Weasel:

        Sharp and unpleasant, this girl has a shrewd look to her, which is
probably why she is generally referred to as 'Weasel', the slinky rodent
pictured on the back of her stained jacket. Mid-brown hair is scraped back
from her angular face, that bears sharp brown eyes missing little from
underneath an often-frowning brow and a thin-lipped mouth so often pressed
in tight, displeased lines that it seems set that way now. Her skinny form
is clad in simple, unflattering shirt and jeans, both of which are
oversized for her frame and hang baggily off her. The jeans bear a looping
chain and hems which are frayed and constantly muddied from dragging on
the ground as she walks, obscuring the battered sneakers on her feet.

Pete Wisdom:

        Look, it's an overly thin, wiry Englishman of average height. A
Study In Black: unruly black hair that needs cutting, black turtleneck and
gloves, leather jacket, black jeans and gum-soled boots. His face is pale
and scarred, the vestiges of old fights and accidents; the only bright
thing about his appearance is his eyes - they're a clear and alert blue.
His movement is reserved, his manner controlled - expending as little
waste energy as possible. He carries a black rucksack, apparently fairly
full.

Piotr:
        This is a very tall and very well-built Caucasian man that looks
to be in his mid to late twenties. He has short black hair and piercing
dark eyes that let you know immediately that, despite any words or deeds
to the contrary, he bears a tragic burden at all times. He speaks with a
thick Russian accent and is clad in dark clothing - black pants, boots,
and a tight black T-shirt that is stretched snugly across his massive
chest, accenting his impressive development, with a sleeveless black
pleather jacket hanging off of his frame, revealing his sizable arms in
what could be an intimidating fashion in the right circumstances.

Kitty:

        A slim and athletic woman in her mid-twenties, shoulder-length
brown curls pulled sharply back out of her smudged face, braided and
knotted at the base of her skull to keep from letting a strand escape. Her
expression is stubborn and set, her large eyes wary. She's dressed all in
black: black turtleneck, black jeans, black gloves, black boots. Nothing
about her shows so much as a glint of light. Her movements are balanced,
calculated, choreographed by a persistent trace of paranoia held in check
by the rush of adrenaline.

Kurt:

        Kurt seems to be continuously in shadows. Not in a dark, angsty
way, or even in the sense that he sticks to the shadows. Seriously, it
looks like he's in shadowed lighting, no matter what the brightness of the
conditions around him. This is partly due to the fact that every inch of
exposed skin is covered by very short, thick, indigo fur.
        His hair is thick and curly, uncombed, and of a slightly darker
shade than the fur on his body. His face is narrowed and angular, eyes
almond shaped, though there are no pupils of any sort discernable, they
appear to be a uniform yellow. His lips are thin, and somewhat pouty, and
when his teeth are visible, the canines are notably longer than normal.
Jaw tapers to a strong chin.
        When standing up straight, Kurt is about 5'9. His current outfit
is all black leather. A wide collar exposes black spandex underneath. The
leather is open at feet, and hands, with a small aperture at the back,
where a several foot long tail, the same dark indigo color as the rest of
him, with a barbed end, protrudes. Along the collar, tracing around the
shoulders and arms, the outsides of his legs, and in simple patters on the
chest, are bands of gold. Each hand has but two fingers and a thumb, and
each foot three toes, two at the front, and the heel itself seems to make
a third, capable of grasping.




        The dark side of midnight in the darkest corners of the city,
where shadows gather and clump, orange-edged by streetlight, what little
can be seen of the moon offering no pure shimmer of silver. Few linger in
the streets off Southland Drive; the few that do make shadow-shapes of
themselves, thicker blacknesses with low voices and clandestine grasps of
drugs and sex and blood.

        A block off Southland, deeper into the craven heart of the
Badlands, an old apartment building sits squat and hunched, windows
boarded up and closed against the outside. Light leaks out between boards
in places, as if the edifice was covering its face with inefficient
fingers. The doors are all firmly closed, and whatever goes on within
seeks to give nothing away to the outside. A private party, a secret
meeting, a factory of hate and conspiracy... perhaps all of the above.

