2012-09-11 Things That Go Boom

The Bowery is not a place of grandeur, nor has it ever been. There are no soaring delapidated theatres who've seen better times, no massive condos with penthouses who's fallen into disrepair. This is a governmental housing project... that got worse. Spray paint covers everything, but it's faded and chipped, as even the gangs that tag their territory simply lost the will to keep up that level of care and instead mark their territory in crime scene tape and bodies. It's a place where drugs and their use aren't hidden, where pushes don't hide, where hookers walk in blatant strung out drunken weaving patterns clinging to anyone they might be able to sucker into a role... and rob them. There is no hope here, there is no love, no light, here is where human debris collects like litter against a reef, growing thicker and thicker with every passing day. It is also not a place of tantalizing scents and sweet smells, but some horrors stand out even here. Some things are darker, more vile, more evil then this place, in filth such as this there are acts that can find room to stain it deeper. 
 
The screams are weak and broken, sobbing, whimpering, animal things, ripped from a hoarse through no longer capable of truly loud cries, they carry more by dint of pitch then volume. They're wet on the ears, something burbling, gurgling in them, something that shouldn't be there, and the sound, is like ichor spread across the inside of the mind of all who hear it. Even those hardened and hateful souls on the street pause, look up, then shiver and hunker down, walking more quickly to get away. The cries come from atop one of the countless concrete brick shaped buildings that mark project housing, a place with nothing but rusted and broken fire escapes and barred windows even five stories up. And they, the cries, are growing weaker.
 
 Green Arrow hates coming to Gotham. He tends to avoid it like the plague, and now being in the Bowery reminds him way. Business brought Oliver Queen, and being Ollie, he just couldn't pass up the chance to go patrolling through Gotham as Green Arrow. Maybe he might even catch a glimpse of the rumored Dark Knight, but he isn't counting on it. He finds himself in the Bowery because that is where the city needs the most help. Obviously he isn't wrong there.
 
 He has been up on roof tops moving along them slowly as he watches the street below. He hears the whimpering cries on the wind and lifts his head. One more building over it may seem. He makes his way to the edge of the building and pulls his bow from his shoulder. Fingers dance over the arrows in his quiver for a moment before he pulls an arrow, nocks, and fires the cable arrow across the way. The arrow thunks into an AC unit, and quickly Green Arrow is going hand over hand to get to the other building.
 
Well. It's one of the darker sides of Rain's normally cosmically strange existence. The ache of the homeless, poor places she frequents contrasted against the dangers she wanders to alongside the various painfully humorous accidents. It's a vibrant way to be, despite the shadowy sides of it. It's home when it's slower and she doesn't go back to the realm of Eldred. Even if she's upgraded to demihomeless, she feels a bit wrong to neglect her regulars - the ones she checks up on, cures diseases and helps out. Mind, her assistance is limited and having to do so over and over feels a bit hopeless at times. There's still that hint of wariness. She's not -entirely- hopeless around danger. She might smile politely at someone she recognizes, but even Rain is more solemn and quiet here. At the cries? Her head turns and she carefully slinks towards it. For now, she's groundbound, but she's quietly contemplating an alternate mode of transportation.
 
Some days, you're just-- depressed. Other days, if you're Pete Wisdom, you're nigh-suicidally depressed because when some things need done, you're the only one who can shut yourself off and do them. The kind of things that make the sound issuing from that rooftop. So, half-drunk on self-loathing and Scotch, the Englishman's done the only thing he could think of to do-- go to Gotham and find the worst part of town and get the rest of the way fucked up there. It's like the black ops version of sitting on the roof of the X-Mansion and brooding.
 
So when Wisdom hears that sound, those cries and whimpering-- he knows exactly what they are. With a bitterly disgusted self-aware amusement, he starts walking faster, winging the partly-full glass flask of Cutty fucking Sark into a bin and keeping himself tied to the moment with the sound of it shattering. The rest of his attention goes to distance and precise direction as he follows the keening noises, breaking into a jog. And then he runs full tilt as the sounds weaken; his face is grim and white in the darkness. He's not running to get there in time to save the victim; he knows that-- they're almost gone already and-- he can maybe get there in time to get the son of a bitch who did it.
 
