La Sombre continues making her way forward, being swallowed by the crowd as it coalesces around her. If she's looking for a din to fire under, she's found it. The men and women who have gathered are agitated, angry, and those who aren't armed with lengths or rebar or cheap pistols are passing out rocks, bottles, and chunks of concrete between them. If anything, the fact that there are only three Feathered to be seen, and the relative calm with which they are barking orders and inciting the crowd's anger seems . . . misplaced, and more than potentially dangerous. The woman on the car who has been speaking now has her Ballistic Mask firmly in place, and continues speaking as she bares a pistol butt resting against her thigh.
"You would do well to go home now," she continues in Spanish. "This is Feathered turf, and we will not suffer agitators and apostates here."
She pauses briefly before continuing. "Already, we have outsiders in our midst, ready to force your hand. This woman has made her choice, no doubt due to outside influences. The fucking yankees are unwilling to give us Aztlaners even this, our own neighborhood. Know who the true enemies are here, and leave so that we may protect you."
Somewhere in the crowd, a male's voice breaks out, "We don't need your protections, you Azzie slitch. Viva Mexico!"
The crowd roars in approval, and another rock arcs across the gray sky and lands on the hood of the car, missing the elf's head by centimeters.
Back by the car, The Phoenix has prepared her katana, slung her shotgun, and readied her AK-97, double-checking the magazine -- not that she needed to. Preparing for the worst she activates her Qi focus, the flush of mana a familiar and intoxicating feeling. Yes, now I'm in my element.
Salscha rushes back to Mr. Hopeless, a concerned look at the turtle's face. "The fire spirit did not like the swaggering one's magic. Shall I defend her? I'm afraid that it will come to that shortly.
In the matrix, the battle of wills and code is in full swing. The Knight has been playing it coy, probably working in sleazing as many MARKs as possible on the decker, and so Wraith strikes first, sending a slew of damaging ones and zeros against the figure. The full-plate armor glints, as if in the sunlight, and the glare is nearly blinding as the code comes back to Wraith, doing a little damage to her deck in the process.
The Knight still fails to attack Wraith directly, but while her steed continues to snort and flap its wings, the flying Pegasus descends on the decker,kicking up dust and lightning in her wake, which further stresses the debutante's equipment. Steeling herself. Wraith focuses more on her second attack, blasting the knight with a dark, billowing tornado which staggers her in the saddle, as the persona glitches and becomes fuzzy and pixelated from the blast. With her third attack, Wraith makes another strong effort to drop the knight, but a shield appears in her free hand at the last moment, sending the code back to her with much more force than the last, even as the Flying Pegasus' lightning storm increases in intensity.
From across the battlefield, Wraith sees the light lift her visor, the steely black eyes of a Spaniard woman, regarding her coldly, assessing whether or not her deck can withstand the onslaught.
