaft through which they can escape. It looks like bad special effects, perhaps, but by God, he's done it.     And then he's dropped onto the deck, staring at the momentarily stunned hostages - who, shocked back into action by the lady who /isn't/ an alien machine of death - scramble to follow her orders, clambering toward the crates that will lead them up to freedom. Well, with help from the two agents, that is.
Jane Foster	In the hold, the pair of Michael and Jessica work well. Neutralising four hired goons isn't instantaneous. But plasma blasts definitely help even out the numbers who cannot possibly fight back at a distance. The goons were armed for harassing a ship's crew, not metahumans or people with alien armour. The ship shudders and heels, slowly tilting more each minute. Booms echo where attacks from assorted weapons mingle with the slewing crates. ICER rounds don't make nearly so much sound being discharged, but together the neurotoxins and blasts do their work in dropping the four remaining guards. The crew themselves, all 14 of them still alive, are hopefully not shot at random. Packed together with their hands over their heads or up in the air, they might not quite register only two people came to save them. Broken English of "No fight!" and "Help!" is the best the hostages can give among frantic Hindi, Indonesian, and Greek explanations. They look to Jessica, more human than someone doing things with horrible claws and one or two moan in fear. Meanwhile, seawater trickles in through pipes and cracks, hastening the Harwich's trip to the bottom. Everyone can worry about environmental clean-up and containment later. Maybe Fury can sell the whole issue as an artificial reef to Massachusetts. Yeah, that'll go over well! Damage Control is already rubbing its hands. The package is secure, escaping civilians about to be questioned, and no one is the wiser to how close they came to major trouble. Right?