        Across the street, down half a block, smoke curls up to give
nicotine scent to the darkness, as Weasel sits atop a dumpster, a bag
making a lump beside her. Booted feet swing, but carefully don't bang the
sides. Fingers twitch restlessly, flicking the cigarette more often than
it needs, its glowing tip bouncing and juddering with nerves. She's not a
patient woman at the best of times, and is eager for this thing to be over
and done with. Just as soon as the hired heroes get here.

There's more cigarette smoke; a man dressed in black - turtleneck, jeans,
gum-soled boots, thick jacket, gloves - and carrying a rucksack, nearly
expressionless. Low voice, coming into hearing first and then into
intelligibility. "...meant to connect in a bit." It takes on a faintly
amused tinge. "How are you at smashing things? Still in practice?"

Not contributing to the tobacco magnate's evil empire, another, towering
man dressed in black - massive arms bared to accentuate the fact that,
yes, he does lift heavy things and put them back down quite often - walks
in tandem with the first one, responding dryly. "Perhaps a bit rusty, but
eager to get back into the swing of things." He even cracks his knuckles
for effect, trying to put to bed his nervous nellies.

Notably absent from the pair's company is the slight woman Weasel's talked
to before. She's elsewhere, apparently, not keeping company with the two
here to meet. Either that or, at best, coming from a different direction.

Well, /some/ of us might be self-sacrificial enough to put out our
cigarettes, but not so Pete. Not tonight, not right now. There's a brief
flash of a disbelieving grin at Piotr's statement and a brief
under-the-breath, "My god, a pun," and then they're headed in the
direction of the low whistle. He keeps his hands in sight and inclines his
head slightly as the two men approach Weasel. "All right?" Quiet.
Pleasant.

Piotr remains silent, as hired muscle is generally expected to do. Best
not to betray that his name isn't Bruno and he's not been recently
released from prison on multiple homicide/savage barfighting charges. He
betrays none of his jitters - he is REALLY out of practice on this sort of
thing, but he's getting that rush of excitement because he's actually
contributing something again... or at least attempting to. Gameface..
gameface. Imposing, huge guy, throws a good haymaker, scare people. Let
Pete do the talking - he's at least good at that.

With a slither and a damp thud, Weasel's boots hit the slushy ground as
the two men near her. She straightens slowly, eyeing the pair of them
closely. The bag dangles from her hand, tugged with her. "Nice night to be
out, don't you think?" she offers with a wry twist to her tone. "I take it
you're Kitty's compatriots." A hint of a sardonic smile then, twitching up
the corners of her mouth. She was expecting these two, but Piotr gets a
curious look. Well, hello there big boy, and what about you? "Here to
bring the bad boys down?"

Closer still, and then stopping - the unspoken decent distance. At this
range, it's also possible to detect a slightly elongated earpiece and a
clear thin wire from it leading into Wisdom's jacket. A crooked half-grin
of bemused resigned irritation tugs at the corners of his mouth and he
hooks thumbs into the shoulder straps of his rucksack. "So it is, so we
are, and for pity's sake, d'you have to put it that way? No, irrelevant.
What've you got, and are you going in?"

Piotr makes no indication of responding other than meeting the curious
look Weasel gives him with a slightly cocked eyebrow. He watches her
movements carefully, just in case there's some annoying 'trap' thing going
on. Yes, the talking is Pete's strong suit. He keeps all snide conclusions
about THAT little trait to himself. Focus on the job.

There's a murmur from that earpiece, audible only to one: "I'm clear. Want
me over there, or keeping out of the way?"

Weasel just grins at Pete's first question; she wasn't going to answer it,
even if he didn't make it rhetorical. "Evidence," is her first answer,
with a little lift of the bag by way of explanation. No trap here, just
business and plotting. "Stuff they won't get a chance to burn." The curve
of her mouth turns sneaky and entirely mirthless. Those bastards won't get
out of this that easily. "And yeah, I'm goin' in. I'll even unlock the
door, if you ask nice. You guys all set?" An upward quirk of an eyebrow,
gaze flicking questioningly between them both. Well? Can we go do this, or
what?

