[The screen is a riot of color as the footage rewinds. With a sharp click, the video stops. Puffs of smoke and the remnants of Dust ammunition drift across the frame. The clip stutters and resumes playing at normal speed.]
The docks hum with the rumble of bullhead turbines. The charred and broken remnants of one smolders on the ground, but two still hover overhead. They are bearing down on a mess of White Fang, teenagers, and even a gigantic muscled frog, all trading shots and wading through the melee.
Shining white glyphs light a path from the ground, and a blur of shadow flits up, and up, and up. The closer bullhead’s pilot is visible through the cockpit. He’s yanking frantically at the controls, trying to climb – to widen the distance between him and the girl coming directly for the ship. He fails.
Blake draws level with the ship and whips Gambol Shroud at the turbines, emptying out Weiss’ entire clip of Ice ammunition. Magical Ice blossoms from the machines, and the bullhead teeters and drops into a slow descent, its frozen blades clattering to a stop. Blake lands gracefully atop the turbine and signals to Weiss down below.
Target secured. The ship is grounded.
The remaining bullhead’s engines fall into a keening wail as the ship breaks up and away, clawing for altitude. At the window, Roman Torchwick tips his hat at the minions he’s leaving behind. Beside him, the small girl with the two-toned hair offers a sardonic bow.
[A low whine, apparently from the camera itself at the time, momentarily drowns out the sounds of the recording. The camera pans stiffly to the top of a nearby building and zooms in.]
Marche is hunched over Valiant Magnum in his chosen sniper’s perch, lip curled in a snarl. Backwash from the bullhead’s straining engine is strong enough to muss his blond hair as the ship passes high overhead. He lifts his visor and scrambles for a better position, aiming for a turbine.
Even at a distance, the changes in Marche’s eyes stand out. Prominent veins spider out around his eyes, and silver flashes briefly from his irises. A single bullet cuts through the air.
The girl by Torchwick's side watches Marche with growing panic, pointing urgently out the window. By the time Torchwick notices, it’s too late. The round shreds through the bullhead’s right turbine. The engine explodes.
Marche shields his eyes and straightens up, watching the bullhead spiral down into the sea. The docks shudder with the force of the crash, and water splashes over the smoking wreckage. From directly above, left fluttering in the wake of the explosion, a black bowler hat striped with red falls towards Marche.
He frowns and snatches it out of the air. Tipping his head to speak sidelong into his active Scroll, he mutters, “I think I just took down Torchwick’s Bullhead.”
The audio crackles through the recording device’s auxiliary speakers, much too loud for how far he is.