By the time the first of our fearless (or remarkably stupid) heroes arrives, it's obvious that there is no saving the victim. The shadows of the rooftops are not so dark as one might expect, a trashcan fire to one side and a couple of chemical lights cast odd greenish orange light across the horror scene that's spread over the building's top. Blood is splattered hither and yon, black and sticky in the pale odd light, as if from a demon or monster and not from a human being. Among the blood, seemingly at random, are odd stirps of something black and pale, and soft blobby bits remarkably hard to identify. A man all in black stands in the middle of the garden of horror, a long curved heavy bladed knife, of the sort the Gurkhas, used, held familiarly in one gloved hand. It drips something black to the tar roof and into a puddle with soft plopping sounds, somehow out of time with the rhythm of the universe. In his other hand shine pale wet orbs, small tiny balls like golf balls, and he stars at them, turning them this way and that. 
 
At the first sound on the rooftop the man turns, almost lazily, to look at who has arrived and interupted him. His face is... so ordinary as to be forgetable on sight. Nondescript hair, nondescript eyes, nondescript chin, nose, mouth, hair cut, nothing about him is striking or stand out. He's a few inches under six feet, making him perfectly average height, his build is lean but not thin, fit, but not in the athletic 'work out constantly' way. It's a man that reminds people who meet him of everyone and no one all at once.
 
He stares at Green Arrow, his expression blank for a moment before he blinks, "You are not the Batman." the man's voice is a low alto, maybe a high tenor, and is absent of all accent. Not even American, it's... perfectly nothing, just like him. "Unexpected." The way he's turned now shows what he was blocking, his victim. It's clear now what all that on the roof is. The black and pale strips are skin, peeled off in two inch wide strips, leaving bare bloody muscle exposed behind. The globby bits are internal organs, removed from the gaping cavity that was the... young mans?, abdominal wall. And the golf balls he holds... they aren't. Instead, a glance at them shows them staring back unblinking. Eyes. The victims if the empty pits in his skull are any indication. All of this takes a moment to sink in, longer due to the horror of it. Then the victim twitches and moans... god above... he's still alive. The killer nonchalantly bends, carefully placing on of the eyes on the ground where he stands, and then takes two casual steps to the left to place the other eye, his footing precise, gentle, and his placing of the eye almost reverent. Something somewhere breaks, a feeling of something deep inside, like the shattering of a soul or a piece of oneself. It's the pain of a loved one dead, the childlike horror when told Santa isn't real, the ache of the first break up you didn't initiate, it says SORROW in it's every form, and it extends like a gentle wave, speaking the word in every heart for just an instant.
 
 "Holy Mary Mother of...." Green Arrow cannot believe his eyes as he looks over the scene. He is caught completely flat footed by the horror of the scene before him. He blinks several times before the man's words sink in. He finally manages to break free of the shock and horror and concentrate on the man. "Buddy, you will probably be wishing I was before too much longer." His hand flies back behind him and draws another arrow. It is a regular tipped sharp arrow. It is aimed and fired as he tries to catch the sleeve of the arm holding the Gurka.
 
Was that a word up there? Words, there's words. Wisdom veers into an alley, taking a running leap at the fire escape's bottom ladder and pulling the rusty thing down. It swings with him on it for a moment, then shudders to a clanging halt, and he drops down nearly silently to the ground below. Then it's around the front of the building, and he shoves his fingers through the lock with a bright flare, then pushes the door open and hops as he takes his shoes off while running-- they get dropped in the hall and he sprints sockfooted on floor that he shouldn't be unshod upon, and up the inside stairs. Distract him distract him, there's someone talking up there, they'll hopefully think there's someone trying to sneak up the ladder. Up the stairs! To the roof door! If it's shut, then it's /very/ quietly our young British operative works on opening it; if it's open, he just listens.
 
Probably both in Rain's case. She's never sure sometimes. But however long behind the others it takes her to get there, it is apparent that she was too late. There's some small solace in knowing it wasn't just her, but it's little pallative to the bitter sorrow and metallic tang of it all. She mercifully is able to use her bandana and hat to hide the look of being about to puke when she sees the scene. A pause. She's barely in time to hear the end of his words. Unexpected...? Still, the details of the scene sear themselves into her sight for now, and she puts a hand over her mouth. She's definitely not looking too good. She lingers back, closing her eyes and leaning against something. And yes, she did take advantage of the doors left open.
 