Wisdom gets a slightly distant bent to his expression momentarily, and he
says quietly, "Nearly go. Sit tight if you're in a good spot. Which
entrance?" His gaze flickers to Piotr, then back to Weasel, and then to
her bag. "Presuming you've got copies stashed and others on their way to
where they belong, yeah? Won't do anyone any good if it's taken inside and
doesn't come out again." As he's speaking this time he's slinging the
rucksack off his back and unzipping the main compartment quietly; it's set
on the asphalt and he's on one knee, reaching inside. He comes up with
three small plastic devices, two-pronged; set aside as these are proffered
are three plastic mask contraptions. Piotr gets another glance, this one
amused. "We /are/ aiming for as little physical contact as possible."

Piotr listens to the exchange, glancing over to the entrance, trying to
feel like he knows what he's doing, when he's really not sure how this is
going to go down. "And I am here in case our hopes for little collapse
into a lot." He grimaces a little... wishing he had the earpiece to Kitty
as well. "How many people are we dealing with here?" he asks, generally to
Weasel, but he figures Pete knos, too... guy knows everything. He wonders
for a moment if he should have a taser himself... nah... he'll just break
legs if he has to.

"I'd say the east," Kitty's voice replies, still faint. "Sitting tight,
check. And I confirm thirty, give or take, mostly nice and trashed."

Weasel snorts at Pete, and gives a deft flick of her wrist to send the bag
over her shoulder. It thuds against the lid of the dumpster, then slides
down to slip through a gap caused by a dent in the side. Now they all know
where to find it. "Don't you worry about that." All in hand, backups
coming out of her /ears/, really. Just not literally. She looks down at
the offered tazer, and takes it with a hint of amusement. "About thirty,
most of them on the second floor as of half an hour ago," she tells Piotr,
tucking the weapon into a pocket of her jacket and stepping towards the
mouth of the alley, boots slushing slightly as she walks. Ah, winter, it
makes this so much more fun, doesn't it? She glances down at the masks on
the way past, a smirk twitching up one side of her mouth. "Gas, then?" A
slight nod of approval. Knock the suckers out.

The only thing that sucks more than winter is UFOs. "Brilliant," says
Pete, sorting the rest, shoving a couple of canisters from deep in the
sack into his pockets, then eyeing Piotr. "Take it. It's still plan b.
I'll let you know if we hit plan f and have to hit them a lot. And take a
mask, you don't want to be inhaling aerosolized ketamine. Unless you're a
club kid with no future." His mask gets slung around his neck, and the
taser in a front pocket. Thus Weasel gets her confirmation and her own
personal gasmask, too. "Kitty says east entrance. There a central
ventilation unit anywhere in the place? Make things a fair bit simpler."
Yes, walking. No, not happy about not having blueprints.

Piotr isn't used to the superspy regalia, and the more he sees, the more
he's surprised Wisdom isn't wearing a tux and sipping a shaken martini. He
takes the taser with a bit of reluctance, but he realizes it makes sense.
He echoes Wisdom's movements with the gear, although he can just shift to
metal to avoid inhaling anything - neat trick he doesn't publicize too
much. Mental note: look up aerosolized ketamine, or maybe ask Hank what it
is.  The snow crunches under his heavy footfalls, looking over the taser
again, remembering the manual, although he's never used it in a live
situation. "So, just so I am clear, which one is actually Plan A?"

Shaken martini? Oh, that's right, Piotr hasn't been subjected to Pete's
rants on the mistreatment of alcohol. "Didn't get a chance to check it
out," Kitty notes quietly to Pete's question about ventilation. "Sorry."
Priorities and limited time, tsk, sigh. Here's hoping Weasel knows.

Gas mask likewise pocketed, Weasel pauses by the mouth of the alley, gaze
turned towards the boarded-up building. It has little to say right now.
"Hmm, round the back, not too far from the east entrance if you're goin'
in that way," she says in reply to Pete's question about the ventilation
unit. "Might have to kick it into action; shouldn't be too hard." Of
course she knows; she knows every inch of that building. Enough to be able
to dip a hand into her pocket and hold a folded, somewhat crude plan of
the building out behind her. At Piotr's query, she flicks a glance over
her shoulder. Yes, what /are/ we doing?

