Ripple Effect

February 18, 2015:

A contingent of New York's Bratva descend on another gang's territory with plunder on the brain, only to have a SHIELD agent and vigilante-sized wrench thrown into the works.

Bed-Stuy - NYC

A brownstone in Bed-Stuy


NPCs: None.


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…


A black van creeps into the alley behind a row of brownstones, its lights going dead once it's off of the street. As it rolls into position, a black Humvee crosses the alley-mouth and stops, blocking it off from the rest of the street; another parks just a few feet away from it. Doors open all over both vehicle to allow over a dozen men in black and dark blue tactical gear to pile out; some of their vests say 'POLICE' or 'SWAT' on them, some don't.

Aside from the lights lining the street like beacons, it is utterly, biblically dark, the clouds of Orm's judgment engulfing the moon and what few stars weren't already drowned out by the city itself.

One by one, the men slide into their positions: four of them take up posts bordering the front door of their target, while a couple more - joined by a pair from the van, once it parks - flank the rear. Others busy themselves with pulling and prepping a ram from one of the Humvees; others still hang back as reinforcements, whether that means storming the building after the first wave or being ready in case things spill outside. A couple of rifle-toting officers fall back entirely, darting across the street in different directions to work their way up to suitable vantage points facing the engagement zone.

Music and the occasional snippet of chatter waft through tinted windows as muscles tense and safeties are flipped off.


"Oh, yeah, Carol called again— "

"What?!" Cesar turns and cranes his neck up the staircase towards Gabriel, squinting in confusion as he tries to compete with the music vibrating the kitchen below them (and the completely different music thumping away in several of the rooms on the floors above). "I dunno a Cheryl! Why're you telling me this?!"

"Wh— no, motherfu— CAROL!" Gabe cups his hands around his mouth and keeps them there. "CAROL CALLED AGAIN! ASKIN' ABOUT MARCUS, IF WE'VE HEARD FROM HIM SINCE LAST WEEK!"

"OH!" Cesar's eyebrows shoot up as he turns his eyes forward. "NOT SINCE HE WENT TO SEE THAT EUROPEAN GUY, RIGHT?"


The staircase ends just a few feet away from the front door and the tall, darkened windows bordering it. Left from the door leads almost directly into a sitting room/armory, while straight ahead flows into a short hallway with a few doors and branches. A rather cavernous kitchen lies at the end of the hall, with a plastic tarp dividing it into a front - which is dominated by a large table surrounded by men and women dutifully processing cocaine in their undergarments - and a back, which has the stove, a healthy number of cabinets, and the rear entrance to the brownstone. There are three more (clothed) men split up between the two sides of the kitchen.

"AND?! RUSSIA'S IN EUROPE!" Cesar shoots back as he steps off the stairs and swings around the banister to enter the hall.

"RUSSIA AIN'T IN EUROPE, IT'S PART OF ASIA! I SAW THAT SHIT ON WIKIPEDIA SOMEWHERE!" Gabriel shoots a scandalized look at Cesar as he hops from the second step.

Right after his feet touch the ground, the pair manages to make something out from the front door: "POLICE!" someone shouts in a decidedly un-American accent. Both men's eyebrows raise as they reach for their guns, share a fleeting looking, then back into the hallway.

This gives them a pretty good view of the black canisters that then sail through the windows, bouncing and rolling along the ground on their way to a terrible conclusion.


"POLICE!" one of the men poised in front of the brownstone shouts in a distinctly Russian accent. Two more unclip flashbangs from thier vests and chuck them inside as brilliant, deafening punctuation marks, while the ram team totes its payload up the stairs and the shouter gets clear.

Moments later, as blinding white flashes illuminate the front of the brownstone, splinters of wood fly inside and out as the ram crashes against the door, buckling it in its frame. In the alley, second ram drawn from the van strikes the rear door, creating enough of a crack for one of the men posted back there to chuck a third flashbang into the building.

"EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND!" the shouter demands before a second heave shatters the front door. The men nearest to the front storm through the entrance as soon as it's clear, charging not with the discipline of a well-trained tactical assault team, but the desperate hunger of wolves eyeing their first meal after weeks of bitter winter. There are a couple of men crawling down the front hallway with blood streaming from their ears and a few chunks of glass embedded in their bodies; double-taps from two of the entry teams' assault weapons make quick work of them, though.

Near the door, the man who shouted directions continues directing traffic: each set of men who enters is assigned a floor to clear on the way in. Getting everyone inside will take a little while, but at least everyone has a job.


