The Dirty End of Mr. Clean

July 08, 2015:

Psylocke, Armory and Ravager intercept the serial killer Mr. Clean in the scene of his last hit. Emits by Nate Grey

Scrapyard in New Jersey


NPCs: Mr. Clean


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

After the unethical mind-reading of the FBI agents our mutant heroes had a pretty good picture of the serial killer Mr. Clean. Or rather, a pretty unpleasant picture. But at least they gave the X-Men some material to work.
Copying a couple hundred coded messages in half a dozen different unternet merc forum boards into the X-Men mainframe was boring. But running decoding programs, knowing Mr. Clean theological beliefs allowed a partial deciphering of the messages. Coordinates, yes. But not timelines.
The latest message coordinates bring Psylocke, Armory and Ravager to a huge scrapyard north of New Jersey. An old road leads to the place, which seems to have been built on swampy ground. Built might be the wrong world. Someone must have spent years, maybe decades, piling mountains of vehicles, containers and metal pieces over the shore of a small lake. The lake reeks of rot and oil now.
Just before the three women left Xavier’s compound, Cerebro detected the presence of three mutants in the area.

Betsy's car is sexy /and/ fun, but it is not equipped to handle three operatives and all their gear. Even if Lunair largely summons hers as per needed. So they'd fallen back on the SUV, a rather ugly looking Toyota with a surprising amount of horsepower and some fun modifications that made it more shadow than sports car. It could still haul, though, and the trip from Westchester to Jersey took a lot less time than one would expect.
Killing the engine noise and the lights a quarter mile from the destination, Betsy drives in with nothing more audible than the whispering hum of the electric motor and the sound of squishy mud underfoot. She's wearing loose, baggy clothing, quite artfully dressed- until she steps out of her pants and peels off her shirt with the door open, revealing a shadowy catsuit that covers her to her neck, all dark greys and subtle charcoal hues. She checks the muddy ground for purchase, then goes to the back of the car, whipping her hair up into a tight, efficient bun.
"We're close," she says, in a low murmur. ~Linking in,~ comes the telepathic words- a handshake to be taken or declined as one prefers. She'd learned not to push her thoughts into Ravager's without permission.
"I imagine Nate will make contact presently. Any last minute intelligence?" she asks the women, keeping an eye over her shoulder as she opens a rugged nylon drag bag and draws her grey-bladed katana, inspecting it for flaws.

Lunair does pretty much summon her stuff as needed. She's usually happy to go along with what others suggest, but she seems to prefer an odd, sleek looking sort of armor. And oddly, she seems to try out the octopus camo-like armor, melding into the seat as color and light go. She has a playful sense, but it's put quietly away and dimmed.
She'll be mostly normal looking for the journey. Probably resembles some really high tech motorcycle riding gear. ~Hi~ She's clearly not used to thinking at people and there's sort of a quiet unease.
Lunair shakes her head at Betsy. She doesn't have anything extra. For her part, she listens, thinking and being attentive. There's an alert, active cautiousness.

Ravager us riding in the back of the SUV, this way she can set herself to work without the distraction (anxiety) of watching someone else drive. One heavily booted foot is braced against the back of a seat while the other is against the exhaust hump. An awkward splay of legs to keep her in place even as they glide along and she checks over things. The magazines are set out beneath propped thigh, suit zipped and harnesses affixed she puts on the new and adapted holsters.
Someone's been shopping. And though Gucci was tempting after the leather pants ripped like butter at a concert she went back to lesser named, at when it comes to her weaponry…
The modified Heckler and Koch Mark 23's are loaded, and slid into place, safeties off. Extra magazines for the fragmenting bullets clipped along the straps just at her waist, several leading back to the twin dagger holster that rests two large blades parallel at the small of her back for easy access and withdrawl.
The only things that wait until she disembarks are the large swords that rest down the length of spine, the hilts stretching over shoulders in placement.
«Saturn and Jupiter are at their brightest tonight.» There's her last minute intelligence, that milky white eye flaring to life. Yes, she even asked Cortana. Though a glance is passed to each as she waits for the go ahead.

