[It's showy. Maybe a little too loud, especially judging by the reaction of the pedestrian crowd around him. But Korben's never personally excelled at subtlety, and he isn't going to make any complaints about a lack of it now. This mission had already gone to hell, and he doesn't care how much more mess it takes to get out of there.
He's only still (staring up at the helicopter a little gormlessly) for a second before he's moving, not actually needing the disconcerting sounds of digital demonic possession behind him to compel him to start running again. The operator rattles off a series of instructions, and then Korben's throwing the cell, boot landing solidly in the centre of a building's back door, bursting in on a disused service stair. It's doubled as storage for who knows how long, leaving him a convenient number of boxes and other supplies to tip down the stairs behind him as he climbs, for all the obstruction they'll offer.
He doesn't make it to the roof. Cut off a few storeys away by a sudden rain of bullets, he dives sideways into a corridor, through into the next apartment. It's a nice place. Pictures on the walls. White rugs on hardwood floors. Balcony. He throws an overly-sculpted metal chair into the sliding door, glass crunching under his boots as he braces his hands on the railing, head craned up at the sky.]
Come on, come on,
[Is a slim prayer offered up for his operator to instruct on redirection, for that lovely voice on the line to manoeuvre the chopper around quicker than the Agents pursuing him can catch up.]
no subject
He's only still (staring up at the helicopter a little gormlessly) for a second before he's moving, not actually needing the disconcerting sounds of digital demonic possession behind him to compel him to start running again. The operator rattles off a series of instructions, and then Korben's throwing the cell, boot landing solidly in the centre of a building's back door, bursting in on a disused service stair. It's doubled as storage for who knows how long, leaving him a convenient number of boxes and other supplies to tip down the stairs behind him as he climbs, for all the obstruction they'll offer.
He doesn't make it to the roof. Cut off a few storeys away by a sudden rain of bullets, he dives sideways into a corridor, through into the next apartment. It's a nice place. Pictures on the walls. White rugs on hardwood floors. Balcony. He throws an overly-sculpted metal chair into the sliding door, glass crunching under his boots as he braces his hands on the railing, head craned up at the sky.]
Come on, come on,
[Is a slim prayer offered up for his operator to instruct on redirection, for that lovely voice on the line to manoeuvre the chopper around quicker than the Agents pursuing him can catch up.]