Times are tense in the city, and there's not a lot that Tigra is able to do about it. One thing that she can do is patrol the city, trying to put out what fires that she can, metaphorically speaking, and it's on one such excursion that brings her to a residential area in Brooklyn, her curiosity drawn by the sight of a black Humvee. She watches it park, and then another one appears. Eyebrows go up and her tail twitches at the sight of apparent police officers. It doesn't take being a policeman's widow to know something's off about this, though, and so she starts to creep closer. A little closer… She's having to focus some to keep her tail from flicking too much as she waffles between pouncing and watching, not certain if they're legit police or not. And then flashbangs go off.

Even though they're inside, the wave of sound is enough to briefly disorient her, enough to stagger her, but not enough to keep her from recognizing the sounds of gunshots coming from the 'police,' nor the fact that they weren't shot at first. Decision made, she rushes towards the men closest to her at the front of the brownstone.


New York is generally Lunair's preferred stomping ground. It's a nice, middleground kinda place. She feels too dirty and such to exist in Metropolis, and Gotham is full of strange guys in anatomically correct animal suits and stuff just gets weird. Although, her stabby friend is really nice. She's riding her bicycle. She really hates scooter damaging Nazis, exploded cars and the subway right about now. "Mother - fraking - I really - *huff* need - *wheeze* A CAR." Or to get really awesome at parkour. Either or.

But her path takes her to some odd places. And this is one of them. Generally, Lunair hates messing with cops but something about this feels really off. And kinda weird. So she's going to pull her armor up, in olive greens and blacks before rolling up and observing for a moment. Think, Luna think. What do you know about guys with Russian accents? BESIDES the Rocky movies? BESIDES the thing in Gotham? Pause. What would Deadpool do?

And then she contemplates this a moment. Oh yeah. Gotta - climb up - a nearby fire ladder - for a good vantage. As fun as a nudity ray would be, people are playing for keeps here. So she's gonna get a good spot to shoot from.

Mockingbird has been sent out to investigate some whispers in the underworld that something may be brewing between the Bratva and a local street gang. SHIELD doesn't really like it when there is a mafia gang war on their home turf in the Big Apple, or anywhere else for that matter.

For Bobbi's part, she's just happy to have a mission that doesn't have the words "supers", "mutants", "aliens", or "supernatural forces" on the dossier. Just in case, however, she has her newly ugraded battle staves in their slings. Tasers on one end, pop out stilettos of a sort on the other. The agent is perched on a rooftop across the street from one of Rendozo's rumored fronts, watching movements through the windows via nightvision binoculars, when the police arrive.

"Command, this is Agent 19, is the NYPD moving in on a brownstone in Bed-Stuy?" she asks into her comm. "Negative, Mockingbird," comes the reply. "Then we are about to have a situ-" BOOM! The assault begins. "Send backup, and ambulances!" She barks into the comm, ducking down until the shockwave passes. Then she's dashing down a fire escape and across the street towards the brownstone.

- definitely not Russian. She does speak Russian, though! She also happens to know a well-paying job when one is being offered. It's stupid stuff, really. Turf conflicts, 'these guys have something that we want,' trivial pursuits for guns and drugs. But, none of that really matters all that much. She's fit to get an appreciably large payday out of this job and she gets to play guns with the Bratva while decked out to look like the SWAT.

There's also the little matter of her ..episodes.. of late. Rumors are going around. Her usual list of contacts aren't quite so eager to work with her during this uncertain time. She's been getting a little trigger-happy, bad for jobs which require some discretion but fine for sting ops like this one.

So, here she is. Pistols at her side and an MP5 sub-machine gun in her hands. Unfortunately, she's also one of the only people on the team with any actual training.

"Hold the line, idiots!" she yells out in Russian as the rest of the crew goes rushing headlong into the building. Two shots snap out of her own weapon, dropping another of their opposition's numbers before he can return fire. "Control your advance!"

It's a damn free-for-all and they've only just started!


The ground floor is pretty badly hosed: the people in the kitchen had a couple seconds to react to what was happening in front before they got a flash of their own to contend with. It tore the plastic partition down, scattered drugs everywhere, and dropped just about everyone in the kitchen to their knees while the rear team continued working on the door. Gabriel and Cesar are dead; one of the men in the front half of the kitchen - one of the only ones who isn't screaming and crawling - is too, since he made the mistake of stepping into the hall and taking a bullet from Domino.

Despite their impressive stock of guns and casual disregard for other people's well-being, the men in the late Mr. Rendozo's set of the Latin Kings are no more trained combatants than their invaders are law enforcers.

The situation upstairs is more positive for the Kings, if only slightly: gunfire is actually exchanged on the second and third floors, ringing out in quick bursts as they desperately fight for their domain. Intermittent shouts - of pain, of anger, or simply to give out orders - fill the spaces between gunfire, as do a couple more floor-shaking explosions as flashbangs are deployed.

