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Um, fall term. That's all I really have as an excuse. But that's over now, so for the time being, I should be able to post at least semi-regularly. Sorry to everyone whose plots I've messed up with my absence!

Ambrose went from "on the floor" to "on nothing at all" in an instant, and there was no time where he'd been more appreciative of enhanced reflexes. Even so, it took him a moment to get past the instinctive reaction of "what" to even consider reacting, so while he did manage to land in a way that broke no bones, he had the wind knocked out of him, literally and figuratively. Figuratively because - well, that's how that expression was used, and literally because he realized too late that he did in fact have an injured shoulder, and that was what he'd landed on. He choked on air as he bit back what definitely would've been an embarrassing acknowledgement of pain, but even with that, he made much more of a sound than he'd intended.

Goddammit.

Ambrose winced and rolled over onto his back, taking a moment to just stare up at the - what.

He'd gathered that they, well, weren't in Kansas anymore, but that was a really tall ceiling, compared to Ambrose's small office. Ambrose turned his head towards his side, equally as surprised by what looked like a gym in the building's corner. No, not just a gym. On closer inspection, there seemed to be decidedly non-gym items like a sparring mat and an obstacle course. Ambrose suspected that the workout machines themselves were a little off, too, but he'd never been to the gym in his life, so he wouldn't know. (As it turned out, terrorizing the city a few times a week was more than enough of a workout.)

"Seems like you've calmed down a bit Rosie-boy," a voice said, and Ambrose resisted the urge to smash something. Because dammit, he'd been teleported into this creepily dark warehouse with Kaz, and now he suspected Kaz had something to do with it - okay, Kaz definitely had something to do with it. In fact, Ambrose was going to hazard a guess and say that this was the very warehouse Panu had broken into and started this whole mess with.

Well, full circle. Even in this situation, Ambrose could appreciate the slight irony.

”Panu and the others were getting a little uncomfortable, so a change of location seemed a good idea. Hope you don't object.” Ambrose gave an amused huff, even as he lay on his back trying to make his vision work properly again, because ow. Apparently, Kaz had his own teleporter. Well, that was fine by Ambrose - the immediate threat to Panu was removed, and Panu was still with Cail and Madeline, both of whom knew what to do in such a situation. If the threat persisted, they'd take Panu to an Adapted, which Panu would probably hate but would be the best option because Cail was equally formidable without his mutation as he was with it. (The man had been a soldier, after all.) What that meant was that Ambrose was free to exercise his right to lack self-preservation as much as he wanted. As Kaz spoke, Ambrose removed and tossed his contact lenses, and the room immediately cleared. Yes, maybe he was a bit more farsighted now, but the dimness of the room wasn't as bad of a problem and the thin haze of infrared - a remnant of his more animalistic side - made up for that.

”So, you willing to talk now?” Ambrose looked idly over at Kaz, who was taking a decidedly aggressive stance. Well, no one had ever told Ambrose that he was agreeable. Or consistent. And now that Kaz was not on top of him and crushing him, he didn't feel inclined to be either.

Ambrose tossed his underwear in the direction of Kaz's face. And then immediately was up - on all fours, admittedly - sprinting off towards the staircase that he'd seen on his cursory examination of the room.

I am one hundred percent on board with this. Ambrose, not so much, but it'd be great to have some faction vs faction stuff happening between Rag and the Exiles (see: assassination attempt, as mentioned in the cbox). Also, Kirsi might just be up for this if the Exiles can outpay Rag. Her loyalty usually lies with whomever's got the biggest bank account, but if the Exiles can offer money (and something more, in terms of ideals), she'll be on board.

Also, question - when exactly in the Utopia plot would the Exiles be implemented in full? I think it'd be pretty cool to see them rise up as a response to Utopia, and also to see how exactly the faction handles that new situation.

"Heh."

Ambrose's grin grew even wider, if at all possible, watching the man in front of (and, admittedly, a little above) him blush. He wasn't quite as affected as Ambrose would have anticipated - a smile still stayed plastered on Devon's face - but it was enough to make Ambrose feel comfortably in control of the situation.

Also, Ambrose was a hundred percent aware that Romeo was listening in from outside. The bodyguard had the helm of his exoskeleton on and was standing with his face mostly hidden to disguise the distinctly canine features that'd graced so many television screens these past few days (Romeo had finally been able to go out, albeit at night, so he wouldn't be identified). That helm gave Romeo the sort of senses that Ambrose already possessed, and allowed Romeo to pick up on his boss's every word.