The Killer eyes Oliver as the man makes his comment, the pale nondescript eyes staring him up and down in a blink, "One hundred pound draw, thirty-two inches, eighty grains," Oliver can hear him speak, and he knows the language. It's archery math. "Feet per second, one hundred and sixty-two." The Killer says all of this as his upper body twists and Ollie's arrow slices the air across the Killer's chest, ripping open the tac vest and kicking up sparks as it ricochets off of something metallic in one of the pockets. "Faster." a hint of grudging respect is given. Ollie's know the math, and he knows it's off. It's a 107 lbs draw bow, and the arrows are lighter in the shaft and heavier in the head, it effects flight time in Arrow's favor.
 
Pete's headlong rush up the stairs is instantly ground to a halt as the light reflected from his glowing hand glints on something on the floor. Had it not been for the glow of the hotknife, Pete never would have seen the thin web of trip wires placed at the very top of the stairs... or the directional anti-personal mines they are attached to. A Claymore is an ugly way to die. A glance around shows Pete he's already passed two of the trip lines without setting them off, somehow, miraculously, and now he's in the middle of a web of C4 and steel ball bearings. This guy, whoever he is, is good... and not afraid of overkill.
 
 Green Arrow blinks again with his hood even as he takes a step back away from the Killer. "Okay, so you know a few things about bows and arrows. Luckily, I'm not just that." He moves to his left along the edge of the roof as he draws another arrow. He is about to fire when he sees Rain get to the roof. "This is no place for a lady, hon," he says in his best chavenistic tone. "Get behind me and I'll keep him busy."
 
Magic...? Hmm. She tugs at one of the sleeves of her coat. The filthiness of it makes her just want to jump into a bathtub... but there's a sad look to the victim. It's not a usual state of mind for Rain. Say what you will about the B-list witch (and don't switch those letters), but she's pretty resilient. She's turning over the moment, the feeling, that brief itch that drives her fingers to curl around the sleeve of her coat. The drizzled sorrow of someone who wanted to protest the unfairness of their last moments. Sure, it's gone, but memories that are unpleasant, tend to linger best of all, like dampness in the corners and vents of buildings, forever building their little toxic stores to drag down the poor souls within. She looks a little blank-eyed for a moment. And really, she might just be trying not to throw up as much as anything else.
 
She blinks at the Killer's assessment of the man with ... bows and arrows. It seems almost surreal, like a gallowsman offering a tap dance number before an execution. A time lost weapon from another era. But there it is. There HE is. There THEY are. She stares quietly. Blankly. Is it a set up for some sick joke? There's a pause as Pete halts. Or so her mind would like her to think, in that absurd slowed time brought on by disbelief and fear. As Green Arrow tells her to get behind him, she smiles sadly. "This is no place for anyone... so I'll help. But I'll try to keep out of the way," She promises. Nevertheless, a glance to her - she's got two weapons holstered at her waist, her hands sliding towards them - just in case. She is peering worriedly at the Killer and more to his victim.
 
"Oh, for /fuck's/ sake," Pete says disgustedly, whole frozen stance and expression and tone broadcasting how thoroughly unimpressed with fate he is at this very second. He listens silently for another moment, stillness waiting with him in the grimy boobytrapped stairwell-- and then he very clearly, loudly, says "Fuck it. CLEAR AWAY FROM THE STAIRWELL. BOMB. And I'm not going to leave it alone! /If that victim is still alive kill them now/. RIGHT NOW. Are you listening you bloody superheroes?" This as he's working on very. Carefully. Moving. Moving to disarm if possible, moving to duck and limbo through otherwise.
 
The Killer seems to agree with Arrow, "Agreed." and so with matching motions the knife is sheathed at his back and his hand comes up holding what appears to be a machine pistol of some sort, a small hand held weapon with fully auto capability. As fast an an arrow can be, it will never out fly a hail of bullets, a fact proven as the man pulls the trigger while the gun is still pointed low and lets the natural recoil of it jerk the barrel in line with his aim on Green Arrow, the small weapon kicking out bullets so fast it's sound is more like a band saw then a gun shot. Even as he does this, the Killer is running the other direction, away from Arrow, using the hail of bullets as cover. Now his build makes sense. Lean, not thin, fit but not athletically so, he's a soldier, his body is a weapon, not meant for display or aesthetic quality, he's lean like a knife, not lean like an Olympiad. And he's quick. Rain is more or less ignored for now, as she's not shooting arrows at him, however, she is near enough that the spray of bullets is in her general direction. 
 