As the group sweeping the ground floor from the front entrance enters the hall, one of the doors near the end bursts open, allowing a man with a shotgun to step out, and another with a pistol to just lean into the hallway; both open fire on the invaders, with the shotgun guy seemingly intent on darting into a room on the other side of the hall as he squeezes off a couple of rounds.

There are still seven men outside: the guy near the door directing traffic, three near the door and on the stairs, getting ready to enter, and three more hunkering down behind vehicles on the other side of the street.

Is— "One of the nascent entrymen starts when he catches a glimpse of what couldn't have possibly been a bikini-clad tiger woman over his shoulder. He turns to get a better look, his foot braced on the bottom stair. "— that a— " He doesn't quite get the chance to aim and shoot at the woman bearing down at him before—


The other six guys learn from his example, at least: the shot-caller directs them to open up her, and the two left on the stairs promptly turn and bring their rifles up to fill the air with lead. The ones taking cover don't quite get a chance to join them, however, because one of them spots Mockingbird darting across the street and starts trying to spray her with machinegun fire instead; a beat later, the other two join in.

Perched on a rooftop overlooking the action, one of the 'cops' meanwhile makes a couple of last-minute adjustments to his rifle, then shoulders and briskly sweeps it across the streets, trying to pick up the white and blond body he saw moving around down there with his scope. It takes him longer than he'd like - he only really picked up marksmanship as a hobby, and if Mr. Stolin hadn't offered him a bonus for the use of his 'talents', he'd have probably been on the ground with the others - but eventually, Bobbi's head is in his sights. Breath held, he tries to balance tracking the agent's movements with keeping the rifle steady, which is proving to be about as tricky as he'd have expected. His finger remains tense on the trigger, ready for—


The Winter Soldier keeps his metal arm coiled around the sniper's neck for a moment after he feels it give, then seizes the rifle and lets the body at his feet. The weapon is gingerly set aside before he begins creeping towards the fire escape he crept up there on.

Conveniently enough, Lunair's vantage point is all of one building over from his.


Even in New York, some sights make one doubletake, and a tiger-woman in a bikini is one of them. Maybe because it's February. If she'd been sensibly dressed, he might not have reacted like he did. Ah well. Tigra takes him out quickly, and is starting for another when they get their act together and open up on her. She backflips once, then springs to the side and rolls, then leaps, trying to keep from getting shot. "Commissioner Reagan would not approve!" she says as she flips.


Erhmahgawd, kitty! Lunair's distracted briefly, but only briefly. Mostly because she loves cats, and stuff. She's really only seen them, though. Nevertheless, she's trying to figure out the best spot as she climbs up the fire ladder. Ah hah, a nice spot - wait. Is someone else - she might have to step up her sneaking game here. Curiously, seeing some flash of motion, she tries to see who is climbing that building over?

Fear sinks in, the conflict behind her forgotten for now. He's probably sneakier than she is, though.


Mockingbird has her staves out by the time she hits the street, and the agent twirls them experimentally, marveling at how well Emmett managed to keep them balanced despite the alterations. "Hey kids, Halloween was in October, you're a little late to play dress up!" she shouts as she flips over two of the SWAT garbed Russians and uses the pair as cover from the gunfire. She stabs the zappy ends of the pair of batons at the insides of the knees of two of the guys wearing police uniforms. That's certainly somewhere a tactical vest doesn't protect, especially when the tasers have been activated.

"Inform backup that we have unfriendlies on scene in NYPD and Swat uniforms. Keep the real boys in blue out of the area so we don't mix up our targets," Bobbi says into her comm. "Guys, that is NOT the best way to control the stray cat population. Last I checked the vets don't use bullets for spaying!" she quips. There's a reason her codename is Mockingbird.


Shotgun! Domino tucks the SMG in close and simply rolls back and out of the opposition's line of sight. In this case it means ducking behind a bigger Russian guy who can take the full blast for her, though in the next instant she's borrowing the sidearm right off of his shield's side. The model and weight are familiar as it rolls around her trigger finger before snapping over the back of its owner's shoulder, taking a quick shot at the shotgunner's face.

Then she's gone, ducking even further for cover against a wall. Outside of the hallway. The other guy with the pistol is playing it a bit more safe, he's actually using cover!

In this case, the only use his cover is going to be is to make him harder to find. Nine millimeter rounds should easily pass through the wall, so she turns around and brings the MP5 and sidearm up to face the wall itself and snaps several more shots right into it. If they didn't think to armor these walls any then the guy on the other side is going to have a lot to think about.

