Convention Crashers

July 29, 2015:

Three of the Kingpin's secret operatives travel to the gang-infested city of San Salvador, where they execute a false flag operation meant to draw The 100 into conflict with another rival.

San Salvador


NPCs: Multiplex



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…


A well-dressed and bespectacled man visits Sabretooth and the Red Hood in turn, reaching out to them after they've done some digging into the Bar With No Name's happy hour.

He makes an offer: A cut of $10,000,000 to assist his unnamed employer in dismantling the organization headed by a Central American rival, a man named Aurelio Martinez.


Wherever they are, Sabretooth, Red Hood, and a third operative receive a message on aged cell phones - gifts from their employer:

'Operatives: your employer would like for you to travel to the city of San Salvador, where the Mara 66 gang is dominant. Mara 66 and Aurelio Martinez's gang have maintained an uneasy peace for nearly a decade following years of bloody territory disputes.'

'Your employer wishes to see this peace crumble. Strike a blow at the heart of Mara 66. Discretion is not necessary, so long as they know they know that it is Martinez who scourges them.'


Transportation was not provided, but the bounty sum is available for use to cover necessary expenses. Separately or together - coordinating would just be a matter of dialing the other recipients, after all - they should no doubt be able to figure out a way to get to El Salvador. Ditto for any necessary equipment: even if smuggling isn't an option, either Sabretooth or the Red Hood should have no trouble finding firearms in a city as densely populated with criminals as San Salvador.

It's a city where the ruling gang and the smaller groups fighting for whatever crumbs are left to them have the power to sway elections, to kill with impunity. To make the buses stop running, should they so choose. Despite this - despite the blood that often paints the street - Mara 66's reputation amongst the people isn't entirely poor: the gang wields its power and influence to fund better housing and social programs for the poorest citizens with one hand, even as the other steadily pushes drugs and death wherever it can.

And then, there are the gang's periodic 'conventions'. Every few months, representatives from Mara 66's various crews in El Salvador and beyond converge on the city to discuss business and engage in fellowship, giving the town's already thrumming economy a jolt in the process. It's come to a point where the Convention is an event that a healthy segment of the population talks about and plans for well in advance as businesspeople of all stripes and degrees of legality prepare to make the most of it.

Should Sabretooth or the Red Hood put their ear to the ground at all, it wouldn't take long to discover that one such Convention is slated to happen within a few days of their arrival. It'd be a sure way to make an impact, at the cost of facing down an incredible number of bodies and guns, all at once.

Depending on how much time the operatives spend digging, they'd likely be able to uncover businesses, homes, neighborhoods, and smaller gatherings in the city, any of which could easily be used to send a message or two, at the cost of potentially uncovering their malign presence in the city and painting targets on their backs.

The third operative - a man in skintight, head-to-toe black with glowing blue lines down his face and across his ribcage - seems particularly unconcerned with tooling up once he gets his hands on a couple of guns and a couple of clips. He also doesn't offer much in the way of tactical insight when it comes to picking out how, where, and when to strike.

Mostly, he just seems to be along to survey the bar scene.

Creed took his time getting there, actually getting on a Carnival cruise of quickly very, very nervous vacationers to take him from Florida down near the coast of South America. He just liked the fear, smelling it on the retirees and the newlyweds and the clustered families with their tender little children they'd clutch to their breast whenever the big bad man in the white suit went by. Eventually, he just jumped off the boat and swam a few miles to shore and made his way through the country until he reached the city proper, well away from the tourists and deep inside the den of danger.

He didn't pay much mind to his fellow operatives. They all had their own methods, of course, and Creed didn't bother to arm up. He'd end up gutting someone with a weapon at some point and, if he wanted a gun, he'd just fucking take it. No point in wasting money he could spend on hookers or booze or cards on something as easy to acquire as a damn gun.

This particular gathering seems to be significant, the body language betraying the presence of more than a few higher ups in the organization, that unique mixture of nerves and bravado that comes from gangsters trying to show off for their bosses, thrusting out their chests but keeping their eyes down. "Mmmmmmmmm, I think there are some ripe turkeys in this bunch. Anybody feel like some giblets?" he grins toothily, showing off his massive fangs.

It's so much easier to hire private transportation to get down to El Salvador — no one's checking passports or luggage and it's really not that much more expensive. So, Red Hood was able to get to the country easily and begin his research and observation. He did do some digging…he likes to know the best places to do the hit and if there are innocents that might be around.

The other operatives are glanced at through the mask even as he checks some of the guns he brought with him. He rolls his eyes at the comment even though they can't be seen, "It's going to be like shooting fish in a barrel, that's for sure. Let's try and keep this contained…no spilling out onto the streets and random killings. I'd hate for one of you to end up with one of my bullets in your head for that."

Despite the excitement it engenders in the community, The Convention takes place in the evening, within the glamorous confines of an old meat packing plant on the edge of one of its more notorious barrios. This is not a place for outside eyes; no matter the atmosphere surrounding it and the many indulgences of attendees, it is not a party.

Of course, it also isn't a place that the combination of Red Hood and— well, mostly just Red Hood, perhaps, as there are plenty of hooks, booze, and cards to go around. In any case: between the operatives gathered, ferreting out the Convention's location is certainly not impossible, even if it might require playing a little bit of hardball.

