Abel Fulgurate - On the way
Huffing and puffing, the guardian thundered like an asthmatic ox down the hallway, struggling to fasten his armor on as he did so. Anyone unfortunate enough to be in his path pressed against the wall to avoid both him and the floating polearm that followed him, and received a brusque apology as Abel sprinted past. Of all the days to have previously left the Ampere in the Survival classroom, it had to be mission day. Abel, rounding the final corner toward the pavilion, pulled taut the last strap before he snatched his weapon out of the air. Only a few moments later, he stood, winded and tousle-haired but sufficiently ready to kick some ass, among his teammates.
After his attempt at saying 'hello' result in little more than a haggard
”huugh”, he resigned himself to standing with the Ampere's butt planted in the ground and trying not to look like an idiot. Sapphire, Shiro, and Gren appeared normal, or as normal was for them, so he busied himself with reading the mission statement on the screen before them. While he found himself slightly distracted by the aroma of his allies' tea, he did not assume that there was enough for him, and so paid it no mind. A few seconds later, he found himself able to speak. “G'morning. Sorry 'bout the wait, got really unlucky. Um. Looks like your rebreathies are gonna come in handy, Gren. Don't really know anything about Sirens though. Are they aquatic? Pretty landlocked back home.” He turned around, his gaze questioning, but discovered that everyone else seemed fit to depart. Feeling more than a little awkward to be centering the attention on himself with time a-wasting, he gestured dismissively at the screen. “Uh, whatever. Price I pay for bein' late, you can tell me on the ride over or something. I'm ready. You ready? Let's go.”
“Alright. You know what to do: find a way inside, find out what the hell happened, and find every single person you can. Oh, and chemical drums, if you care about money. We'll be watching from above; if you hit a snag, radio either IFRA or I for help. We'll have the birds-eye view, and tell you whatever we can. God forbid, but in case something goes really badly, both Mr. Orpheus and Mr. Lloyd have been issued a flare gun. The ship will fire on wherever the flare goes, inside or out.” Goodwitch crossed her arms and began to rise, along with the rest of the ship, into the air. Wind whipped her hair and cloak, but her last words came clearly and authoritatively, as if she could command fate to favor teams Bastille and Jumpercable. “Good luck.”
For a place determined by sweeping scans to be crawling with Grimm, Outlands Distillery looked rather quiet, albeit very ominous. Teams BASL and JPCL, dropped off on a hill in front of the facility, could see clearly the large, oddly-shaped structure, as if the building itself were deformed. All sorts of pipes, tanks, and other pieces of equipment lined its exterior, and behind the Distillery lay the sprawling swamp, choked by giant, twisted trees, stagnant water, and rolling fog. Though this mission lay on the cusp between summer warmth and autumn breezes, the air felt both cool and thick. Each hunter-in-training, on the descent to the facility, would doubtlessly step over gnarled roots, stinking puddles, deposits of mud, and an impressive variety of insects, amphibians, and reptiles. Just before the Distillery this terrain gave way to a large, paved lot, scattered over which were a few machines, storage boxes, tanks, and other such. Only one of the trucks showed any real damage: its hood had been torn off, exposing the engine, car battery, and various cables.
When they got to the main door, however, they would find it sealed shut. Beside it on the left stood the towering freight door, a giant, industrial version of a garage door, which appeared closed also. Fortunately, a terminal lay between the two apertures, though powered down. Anyone with electrical savvy might be able to tell that the entire Distillery's power grid was offline, but an external source of power would be enough to activate the terminal and unseal the locks.
A less tech-savvy individual, uneasy and looking around, might spot a small, dark shape disappearing around a corner as the teams approached.
The airship ferrying team JESS flew with speed and silence, which as the trip went on developed a decidedly discomforting vibe. More and more, the seniors of Beacon assigned to this task would begin to suspect that their mission had, probably recently, become that much more urgent. In short notice, the ship left the verdant kingdom of Vale behind, shooting like a lonely comet of liveliness over barren steppes and wasted scrublands. Below, the occasional group of Grimm could be seen, but one got the impression that many more lurked beyond where the fleeting eye could discern.
At last, forty minutes later, the airship's velocity began to diminish. The two individuals in the sealed cockpit, who so far maintained an enigmatic nonpresence as far as the hunters they'd hired were concerned, finally connected to JESS via intercom. A female voice came to them with a shockingly intense tone, demanding attention and immediate compliance, “Hunter team, prepare for action immediately. The caravan is under attack this very instant. I'm not an expert on Grimm, but I can see a huge scorpion, a couple of dinosaurs with sails, and a bunch of bulls. They've stopped the vehicle and are destroying it. Your best bet is to remove whatever is preventing the vehicle from moving and get it going. Deploy now!”
The airship swooped down, and from its opened ramp leaped the members of JESS. Only a short fall lay between them and the vehicle, and as they dropped, the situation became obvious. The
caravan vehicle, though huge and heavily armored, was under immense attack. Slowly but surly, the Sitting Bulls, the Tutankhamuns, and the Death Stalker were ripping through its armor. One of the Tutankhamuns stood on top of the vehicle's hulk, weighing it down as it rammed its head into the reinforced glass of the driver's terminal. At the back, the Death Stalker had a hold of the rear tires, and with its stinger lodged in one of the exhaust vents, the vehicle couldn't work up enough traction or power to get going.