 The sound of Pete's voice from the stair well draws the Killer's attention and his hand flicks out irritably as he hurtles past the entrance to the stair well, a small cylindrical device arcing lightly into the doorway as a metalic PING sounds send a long thin slice of metal bouncing away. Yeah. That's a grenade. For those in the know, it's called a Nine Banger, the equivalent of nine flash bangs combined into one, and when it goes off the concussive sonic pops and brilliant million candle power flashes will leave anyone near it completely blind and deaf for nearly five minutes. And it's currently headed in a lazy arc right for Pete's chest. This guy doesn't play fair.
 
 "GET DOWN!" Green Arrow calls even as the bullets kick up in front of him and Rain and begin to track towards them. He tries to dive to the left and get Rain behind him if she lets him. However, even as he dives, he rolls up to fire an arrow. Not at the fleeing bad guy in this case, but the grenade flying at Pete. The arrow head burts open into a claw trying to snag the grenade in mid air and carry it towards it's former master.
 
Who is this Killer? Sure, she knows people who have killed people. It leaves pockmarks, dents, sickening little gashes in one's soul, but there's still goodness even in the shadowy corners. Shadow and darkness balance out the light. But this is far from that healthy sort of shadow. She blinks, considering the situation. Why would he...? What magic...? She doesn't have time to turn over the sadness, awfulness of it. Who was his victim? Too far past any sort of healing magic, probably. Pete's yelling feels like it comes from another place, another time. Another world, maybe. Hollow little echoes amidst a chorus of ... bullets. That she's quite aware of. The killer is so fast...
 
There's no time to contemplate it, but there her mind goes. She blinks as Green Arrow shouts, too. She grunts softly. Perhaps thinking of his gesture, that it's kind to at least accept it, she lets herself get pulled with his dive and falls behind him. Still, it feels a bit odd. "Ah!" Geez! That's right! Don't get distracted. She slips her own pistols out of their holsters, trying to peek around poor Green Arrow without getting shot. Is there any way to not shoot Pete...? Either way, she's at least trying to get a bead on the killer and shoot his foot or something.
 
And now the jackhole's /throwing a grenade at him/. This is the -for real- 'fuck it'; this is going to hurt. The Briton's hands are coming up, flaring to brilliant life and extending knives from each finger, and the heat around him rises, and his suit burns like Fezzik's holocaust cloak as he tries to incinerate as much as possible at the same time, possibly even including /the air around him/ (which is helpful for not starting fires. Sometimes.), slashing ten-thousand-degree plasma through metal and wood and explosives as he barrels up the stairs for the door like he thinks he's Bruce Willis.
 
Newsflash tough guy, Bruce Willis could get /away/ with wearing a SHIELD uniform for armor (bullets hurt goddammit it's not a superhero thing shut up goddammit) under his business suit. Pete Wisdom is going to die of embarrassment later. At least he's not brooding anymore, he's way too pissy for that. And also possibly dead. At least seriously injured. Again.
 
The bullets impact the concrete around them and whiz past with the buzzing noise of angry bees. The rounds that hit the concrete kick up far larger divots then they should, proving they're the steel core of armor piercing rounds and not your average lead sort. Whoever he is, the Killer is not the sort to do anything in half measures. The arrow catches the 9 Banger mid toss and carries it after it's thrower, who merely catches sight of it out of the corner of his eye a split second before it detonates, allowing him just to turn his head be-BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!!
 
