Xi'an is slender, not tall, a self-contained woman with blue-black hair
that is cropped to the level of her jawline. Her features show a blend of
East and West: blue eyes with epicanthic folds are set in a golden-skinned
countenance. Broad cheekbones and a narrow chin combine to give her a
somewhat heart-shaped face.

She is wearing a lime-green crop-top that stretches to within an inch of
the beltline of her black, skin-tight jeans. Black boots cling to her
feet, and a black leather jacket completes the ensemble. Four piercings,
three studs and a cross, hang from her left ear. A hoop hangs from her
right ear. And a glint of gold from the region of her navel hints at a
belly ring.

East Brooklyn -- Brooklyn

        Brooklyn is the eptiome of what people think of surburbia when
they think of New York Suburbs. Archie Bunker once lived here, yet those
days have passed on. Still primarly residental and light industrial, the
area has taken a darker feel to its ways. Sometimes the streets are taken
for warzones as riot police and gangs oppose each other in a heated
battle.

                #46

Saturday morning in Brooklyn. Little kids are busy watching cartoons,
dragging out their bowls of sugar cereal long into lunchtime; weird
college students are stumbling around, trying to find their ways home
after tripping all night at clubs and house parties; drunken wetworks
experts are asleep in bed, busily working off truly horrific hangovers.

His door is locked, but locks shouldn't stop any of the truly determined
from forcing their way into Wisdom's flat. The only bit to worry about is
the fact that he *is* a spy, and paranoid as fuck, and wakens at the
slightest disturbance. And he's not just a spy, he's an irate hungover
mutant spy with really destructive powers.

In many respects, this is a Saturday morning like any other. Most people
are not that affected. Most, in fact, are still sleeping, when the
bulletin from the President's office interrupts the morning cartoons, to
the disappointment of their kids-- and then said bulletin is itself cut
off by another broadcast. A broadcast from a man with close-cropped hair,
claiming to have made a 'choice for America'.

Within 30 minutes, Sentinels are beginning to hunt through the city,
patrolling the streets, and taking any mutants they find, registered or
not, into custody.

This, of course, does not affect most of the population. That small
fraction of the population that is affected reacts by cowering in their
homes, or fleeing to hideyholes, or trying to leave the city, for the most
part with semi-successful results.

Xi'an, being part of that small fraction of the population, and having had
some small experience previously with the Sentinels, is at least
marginally better prepared than most of her 'kind'. Her first thought is,
of course, for herself. Her second? A reluctant realisation that
Shang-Chi's MI-6 ally might also be in danger. So out of a sense of duty,
she heads straight for his bolthole (did you really think that Shang
didn't know where you were holed up?).

 And precisely because Pete is a mutant of unknown strength, Xi'an tries
rattling the doorknob, obviously and loudly, rather than sneaking in in
any way, shape or form.

Wisdom is instantly awake, though he -really- wishes he weren't. With a
groan at the result of his sitting up so quickly, he calls out in
irritation, "This'd better be bloody good." Pulling a pair of trousers on
over his signature Loud Boxers, and grabbing yesterday's shirt, he's still
putting his other arm through the sleeve when he peers through the
peephole in the door and sees who it is. Face immediately twisting into a
scowl, he unlocks the door and slides the chain back, then opens it. "Wot
now?" He doesn't ask how she found him. It's as obvious to him as it is to
the viewers at home.

....ugh. Xi'an's look of distaste deepens at the sight of that unshaven
blue-eyed face, deepening further at the smell of his breath. But there's
something else in her eyes-- real fear. "Take only what is essential and
come with me, if you value your life. They will be here in ten minutes,
and they do not care about /citizenship./" She's got a small pack slung
over her shoulder, and to the trained eye, it is obvious that she's
carrying at least three concealed firearms.

Pete Wisdom sighs. "Oh, fuck me," he says, resignedly. "Right. Come in.
I'll be a second." He doesn't need any explanations; it's not like he
hasn't been paying any attention to the rising hysteria. "An' shut the
door." Turning away, he walks back into the other room, and there's a
sound of shuffling, then of running water. True to his word, it's only a
moment later he comes back out, properly dressed and carrying a small
black satchel. "'Ave a car, or shall we take mine?"