After making her presence known she turns around and ducks low, just in case she happened to miss and the guy decides to try the same tactic. Though it's because of this move that she's able to catch sight of an unexpected confrontation by the front door. They aren't alone.

"Ten fucking seconds' response time, I swear," she hisses to herself before diving for yet deeper cover. She doesn't shoot first. It's always the first one to draw the armed response! She'll leave that honor to someone else. Back in Russian, she yells "Tangos on our six!"



When everything begins, those in neighboring apartment buildings hunker down and hope the walls of brick and mortar hold against gunfire. There are those in Bed-Stuy who are good people; people who want to make a difference in their building. On their block. In their neighborhood that seems to be a siren for all that is bad.


Clint Barton is doing double duty, after a fashion. Since coming into the City, Bed-Stuy has been his home, and he's promised never to truly leave. And this is something that 1C is making sure he remembers.

"Clint, it's bad— "

"Okay, okay. You just stay down, block the front door and have 2A block the roof."

Bow in hand with little more understanding than 'it's bad', it's not hard to figure out who the 'bad guys' are. Not when you've lived here.

Taking off down the street towards the sound of gunfire, he's not letting little things like parked cars, or even driving cars stop him. Clint runs up and over the top of them before he leaps off and to the side of the building, taking an ancient, rusted fire escape like a pro with bow and quiver slung across his back.


The acrobatics make Tigra an incredibly dangerous target, snarling the faux-officers' firing lines as they pivot from side to side in a vain effort to keep up with her movements. They still manage to squeeze off a few shots, but the fear of hitting one another or their comrades across the street guarantees that they don't get more than a few bursts before Tigra is upon one of them; even with the guy near the door lending a couple shots from his sidearm, she's a slippery opponent.

Her prey does have the sense to just drop his rifle and go for a knife once it's apparent that he is her target, but she's damn near on top of him by then; he doesn't manage more than an uncertain, if still vicious slashing motion before she takes him down. Claws or no, tactical vest or no, she's more than strong enough to keep him down with a good hit; the first guy she took out is still groaning and writhing around on the ground.

On the other side of the street, Mockingbird takes her turn on the Criminal Vault; the third man takes a shot at her mid-flip, but has to try and circle towards her flank for a better view of her once she lands. One of her vault points tries to catch the agent with an elbow, but both go down screaming when they're tased.

The one guy left is visibly shocked - not as badly as his comrades, of course, but close - but Bobbi's continued quipping pulls him back into the game. "We are not the ones playing, funny lady," he hisses as he brings his gun up and tries to take a shot at the newly uncovered agent.

The walls of the brownstone are not armored, and the guy on the other side seems to be well aware of this: he blindly returns fire after Domino's first few SMG rounds penetrate the drywall.

He gets all of two shots off before one of the SMGs finds its mark, after which point there's a heavy thud from the other side of the wall.

There's still a bit of resistance in the kitchen, consisting of a handful of men and women in various states of dress using the turned over table and their dead friends/colleagues as cover to fight off the rear entry team; once the group from the front makes it there, however, they're pretty much trapped. Try as they might, there's not enough protection to go around, and certainly not enough guns; they're pretty much just stuck with whatever pistols the people standing guard in there were carrying. The only silver lining for them is that there are, well, tangos on the front team's sixes; a couple of them break off to about face towards the front door.

Meanwhile, back on the other side of the street, the Winter Soldier vaults over the edge of the fire escape once he's near the bottom, landing in an alley. From there, he runs a couple of feet to reach the black '67 Impala waiting for him, and then he fetches keys from a belt pouch so that he can pop the trunk, which is mostly taken up by a black strongbox covered in stickers from dozens of different bands. Stealth is a factor, but not much of one; not only is there a fire fight taking place across the street that should (hopefully) be drawing plenty of attention, not even the KGB could teach him how to stealthily lug a heavy coffer to the top of a building on his shoulder.

Which is exactly what he starts doing, once the car is secure again; thank Stalin for Russian engineering.

On another building overlooking the carnage, a somewhat more comitted marksman scans the street, hoping to get a good shot at Mockingbird or Tigra as they cut through his brother 'officers'. Mockingbird almost presents a tempting target, except the guy drawing down on her is in the way; sigh.

After pulling his head back to briskly rub his eyes, he sees someone not giving a single shit about cars or any other obstacle as he darts towards the brownstone.

Much better.

The sniper takes his shot as Clint leaps for the fire escape, compensating for the archer's acrobatic movement as best as he can.