 The Killer's headlong run for the far edge of the building is thrown off balance by the sudden explosion of noise and sound, knocking him from his feet and sending him sprawling over the roof, his Glock 18 skitering away from his hand. This is likely the only thing that saved his life. As Pete tears ass up the stairs and out of the door, he inevitably trips a wire. The resulting explosion is not the sort you see in hollywood movies. There is no fire, no bright flash as a mushroom cloud of smoke heads for the sky... Instead, the small shed like protrusion that houses the roof access doorway simply disintegrates under the combined barrage of the Claymore mines, hundreds of ball bearings traveling at thousands of feet persecond shred the cinder block walls and wooden doorway, adding bits of them to the shrapnel that balloons outwards in a spray of death and a wave of force that lays flay anything /near/ it. How good a call was it for Rain and Arrow to run away from the door? Very very good, and as most of the mine's force was aimed down or across the stairwell, they're in little danger of catching ball bearings, though some brick and wood debris will end up falling like painful snow around them. As bits rain down and the echo's of the multiple explosions begin to fade, everyone has to take stock of their wounds. The victim is now pulp, a smear nearly twelve feel long across the top of the roof, and the crime scene itself is utterly destroyed. The Killer is rising to his feet, slowly, painfully, blood trickling from his ears as he wobbles on hands and knees uneasily, remarkably still conscious, and miraculously still possessing the will to move.
 
 Green Arrow covers his head as the explosion goes off as he tries to keep the bigger bits of rooftop from striking him too hard. The force of the explosion rocks him backwards however. His eyes burn from the dust in the air even as he draws another arrow. "C'mon...where is he..." The arrow points swings back and forth for a moment. "Oh to hell with it." He fires through the dust in the general direction of the killer. This now is a sonic arrow. A high pitched shriek erupts from it after it has gone a few feet from Green Arrow and towards the Killer. He fires high as he isn't sure where Wisdom is either. "Bolshevik Muppet! Arrow coming in high!" he yells out to the new "assist" on the scene.
 
Yikes. This guy is serious. Is this how a beast of prey feels realizing just what was chasing them? It's a sickening finality, as her senses reel between the force of the explosion, dust, shots and everything. It's all too much at once. The 9 banger is something Rain quietly hopes never to meet again, nor those claymores. Either way, she watches the Green Arrow try to aim. "Um, thank you. Are you hurt...?" A peer over the Arrow Dude(TM). It's all she can mumble out, her words spilling out like milk from a bowl dropped to the floor. Almost cracked and lost to it all. There's a brief twinge of guilt as her mind turns over the noises and what /just happened/. Wait. Pete! Rain remembers him, if he's dressed in a way she can recognize. Well then. She keeps her pistols in hand, and peers into the dust clouds towards Pete. Carefully, she's going to watch for those mines and traps and murderous sorts - trying to keep them from becoming a blur of red and noises - peering around towards the doorway, if there's much of it left. Or enough to see from. She winces as a small piece of cement lands neatly on her head. She hisses softly under her breath. Why DOES that keep happening? It's a spot of black comedy amidst the madness of it all.
 
Where is he? Hell if he shouldn't be as much of a smear as the victim. That shit /disintegrated/ the stairwell housing, he shouldn't be a smear, he should be a fine red mist by now, clumping in the air with the caustic masonry dust. "Yeah all right," croaks a voice from somewhere in the dust and smoke, then coughs. It's a good pointer for where he is. And there was so much noise-- and there's still so much noise-- that it's impossible to tell without a power or magic if he /stays there/. (Pro tip: He doesn't.) Instead, battered and bleeding and with holes in where his body armor was punctured when ball bearings and debris went through his INCINERATE EVERYTHING (except for unstable molecules) FIELD, and probably with a couple of broken bones-- a right royal mess-- he pulls himself over to where he /thinks/ the Killer went. Or at least toward where Ollie is hollaring loud enough for his thundered ears to pick up.
 
A sonic arrow is a good choice, it's painful, it causes all manner of havoc, and it would be perfect... if only the Killer's ear drums had not just busted from being nearly point blank blasted by a 9-Banger, leaving him effectively deaf, possibly for life. This small fact saves him from the majority of the arrow's effect, giving him precious few seconds to collect himself. He drags himself towards the edge of the roof, a grunt of pain slipping past his lips as he tries to put weight on his left leg. A which glance shows him a bit of metal, likely from the door frame, jagged and bent, sticking clean through his calk muscle, a bloody twisted slightly rusty knife of shrapnel. Unable to run, he claws, dragging and clawing his way to the edge of the roof with dogged determination. His fingers curl around the the high safety lip and pull him up towards the lip beyond. He cannot hear it, obviously, however the others may be able to pick it up, a soft chanting sound, a repetitive rhythm not unlike a prayer, in a language none have heard before.
 
