2013.06.06 - Come As You Are

The small man is quicker then he looks, quick enough that he managed to skip out on the action leaving Rose to deal with his gang banging soldiers back at the crash pad she burst in on. Now he's flitting from shadow to shadow with recognizable talent. If he'd made better choices, gotten trained, he might have had a future. The small man moves in fits, darts and stops, trying to listen for pursuit, clutching the bag of pills to his chest stomach as he goes, one of those gallon ziplock baggies filled to bursting. His one problem is that he never looks /up/ when seeking pursuit, and so Rose stares down at him from a rooftop ledge with out even having to hide her presence. Where ever he's going, he's obviously got a destination in mind, he's been moving in a more or less straight line for two blocks...
 
Why here, why now, and why doing this? Oh the list of reasons could go on, but there is a simple few that it all boils down to, and it shows in the sheer perseverance at which Ravager has her sights set on one and the rest in her way - are just that, and quickly removed. The hale of gunfire seems to do them no good, even as the man is only a block away the shots dwindle, fade, and then stop. Inside the place she is sweeping her sword down with an arch to spatter blood like paint across the cold concrete floor. 
 
No one here to tell her right from wrong; they were breathing weren't they? For now... 
 
Pursuit has her going upward, swinging up the fire escapes to reach the rooftops as if it was a game of parkour in the urban jungle, following along the ledge of one building she stands there staring down at the man moving in fits like a crazed squirrel, her blue gaze narrowed in its set upon him while a stale breeze sweeps through Bludhaven and snares her hair outward in lashes...
He breaks into a run when he reaches an alley with no real shadows worth the name and ends up knocking on a metal door hurriedly. When a muffled response the small man holds his hand up to the small hurricane glass window set in the door, the blueish shades of a black light wash out making the small man glow for a moment, the bag of white pills glows as if alive. Then the door opens, letting the tiny man scamper inside.
 
That is the purpose, to wait, let him lead her right into the hornet's nest, and just as his hand goes up and he is slipping inside Ravager swings down, one hand having gripped a lamp that hangs from a post above the door in its extension. Feet-first, those booted soles are aimed to go in first and kick those who stood in her way, down, having already drawn her weapons before she lands, turning to face any opposition if the grand entry even succeeded and left one pill-runner face first on the floor.
The small man is quicker then he looks. Rose's booted feet slam into the mound of flab and muscle who stands in the door way, a Latin man with more tattoo's then sense, and he stumbles back, which pushes the smaller man away. That push was all he needs to make a break for it down the hall and deeper into the building, crying out as he goes. The big man, managing not to fall only by dint of having run into the smaller man that was behind him, reaches for a gun tucked into his jeans that screams 'over compensating' all over it.
 
Well... Shit. Ravager's expression reads 'change in tactic' as the fabulous Mr. Squirrel gets away and is guarded by his two rather large mastiffs. It is like a cartoon in the making, but the large man is between her and the pills as well as the supplier; both of which she wanted. The barrel of the large weapon taking aim has only a small smile birthing where that firm set of her jaw had set it to sheer determination. "I think you're trying to tell me something... Warning heard." She says with that darkened sarcasm that is followed up by the quick movement of her bursting towards a wall, no longer standing still as she kicks off of it and spins, her swords in hand and held close until she is mid twisting descent, pushing them out like fan blades, one aiming for the armed and extended limb.
The report of the gun being fired is like thunder in the small hallway, echoing and deafening as he pulls the trigger, trying to chase her with the bouncing barrel. Right up until his arm sprays blood, the tendons cut cleanly, muscles severed, and the gun falls from suddenly numb and limp hand. He cries out and goes to his knees, clutching at his arm. Ahead of her, down the hall, doors start to open, and from them come more tattoo'd bangers, responding to the cries of the fleeing little man with his bag of pills. Hrm. This could get ugly. Narrow hallway, multiple men with guns... Wait. Does that guy actually have a sawed down shotgun? Worse and worse.
 
Sometimes there is that little bit of sense, called common sense, you have in your mind that tells you to get out - ya know, live another day. Blame the adrenaline (junky), the sheer heightened pulse and the cross-haired sights as well as a thought process that is getting her nowhere fast but into deeper shit. She isn't like her teammates; not invulnerable, not super, but she has one edge they don't... That edge having already made a gun toting hand hit the ground with an explosive sound of a misfired bullet. That sound was the call to start the race, her feet kicking off the ground as one hand reaches up, gripping a hanging lamp and kicking upward in a swing that has her acrobatically sweeping over the top of one, slamming her sword down into his shoulder, legs reaching up in that swing to loop around an overhanging set of bars and keep her aerial attack going if not stopped..
Sometimes there is that little bit of sense, called common sense, you have in your mind that tells you to get out - ya know, live another day. Blame the adrenaline (junky), the sheer heightened pulse and the cross-haired sights as well as a thought process that is getting her nowhere fast but into deeper shit. She isn't like her teammates; not invulnerable, not super, but she has one edge they don't... That edge having already made a gun toting hand hit the ground with an explosive sound of a misfired bullet. That sound was the call to start the race, her feet kicking off the ground as one hand reaches up, gripping a hanging lamp and kicking upward in a swing that has her acrobatically sweeping over the top of one, slamming her sword down into his shoulder, legs reaching up in that swing to loop around an overhanging set of bars and keep her aerial attack going if not stopped..
The cacophony of war sounds now as shotguns billow out bouquets of flame and lead in a bass beat of death while small automatic weapons fire staccato bursts of death in wild uncontrolled arcs. The lights in the hall explodes in showers of sparks and glass, drywall and linoleum chip away and fly up in chunks, the air smells of cordite, blood, and dust the half dozen men back down the hall, firing at the quick moving girl. Now five men. Now four...
 