The folded paper is duly taken, unfolded, reoriented, scanned, reoriented
again, scanned again, and squinted at briefly. Pete gives the two a bright
grin. "Improvise like fuck? Neh - it's, yeah, gas. Kitty's lookout at the
moment, she's got her own gear with; if we can set the aerosolized
ketamine into the ventilation and get that going at its full power,
they're too trashed to be able to tell the difference between being
rightfully intoxicated and being slipped an invisible Mickey. 'S a
disassociative calmative agent, so -" Here his voice takes on a funny
tone, not heard here yet "- they'll know perfectly well what's going on,
but won't do a bloody thing to fight. Problem is if the ducts are faulty
or inadequate. Then we've got to go and catch any trying to have it away
on foot. If something goes horribly wrong with that, then you get to
polish that rust, mate. There's enough of us should be able to account for
everyone. If plan 'a' works, there'll be a lot of us hauling people
outside and getting them to the police." He shakes his head briefly, then
holds the map back out to Weasel. "Further up and further in, then."

Piotr nods at each point, thankful for the explanation and that look from
Weasel that gave him the sense that he wasn't the only one that was fuzzy
on the details. He's not sure if he really wants to polish that rust or
not. He knows logically that plan A works best... but there's a part of
him that's itching to scrap... the idea of taking on thirty schmucks in a
melee - something he hasn't done for years, and he has to admit there's a
certain satisfaction in that from time to time. "Just point me in the
right direction..." he says. That sounds tough and confident. He wants to
hold up his end of the bargain.

Kitty's voice contributes absently, "The way the place looks, 'inadequate'
is probably going to be an issue. Not exactly a high maintenance budget.
But it oughta do /something/. You okay?"

Weasel waves the returned map away; no, you keep it, mine's in my head.
And if they get separated, he might need it. "Probably be easier to open
the windows and get the cops to come here." Hauling 30 adults out into the
snow? Ugh, please no. She shrugs away concern; clean-up is best kept until
they've finished making the mess in the first place. "An' yeah, might have
to enforce the ventilation a bit." She doesn't sound too bothered by that
prospect; let's just all remember the no-martyr rule. "Shall we?" A glance
checks the two men over briefly, making sure they don't have any other
adjustments to make.

"Fine," is all Pete says, in response to - everything, really, it works
quite satisfactorially on all counts; he puts the map in his other front
pocket. There's no particular inflection. Hey, officially en route.

Piotr nods as well... not even bothering with a 'Fine.' He flanks Wisdom
and keeps an eye out for any lookouts peeping from the windows. "Any
sentries to be concerned with?" he whispers, figuring Kitty will hear
everything he says somehow. As he understands it... his job is just to
kick back until some people need to be broken or hauled outside.

It's a pity that cellphones aren't /that/ good. No comment from the
lookout to Piotr's question, or to Pete's monosyllable.

Isn't it just great when a plan comes together? 24 hours, and months of
waiting for the conditions to be right... at least it's /starting/ off the
right way. Weasel's lips press together in an almost-smile, grim and
anticipatory and nothing at all to do with mirth or happiness, and she
steps out confidently with the boys. "Not on the outside. Better let me go
first, though. Be two inside the door."

        Within the building, the guards chat idly with each other, a pair
reclining just within every one of the three doors, each on different
sides of the building. Fluorescent lights burned unshielded in alternating
strips of bright and dark along the ceilings of the hallways, the decor is
old, faded, obscene 70s patterns dwindled into murky images of a neglected
time. On the second floor, large rooms hold the celebrators,
congratulating themselves and each other for a scare well made, even if no
bombs exploded. Again. But they take the little victories where they can.
Most are still awake; a couple of lightweights have already succumbed to
booze in seeking quieter rooms, for sleep or more energetic activities.
Music plays mutedly; people are relaxed.