The day has been warm, with temperatures over 90, and although the sun is setting right now the heat is still unpleasant, and the clouds promise thunderstorms during the night. There was some rumbling up there during the last hour or so.
There is no last minute intelligence coming from the mansion, and no news from Nate that left for Europe in the morning for some unspecified errand, a couple hours before Cerebro started giving decoding results.
The approach of the Toyota makes little noise, but scares off a huge band of grackles that seem to be scavenging on the garbage at the edges of the scrapyard. Hundreds of dark-feathered birds take off at once, fly away a few hundred yards and then seem to descend at the other side of the scrapyard.
Noisy, but not as noisy as the sound of shotgun rounds being fired somewhere deeper among the mountains of junk.

Psylocke's reaction is instant and smooth. Telepathic illusions are far preferable, but proper holograms can be had, though with extreme effort.
Shadows, though, are bread and butter, and she instantly wraps herself, Lunair, and Ravager in a swathe of them that obscures them from outer sight. A telekinetic field slams into place.
~Cover! Gunshots!~ Psylocke projects, darting towards a stack of thick old deadwood, as silent as a whisper herself.

Lunair looks to Ravager now and then, thoughtful. Perhaps thinking and curious. Saturn and Jupiter. Memories of wanting to live long enough to see the stars and sun outside. It really is nice.
Lunair seems to vanish. Light and color based camouflage armor. Think Laughing Octopus, but minus the tentacles. She does seem quietly appreciative. Her mind is an odd place, distinctly nonlinear. She thinks in bursts, knowledge she seemed unaware of. Someone is super intelligent, but unawares. She watches the grackles go, frowning faintly beneath the black visor of her helmet.
She tenses at the sound of the gunshots, moving for cover. ~Seem - distant - for us?~ She has a hard time actively thinking at people, used to the stewing privacy and chaos of herself, and walking at the same time. There's an uncertainty, the cocking of an ear were she some sort of animal. Listening.

A swift snap of eyes and they seem to dart back and forth, trying to find the trajectory of where the gunshots came from, without the echo of it all bouncing off the towers of scrap. Psylocke's reaction brings a light dip to her posture, moving with a silence to bring her behind a pile of rubble but just across from Psylocke.
When Ravager finally looks back out with both of her pistols drawn and hovering at her sides she is just in time to see Lunair vanish as well. The small tick at one corner of her lips is all that conceals the light surprise. «Well, that makes two of us who can hide. I should go ahead, distract them while you two move in.» Slowly those pistols are being put back into the holsters at her sides while she peers through smached windows of compacted cars, rummaging for resources while staying low.

Those gunshots must have been a couple hundred yards into the scrapyard, so there is little to see on plain sight. Once Rose moves ahead, she can see there are some relatively uncluttered pathways among the piles of metal and plastic. They are narrow, though, unsuitable for the transport vehicles that must have been used to create said piles.
Unless, of course, the mutants here were super-strong and the ones moving the junk. Which would explain also why they are Mr. Clean’s target.
Regardless, it is a very large place and it is going to take them hours to explore it in any measure. And there are no more gunshots, so finding the shooter is not going to be easy.

~Can give you hiding armor, too~ Lunair is not so thoughtless as to use friends as meat shields. But if Rose responds no, Lunair will let it drop. For now then, she will follow wherever Psylocke will guide her, trying to remember which way those shots came from. This is such a large junkyard. She looks for foot prints, any sort of activity or stashes. Lunair is watching, listening, moving. She's thinking that perhaps the best way is to find the people who do own the yard and moving.
If they are targets, then… But she will also accept guidance, sneaksneaksneaking along between things. Looking for footprints, checking for anything that might point the way.