The important thing is to stay in motion, and Tigra tries to do that, leaping, flipping, and then dashing in to take out a target. Up close, she's even more slippery than at a distance, as anyone who's tried to hold a cat that didnt' want to be held can testify to. She gets inside his slashing attack and a solid blow takes him out. She doesn't stop to admire her handiwork, but drops down, picks him up and throws him in the general direction of his buddies, before trying to close on another gunman.


Hmm. There's deeeeefinitely something interesting going on over there. Lunair abandons her plan to rocket launch the hell out of that van (boo) and scampers along after the lone man. She decides to use sturdier boots with a little rocket boost to keep up. Vas es? Hmm. As TEMPTING as it is to rocket launch the vehicle, somehow… that seems unwise. Maybe, she'll chuck a flash bang at the strange man near that Impala from behind a nearby dumpster. If it's in range, mind you. Curiousity is the name of the day and Lunair is armored up. Hopefully he's not who she thinks he might be. Or half as scary.

She's actually doing pretty well, moving quickly and quietly despite that. And HOPEFULLY he isn't too far away once she catches up. There's an awful lot of hopin' here.


A roll to one side and Mockingbird shoots back up into a crouch , the bullet grazing her upper arm and leaving skin visible along with a trail of blood. "I should hope you aren't trying to be funny, because if are in the hopes of a spot at the Comedy Cellar, you should probably keep your day job instead, Chuckles," she quips. One baton is spun and then jabbed at the forearm of the gun-wielding faux cop. From the end the shiny new stiletto blade pops out to try and skewer the man through the arm connected to his trigger finger. If it connects, it should cause him to drop the gun, just in time for her to smack him upside the head with her other baton. WHAM!

"Mockingbird to Control, furry friendly on site. She's got things well in hand so leaving the outsiders to her; I'm going inside." With that, Bobbi Morse connects her pair of batons into a single bo staff, and uses it to pole vault in through one of the shattered first-floor windows, boots first. Things went boom in there, which means there are likely bad injuries, and the biochemist is the closest thing to first aid until the paramedics arrive.


There, that's better. Domino's being paid to clear this building of -gang- opposition, which is exactly what she's going to do. Fighting off various hero-sorts isn't part of the plan, and heck! She could have done this entire op by herself. The Not-SWATs are -her- cover, not the other way around. At least, that's how she's choosing to see it. They can bitch at her later when they're figuring out what to do with all of their guns and drugs.

The smart mercenaries are the ones who stay alive long enough to get paid.

If anyone is still left up front with her she's going to insist on taking point, which will start by lobbing a flashbang into the kitchen and will end with her storming the front and firing upon anyone who happens to be holding a weapon and isn't part of her 'team.' By then she'll probably be ready to discard the empty sidearm she lifted from a teammate, too. Fire and forget!

Keep pressing the advantage, systematic sweep and clear. At this rate she could have the place emptied out and be on her way before the hero sorts break through their back defense and get anywhere near her. Simple, right?

Something just broke through a window not too far away.


Up the fire escape-

In the next second, all Clint can feel is burning in his side. Must have pulled something… and it's a little harder to swing his leg up and over the railing of the escape. Landing heavily on the landing, he pushes himself up with his hands, and feels a warmish slippery sort of liquid on his side.

Oh. Great.

Rolling in towards the window why trying to pull the bow around, his arrow is nocked, but he's got absolutely no idea where the bullet came from. Sitting on the floor for a couple of heartbeats, Clint gets to his feet and begins to move out to get to another window to search for the guy that hit him; arrow nocked, ready to shoot… leaving the beginnings of a blood trail behind him.


The two guys coming out of the door meet a third, courtesy of Tigra; since they can't exactly shoot through him, and there isn't much of anywhere to go, they end up rolling back inside in a tangled ball of flailing limbs.

Seeing this display, the other gunman immediately begins to backpedal, trying to get a good bead on Tigra and even taking a shot or two when he thinks he has it. The guy calling the shots tries to lend some supporting gunfire, but even when she's locked onto a target, hitting her is tricky; her target is down before either of them has a chance to do much about it.

Of course, once he is, the shot-caller decides to fall back on one of the night's all-star weapons by unclipping a flashbang and chucking it in Tigra's direction. It'll probably be awful for the guy she just took out, but he's already out of the fight anyway; it could be worse, as losses go.

Bobbi vaults right past him as he does this, and while his uniform mostly protects him from stray shards of glass, her dynamic entry certainly gets his attention. "INTRUDER!" he shouts in Russian as he turns to lean against the sill. For now, he leaves it at that; she is outnumbered, after all.

