Characters: An NPC saboteur, Tear Grants, and the Security Team (or just anyone else who wants to stop the aforementioned saboteur~).
Content: A saboteur is on the run! Time to catch him.
Setting: A distance away from the common hangars.
Time: Shortly after
this; just after sunset.
Warnings: Violence?
Notes: Feel free to separate into teams to chase the saboteur, but, in spite of the content wording, please don't catch this intruder, for the conclusion will have a surprise in store~♥.
She had heard him. The rustle of his clothes, the click of his boots, the rhythmic inhale and exhale of breath. It was nearly imperceptible, a low murmur of noise Tear wouldn't have caught had silence not encompassed the hangar with its iron grip. She had instantly turned to face it, instinctively tightening her grasp around her sharpened staff as she shifted into battle stance. It was then, in the duration of a single heartbeat, her eyes glimpsed the sparkle of explosives, and she hastily started forward to strike the figure clutching them.
Only, it was a second too late.
The following events had flickered past in a spectral blur. There was the shattering detonation, the clanking of metal, and then footsteps, as the intruder fled from the scene, crowing in exultation and slandering the country of Vohemar. Yet, in spite of the disarray left resounding throughout the hangar, Tear knew her objective was clear -- to pursue the saboteur and apprehend him.
With a sharp intake of breath, she had instantly launched herself forward in the direction of the escaping intruder. As she darted past the entrance of the hangars, she forced her eyes to peer through the deep veil of darkness until she detected his figure. He was but a dim, quivering shadow set against a darker landscape, his outline bobbing in and out of clarity as he dithered across the undulating road. Jerking her left hand back, Tear dexterously withdrew a knife out of her garter, hidden beneath the slit of her dress, pausing only once as the abruptness of her movement sent a jolting sensation coursing through her arm. Reminded of the shrapnel embedded within her left shoulder -- a result of standing within close proximity of the explosion -- she struggled to keep her trembling fingers steady as she bent her elbow upwards, trying to aim her knife towards the figure.
Quickening her pace, she began imbuing fonons into the tip of her weapon, in preparation for when she was close enough to shoot her knife towards him. However, she knew that she needed to hurry, for, judging by the man's direction, he was heading for the make-shift market.
If he made it there, it increased the chance of losing sight of him -- and the risk of casualties that she simply couldn't allow.