Ravager is moving. The crouch-walk keeps her along the piles of garbage, in passing one pile she finds what she had been searching for, the mental nudges from Psylocke enough to direct her, imagery flashing on the points of where she had found the mental touchdowns of their 'prey', relaying them back to Lunair and Ravager.
The large holey, stained, and threadbare blanket is fanned out and flipped over her body, cloaking it but leaving her able to be seen plain as day. «I would love to test that another day, but for now, I have an idea.» A wreckless, idiotic, heart-racing idea. But the adrenaline is what Ravager lives for.
«Going in. I will stumble in from their west, acting like a homeless druggy, let them focus me. You guys take them out. Psylocke, guide me, I will follow your pull.» Beginning to get in character Ravager begins to stumble the closer she gets, reaching into her tac belt hidden beneath the cloak, pulling free a syringe, and instead of using the adrenaline vials in inhaler form she fills up the reservoir.
To play the role of a (thrill) junky….

A brief telepathic scan had Psylocke reeling. She can hear three minds scattered among the piles of rusting metal. Two are terrified beyond their wits, incoherent, and another is in agony, dying slowly. This one is closer and she leads Rose and Luna in that way while she remains somewhat behind, trying to calm and reason with the other two contacts.
None of them is Mr. Clean, though, of that she is sure. Mr. Clean seems invisible to her telepathy.
When Lunair gets there, she can see a clearing among the junk piles. A shack was there, made of metal and wood. It even had a water tower nearby. Both structures have been demolished, though. Lying on the ground a few yards from the ruins, are two figures.
The first is huge, almost eight feet tall. A powerful built male and very obviously a mutant. Dressed just in shorts, most of his body is visible. Metal plates seem to have grown over his skin, forming geometic designs on dull grey and pale bronze. Like an imperfect, uglier version of the infamous Colossus of the Brotherhood. Despite looking like a powerful mutant, the man clearly is injured, one of his legs broken at the knee and his head lies in a pool of blood.
The second figure is a woman, tall woman, stocky and rotund, with dark skin and dark hair. She is still alive, but probably not for long. Someone has gutted her and her belly is open, intestines spread on the dirty ground. She writhes in agony, breathing raggedly. A few feet from her lies a broken shotgun with the barrels bent.

Lunair nods then pauses. « Okay, » There's some concern and apprehension. She doesn't seem to like the idea of Rose bait, but she isn't a thrill junky. She's a lab project carving her way in the world. Her proximity to sickness and death leave her very much preoccupied with staying alive. Those linked to her will definitely feel a pulse of unease and fear at the sight of the needle, should it be visible to Lunair.
Terror. But she stays quiet, seeing the clearing now. There's that twinge of realizing that she's too late. All too late. She is not the best face or communicator. But seeing the dying woman - « Permission to tend to her? » If she is given a yes, she will slink into range. "Uumm. Hi. I'm here to help. I'm going to heal your friend." Time to pull the medigun and let a healing beam of light start to work on the downed woman. IF she is given the okay by Rose and Betsy, and no one tackles her. But it is painfully obvious (hello glowing channeled beam!).

Lunair may not see everything at first, but as she slinks into the open to aid the two downed and severely wounded she will. The cloaked and drunken stagger of Ravager comes into view, bouncing off a vehicle ina half spin, an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's being knockedfrom her hand (found amongst the trash) to roll into the middle of the small opening and spin, the nozzle pointed towards the downed shack.
"Ohmah-fuckin'gawwdd.." A peek of white hair comes from beneath the makeshift hood as she stumbles into the open and falls, a show, but none the less the syringe falls from her hand, quickly scooped back up and clutched to her like a lover. Swiftly an arm is revealed, bare of the armor as the needle flashes and she stabs it into her arm and injects the liquid drug.
Yep, smack in the middle of a heart wrenching scene where Lunair is trying to heal the other two. Pay no attention to the help, what about this random vagabond druggy??