There are several bodies forming a trail of sorts from the door to the kitchen, but they are all a ways past 'first aid' at this point. One of the Russians helping Domino clear the kitchen turns to take a quick look behind himself thanks to the director's shout, and upon spotting Mockingbird, he takes a knee and tries to spray her with a rising arc of lead. "I have her!" he informs his comrades in Russian.

As for the kitchen, it's kind of a mess: blood, drugs, and bodies everywhere. It's a pretty big space, but big only counts for so much when it's being used to war.

Upstairs is somewhat calmer by this point. Only a small handful of the Russians who went up there are left, and now they're almost as concerned with sweeping the floors for drugs and money as they are people. Clint has plenty of time to search the rooftops facing him for his shooter, and eventually he finds him, rifle still braced against his shoulder as he looks for some confirmation that Hawkeye is actually dead. No subtly, no stealth; there's not much point when all of his targets are conveniently penned into one location, he figures.

And over in the Winter Soldier's alley, a flashbang clatters across the ground as he closes in on the fire escape, giving him just enough time to drop his box and leap away before the detonation. His goggles do a pretty good job of compensation for the flash; there isn't much to be done about the bang, though, so after he hitting the ground face first, he's stuck straining push himself up despite the violent ringing in his ears. Despite his current difficulties, his eyes are sweeping around the alley to search for some sign of the person who threw it, abandoning any thoughts of scaling that building.


Oh yeah, that's the stuff, Tigra thinks smugly as she connects with her impromptu projectile. Now that she's starting to just get warmed up, she starts to grin toothily, ready for an— "AUGH!" she cries out, dazzled and deafened by the close detonation of the flashbang. She staggers away blindly, her brain desperately trying to reboot her senses, and she exits to relative safety.


To be fair, cats hate loud noises. Therefor, the Russians should have used a giant vacuum. Their tactics are innately flawed.

Lunair is curious, worried, more than anything. Why is this guy away from all of the others? Besides the snipers, anyway. But usually - Nevermind. She peers out from behind the dumpster. The armor might be a somewhat familiar design to him. She's not really huge on catching and turning in crooks because that usually involves /explaining/ where the Sam Hell that rocket launcher came from (Wal-Mart?). She's starting to wonder what her plan was beyond 'hey, there's a guy, let's totally chuck a flashbang at him because he's being odd'. And if applying that logic to herself… Well, nevermind. It's a deadly serious moment, body tense, heart beating out a furious, fearful thundering. On the other hand, if you fight, fight to /win/. So to that end, it's time for a few experimental gunshots from an M4 around the dumpster.

It would almost be cute if not for its lethal nature. Peek, shoot, peek.


Bobbi lands in a defensive crouch inside the brownstone, with her staff in front of her defensively. When nothing attacks her immediately, she breaks the weapon back into the two staves and moves to the hall outside of the kitchen, just in time to see a guy drop dead at her feet, and a familiar face from her SHIELD files in the kitchen proper.

"Agent 19 to Control. We have a merc on site. I've got eyes on Domino, working with the fake cops," Morse notes into her comm. Then she's being fired on by another Russian and a bullet nearly hits her in the leg. Her response? She throws one of her batons directly at his forehead. BONK! Then her foot slams beneath his jaw with a resounding crack.

Time to be a distraction so the crazy mercenary doesn't mow down more people, scum of the Earth though they be. She reclaims her stray battle stave. "Hey, Spuds MacKenzie, fancy meeting you here! You going to make me some French toast? I see the powdered sugar is already out of hand." Mockingbird steps into view in the doorway of the kitchen, twirling her batons and tipping her chin at the cocaine everywhere.


Room secured. This floor is clear! The last of the rival gang should all be wiped off the face of the planet about now. Domino can get the hell out of here, she can-

Headache. Really..bad..fucking..heada-

The MP5 jumps back up at arm's length as she spins about, snapping off another shot which bounces off of the stove and zips out into the hallway, taking out the one Russian between her and Bobbi without Dom even looking after her shot.

Bobbi's got an excellent view of what comes next. One of the Russians still standing there with her starts to say "You missed her" when he gets taken out from a point-blank shot to the face. Then the third guy-BLAM!-fourth-BLAM!-fifth-BLAM! All five of her teammates are dropped before the first shell casing can stop rolling as it bumps against an overturned table.

In Bobbi's defense, 'powdered sugar' probably weren't trigger words.

Dom grits her teeth and firmly shakes her head, staring at the first of the bodies as she starts to lose some of her nerve. The SMG comes up and and away from her before it simply falls free of her hand, clattering to the bloodied floor. It's evidence now. It's going to have to burn.

When she levels an arctic cold stare at Mockingbird there's nothing remotely 'human' to be found there. Not any more. The other woman is sized up in a second before the albino grabs a large bag of cocaine and throws it right at Bobbi's face before lunging right for her. There's still plenty guns to be had, sure.