The inhaler can only bolster her so much. One body, one small space, and a spray amongst a herald of bullets... Ravager's feet catch that bar, knees hooking around it as her torso swings upside down and her spine arches. A graceful move of a gymnast as swords sweep out from their crossed hold aiming for two of the men in that momentum-backed swipe of weapons that comes to a crashing halt just before she reaches up to grab another post and show Spider-Man something to be proud of sans webbing. A buckshot hits her thigh from that spray just before legs' release and hands grip, the timing perfect for her hook-legged grip to slip from the shock and burn that spread through her muscle, dropping her from that grip with less grace then the circus trapeze artist. Landing on her back she has no time to relearn how to breathe, she's rolling to the side and seeking to dodge any more fire.
Two more men remain, however, seeing the bodies of their comrades fallen, they, with courage typical of their ilk, turn to flee down the hall and into a larger room beyond. Following them Rose will find a main 'hang out' sort of room rife with over stuffed leather sofas, a giant LED TV, game systems, controllers, empty beer bottles, more then a few bongs, and the stale smell of pot, beer, and men sitting around all day playing video games instead of actually being productive. There's also a bar, well stocked, and behind it towers a familar man. Slade, his faceplate up on his helmet, appears to be mixing himself a drink into a glass, his armored hands gracefully handling the bottles in an accomplished manner, though it seems so out of place for the walking arsenal that he is. He glances up as Rose walks in, "Carry on." he says, tossing a dismissive wave at the room, "We can speak when you've completed your mission." he goes back to mixing the drink, not even bothering to throw the small man, or his two compatriots who escaped the hallway, a glance, despite the guns they have leveled at him.
/They fled, so should you!/ That little subconscious voice surfaces, the side of her that cares for life outside of money, luxury, and extracurricular activities. Note on the word little. It is easily overlooked as the two run - never run from a predator, and that is where her mindset is as she uses the wall for support to rise and moves on, sucking it up behind gritted teeth to push onward, her swords held down and slightly out at her sides when she enters that room. Most if not all of the amenities are overlooked save the bodies. Four. She had known of three, and the fourth is one that has her hissing her breath in between teeth to add to the sound of clinking ice in his glass. 
 
Ravager -could- walk away, in fact one foot slides back to brace the other in its move to do so as well and guide her back out the door with a middle-finger salute. But here, and now? Her eyes snap from one to the next and that drawn back (good) leg is used as a brace for the forward lunge that has her going over a couch at one of them, landing and using one sword to support her weight, imbedding into a tables surface while the other swings upward, aiming to disarm him.
She can feel his eyes on her as she bursts into motion, his gaze, as always, weighing her movements, her actions, judging her every decision. He's always been harsh, but fair, expecting no less of her then he does of himself, though... That's an awfully tall mountain to climb. He says nothing as the thugs gun hand drops the weapon it was holding, a finger falling away severed. He says nothing as the others turn to face her, realizing the old man isn't going to get into the fight, and start to pull their triggers, heedless of their friend, riddling him with bullets meant for her.
 
Ravager is /trying/ dammit, she is trying to make too many people happy, and in only dis-articulating a finger the thug is filled with bullets meant for her own body. Dropping she rolls behind that body that is a meaty form of swiss-cheese, pushing it up and using it as a shield between herself and the last two standing. They, being the least of them she is concerned with. A bag of white powder is laying on the table, something that has her silently groaning as her one sword wielding hand sweeps down and stabs it, swinging out towards the two with it stuck on the end until it releases, sliced iopen by her blade and leaving a plume of white to hinder their view and woe be to them if it gets in their eyes. High and momentarily blind, but for now it rendered a small amount of 'smoke' that she used, shoving the dead-weight of a body through the cloud at them just before she drops, giving up on her leg and coming in from below in a roll. Swords tucked then thrust upward, seeking to end this melee.
End it she does, as bullets trace tunnels of clean swirling air through the fine powdery dust, far over her head, and then the men cry out as blades enter low on their bellies and lance upwards. From that angle, with long blades like hers, there's no way one can't hit something vital. One man simply drops dead instantly, his heart more 3 pieces then one, while the other wheezes a weak hissing sound, blood pouring from his mouth as his lung collapses completely and the gun drops from his nerveless hand to land, thump. next to Rose's head on the floor. Then there's the silence as both slide over to the ground. Punctuated by the gurgling of the dying man and the soft sound of ice against glass. "Good." he says, his tone approving, "But not perfect." he's quiet for a moment as he waits for Rose to stand up, "Someone's been teaching you." it's not a question, it's a statement that still demands an answer.
Snowfall, it was almost as blissful if it did not have that numbing effect when her tongue traced over her lightly powdered lips. Something that had her pausing, teeth scraping over the lower tier while she draws in a long breath, recalling the leg now as she makes to come to a stand in the hazy mist left of powder that matched the hue of her hair. One sword meant to come out and form as a prop, but pride, that burning thing that was spurning her ego and stood in the form of the un-masked man before her makes her sheath the weapons at her back in her kneel - slowly rising. "I can have connections outside of you," She says indignantly, her chin rising while eyes land on Slade, narrowing.
Deathstroke nods his agreement, "You can. If they're worthy." he allows before a fingertip pushing a cup towards her. A steaming cup... of tea. He drinks his cocktail as he stares at her, "You thought tactically, the cocaine smoke screen. That's new for you. I approve of your instructors ability to reach you. I'm uncertain of his qualifications however." this is starting to sound like Slade might be curious about who Rose is hanging around these days. That could be Bad. Slade vs. Stormwatch is almost a fair fight. Which is even worse, because he likes a challenge.
 
