In its long existence, the Demon of Silence had frequently noted that many enlightened minds thought of life as a game of chess. While some of the strategic and tactical elements were certainly transferable between the two, the Demon had always mused that life was seldom, if ever, quite so simple as that. In chess, the rules were well-defined and unalterable. Life could be far more nebulous; for example, in life the pawns often refused to give up their battle until long after the king had been removed from play.
Such was the case now. The mutant uprising had achieved its goal, or at least the goal that mattered to the Demon. The "king" of the human world had been removed from play. In true, endearing human fashion, however, his defenders continued to struggle against their now all but inevitable defeat. Their delicious despair was palpably growing, however. It truly was only a matter of time, now.
So intoxicating was the swirl of emotional darkness that the Demon very nearly made a fatal mistake. At the last second, it recognized a sign of danger: the sudden displacement of a prominent mental signature on the battlefield. The young one. As it felt the small fissure in physical reality tear open in front of its host body, Abigail McCormac reflexively threw herself backwards, and her psychic dominator grasped out desperately, taking hold of a nearby wounded Watcher and causing the hapless cultist to fling his already-damaged body into the path of Kisara's attack.
It was very nearly not enough. The attack all but vivisected the injured minion, and still tore into Abigail's abdomen. As its host lay on the ground, bleeding but not fatally wounded, the Demon indulged in a laugh at its own expense. Victory had nearly cost a most useful host, and unlike chess, sacrificing the "queen" in life meant that it would not be available for the next game.
Elsewhere, the battle also took its toll. The redirected fireball had struck Sergei full on, and had the undead super-soldier's necrotic flesh not been augmented beyond that of most armor, he would likely have been entirely consumed. As it was, he lay on the ground, stunned, as the ruined and rotting hulk that passed for his body began the process of stitching itself back into some semblance of functionality. The Watchers had largely scattered throughout the city, either to engage in smaller skirmishes, take advantage of the devastation to do some time-honored pillaging, or simply to flee from the carnage that had finally broken their already-damaged psyches.
As Kisara and Jacob vanished from grounds, Abigail McCormac struggled to her feet, one hand holding her bleeding midsection. The necessary blow had been struck, and there was no reason to throw away resources in an empty gesture. As Sergei recovered enough to push himself to his feet and stagger after her, the possessed pyrokinetic began her withdrawal from the capital.
The first true impediment to their progress had appeared, and it was surprising. As Kisara effortlessly immolated several of his pseudo-willing pawns, the Demon paused. There was a familiar energy emanating from her, and a moment's ponderance was all he needed to place it: a favor once done for others, in return for services to be requested at convenience. So this, then, was the purpose of that. So be it.
Before the fiendish incorporeal could respond to the assault however, the leading figure in this day of abject chaos appeared to make his attacker an offer, before coming under fire and leaping back into the fray before he could receive an answer. Frustrating and amusing in equal measure. If nothing else, it reinforced a tenet that the ancient creature had learned long ago: that it was better to allow others to take the lead, when possible. Let the most prominent target have the glory; the Demon would settle for victory.
She evaded the reflexive response of the Watchers, eliminating a score more of them in gruesomely spectacular fashion, before making her way to the White House. What business she had therein was unknown, but that knowledge was unnecessary. With a quick mental command, the ravenous mob turned its attention to the troops on the North Lawn, charging at them in a homicidal frenzy. A withering barrage of fire mowed down their front ranks, but it provided all the cover required for the monstrous Sergei to leap into their midst, his necrotic flesh shrugging off bullets like mosquito bites as he unleashed the rage of his tormented soul.
The zombified metahuman's assault was naught but a diversion, however. With the soldier's attention thus occupied, Abigail McCormac raised her arms, and the vile being to whom she had surrendered her will called forth her mutant abilities, mercilessly augmented by his iron grip on her will. A massive ball of fire, pulled forth from seemingly nothing, coalesced and grew until it was easily more than a dozen feet in diameter. With a flick of the wrist, the roiling inferno was sent tumbling towards the Executive Mansion like a hellish bowling ball.