The hands grabbed hers, holding her.  She jerked, not an act, though it was only partially through fear.  "Y-yes, m-master... a-anything..." Vultana's voice was trembling, as was her body, and it was no act either... though he probably wouldn't realize just what was causing the tremors.  Hell, she didn't quite know it herself, though she was finally starting to figure it out.  Oh yes, she would have to accept it, later (assuming there<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>a later) --- she was insane.  No one sane would be planning what she was.<br/><br/>She was ready to stare Death in the face, and either slap it and run away or kiss and embrace it.  Or perhaps both, yet neither.  Somehow, nothing that she had ever endured during her life as a slave had been as intense as what she was experiencing now.  The fact, the knowledge that this time she had chosen the upcoming abuse herself was impossibly exciting...<br/><br/>Then she felt the wounded wolf's entire body stiffen, and after a few seconds she heard what he had.  Someone was either gargling with pure acid nearby, or was torturing some helpless anthro-cat... her fingers and toes clenched at the sound, and she gritted her teeth within her beak.  What a horrific sound!  And it was coming closer...<br/><br/>The wolf spun her around.  She let out a startled, all-too-feminine yip --- though it was certainly fitting for the act she was putting on --- and found herself facing the stairwell when...<span style="font-style: italic">she</span>emerged.<br/><br/>There was no mistaking her.  Vultana had been watching her through the scope for quite some time as she went on her rampage... and she was still quite a bloody mess.  She seemed to have "acquired" a new sword in her ribs between the palace and this rooftop, and perhaps some scrapes on the way up the stairwell that had been too tight for her, but one glance was enough to know she was more than capable of killing a lone, wounded wolf.<br/><br/>Vultana, paradoxically, was even more disappointed than the wolf.<span style="font-style: italic">Aw, come on, big gal, I had it all under control!  I was going to have so much fun...</span>still, she couldn't bring herself to be angry with the Beartaur.  How she'd gotten here so fast, or even located her position, was beyond the half-avian right now; it just mattered that the beartaur had wanted to help the sniper that had covered her.  Either that, or she wanted to eat her alive for stealing her kills... though Vultana somehow doubted that.<br/><br/>The wolf demanded who the beartaur was, and brought his teeth close to Vultana's throat.  She struggled a bit, not as hard as she truly could but enough to know she was effectively restrained.  Thirty seconds before she'd wanted it, but now...<br/><br/>She eyed the beartaur.  She kept her expression frightened as she considered the options and the beartaur's answer to the wolf's question.  Her first thought was<span style="font-style: italic">What the hell is a Slayer? </span>and for some reason an image of a vampire and a blonde came to her mind.  Her second thought was<span style="font-style: italic">why would she come up here if it wasn't for me?!  He must <span style="text-decoration: underline">know</span> that!</span>Her third thought was that she had best keep up the act, just to keep him from ripping out her throat.  Death was one thing, but such a miserable death... that she didn't want.<br/><br/>"P-please, master, mistress, let me go!  M-my Master was the one with the gun!  I don't know why he brought me up here!"  Again she made herself cry at will --- it had often been such a helpful skill --- and she blinked at the beartaur.  "Please, please don't eat me!  I'll do whatever you both say!  Please..."<br/><br/>She considered winking at the beartaur, with her eye opposite from the wolf's face so he couldn't see, to let her know it was an act.  However, she thought better of it; if that frontal attack on the palace was any indication, subtlety wasn't the great female's strong point.<br/><br/>---- ---- ---- ----<br/><br/>Dreamer was vaguely amazed that it<span style="font-style: italic">worked</span>.  With a terrible<span style="font-style: italic">bang</span>the center of the hood crumpled under his fist, as did parts of the engine.  As he'd hoped, the back of the sedan rose into the air, but not enough to flip over and fall on top of him; he saw the occupants of the vehicle --- those other than the driver frozen in looks of shock before the impact as they'd found themselves unwilling members of the assault --- crash forward.<br/><br/>The car skidded forward a bit, and while it ended up hitting his legs, his enhanced reflexes helped him as well.  He wasn't<span style="font-style: italic">quite</span>quick enough in mind if not in body, so the crumpled vehicle<span style="font-style: italic">did</span>collide rather painfully with his shins, but either he had parts in there he'd never been told about or his Dermal Plating provided<span style="font-style: italic">some</span>protection from the hit, because he didn't feel any bones snap at least.  His left hand reacted faster than the cybernetic one, and when he titled forward from the impact he managed to slow his face-first descent into the hood somewhat.  He cried out as his nose met metal and he felt a<span style="font-style: italic">crunch</span>, and knew that his nose, at least, hadn't been as lucky as the rest of him.  Still, as the car ground to a halt, leaving the men inside groaning in pain, he knew he had somehow survived his second encounter with a heavy machine.<br/><br/>"Okay... that<span style="font-style: italic">stings</span>," he admitted in a mild tone, pushing up off the hood with his cybered arm and dabbing at his bleeding nose with the left.  He glared at the dazed driver, wondering for a moment if he should implode the man's face with his fist, before pushing off from the crushed hood.  He gave a wince as his feet touched the ground: his right ankle felt sprained, though how badly he couldn't be sure, and his shins were, indeed, throbbing with pain.  Whether he'd broken bones or not, that had hurt him...<br/><br/>Still, he was able to walk a couple steps to retrieve his handgun.  His knife had miraculously stayed in his pants behind the small of his back, as well... he was still armed.  Good.<br/><br/>"I should<span style="font-style: italic">kill</span>you for that..." he growled, staggering up to the driver's side window and pointing the gun at the driver's face.  "To do something like that... urgh..." he dabbed at his nose with his left hand, "you must be Shark's man.  No honor.  But... but, I..." he looked over his shoulder.  Had the station wagon stopped to wait for him, or had they continued as he'd told them to if there was trouble?  That would determine his decision whether to fight and kill, or not to.