 Eyes burning still from the concrete dust, Green Arrow pulls his shirt up higher from under his tunic to cover up his mouth and nose in a make shift mask. He keeps one hand on his face as he looks first to Rain. He is about to say something when he sees the weapons she carries and the fact that she is about to try and shoot around him. Well, I guess she isn't bad. "You okay?" he asks any way. Can't be accused of neglecting a woman in need. He looks back towards the settling cloud. His arrow had causes some of the dust to swirl so he gets his first look at the man in the torn clothes and uniform. "You oka...?" He suddenly spots the man crawling towards the edge. "Look behind you! Bad guy trying to escape!" he calls towards Wisdom. He cannot shoot. Any arrow will probably make the man fall over the edge of the roof right now. If he hears the chanting, he is not readily tuned it to at the moment so it doesn't register.
 
Rain would normally be happy to bring vengeance down on the man, or at least do something mean and spiteful like shoot him in the foot. There's a pause. She's grateful for the bandana over her face right about now. She nods at Green Arrow's question. "Mostly. Thank you," She's polite enough in her shy, awkward way to at least respond. Then she gets a good glimpse - yes, that voice was sort of familiar, but this confirms it. Her eyes widen. Rain hesitates to shoot though, lest she knock anyone off the roof. She bites her lower lip. Hitting him with lightning or fire wouldn't be much better. Nuts! She sighs softly, in frustration. Helplessness is an irritating feeling, more so when the foe at hand is clearly superior in ability. It's not a feeling she's fond of. The chanting makes her pause, though.
 
One might not consider life with a bunch of skyclad ritual lovin' witches a -helpful- upbringing, but chanting? Chanting was totally a -thing- much like the mindless screams of fans or the mantras and adulations of worshippers. Chanting...? Why would he...? It's a stark, surreal spirituality amidst her ringing ears and the destruction, murder around her. "Ah! Chanting...?" Maybe he'd answer? Maybe he'll offer her a pamphlet? Not likely.
 
So: It /is/ in the right direction-- Wisdom's not doing so well moving right now, but he *is* still moving-- and yes, he can hear that chanting: that monotonous drone like he was always ice-afraid in his gut over when his sister did it--
 
Grim. He stops where he is: whatever the killer's doing, he can't keep doing it. So instead of doing this like a civilized man and just chucking a brick at the guy's head or something (since he probably isn't in any shape to be lifting bricks right now), the mutant wetworks specialist braces his fractured left arm with his right, and flings a carefully aimed volley of hotknives at the serial killer's ankles. Because that lip -- he can /see/ the lip, can see properly, except for the stinging, how high it is and how close the killer is to going over it, and makes a judgement call that taking away his ability to have a leg to stand on won't actually send him hurtling over the edge.
 
The chanting stops as knives of heat seat through the bone and tendon around his ankles, and he screams. Stoic badassness only goes so far, and there are few pains like the pain caused by fire. He crumples instantly at the base of the lip, unable to support enough of his weight, and he curls up slightly before flopping over and leaning back against the concrete halfwall, his breath coming in fast panting gasps. The scream was short lived, and now, battered, deaf, bleeding, and crippled, the Killer stares at the trio of heroes that stopped him, limp resignation etched in his features. "You cannot win." he says softly, though his voice carries cleanly through the air. He has a good voice, despite being nondescript, the sort of voice a good soldier would have, the sort that carries over gunfire and screams. "You cannot stop what is coming."
 
Well, Rain's cheering for Pete. But the man's chanting, that feeling of a soul being pulled, the magic... it's starting to feel more and more like an offering was made here. The feeling twists in her heart like something around a turned knife. Oh. CRAP! While she makes a note to thank mom for all the weird hippy dippy chanting, she's watching the man intently. What is he doing? ... "Wait. Did you summon -" Oh hell. She stares at the Killer, her mouth opening and closing. While she'll watch out over Ollie, she's moving towards the Killer and Pete. She's a little distracted, perhaps concentrating on something or another. Or she's watching him. Knives... of heat? Egads. Poor bastard. "... what's coming?" She asks the Killer quietly, peering at him with violet eyes. There's a concerned look for Pete, but she's distracted right now. "Can you tell me who or what it is? You seemed to be venerating it."
 