Smart boy. If Xi'an was in the mood to keep score, Pete would get points
for not needing an explanation. She shuts the rickety door behind her,
very gently, leaning against the wall next to it. The fact that Pete was
already clearly prepared to clear out at a moment's notice gets him a
quick, very brief, look of approval. "The car is outside," is her answer,
seemingly calm, as she opens the door and exits the apartment without
further ado. She'll be driving, thanks; as innately paranoid as Pete is,
Shan's probably almost matched him in that department, and there is _no
way_ she's going to let some hungover, barely trustworthy Brit do the
driving. They don't even drive on the correct sides of the road!

Bah, it's not like he hasn't got an international license - but fair
enough. He follows silently, just waiting for the extra-strength
painkiller to kick in. When they get to the car, he simply says,
"Mobilized, 'ave they? Wond'ring 'ow long it'd take ter get going."

Xi'an unlocks the driver's side door only after eyeing the car with a
rapid and practiced gaze. There's something to be said for power locks:
she unlocks the other door of the little Camry with an extra twist of the
key, before sliding into the car. "Oui. It took slightly longer than I
thought." There speaks a pessimistic nature-- although, on the plus side,
it's given her enough time to secure several hidey-holes throughout the
city. As soon as the passenger side door is shut, she's driving, out of
the area-- and not a moment too soon, it seems, because if one were to
look through the rearview mirrors a bare few minutes after leaving the
area, one would see a triad of Sentinels landing in a nearby park (which
is generally only used for drug deals), perhaps a half-mile away.

Fortunately, the streets are nearly empty: Xi'an pushes the speed limit
like any good New Yorker should, heading for the Bronx. She doesn't seem
to be in much of a mood for conversation, although she speaks again,
briefly, "Will you be attempting to leave the city?" And the country?

"Can't yet," replies the Brit gruffly. He rolls down the window and lights
a cigarette without asking whether or not he can. Working on it with a
practiced intensity, as though it had the power of curing his hangover by
virtue of its foulness alone, he elaborates. "Reston's still missing, and
Scratch is still after the both of us." There's a pause. "'Asn't found the
ponce yet, I checked. An' I still got ter take out Black Air before I can
show me face in London again." He shoots Xi'an a challenging look, as if
daring her to tell him to get the hell out of dodge anyway.

She sneezes, once, and then rolls down the -other- window, without further
comment. At least it's not a clove cig. Or a cigar. Xi'an's tolerated
worse than chain-smoking, and this is a rental car anyway. "Very well."
Unfinished business is something she understands. Taking her eyes off the
road long enough to answer the challenging look she is offered, she
observes only, "They will have most of the exits from the city covered, at
any rate." She doesn't think Pete's the type to fight the Monster Machines
with guerrilla warfare anyway.

"If worst comes to worst, I can cause a bleeding international incident,"
mutters Pete, taking another drag of his cigarette and letting his
attention wander back outside the speeding car. Then he sighs. "No I
can't." Man, plausible deniability really sucks, doesn't it? "Your people
got any plans on these things? Moving against 'em at all?"

"Je ne sais pas. Likely not. They fight organized crime, not fifteen meter
tall robots." Ah, the glories of a loose association like the Knights;
Xi'an can afford to be all pessimistic like that without being accused of
'bringing the team down'. She can also refer to the Knights as 'they',
with the unspoken implication that she, herself, has plans to move against
these things in whatever small way she can. Eyes kept on the road, the
expression on Xi'an's face is suddenly wry. "If worst comes to worst,
M'sieu Wisdom, you will either be brainwashed and in the employ of those
who have made the Sentinels, or you will be exterminated like a laboratory
rat."

Wisdom falls silent after this, and the silence lasts for a while; he just
sits there and looks out the window, smoking. Finally he speaks up, and
what he says - and the tone he says it in - come from something broken.
He's still looking away. "Still sounds better than wot'll 'appen if Black
Air gets its claws in me. Sounds like a bleeding vacation paradise."

And at those words, spoken in that particular and hard-to-counterfeit
tone, the car doesn't swerve-- the Earth doesn't stop spinning-- and
Xi'an's perceptions don't realign themselves automatically in Pete's favor
or anything. It's a hour-long ride over minor highways and surface roads,
to get to the Bronx-- and as parts of the highway are elevated, now and
again, Sentinels dragging netted mutants, clutching mutants frozen in some
crystalline substance like flies in amber, or merely patrolling the
airspace overhead, can be seen. So four or five minutes pass while she
mulls this over, really -thinks- about what Black Air must be like, to
have death by Sentinel be preferable. And what might, just possibly, have
turned Pete into the bitter drunken bastard he is now. She offers no
assurances that Black Air /won't/ get its claws into Pete. But what she
does say is in it's very circumlocutiousness, revealing.