Up close Lunair can see the man has a missing eye, as if someone had driven a knife through his skull. He is quite dead. The woman is almost dead when the young woman brings her healing-light gun. As she begins regenerating, she tenses in pain. Still horribly injured. Can she regenerate all those lost internal organs before her organism completely collapses? It is amazing she is not screaming her lungs out.
« She doesn’t want to scream » states Psylocke, going through the woman’s though through a veil of burning agony. « Because… because… she doesn’t want her children come if they hear her… Lunair! RUN! AMBUSH! »
“Hahaha. More mutant filth has come. I can smell you! BURN IN HELL!” The man appears suddenly at the top of a pile of crushed cars from the fifties. Blonde, clean shaven, powerfully build. And heavily armed, including a flamethrower. Said flamethrower sends a river of fire directly towards Lunair.

That is a downside. She's reaking obvious. She doesn't comment on Rose. Good disguise is good. Although, anyone telepathically linked will feel a wave of fear, dread and horror. There is a deep, deep phobia woven into Lunair's psyche. She looks sorrowful, noticing she is too late for the man. It's not a good feeling.
And neither is all too late realization. It almost makes Lunair wish she could drop to all fours and snarl. There's a man with a flamethrower. Oh shit.
High tech armor is high tech, but napalm is napalm. Lunair wails, throwing herself sideways. There's a pause in the flow of healing. She's not getting away unscathed, but there's no time to think about it. Only mending armor and trying to resume the beam. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. She's trying not to think about it too much. But she is definitely hampered and injured.

This Shit Will Fuck You Up.
Okay, so being the distraction did not work, at all. At least not as the disguise. Fine. Needle withdrawn she flips it in her grip, catching the syringe and then launching it in Mr. Clean's direction to imbed the backdrop and barely grazing along is cheek. Enough to 'whiff'.
The ragged blanket fallsfrom her figure and she is zipping back up the suit with one hand while her other is pulling one of the H&K's free, leveling it upon him and pulling the trigger. These bullets were made to penetrate and them explode. One entry, a dozen exits and ricochets. If they penetrate the body they tend to make scrambled eggs of the insides. But she read on him, will this even do more then /sting a little?/. Either way itis not just for him, she is aiming to knowck his hand at that flamethrower off course as she charges towards him.
«Psylocke, how many others? We have our man and only one alive… Here.»

Mr. Clean tries to keep the flame stream on Lunair until Rose drops her disguise and opens fire with a hail of explosive bullets. He gets hit a dozen times, but barely staggers, the bullets ricocheting or exploding against what seems a skin harder than steel. But the flamethrower is also hit, and he snarls in annoyance, pulling it off and tossing it at Rose. Just in time, it explodes halfway in a huge fireball.
Quick as lightning, he draws two heavy handguns and jumps to the ground, shooting several rounds towards Lunair and keeping the other pointing in Ravager’s general direction. The fire has made him lose sight from the ‘bum’ but he is ready.
« The others are children. I will protect them » Replies Psylocke to Rose’s question.

It's not a happy time to be Lunair. She's not trying to broadcast her thoughts, but there's a lot of pain and panic. She's probably going to want to see a doctor and/or healer after this. Actually, she will. Her armor and reflexes are probably all that kept her from being burned to death altogether. Grateful not to be crispifried, she's worried about the downed lady. She hisses and growls in pain at the bullets pinging off her armor.
It's a wonder she doesn't scamper off on all fours and there is a lot of restraint on not dropping a load of explosives on him and calling it a day. But. She has. To fight, or she and the woman will both die. She prays to whomever or whatever will listen that she's healed the woman enough to buy a few moments. She pulls a long, slender barreled white laser rifle. Sparkling silver motes dance around the barrel. Lunair is returning fire. Lasers!