        Once outside the east door, Weasel knocks in a particular rhythm,
and the wood is all but jerked out from under her knuckles. Recognition on
the face before her, as she steps inside with a shark smile. "Hey."
There's not even a flicker in her expression, as her hand comes out of her
pocket and jabs the taser at the guy. Night night, twitchy. Didn't she say
she'd open the door for them?

Inside the dirty, over used, under cleaned, positively rank bathroom, a
new unpleasant smell is added, one that begins to creep out under the
doorway. Kurt, wearing the hologram that the members of this party know so
well, appears in a flash of light. The drunken slob already in the
bathroom, giving homage to the porcelain god, looks up from the dirty bowl
to blink bleary eyes at him. "What the--" Kurt's foot catches the man
right in the throat, and the party goer is left wheezing, unable to draw
breath. "That's one," Kurt says to himself in a strained voice, and throws
open the bathroom door.

Deference to Weasel. What a nickname. "Apt," says Pete, eyebrows up in dry
admiration. "Right. Pryde, round back. Place the big two and see if you
can't sort the unit; she says it may need a kicking. Rasputin, I want you
on this floor stopping runners. Weasel, if there're any closed off spaces,
you'd know where they'd be, mind no one goes in 'em." He reaches in a
pocket and offers her one of the canisters, then pulls his gasmask up over
his mouth and nose. "Marvellous close range, these." Looks like a can of
aerosol hairspray. "Seven minutes. Go."

Piotr nods to Wisdom, following his instructions and patting the taser in
his pocket for good measure, making sure the door behind them closes once
they're in, eyes darting about the place for stragglers. It's good that
they're drunk. Should make things a tad easier...

"On my way," says the faint voice in Pete's ear, and Kitty is -
sacrificing her watch on one of the other doors, easing down through the
air from her perch. No talking while she's moving, and not much in the way
of paying attention, either. Which is okay, because what she's doing
causes the cellphone to complain in bursts of static and fuzz and random
electronic noise anyhow. One more bit of equipment fished out once she's
on the ground: a flashlight with plain brown paper taped over it, dimming
the beam to a dull and reddish glow. Got to be able to see to take a look
at the ventilation unit, and no sense either ruining night vision or
providing a beacon in the process. Here's hoping the thing's fairly
simple. Or maybe even working. That'd be nice, but what are the odds.

Let's not all forget Guard No. 2, who gets another swift twitch-making
touch of the joystick in Weasel's hand. What a shame, she didn't get to
show anyone the Secret Fister Handshake. She's almost grinning as she
takes the cannister from Pete, and has to juggle weapon, gas can and mask
in order to get the latter on her face. No overt signs that she minds
taking orders from him, either - all the little things are filed away in
her head for future reference. She fully intends to get more out of
tonight than simply unconscious, incarcerated Fisters. A salute flicks
prongs mockingly to her temple, before she turns on her heel to march off
down the corridor. "Don't get lost now!" Her voice, muffled by the mask,
floats back over her shoulder. Oh, there'll be no hiding. Heeeere,
Fisters.

        Upstairs, the party continues, without noticing the intrusion. The
other sentries at the doors below pause in their conversations at the
sounds of bodies hitting the floor. Or muffled thuds. They wait, and look
to each other. Something to worry about, or someone being drunk and
falling over? What are the odds? The ventilation unit is a sullen piece of
equipment, not currently in use, but it will start if tried. And judder
alarmingly and generally protest about being made to do things in this
cold, after all this time, when the heating is working quite happily
inside. Violence may be necessary to curb its waywardness and coughing
splutters.

"Okay everyone," Kurt calls as he strides out of the bathroom, recogniznig
some faces from the gang, not knowing most of them. "I'm going to make
this really nice and simple, okay?" Whether he's got their attention or
not, he will in a moment, as he drops the hologram that hides his
appearance. Nightcrawler is there in leather costume, with a long black
coat covering it. "This," he says, throwing back the coat, reavealing
wires and mechanical looking things, and a whole load of C4, "Is a bomb!
But, you should know that, I used to build the fucking things for you!"