That would be too easy.


Clint's got his target. Muttering quietly, he's trying not to mess with his gunshot wound. The initial shock of it is beginning to wear off; he can feel it as the nerves around it are beginning to figure out that it -hurts-.

The arrow is drawn back, and the moment he comes to full draw, the arrow is loosed as the string slips from his fingers in one of those perfect, zen-moments.

Zen and the art of archery.

There are days when Hawkeye jokes about an arrow to the eye of his target and he'd feel better? Not. Kidding.

"Goodbye, bro."


Mockingbird's baton just kind of bounces off of her target's helmet, but the follow-up breaks his jaw and staggers him. His arms drop to his side as he stumbles backwards, and rather than try to level it to take a shot at Bobbi, he just hurls himself at her in a counter-attack.

He's only technically conscious at that point, so it's more like a really aggressive forward fall, but still; it's the thought.

Of course, it's also his last thought, thanks to Domino; after that surprise bullet to the back of the head, he just plain collapses in the midst of his charge.

The other Russians don't have a chance; the last couple has enough time to point his weapon at her once the surprise wears off, but he goes down like all the others when it turns out that she's faster than he is.

Across the street, an arrow neatly pierces a sniper scope and doesn't stop until it hits bone. The marksman's head recoils with the strike, and then it just lolls to the side as his body goes slack.

As goodbyes go, it's a decent one: quick, to the point, and relatively painless.

Over in the alley, the Winter Soldier catches a flash of movement near the dumpster, but bullets fly before he can make much of it. The sighting does, at least, give him the opportunity to roll towards his left and use his cybernetic arm to help him push off into a spinning evasive maneuver that leaves him crouched a couple feet away from his starting point.

Crouched and gasping for air, thanks to a bullet hitting his armored chest mid-twirl. Clutching his chest, he pushes himself to his feet, where he immediately wobbles back and forth before quickly shaking his head to clear it a little. It doesn't do a thing for the ringing - or, really, for his screwed up equilibrium - but once he sets his eyes on the dumpster and takes off running towards it, he is at least able to cross the distance without tripping and breaking his face.

So there's that.

Technically, charging a fortified position occupied by a woman with an assault rifle could be classified as 'suicide', but the distance is short, and he at least tries to zig-zag a little on the way. Also, as fortifications go, hers isn't terribly stable— at least, not for a cyborg: as soon as he's close enough, he flips the dumpster in an attempt to crush his assailant. Or— perhaps more likely, slows her down; he could swear he saw armor before the shooter covered up.

Either way, as soon as he does that, he'll try to make a break for the Impala, snagging a handle on the side of the coffer to drag it along.


Waitaminute. That's not a usual, standard issue meat arm. Something about this man is off. And to be fair, charging a total unknown out of sheer curiousity is also 'suicide'. But does it count if it's mutual? Lunair blinks. This dude is durable. That's not good. So. Not. Good. And while she could, in theory, use some sort of explosi— Wait, is he that aerobics guy from Gotham with the arm…?

"Are you kidding me-" The DUDE FLIPPED A DUMPSTER AT HER!? She's armored and Lunair's going to try to scoot out and away. But she is definitely slowed down, and no longer firing at the Winter Soldier. Lunair's got to unpin herself and get after him. "Rude! I really should've just used the damn rocket launcher- mrgrgrr." UNHAPPY NOISES.

Well, crazy seems to have been the right label to put on Domino. Mockingbird moves in with her battle staves swinging. She's one of the premiere martial artists of SHIELD, and a former gymnast to boot. Brains and brawn, all in one tall, mouthy, package. She was not, however, expecting her 'throw something in their face' gambit to be used against her. The bag of coke hits her in the nose and she stumbles back a moment, then Domino is on her.

The batons are dropped since the tasers in the ends need time to charge, and because Bobbi's hands are needed to keep the merc from clawing her face off. There is punching and scratching and kicking and cursing and spitting and possibly biting involved. It's like someone let a couple of Tasmanian Devils at it in a room full of snow.

"OK, maybe Spuds was a bit too on the nose, because you're a real bitch! Is Kung Fu Panda better?" Bobbi grunts out as the two women tussle wildly. This is probably not going to go in her favor. She's already bleeding from her nose and a split lip, bruised all over the place, and is pretty sure she's broken some ribs and possibly sprained a thing or three. She tries to reach for her baton to activate the taser end, so she can shove it at Domino's face, and that may be the opening the mercenary needs.


Elbow-duck!-baton coming back into play-block!-(ow)-knee incoming-shoulder-slam counter!

