Owner	Pose
Voodoo	This is not a burlesque show. No, the club MysteriX is instead a modern - ultramodern, in fact - strip club. Multiple stages, each with their own poles. Fog and lighting effects. Sound zones for different music. It's pretty impressive, if you like that sort of thing. In the middle of the club, in the largest space with the biggest sound zone, is the main stage. And now that it is 'prime time' - after 9pm on a weekend evening - the headliner is on stage, performing, strutting out around one of the poles on the main stage, then lifting herself up out of the fog cloud and into the dazzling light show above with just one mocha-skinned arm, displaying incredible physical strength and dancing skill as she twirls and whirls and does other improbable things. And as the music progresses, items of clothing come off that costume, tossed this way or that way. Voodoo is an amazing dancer. And to be fair, she cheats: not only is she an astoundingly good dancer, a gorgeous woman, and an uninhibited stripper, she also naturally pumps out psychic static that strongly encourages those attracted to women to perceive her as perhaps the most alluring and stunningly gorgeous woman they can even imagine. Hence the flood of bills that covers the stage. It's a living.
Voodoo	This is not a burlesque show. No, the club MysteriX is instead a modern - ultramodern, in fact - strip club. Multiple stages, each with their own poles. Fog and lighting effects. Sound zones for different music. It's pretty impressive, if you like that sort of thing. In the middle of the club, in the largest space with the biggest sound zone, is the main stage. And now that it is 'prime time' - after 9pm on a weekend evening - the headliner is on stage, performing, strutting out around one of the poles on the main stage, then lifting herself up out of the fog cloud and into the dazzling light show above with just one mocha-skinned arm, displaying incredible physical strength and dancing skill as she twirls and whirls and does other improbable things. And as the music progresses, items of clothing come off that costume, tossed this way or that way. Voodoo is an amazing dancer. And to be fair, she cheats: not only is she an astoundingly good dancer, a gorgeous woman, and an uninhibited stripper, she also naturally pumps out psychic static that strongly encourages those attracted to women to perceive her as perhaps the most alluring and stunningly gorgeous woman they can even imagine. Hence the flood of bills that covers the stage. It's a living.
Graydon Creed	Skeezy, dirty, filthy, perverse, homewreckers and worse your average stripper might be called on any given day but Graydon Creed sees them as more than that. They are women using their talents to get ahead in life. So many of them are smart, intelligent women who just are in a bad spot or because of the wealth gap find this is the easiest way to find work. When politicians talk about people pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, these are the kind of people he thinks of. If he was to ever take a wife he would want a woman like these women: strong, independent, unbreakable no matter what life throws at them. Well, most of them. Some of them are not strong enough and turn to drugs, some to prostitution out of desperation but you know what most of them have in common, no matter how successful or desperate? They don't vote. It's an untapped market of people who just want someone to care for them so with the mid-terms coming up, Senator Creed comes out to the voters. His security guys go in first with a briefcase full of money. They ask to speak to the manager one of the four private security in their Men In Black suits tells the bartender. "Our employer would like to buy the club all the girls for three hours.Private party. No questions asked. " the security agent says putting the thick briefcase on the bar with a heavy thunk. "Cash."
Voodoo	The real problem with an arrangement like this one from Senator Creed is that the money Creed's goon just gave the club manager will never get to any of the women. And he just commanded that they send away every paying customer from whom these women could have made money. He's trying to help, and he just made things so much worse. And that is why as soon as the Senator and his psychically blank, nigh-nonexistent bodyguards appear in the club, the headliner herself - Voodoo - jumps off the stage and strides ride towards him. Yep, she strides despite the towering stiletto-heeled platforms she's wearing for shoes. "Hey. Listen, I don't know who you are or how special you might be, but you just made very sure every girl in here is going to go broke tonight. And that's assinine." And yes, the gorgeous half-dressed stripper just interrupted her show to let Creed know what she thinks of -- Hello? In mid-diatribe the half-naked woman's head snaps around towards the entrance to the club, past the security guards, as four men approach trying to get into the club. At least, they look like four men to everyone else. But to Priscilla Kitaen, they look like two men, and two steaming reptilian alien husks. Daemonites, here in her club. And from the thoughts she can pick up from their compatriots, those asshats are more heavily armed than most in-country eight-man fireteams. Oh crap.