He was asked to come, and therefore expected no problems with anyone
taking direction from him. It's /possible/ he was needed for his ability
to play guitar, but highly unlikely. And - he was asked to come;
therefore, someone already knew enough. And oh. Oh fuck. There's a
familiar voice. And a familiar word. "Pryde," says Pete quietly. "Kurt."
Slightly louder - enough for Weasel and Piotr to hear even as they're
leaving, he says, "Change of plans number one. Weasel, outside. Pryde,
dissuade him - upstairs. Rasputin - sorry. Armor up, give Kitty your mask.
I'll sort the vents. _No one dies_." His voice is very calm, and now there
really /isn't/ any expression - not even a hint of one - as he starts
booking it for where Kitty was working. His voice is trailing off as he's
speaking on the hands-free, "When you get up there turn up your volume,
feedback regardless, you're the only one of us he'd..."

Piotr widens his eyes as he hears the voice... and Wisdom names it as he
recongizes it. A million questions race to his mind - KURT is in this
town?! KURT is trapped here as well? Why wasn't he aware of this? Why does
PETE seem aware of this? And why the hell is Kurt threatening mass murder?
He's stunned for a moment, but Wisdom barking an order at him shakes him
of it - especially since it contains an order to help Katya, and within an
instant he's become The Man of Steel and is charging up the stairs to get
the mask to her... and see this with his own eyes. He was great friends
with Kurt, and he MAY be of help in the dissuasion process...

"Check. Leaving my share here." And the faint sound over the cellphone
would be Kitty dropping her equipment, leaving it for anyone who can make
it back to the machine, followed by another wave of fuzz and static:
hunting the stairwell, and in through the wall to join Piotr. Stairs
aren't any slower than airwalking up, and a hell of a lot less draining.
Besides, the two of them are the bulletproof ones, and she's small enough
to share a staircase with Piotr and not get slowed down. Of course, she's
also the lucky one /not/ to have heard Kurt's announcement. Which means
that the second she sees him, and the black leather, and the explosives,
she's going to be taken - very much aback.

Weasel alters course at the voice from above, face taking on a shocked
expression under the mask. What the HELL is he doing here? She's already
running towards the nearest set of stairs when Pete starts issuing more
orders. "Kurt's mine!" Is sent back over her shoulder with a sharp look.
That's one command she isn't going to take. Tazer gripped tightly in her
hand, she sprints upstairs, with a short headstart on Piotr. And, great,
the big fella's following. Everyone go to Kurt! Forget the plan! Bah. She
rips the mask off her head, holding to it tightly as she runs into the
party, throwing it at Kurt's chest with an angry scowl. "What the fuck are
you doing here?" The explosives get a startled look, and a deepening of
her frown. "Put that on." The mask, that is. Because she doesn't know if
Kitty managed to get the gas in the system yet or not.

        She's ignoring the Fisters around her, all of whom have now turned
to stare at Kurt, mouths agape. The sound of liquid pouring into the
scraggy carpet can be heard, as an unattended drink tips in one man's
hand. *HUH?* "Hey, what's going on--?" Someone has to be the first to ask,
and it's a very tipsy girl, blinking at the blue-furred one. A few are
sober enough to realise that bomb means bad, and start for the door. Time
to be off, then, because that guy looks not only like a freak, but also a
pissed freak.

"Shit," seethes Pete, from what little loudness he can hear behind him and
through the hands-free; he doesn't alter course. "Kitty, tell Comrade
Steelknickers to get the fuck back downstairs and stop people from
leaving, or at the very least head them off at the stairwell." He's got to
the vent unit, and eyes the flashlight and the big canisters for a moment,
then pulls a Doctor and just kicks the thing vehemently in a relatively
inoffensive-looking spot. "I think this whole thing's about to go straight
to hell. The fuck is Weasel doing? Inform me!" This as he's hoping the
sounds the thing is making mean that it's about to work reasonably well,
and puts the mask more solidly on, and sets the canisters into action.
Hisssss.