Romeo had heard about the Kaz incident. It'd grown surprisingly quickly in notoriety, spreading through Rag's inner circles, in no small part due to Cail's surprisingly gossipy nature (one didn't function as what was essentially a doorman without spreading some news). He did not want to be present for a repeat of that, and so Ambrose, with his boosted hearing, clearly heard when the helm melted back into his skin and Romeo speedily left the general area.

If Ambrose looked even more distinctly pleased after that, he wouldn't confirm it - but he definitely wouldn't deny it either.

"Hey now," Devon finally said, after recovering from the shock. "That's not fair. I haven't had the chance to prove myself by taking over a billion dollar company let alone find time for the gym what with school and working."

...seriously, was this guy determined to ruin Ambrose's fun every chance he could by insinuating that Ambrose was Order? Ambrose would be less offended by the insinuation that he was a walking, breathing compost bin. At least compost bins did something.

Then Devon leaned in, and Ambrose realized rather suddenly that apparently he'd gone and turned this into a repeat of The Kaz Incident again, without even intending to. Perhaps with a bit less violence - his shoulder wasn't dislocated, for one - and it was far more comforting to be in the role of greater power. Also, to be in full control of his mental faculties. He'd take that whenever he could.

"But thanks, tough guy. You're a dashing, dominant sort aren't you?" Devon whispered into Ambrose's ear, having leaned in just as Ambrose had mere moments ago. Well. It wasn't like Ambrose was going to deny that. Anyone who said flattery didn't get you anywhere was wrong, because when it came to Ambrose Jaager, flattery was one of the few things he did respond to.

Complimenting his clothing worked, although not quite as much to the compliment to his personality, considering Ambrose barely knew where his own clothes came from. But he was wearing it, and that sufficed. (To say he was egotistical was a bit of an understatement, to be honest.)

Devon confirmed that he wasn't Order, then, and Ambrose confirmed that Devon was telling the truth. There was no telltale boost in heartbeat, like there would've been for any sane person who had someone standing inches away from their neck - as Devon had so kindly pointed out - in a decidedly threatening manner. And then -

Did he just get asked out on a date?

He did, didn't he. Ambrose blinked once, bemused, but his face stayed in its same arrogantly confident demeanor. Nothing changed - he had quite a bit of practice with that, after all. And the climbing up comment - okay, yes, power play noticed and acknowledged. Wonderful. Now for the - how did normal people respond to requests for dinner together? Ambrose knew he was going to accept, of course; even if Devon wasn't Order (and there was still a possibility that he was just an extremely skilled liar instead), keeping a close eye on one of the Sanctuary's new regulars would be helpful in the future should the Order try to reclaim it.

Also, Ambrose liked to toy with other people. He was looking forward to seeing how a certain mutant would respond to Devon, once pictures of them having dinner inevitably hit the tabloids.

"I'd be delighted," Ambrose said, smiling, still not stepping back. "Six o'clock, wouldn't you say? I'll make a reservation, and send you the address. Don't worry about giving me your number; I already have it." Well, not yet. But one call to Panu and then he would. And it really added to Ambrose's whole "omnipresent" vibe. He'd been going for that lately. Granted, it was ninety percent Panu, nine percent his underlings gathering information, and one percent what Ambrose was immediately seeing in front of him, but that was irrelevant. "Is there anything else, Mr. Hadden?"

Ambrose... hadn't really needed to ask that, to be honest. But it was polite. And vaguely intimidating. All movie villains did it. And while Ambrose would sooner become an X-Men than become a cliche, he was going to allow himself this one.

Um.

Ambrose blinked as the girl stared at him. He couldn't see too many details, but he assumed that this was what honored shock looked like in infrared. There was a solid seventy-two seconds (yes, he'd counted) as Valkyrie apparently tried her absolute hardest to force out words.

Ambrose hadn't been aware that he had that effect on people. Normally, when someone couldn't speak in his presence, it was out of sheer terror. Or shock. Or surprise because a giant dragon had come swooping out of nowhere. Not because they were so flattered by an invitation to join his not-even-remotely-exclusive terrorist group that they couldn't get words out.

Seriously. She could've literally walked up to one of the (at this point) hundreds of people spray-painting Rag's logo around the city, and asked them if they could please recruit her, however they did that. But then, each member took great pride in having their own recruiting "style" - Ambrose knew of at least one member who was setting up elaborate trials to warrant entry, which was not at all necessary but definitely entertaining to watch someone make their way into an evidence locker, blindfolded, and try their hardest to rob the entire janitor's closet with their thumbs taped down.

"Yes please," someone said, and Ambrose was almost surprised to realize that Valkyrie was still there.