If this kitchen hadn't already been a mess then Domino and Mockingbird would have taken care of it just dandy. Cabinets rattle and a few pieces of glassware fall and break as the albino slams Bobbi back against the wall just in time to get smacked upside the head, spinning her about and pushing her away from the SHIELD agent.

The same momentum is transformed into a snap kick right on back to Bobbi before she sweeps back and slaps the tip of a kitchen knife off of the edge of the counter. Just as soon as it flips up into the air she's smacking it with a palm to send it spinning in Mockingbird's direction.

Before she can go for another she's getting plowed over backward into an already overturned table, flipping it upside down with a whole pile of cocaine pinned beneath it.

Then Dom's snapping one of the legs right off of the table, putting it to immediate use to deflect another attack long enough to roll backward away from the other woman and spring back to her feet. It doesn't take long for her to be disarmed yet again, the table leg suddenly reappearing across the room where it punches a small hole in the wall.

The next swing of an arm to come her way is caught dead in its tracks, the albino using Mockingbird's momentum to throw her aside with a backward roll. This also gives the merc a chance to swipe a dropped nine millimeter pistol from the floor, sweeping her arm around to aim at the SHIELD agent. Cocaine dust explodes away from the sidearm as it suddenly comes to life, several shots slamming out before it runs empty.

Then it's dropped, the bloodied and battered merc rushing for the nearest window out of this damn place that she can find.


Mockingbird is shot twice while reaching for her battle stave. The Kevlar weave in her uniform normally stops small arms fire pretty well, but the material was mostly shredded in her abdomen area by the knife attack from Domino. The slugs hit hard, and critically. She staggers back against a wall in a puff of cocaine dust and begins sliding down it bloodily.

"Agent 19… to… Control. I'm hit. Lost Domino. Need… medical…atten-…" She collapses in a heap on the floor, a pool of crimson spreading out beneath her. Hopefully the paramedics are close, because she's going to need them. Like Bobbi's former husband, Domino hits what she aims at.


The fighting isn't -not- obvious. Once his own arrow is shot and the target is downed, Clint is on the move, doing what he can to get down the level. (These places have little insulation.) He's just in time to catch Domino's back as the merc limps away, but there isn't a whole lot of strength left to lift the bow much less shoot the damned thing.

It's when he gets to the kitchen area of the other place that he catches the scene. "Bobbi. Oh, jeez… Bobbi!" The white powder.. doesn't help.


"Bobbi…" Time to call for an ambulance. Or two.


Looking over his shoulder, the Winter Soldier finally gets a clear enough glimpse at his mystery assailant to see that she isn't such a mystery at all. Just an intensely stubborn piece of lost HYDRA property.

This, unfortunately, complicates matters: he knows what her armor looks like, and generally, that it's pretty tough. He doesn't know conclusively whether or not it does anything else for her, however, like make her strong enough to wriggle out from under that dumpster before he can make it back to the Impala. After a certain point, the coffer is more of a liability than an asset; he'd expected to have more uninterrupted time than he did— certainly enough to stake out a perch and set up the trunk's contents before possibly being accosted.

All he needed was one shot, but getting it while this terrifically armored and infinitely armed target who he can't just kill is on his ass isn't really an option anymore.

He hauls the coffer onto his shoulder and commences backing up towards the car, ready to just drop the thing and go if it looks as if Lunair is on the verge of breaking free. He would really rather not give her any free shots, if he can help it; he doesn't know how good her aim is, but he's pretty sure that her armor will handily beat his if it comes down to a battle of attrition.

It's fairly quiet inside of the brownstone, at least on the ground floor. There are still a few Russians searching the upper floors, and some of them even manage to uncover some stockpiled cash, which they stuff into their pockets; how much of it will actually end up in Genya Stolin's hands remains to be seen, but the fact that his audits tend to involve decks of cards and screaming should help keep them roughly honest. The ambulances that Bobbi called (and Clint re-called) are closing in, and while the men upstairs are not entirely satisfied with their haul, they don't have much of a choice but to break for their nearest fire escape, lest they encounter actual police.


Fortunately for Winter Soldier, Lunair is ANGRY WITH RAGE. And also a teenaged girl. She might have fantastic armor, an incredible armory and all that jazz. But she does not have super strength. It's going to take her a little while to wiggle out. Probably enough for an experienced, strong dude to get away. "I'M GOING TO END YOU!" RRrrrrrrrrrrarhghar- MORE ANGRY NOISES! huffhuffwheeze. "God, I need lube." Flop. Rage futiley.


The Winter Soldier pauses beside the car for just long enough to shoot Lunair a thousand yard stare and a salute before loading up.

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