"Much as I admire Shang-Chi's moral code, M'sieu Wisdom, I am in agreement
with the Punisher as regards your Black Air."

There's no telling whether or not Shan's statement should be considered
progress, or more evidence that the downfall of mankind is at hand. The
Brit's only response is brief and bitter, and doesn't directly seem to
have anything to do with the mutant woman's statement. "Solve a lot've
immediate problems if them things find Scratch."

He falls silent again, mildly gratified, but still in a blue funk. How
does he get himself into these situations? And is there even the most
remote chance he'll make it out of this one on top? Probably not. Will he
have a better chance if he drags these people in? Likely, but then there's
as much of a chance of them falling afoul as he most certainly will - and
to have the deaths of more 'good guys', so to speak, weighing on his
karma...it's probably not a good idea. Besides, they've their own problems
right now. Something seems to occur to him. "An' it sure's fuck ain't *my*
Black Air," says Wisdom with a hint of bemusement.

"Indeed. He might even wish the Sentinels had caught him, M'sieu, should
one of us find him first."

Turning off onto a side street, Xi'an seems to contemplate that
possibility with relish. The neighborhood that the car enters, if it can
be called that, is an industrial one, full of abandoned warehouses and out
of business factories, boarded up windows like blind eyes staring out onto
the streets. It's a wasteland, a zone where gangs run amok at night and
nothing moves during the day except dealers and those poor fucks who can't
wait 'till a decent hour for a hit. "English," Shan answers obliquely, "Is
not my native language." She certainly does not have the impression that
Pete owns the organization. Else she'd have left him for Sentinel fodder.

Turning the car off the street, up an alley, taking a sharp turn to the
right, she tucks it in behind a rusted-out dumpster, and turns off the
ignition. "We walk from here, M'sieu Wisdom. It is not much farther." She
doesn't want to leave the car *too* close to this particular hideyhole.

"Je sais, love. Le francais n'est pas a moi. Un peu d'humeur morbide,"
replies Pete, his tone equal parts resignation, amusement, and mild
frustration. He slings his bag over his shoulder and lights a new
cigarette, shutting the car door with his foot and adjusting his coat.
"Anyone else going ter be 'ere?" This is getting almost as interesting as
Genosha was a couple of years ago, back when he broke Domino out of the
Magistrates' prison. Except this time, he hasn't got much in the way of
sanctioning, and people are after him from the outset.

"Shang-Chi may decide it is worth his time. Perhaps the Daredevil, or one
of the others." Unlocking the trunk, Xi'an pulls out a second duffle bag
and slings it over her shoulder with very little apparent effort. As she
shuts the trunk, she turns her head, to look Peteward as she comments, in
French, face deadpan, ~In case you hadn't already figured it out, I don't
have a sense of humor, either.~ That said, she begins walking, threading
through the back alleys, gravel crunching slightly under her feet. Looks
like the destination, ahead, is a pair of rusty steel doors at the back of
yet another abandoned building.

"Too right," laughs Pete. This got a grin out of him, though it's
debatable whether or not that was the intent. He shakes his head and
hitches the bag up again, content for now just to follow and smoke. His
hands don't shake when he smokes, see. Yeah, that's an excuse, all right.
The man's silence leaves him time and space to think about exactly when
this supposedly great nation of the free decided it was time to go back to
war with itself.

Unlocking the door to the back of the building, and holding it open, Xi'an
smiles, just briefly. Apparently, that comment was as close as she usually
comes to showing a sense of humor these days. Sad, really. "Please make
free with the resources inside as you need them. Also, M'sieu Wisdom..." A
shrug. She isn't sure what, exactly, this Black Air guy can do aside from
scorch paper with his finger tips. The second duffle bag by her side is
patted, like a friend. "This contains plastique." It's a /large/ duffle--
don't ask where she got that much plastique from, or when. And it's a good
thing that Daredevil doesn't know just -how- many guns she's got cached
around the city, especially here in the glass factory, or he'd go into
status epilepticus.