Michael
Boring.
With Vanguard's latest declaration, everything clicked into place. He was planning to take this place over once they were through. His reasons were inconsequential, though it still brought the slightest hint of amusement that the old man was so ready and willing to go about such noble goals in underhanded ways. All the same, this did put a damper on using this place as a starting point for his plans. No use in leaving something for someone like him to find.
Perhaps it was rather petty of him, but the immortal swiftly disassembled the gun in his hands, scattering the parts around the sniper's nest, before stepping out onto the vantage point to take in the layout of the prison, accounting for the chaos that Meti had stirred up. While it was something of a delight to watch her work, he'd only have so long to enjoy it before he had to move to enact this small prank at his fellow's expense.
Let's see. They're probably on high alert by now, and accounting for the fact that this place probably has some sort of leadership, they're probably bunkered down somewhere in the broadcast rooms...hmmm...
Taking a couple steps back, the immortal ran for the edge and launched himself high into the air, cocking a fist back as he came down on the roof of the prison. While raw strength might have sufficed to break through the roof, Michael opted for skill, the concrete shattering like china under a well-placed blow, allowing him to come down in the midst of what appeared to be the warden's office. Allowing a smirk as he took in the multitude of gangers arrayed around him, all of them seemingly in shock after having fortified what they thought was the only entrance, Michael allowed them a moment to turn around and bring their weapons to bear.
Then the world went black for the immortal.
Gunshots rang out, as did the sounds of the wounded and the gags of the dying. Tender flesh gave way under Michael's practiced touch, blood splattering and bones snapping under his hands. Shocked exclamations rang out as they found their guns lying in pieces before them. Not once did he deign to use his legs for anything other than to propel himself to his next opponent. Under the room's harsh lighting, Michael painted across a canvas of wallpaper and hardwood floor, his fists serving as the brush and their bodies and blood serving as adequate colors.
Satisfied, Michael opened his eyes at last to take a moment to evaluate his work, nodding in approval as he looked around. Certainly not his best work, but he couldn't be bothered to put too much effort into this.
Allowing a sigh as he flicked some of the blood off his hands, the immortal tapped at the hardwood floor beneath him to ascertain that there was another room, likely the aforementioned broadcast room, before applying Enhancement to the floor. Certainly, it would make the floor tougher in moderation, but if too much was applied, like what Michael was doing at this moment, then the magic would ravage the structure's integrity, leaving it fragile enough to shatter under the next tap, Michael dropping through a perfectly sized hole into the room beneath.
