[ Yes, it does take more than "instantly" traverse half the floor to the bathroom, silently, arm the remote detonator, plant the device without using the flushing mechanism because oh yeah Tim doesn't know they're going to shoot up whatever's in the truck.
The poor second wiseguy - Rook feels for him, he really does. Cups should be a job requirement. - is re-inventing lowbrow humor with his bent-over wheezing. But sympathy or no, this is a numbers game. And the ones that come up first in the batting order order, well. They have to stay down a little while longer. This isn't Whack-a-Mole.
(He will hit the third one on the back of the head with his bo. Still isn't Whack-a-Mole. Headshots are only a subset of incapacitation.) ]
Stay and wait aren't the same thing! Ask any German shepherd.
[ He's managing his little group of three well enough. Rook grabs the second and only standing man by the neck with his bo. Pulls it tight across the goon's windpipe.
(The dumbass, for his part, starts firing off the gun indiscriminately because that's how he's going to get the smaller vigilante who is behind him.)
Rook yanks him back as much as he can, arching the man's back and directing the gunfire at the roof. Several lightbulbs and one high window are now amongst the casualties.
Head count to not lose sight of the room. 2 is in progress. 3 down at his feet. 1, likely down in the bathroom, but the pinkish tinge to the growing pool spreading from the bathroom means less with every second because: 4-8 were caught in Kestrel's covering fire, but it's not like Tim could count bullets and watch for blood splatter. They are bloodsplattered; dark clothes hide the specific sources.
Holding onto to a larger, stronger opponent is always a struggle, especially when they figure out to drop the gun and use their hands - or body. No. 2 throws himself forward and attempts to stop drop and roll Rook off him. The goon gasps at the initial impact; Rook grunts when they're flipped and he's suddenly got 350 pounds on his diaphragm. Let's see who can hold their breath longer. ]
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The poor second wiseguy - Rook feels for him, he really does. Cups should be a job requirement. - is re-inventing lowbrow humor with his bent-over wheezing. But sympathy or no, this is a numbers game. And the ones that come up first in the batting order order, well. They have to stay down a little while longer. This isn't Whack-a-Mole.
(He will hit the third one on the back of the head with his bo. Still isn't Whack-a-Mole. Headshots are only a subset of incapacitation.) ]
Stay and wait aren't the same thing! Ask any German shepherd.
[ He's managing his little group of three well enough. Rook grabs the second and only standing man by the neck with his bo. Pulls it tight across the goon's windpipe.
(The dumbass, for his part, starts firing off the gun indiscriminately because that's how he's going to get the smaller vigilante who is behind him.)
Rook yanks him back as much as he can, arching the man's back and directing the gunfire at the roof. Several lightbulbs and one high window are now amongst the casualties.
Head count to not lose sight of the room. 2 is in progress. 3 down at his feet. 1, likely down in the bathroom, but the pinkish tinge to the growing pool spreading from the bathroom means less with every second because: 4-8 were caught in Kestrel's covering fire, but it's not like Tim could count bullets and watch for blood splatter. They are bloodsplattered; dark clothes hide the specific sources.
Holding onto to a larger, stronger opponent is always a struggle, especially when they figure out to drop the gun and use their hands - or body. No. 2 throws himself forward and attempts to stop drop and roll Rook off him. The goon gasps at the initial impact; Rook grunts when they're flipped and he's suddenly got 350 pounds on his diaphragm. Let's see who can hold their breath longer. ]