He's not sorry. Pete's not sorry. No. He's just busted up, he's tired, he's angry, bleeding, and completely denying grief or frustration any go at his mental space right now. He pulls himself up against the wall eventually, doggedly moving even though he should really consider staying still. And getting an awful lot of shots after rolling in all the gore with open wounds. "Can you check if I cauterized them well enough?" the Englishman asks Rain hoarsely, disconnected somehow. "Don't want the fuckhead bleeding out. He looks like he's gonna off himself, you hit him over the head. With your gun."
 
The Killer's laugh is soft and condescending in the extreme, "Come closer and I will whisper his name into your ear." his tone suggests that he's willing to tell her, offer up a name to her. His grin on the other hand is predatory, malicious, and takes every bit of the nondescript nothingness from his features. He's a monster, a deadly, trained, well armed, monster. At Pete's words, his grin remains in place and he sits, waiting patiently, for Rain to come closer, you know... to check his wounds.
 
 
"..." Rain looks worried at the grin. Her eyebrows furrow. She's well aware of that look. It's predatory. And in the food chain of magicians, she's the slow, stupid looking antelope who's chillin' until she gets maimed by a passing lion or something. This has Bad Idea written all over it in highlighters like a drunken my little pony dragged through the 80s factory. SUCH A BAD IDEA. On the other hand? A name goes a -long- way in magical affairs. Names are /power/. She nods to Pete. "Sure. I can heal you or him or - I guess, both of you if you wish. And got cha... no dying, please." Her voice is soft. Deep breath. She keeps her guns drawn and ready for bonking him about the head or shooting him somewhere unmentionable should he try anything. For now, she kneels near enough to hear him. This could end badly. So badly. So why is she... ah yeah, that insatiable curiousity. It's going to be the end of her.
 
And then Pete's grimacing again; he reaches over, leans-- white-lipped, but bloody dealing with it because he knows he hasn't got it bad compared to other people-- and grabs at Rain's duster to pull her away from the douchecanoe from the psycho parade. "Oi not that close-- and /you/ shut it, fuckface. Enough out of you. Like laughing at bloody /sleepaway camp/ into the mirror, whispering bloody marys and calling for the candyman. Well /it's not like we don't know this bullshit is real/, you complete berk. You think you telling us we can't win is going to make us stop trying? Self-satisfied idiot. Fucking Lovecraft zealots. Don't let him tell you any words, Rain, don't. He'll lie. He'll finish that shit and then we'll be swimming in the thousand young of the Black Goat of the Woods. Just save us the trouble and knock him out. Or heal my arm enough I can pistolwhip him."
 
The Killer's grin remains in place and he holds out his hand, filled with shiny something for Pete to see, "You have no idea of what you are faced with. The Master need not be summoned, he is here, now, among you like a wolf among the sheep. You could not stop me, and among the Master's Servants I am among the least." he turns his hands over so the shiny things start to tumble to the roof top. There are three of them, they look like key rings with straightened paper clips sticking out of them. Ping... ping... ping...
 
"..." Rain is juuuuuuust about to get the name when she's pulled away. Then a sigh at it all. "Well. There are a lot of things in this world that are very much real. A name would've at least been a start, or a lead in to the others." She frowns. "I think what he did was a sacrifice. I felt something odd - um, look, I can explain it shortly -" She's got at least two injured people. She blinks at the shiny things. Wait a second... "... oh ..." Her violet eyes go wide. Those are - "... I think running away might be wise." And she's... going to summon her broomstick. "... you're welcome to go with me and I can tend to your injuries but -" She's likely going to bolt, depending on what Pete does in regards to the man and escaping.
 
"Oh yeah no fleeing is good--" Pete says, eyes widening. He lurches unevenly to his feet, things grinding that really shouldn't and one arm braced against the low wall, and then he staggers forward another foot and kicks the killer in the gilhoolies. "And /fuck you too/. Rain--? Now please now whatever you've got--"
 
The Killer is suicidal, cruel, and sadistic... but he's not stupid. The instant Pete steps forward, the Killer uncoils and lashes out with an arm, taking the kick to the twig and berries like a champ and wrapping his arm around Pete's ankle, anchoring him in place even as he vomits his lunch all over the front of Pete's legs. Hey, he just got kicked in the danglies, you'd vomit too. It's not much of a hold however, the pain being what it is, but it might just slow him down enough for the remaining few seconds that the Killer can take Pete with him in the explosion about to happen. Fun fact about grenades, it's rarely the shrapnel that kills you, it's the concussive pressure wave that liquefies organs inside your body. And it's hard to dodge pressure waves.
 