Zealot	Zealot's crouched outside, boots on the edge of the roof high above, poised like a gorgeous gargoyle, crafted in porcelain and steel rather than stone. She wears her warpaint, crimson streaks across her cheeks and a circle at the center of her forehead. In her hands, molecular-edged katana, a matched set, perfect for close-quarters wetwork. She'd gotten wind of the Daemonite pack three days ago, through a source she had in the Russian mafia. Arms dealers, she occasionally bought their wares herself and the loyal customer discount, for her, included the occasional bit of discreet information when the money her dealer received came from certain sources. Daemonite sources. When she saw the club, she knew who the target was, of course. Priscilla had never been as careful as she should be and, given her abilities, she always drew attention. Deserved or not, that attention made her an easy mark when the devils-in-flesh came hunting their own. Creed means nothing to her, just another rich human doing what rich humans do: consuming like a locust until it leaves the landscape barren in its wake. She tried to sympathize with humans, but often she barely thought of them as people. She just drops from the roof, falling effortlessly as they step inside. They hear nothing until her boots hit, a scrape on the asphalt as soft as a file on a nail despite the height she dropped. It's possible she takes a head before they even register her presence. At the very least, she'll spill blood. She always does.
Graydon Creed	The security guy who was paying for the club looks at the angry stripper and says, "The boss has something for you to. Calm your tits. Everyone gets paid." then he mutters, "Waste of money if you ask me." before reaching up to tap his ear, "Payment is made. Give us a minute to clear out the" then he explodes as does part of the bar he was standing next to. Lots of the customers have fantasized about hot, wet things splattering on Voodoo's face but no one ever wanted it to be security guard. One of girls scream a high pitched scream of terror. Wait, no, that was Eddie the construction worker. Who woulda guessed he was a soprano? Chaos erupts and the club starts to clear a lot faster than the security agents anticipated. The two private security left do the smart thing and dive for cover while everyone else runs and makes themselves targets.
Voodoo	Half-naked, and now splattered with liquified - and not so liquified - security guard, Voodoo does what a trained Coda should do in this circumstance: she dives for cover before those damned Vulcan miniguns can tear her to shreds like they just did the security guard. Voodoo doesn't stay in cover, however. She gives, she rolls, she comes back up to her feet in a crouch. And then she rips the pistols off of one of the guards who also took cover. She doesn't ask, or hesitate, and she shows she's strong enough that those hefty holsters can't hold up to her. And then she dives out from cover unloading her weapon towards the front of the club and the gunmen who started all of this. Priss isn't stupid; she knows that what needs to happen right now is that she grab hold of those Daemonites and start yanking them out of their hosts to smoke and hiss and melt in Earth's atmosphere. But, see, that requires step one: grab. Which requires she get a whole heck of a lot closer than halfway across the damned club. Hence the gunplay as she advances from cover to cover, hoping not to get chopped in half by lead rain before she can close. Good luck, right?
Zealot	Zealot cut out the middleman by simply arriving in the midst of them, giving them no chance to get range on them. Not that range would do them much good, but it might have given them at least the illusion of survivability. They might have imagined they'd flee. She guts another Daemonite, driving deep with her blade just underneath the ribcage and carving outwards. The alien tries to shed his host but it's futile, her swords showing no mercy for the creature melded to the mortal flesh, slicing both in twain until it falls at her feet in an obscene mingling of alien and human gore. "Voodoo. Mind your flank," she calls in a firm, loud voice as she kicks another as it aims a minigun at her old friend, snapping its arm at an awkward angle before she moves in to add another body to the pile.
Graydon Creed	One of the surviving guards reports in, "Sir, we are under attack! Heavy machine gun fire. Advise you leave. They don't know you're outside." the other guard reaches for his gun and "Hey, what the fuck lady?!" he yells as she runs off with his sidearm. The voice over the radio says, "Pop smoke. Buy me some time. Protect the humans. " The security guard yells "Popping smoke!" and pulls something out from under the hem of his jacket. A canister that clanks at the feet of the attackers and Zealot followed by another from the gunless agents next to him. "Shield the civilians! Use the tables!" it's cute how they think that will work. Humans, always trying so hard.
Voodoo	"Doing the best I can!" the stripper shouts as she dives to the side, an entire auxiliary stage erupting in splinters as it is summarily shattered by a prolonged blast from one of those miniguns. Priss bites down as two of those bullets tear through her leg, causing her to stumble when she tries to roll up to her feet. True, the wounds will heal. Not even any scars. But that takes time. Time Voodoo does not have. Smoke fills the area, and Priscilla bites into her tongue as she pushes herself to her feet, aiming her pistol and firing off the last two shots she has left. These actually hit their target. But they don't do much; the daemonite barely backsteps. But that second of delay is all Voodoo needed, as she leaps and slaps her hands on the supposed human's head, grabbing hold so tightly her fake nails will stay embedded there, as she rides him to the ground ... and purple light flares through the smoke. That and a heart-rending scream. Doing this hurts the human and the daemonite. Problem? Priss is an empath. She can feel all that pain as if it were her own. This sucks.