Ravager's eyes narrow, half masked features seeming pointed whie the one eye asts a glow, shifting from heat seeking to that of normalcy when the gun explodes, adjusting so as not to blind her when the gun is thrown her way and explodes mid air.
From ground to air, Ravager lunges, gaining height upon a vehicle, all the while her heartrate is rising, a pulse rate that will read out as alarming, even her eye that is wired to her brain has a hard time keeping up with the sudden shift in wavelengths. Normally she uses the inhaler, but this time she took it straight into her system and pupil of the azure gaze shrinks to a pindot.
Mr. Clean is firing and Ravager lunges his way, her body bending, molding, adjusting just in the nick-of-time to close the short distance between herslef and Clean as he tries to stop Lunair. "This is over!"
Imagery flickers before her eyes, it is not what stands before her but what can and -will- stand there, meeting her mind in predictability and precognition, all the while her body surges forward and from her tac belt a grenade is grabbed. Mid-lunge Ravager seeks to latch her legs around Mr. Clean's waist, her thumb not yet pulling the pin…«Good, we got this part for now. Lunair, send him a punch to remember? Keep him back?»

Disappointed at finding Lunair's armor bulletproof, Mr. Clean aims to her head and the visor, ignoring the laser beam that vaporizes his shirt but barely tans his skin. But before he can shot, Ravager charges. Inhumanly quick, the man sweeps at the young woman with a high kick, a swift kick aimed to send her flying to the other side of the clearing.
Not only he is very fast, he is also super-humanly strong. Definitely stronger than Ravager. Although fortunately not strong enough to kill her with just one kick. "Why are you attacking me, woman? You aren't a mu… wait! I smell a mutant stench on you. You are one of those mutant lovers. Race traitor scum."

"She is a friend and you can just cram it. You were nicer on the bottle." She dismisses the laser gun. There's pain in her words, hissed and cringed syllables. Lunair is hurting. But she creates a staff with a cat carving at the end. It makes shock waves in front of it and she's going to try to swat the man back without harming Ravager. "None of these people deserved it. You're awful." Painpainpain. She's trying not to send much through telepathy and she needs this fight to end quickly. Pain reminds her of her fragility, how close she came to joining the other crisped mutants.

Ravager is kicked, and her body goes flying, but instead of limbs spread akimbo the predictability of the move has her pivoting her body to take the blow but instead go skyward, the flip landing her on all fours just behind Clean, the hand holding the grenade a pristine fist around the time bomb awaiting her thumb to pop from the pin at set his world aflame. Now just to get it to work.
White hair a curtain before her face and along side of it she stares through it to him, the bionic eye settling back into heat sensory, tracked and pinned as she reaches behind and the opposing hand drawing one of the blades from the small of her back while a breath plumes outward not only to free her hair from the veil it casts but to catch her breath and time it.
"I can't help it. I am what I eat." Ravager states in response to his unhurting insult, lunging forward again to chage him.
*Two* If that casting or Lunairs throws him back and off balance even a little the surprise is all Ravager needs.
*Three* Mid-air her arm draws back, one hand aiming to slice across his face while the other shoves that grenade right past his lips with the descending body weight as well.
"And I hope you are death!"

Mr. Clean is not particularly surprised by Rose’s acrobatic stunt. He turns to face her ridiculously fast, smirking at seeing the grenade and the sword, confident in his invulnerability. Confident too that Rose won’t survive the grenade, and that he will grab her because he is faster.
Lunair’s shockwave, however, unbalances him for half a second.
And that is enough, he fails to catch Rose’s wrist, the sword slashes at his mouth and the blade cuts the flesh and shatters her bone, revealing the metal of cybernetic implants underneath, and destroying his handsome face in a second. His invulnerability vanishing at Ravager’s own anti-invulnerability power.
Jamming the grenade on the remains of her jaw is almost overkill. But he probably deserved it. The explosion doesn’t damage much of his outer invulnerable skin, but destroys many of his internal organs and systems, including his brain.

The battle is over. Now there is only picking the pieces. Two orphan, inhuman-looking mutant kids and the corpses of their parents, slaughtered in their miserable refuge in a lonely junkyard.
And the remains of Mr. Clean. Meta-human and cybernetic. Who gave him powers and paid for those implants?

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