Oh geez. Rain's eyes widen briefly. She winces at the barf, but there's no time to think. None at all. Her brain is screaming all sorts of alarms. Run. Run now! Run you idiot! RUN! The urge to teleport or dive or - well, teleportation is single person only and portals take /time/ not to mention that since the great plane ship-plane shift mix up, she's been very leery about that sort of magic. No time! No time. The lunatic dial ticks away precious seconds. "Hell's bells." She ignores the killer for now, grabbing Pete with one arm and throwing a leg over the broom. She'll do her best to angle it so Pete can at least ride without getting a free blunt castration. Hopefully the force of an attempted flight or hop over the side and lift up will knock the remora-splosion guy away. She doesn't have time to kick the guy off. It's flight time and she clings to Pete like he's naked, covered in chocolate, holding money and her favorite engineering book. It's an absurd tenacity in the face of all the darkness, but she too, can cling to the rocks.
 
And the dude weighs too much. And he's attached to Pete's leg. There is struggling, so hopefully the flight's not that wobbly-- and Pete's just, like. 'Seriously? This is my day. Seriously?' and he's short-breathed and-- and that's some hotknives to the face of the Remorseless Remora. And Pete is also not talking, he's just coughing and dealing and hotknifing a serial killer in the face. As one does.
 
There isn't much strength left in the fanatic, but what there is, is in his arms, and he clings... but not well enough. As Pete takes to the air, the Killer falls away from his leg, to weak to hang on... the hotknives sticking out of his face may have something to do with that. 
 
Green Arrow however, doesn't get a fancy broomstick ride, he doesn't get a magical contraption to wisk him away to safety, likely because he's to far away... though it's also possible that Rain doesn't love him like she does surly Brits in uniform. Whatever the reason, it matters little. Hearing the cries of warning, he simply leaps over the edge of the building and rotates mid fall, falling back first. A flick of an arrow through the iron bars of a window anchors him with a line and sends him to swinging towards the buildings side in a repellers crouch, safely clear of...
 
The top of the building simply explodes. Again, there is less fire then one might expect, although there is some, but there is shrapnel and a wave of force that sends debris resting atop the roof from the lase explosion, skittering about wildly and setting it to rain down over the streets and allies along side the building in a form of war time urban rain. Later, inspection will reveal little left of the Killer or his victim, there is no scene to process save scortch and blast patterns, no photos of the ritual site, no clues left worth combing over, save bits of the Killer himself, pancaked to various flat surfaces. Identification is impossible.
 
It's amazing what one's mind blocks out. Rain looks relieved seeing the Green Arrow make it out. She makes a note to send an apology or something along the way. There's a tinge of guilt amidst the relief, like dark dye thrown into clear water. Ugh. That's an unpleasant weight in her chest. Oh well. She's not immune to the stupidity of panic, it seems. She just seems relieved the trio made it out. It's a small, painful victory. Nevertheless, she'll try to steady poor Pete. "Um. Where to...?" She asks quietly. "I can heal your wounds, if you wish as well. Just um, let me know." Even to herself, her voice feels strange and far away. Everything does. At least she's steady enough to maintain flight for now.
 
"Someplace we can get this intel to the people who know what to do with it," says the Briton faintly. "I doubt GCPD has a Paranormal Defence department. That, and get a drink or five in me. Also. Yes please. I don't--" Flinch. "Particularly fancy being a ballistics dummy. There's this bar Hellboy took me to-- figure your lot knows better what to do with a serial ritual murderer than mine. Sorry--" Pause. Whispered, "Sorry." And he's silent all the rest of the way to wherever they /do/ end up going, bloodied face mashed into whatever part of Rain's duster he can mash it on without being skeevy. Because yeah. All that and they didn't help anything.
Category:Logs
Category:RPLogs