"Right then," Ambrose said brightly and immediately, before his impatience showed and possibly scared her off. Nurturing. He was nurturing. He was going to be a very nurturing leader and bring out the worst in all of his progeny, as befitting a terrorist leader. "I'll add you to the email list. Just find a Ragnarök member on the street, preferably one with opposable thumbs, and tell them to add you. Members will be the ones blowing things up or spray-painting a giant R somewhere after the fact."

Yes, they had an email list. Everyone was always so damned confused when he brought that up, like it was unthinkable that a massive chaos syndicate would have an email list. How in the world else would he get a message to everyone at the same time? Word of mouth was slow and impractical. If he wanted to set up an attack, he sent out a form and let people fill it out if they wanted to participate. Cybersecurity wasn't even in the top twenty when it came to threats Ambrose was worried about, thanks to Panu.

...maybe he should change that. Email lists and online sign-up sheets weren't terrifying. They were terrifyingly domestic. Rag should take over a sector of the city, perhaps, and graffiti the walls to communicate. Like a Facebook wall, but literally.

This was sad. Ambrose let out an irritated huff just thinking about it. So much work to do, so many things to fix. Running Rag was so much more... corporate than he'd expected.

"Casino was that way," Noel said. Ambrose nodded - he was starting to recognize the area.

"Hang a right when you hit the waterfront, and then keep following the shoreline," Ambrose said.

Noel accelerated away from the gunfire and towards the casinos, and Ambrose winced as the back of the chair dug into the exit wound around the base of his spine. Oh, good, actually. He hadn't registered that there'd even been an exit wound, but that was good. One less thing to worry about - lead poisoning or whatever it was bullets did (he didn't really try too hard to inform himself on the medical specifications of the various injuries he'd obtained over the years).

They took a sharp right turn and Ambrose slammed into his door, even with the seatbelt. Ow. This woman could not drive, at all.

"Didn't know you healed."

What? Oh, right. Paralysis.

"Well, I don't really make it a point to show that off," Ambrose said, through gritted teeth, because he was pretty sure his shoulder was bruising too. "I usually wait until after the first date." He gave her a roguish smile as he turned around to check behind them - okay, dammit, adrenaline was making him flirtatious, apparently? - and he could just see, through the windows at the back of the van, the other car pursuing them. He only got a few seconds to check before a spray of bullets broke the glass, piercing through the front window as well. Miraculously, none hit flesh. He would've heard, and it would've been gross.

Then, he did a double-take and looked back at the contents of the van behind him.

"Um, Noel?" he said, almost turned fully around in his seat.

There were guns. Lots of guns. Apparently, they'd taken the backup arsenal, because Ambrose was pretty sure he saw, like, a flamethrower or something (it was an RPG launcher, but he couldn't tell the difference). Body armor, too, but it looked like it was definitely for somebody larger than Noel, and maybe for someone larger than Ambrose, even with his extra body mass. That looked... useful?

"I might be able to get back there and shoot back," Ambrose said, pointing backwards, at the general direction of the now glass-less windows. "But there's probably an equivalent chance that I'll die from blood loss or something on the way there." He meant that as a halfhearted attempt at a joke. He realized too late she probably would take it seriously.

Oops.

Ambrose had never had anyone ask - well, demand to know - if he was dying in such an aggressive way before. Or in a such an accusatory way, for that matter. If he could feel bad, he probably would've felt bad for being crippled. It was that kind of "are you dying."

But then he didn't really get to think about that anymore, because Noel was saying, "That man was only in one van," just as Ambrose saw another van, through the window and past Noel's face, flying right at them.

Reacting faster than any human being could've, Ambrose lunged for the gas pedal. He would've used his leg, but, well, that was out of commission. His face swiped against Noel's thigh, which would probably seem way creepy until she realized what he was doing, but he couldn't really bring himself to care because he was going to be a dragon pancake if he didn't move, and getting stabbed in the face with heels was an infinitely better option than death. He left a smear of oily black blood on her leg as he hit the gas, accelerating the van forward. So instead of impact flattening him and Noel, the other van hit the back end of their bullet-ridden box on wheels, spinning them out until they were pointed in the very direction the other van had come from.

Ambrose jerked back up to avoid any violent retaliation, and also to peer out Noel's window and check on their attacker. The other van had stopped and was already backing up, and he could see what looked like a gun peeking out of one of their windows.

"Paralysis heals," Ambrose said absentmindedly as he stared at the van with a sort of apathetic horror, not quite realizing yet that paralysis was a bit more permanent for most people, "but death does not, so I would advise moving. Now."

There was the sound of an automatic weapon spraying a burst of bullets into their poor van's side. If Ambrose's warning wasn't sufficient motivation to move, that probably was.