Kurt is certainly caught off guard by Weasel's appearance, catching the
mask with one hand, his entire dramatic speech entirely derailed. "What
the hell are you doing here!?" Kurt yells at her, yellow eyes wide. "Mah,
get the hell out of here! I've got explosives rigged through the whole
place!" He sure doesn't sound like he's bluffing, a note of sheer panic
entering his voice.

Colossus had not expected Kitty to meet him in the stairwell, so he stops
and quickly gives her the mask as soon as he sees her, and being stopped
before seeing Kurt brings him back to his senses. THINK, Rasputin, you've
worked on team ops before - you can't be THIS rusty. He stops for a brief
second, having heard Weasel yell out about Kurt, and realizes there's much
more going on than he knows, so he just nods and darts back downstairs,
feeling sheepish, whispering a 'sorry' as he returns to his post... and
now he's hoping against hope that he doesn't have to scrap with anyone...

Kitty has, thus, the time to drop, "Later," by way of promise of
explanation to Colossus, even as she's catching the mask and fitting it.
"He's in place -" she adds to Pete as she's moving. Up the stairs. To the
stairwell entrance, wave of static as she ducks out of the way of one
fleeing individual - he's Piotr's to deal with. And then she stops and
stares at Kurt. And Weasel. Hissing a moment, low-voiced, "This wasn't her
plan, news to her, place is rigged to go up -" It's much less obscene than
the little mantra getting chanted in her head right now.

The ventilation unit chokes at the kick, sputters with outrage, then
grumblingly assumes the appearance and demeanour of working machinery.
With little spits of protest every now and then, as it carries noxious
fumes throughout the building.

        "Well, they better not go off," Weasel returns to Kurt, scowl
still in place. And with him calling her 'mah', not to mention her
familiarity with the furred one... well, her cover's nicely blown. And
besides, she doesn't have a lot of choice now. "I /said/, put it on." She
points at the mask. "We are *not* here to kill people." Sharp eyes fix on
her son's yellow ones - don't you dare. Don't undo this. Then there's a
rippling across the lower half of her face, leaving behind it a
closer-fit, more ergonomic mask than the one she gave to her son, and her
eyes give a yellow glow to answer Kurt's.

        The party-goers are slow to react, but not entirely off the ball.
Uncertain looks are exchanged, and more are heading for the exit, slipping
away towards the stairs. Words of rigged explosives are just a little too
scary. Others are obviously sizing up Kurt and the bomb he carries, and,
to a lesser extent, Weasel. She appears to be on their side. Maybe? Wait,
what was with the face-thing? Downstairs, all the noise has brought the
guards away from their posts, and the four are arriving at the foot of the
stairs in time to meet Colossus. At which point they slither to a stop and
stare for a moment, before reaching for their weapons.

"No, you don't kill people, only our own kind," Kurt seethes at Weasel
bitterly, still clutching at the mask with one hand, other holding onto a
little detonator. "You're not stopping me. This ends tonight, for good. So
unless you want your ashes scattered a bit prematurely," Kurt says, losing
the force of his anger, closer to a break down. "Then you better start
running." His lips pull into a weak smile, which turns immediately into a
frown, his face no longer listening to his orders to keep expression off
it. "I, p-put a timer on them. In case I chickened out."

"It's released, Kitty, it's starting. Two minutes before everyone gets
monumentally retarded who's not wearing a mask. Two to five. Tell me more
about the rigging. Whole place? Connected how? Where's the detonator?
Timer? Switch? Anything." Pete's getting away from the vent system now,
coming back, not going spectacularly far. Would most likely be on the
lower floor, to do the most damage - the most wiring, the most explosives.
He stops short of where there're running people - Piotr's far better
equipped to deal with them. "Or should we let them go, at this point?"

Colossus isn't letting anyone go just yet. He'll do his job until Wisdom
backpedals on it. He looms large, blocking the stairwell entirely and
staring down these people, not letting his worries about the bomb show
through. "Do not even try it. Go back upstairs or I will send you back up
there myself." He even flexes his shoulders a bit, allowing his metallic
skin to glisten in what little light there is. "This is your only
warning."