Zealot	Voodoo's talent for exorcism is quite useful, especially if you want to spare the mortal host. Zealot doesn't have the qualities of mercy required to make that a particular issue in her case. She secures one of the mini-guns herself and swings it around as the security guards unleash their smoke, drawing a narrowing of eyes from the Queen of Assassins. "Why must you half-trained pissants always make things so bloody complicated?" she mutters, cutting loose into another Daemonite trying to get at Priss while she's in mid-purge.
Graydon Creed	Graydon creed kicks down the door to the club entrance wearing red white and blue body armor reminiscent of Captain America's, one huge machine gun under each arm he starts to mow down the attackers with the righteous fury of a man driven by love of God and country!!! Just kidding... He drives away and calmly calls 911 like a sane person, "Yes, I'd like to report a terrorist attack..." giving the police the address and reporting the use of heavy machine guns. There are other strip clubs. "Oh, no, I'm in my car driving. I left when the gunfire started." he says into the phone, "Of course. I'll hold." too bad about all that money. Now how can he spin this to his advantage? Mutants try to kill him while he was setting up a bachelor party for one of his employees? That might work. Inside the battle the private security are doing their best to help the one armed guard left drawing fire away as the other two use tables as shields and try to get people out of the fire-door during all the confusion. They have no idea who the bad guys are or the good guys. Hell, through the smoke those two women seem to be ripping organs out of the ones shooting at other people. There may not even be good guys.
Voodoo	Voodoo manages to extract one Daemonite from its host. Yay! Unfortunately, that's one out of like ten in this pack. The other night have all been slaughtered, Daemonite and host alike. And while Priss would rather have saved the humans, it's not like she had much of an option. As much as she wants to be pissed at Zealot for all the slaughtery ... to be fair, the Coda woman didn't start it. The damned Daemonites did. Evil. See? Thankfully, Priscilla is mostly collapsed at the entrance when the guard starts firing. Unfortunately that also means she's not telling Zealot not to kill him. And the bullet that just went through her side punched right into that human she just saved. Damnit.
Zealot	Zealot didn't go to all this trouble to help save Voodoo only to have her get perforated by some random, trigger-happy human. She somersaults herself in between Pris and the gunfire, her blades whirling as her Kherubim-crafted weapons literally deflect the bullets, sending some of them aside. Another one or two scrape at her arms but barely draw much more than a few trickles of blood. If they hurt, the murderous woman makes no sign of it. In the aftermath, she stands, her blades outstretched and directed towards them. "You may flee now if you wish, humans," she says. "Or you may say and I will geld you and let you taste the reek of your own meat before you die. The choice is yours. But know that I speak truth: you will not touch me or mine again and breathe."
Graydon Creed	Stopping a few blocks from the club Creed waits patiently for the 911 operator to get back to him and tell him the police are on their way, "There are four men inside, armed, black suits, private security. They were ordered to save as many of the civilians are they could. Hopefully the measly weapons they are legally allowed to carry were enough to at least slow down the attackers." he says into his phone as he pulls into a parking garage and pays the fee so he can go to the upper levels and watch the place to see if it explodes from a distance. He does so hope it explodes. He always loved fire as a child... The security guard really isn't paid enough for this. Boss said get the civilians out? Right? Mission accomplished! Job done! He likes his parts just where they are! Holding his hands up in the air and the gun he backs away as the last of the humans leave and closes the exit behind them leaving the two women alone with the leftovers.
Voodoo	"Ow. Damnit." Priss mutters darkly as she pushes herself up off of the guy she tried - and failed - to save. "You always had great timing." she comments to Zealot behind the swordswoman's back. "We should probably make like a tree and leave." Priss struggles up to her feet - still wearing those improbable platform stilettos - and heads for the back of the club. "Not sure what else is on your agenda, but you can meet me at the hotel on Diamond, room seven-eighteen, if you want." It's the first time she's seen Zealot since she left the team a couple years ago. And part of her really longs to reunite with Zannah and the others. But ... she's not sure that's going to happen. Just because Zealot didn't want to watch her die doesn't mean she'll want Priss around. After all, //she// is part Daemonite. And that hasn't changed.
Zealot	Zealot isn't likely to show her hand any earlier than she's forced. Feelings aren't exactly her strong point after all. She nods at the information about Priss' location, memorizing it instantly. "Go," she instructs, because she's always going to be bossy, team or no team. She does take a quick moment to search a couple of the Daemonites, looking for any IDs or other evidence that might lead her back to their masters. It takes her only a moment before she, too, makes her way to vanish...