Ravager's jaw is in obvious flux, the muscles there trembling as she grinds down. A mixture of rising anger and other things, though it does not stop her from moving forward, limping slightly but as casually as possible, gripping the edge of the mini-bar to seat herself in a stool gingerly and stare at the tea... Then him. "Well, you approve of my /instructor/ already by the show, that is the least of what I have managed to learn from others. You want to know so much, you be the teacher. Otherwise..." Now her gaze never leaves him as she grips the cup of steaming tea and brings it to her lips. She was not about to give up her team, not to anyone, -especially- Deathstroke. Bad is an understatement.
Deathstroke's lips almost tick into a smile. Almost. He sips his drink as well, "I could teach you, but you have never been that good at following orders." he sets his glass down, "I can't say I approve to greatly of your romantic entanglements. It was nice work what was done in Kuwait." there's a touch of sarcasm in his tone, "Until cameras caught a picture of a naked boy flying off with my daughter tossed over his shoulder spanking him with a sword." his eye narrows a bit. "Rose." that single word carried such disapproval of that entire scenario that it's like a tome of reproof.
 
Rose never managed a sip of her tea, at 'romantic entanglements' she lost any appetite at all and is setting the cup aside and eyeing the bottle he had mixed his drink from, leaning forward to snare it. Though once he finishes the sentence she is smiling. No, no restraint like he is exercizing, she is just grinning at him as she uncaps the bottle and readies for a drink, though the way he says her name has her proverbially wilting that emotion away. "That is simply a friend.." She -almost- calls him father, almost, but she is cutting herself off while she is ahead. "He lost his pants in the fire, not like I had time to stop and grab him a pair off the corpses." No, not good a following orders, she did not even stop for any in Kuwait and the ones she had that lead her into Stormwatch... Ignored, likely leaving her still hunted. "I can pick better times to..."
Deathstroke's frown remains, "His escape with you is acceptable. Spanking him is not. Reputation Rose is the currency upon which others judge your ability. Actions are the currency on which they judge your worth. It is why I am the highest paid man in my profession and Deadpool collects contracts from lunatics for peanuts comparatively. We are both skilled, one of us is not a laughing stock." he sets his drink aside, "Naked spankings aside," and he sighs heavily at saying that aloud, "your team and you are doing good work." which means she doesn't have to give up the team, he's obviously been keeping tabs on her, and it's hard to hide from a guy like Deatstroke, he has access to fucking satellites when he wants it. "Soldier's work. You don't seek fame or glory... I approve." Now that's rare... "It is how I began. Soon I will come for you, when I believe you've seen enough, done enough, and then I will finish the training you've begun." the faceplate of his helm snaps shut with a metallic clank sound, sealing away his face and showing her nothing but the half skull visage of Deathstroke. "You are my daughter, and soon enough you will be my heir." he pauses and eyes her up and down, "When that time comes, I will have something suitable made for you to wear." he then turns to go. "See you soon Rose." somehow that sounds like both promise and threat, like so much of what he says to her does.
The bottle isn't taken nor interrupted from her grip nor tip-back and she is doing so heartily, stopping and sputtering when he mentions the /team/. Should she be surprised he knew? No, not in the least, but she wanted one thing that was hers and hers alone and there is nowhere she can go to have that peace and offer it to others in kind. "You have no idea..." Ravager says lowly, but there is a small edge to her tone even through the ignorance and the seek to jab at him with the only thing pointy she /could/. That being words no matter how grasping they were. He likely has every idea in the world of where she has been and is. It makes her inwardly cringe and for a moment where a spark ignited at his words another died. Only him... 
 
"Next time be more creative..." Her hand sweeps out at the room, the sight alone something that has her proud, she had heard him say he approved... And yet... They wouldn't. Her eyes fell on that scattered bag of pills.
Category:Log