The sprawling parking lot outside is full of cars, many of them tricked out or otherwise prohibitively expensive. People arrive and stream in periodically after the initial wave of arrivals. Mostly male, there's a relative minority of men in business casual clothes or suits compared to the more variably dressed muscle they've brought along and/or conscripted from the area. Even some of the muscle are rather nicely dressed, but it's pretty easy to tell which is which:

The guys with the influence aren't walking or standing around with assault rifles.

"Dude." Multiplex is probably making a face at Creed; it's impossible to tell. The bodysuited criminal shakes his head, glances between the two men, and murmurs, "I can cover the entrances and exits, if you guys wanna focus on cleaning 'em up." He's wearing a trenchcoat and hat to try and downplay the degree to which he sticks out with his Tron lines; it has been surprisingly effective, all in all. "Or vice versa, whatever" He then focuses on Red Hood long enough to assure him that, "And, me and mine work clean, so let's not go getting our drawers in a knot, buddy."

Inside, the plant has been transformed into a convention hall: there's a stage on one end, a lougne with couches and tables in another area, and a few smaller, sectioned off conference spaces on the other end. Currently, the stage is occupied with a presentation on projected earnings from methamphetamine production and trafficking through the rest of the current fiscal year, complete with PowerPoints.


Victor Creed laughs, "Clean. You keep tellin' yourself that, pal. You boys make up whatever pretty rules you gotta make to help you sleep your pretty little heads on yer pillows at night. Me? I ain't got no problem bein' a monster. But don't worry, I won't go killin' nobody for free. Long as they dont' go askin' for it," he grins.

He disengages from the others, shrugging off his jacket and leaving himself in a wife-beater and jeans, kicking off his boots to leave himself in bare feet. He flexes his hands until his claws slip free, elongating from the tips of his fingers. He saunters up to an expensive car and drags his index finger down the side of one, making a long, hideous creaking sound, a high-pitched metallic keen that makes him roll his own head. Irritating to them, it's a hideous, demonic squeal to his hypersensitive ears. Gets his blood up. Makes him hungry to kill.

"You better cover those entrances good, glowstick. Once they get an eyefull o' me, fuckers got a habit o' runnin' an' runnin' fast."

Red Hood gives a shrug to Multiplex's and Creed's responses…"Good enough." He just glances at the glowing guy as Creed wrecks one of the cars and shakes his head, "It's not the worst idea…making sure they can't get away. Seems a bit much to waste too much time on it though." That said, he reaches to his belt and quickly adds a silencer to one of his guns before he makes his way, helmet, jacket, and all, towards the entrance of the club. If he's given any trouble by any guards there, they'll just get a silenced bullet between the eyes.

He'll deal with being sneaky once the others are in and doing their own thing.'

There are guards at the entrance. They react to the din that Creed is making by shouting in Spanish and approaching with their weapons raised. Likely, they figure that Creed is just a vandal. A 6'6" vandal built like a brickhouse, sure, but a vandal just the same. Someone who should be readily scared off by a flash of steel.

None have have much time to react when the Red Hood steps out and puts bullets between their eyes. One after another, bodies fall with barely an inkling of what they're up against.

The door to the makeshift hall is locked several times over, but it isn't particularly silent. It could be broken, or blown up— or, possibly, picked through. There's a sliding panel at roughly eye level.

Inside, several heads turn towards the door thanks to Creed's squealing note. A couple turn eyes towards the collection of muscle inside and make gestures towards the doors before turning their attention back to the meeting. One heads for the front to look out through the panel while three more head towards a loading bay door.

Jason might or might not find himself making eye contact with one of the enforcers; it'll depend on how he approaches the door. As for the other three…


… a pair of Multiplexes crouched and waiting in the shadows near the loading bay.greet them with lead pipes, then finish the job with silenced rounds.

Meanwhile, Multiplex Prime lingers in hiding while Creed and Red Hood handle breaching the place, shedding his trenchcoat so he can grab the shotgun strapped to his back.


Victor Creed steps lightly over the bodies that Jason made along the way, making his way inside with a slow curl of his lip, peeling back to show his fangs as he calls out in fluent but snarled Spanish, «Attention, amigos!!! I hope that you have enjoyed your evening. Go ahead and pay up now, so that all debts are settled before I murder you all where you stand!» he calls out cheerfully.

The nearest pair of security men have already pulled weapons, raising them only to find their hands and weapons alike flying away, severed at the wrist with a swipe of the Sabretooth's savage claw, blood spattering across his chest as he throws his head back and roars before leaping directly into a pile of gangster, slashing out and sending rivers of red in the wake of every strike…

Red Hood isn't going to be at eye-level to the peep-hole. Nope. Instead, he's going to stay just below it and wait until the door opens before putting more bullets in heads. As Creed announces his way inside, he slips into the shadows of the 'hall', such as they are. While a lot of the muscle will no doubt rush the bestial man, Jason is figuring that some of the smarter ones might try to seek a different egress.

He plans on being there to stop them.

And so, a carefully prepared presentation becomes a bloody fight for survival.

Just about all of the men here have lived this life for a very long time. They've imagined days like today - days when their rivals or the law kick in the door to bring their worlds crumbling around them. The shotcallers might not bother with keeping so much muscle on their payroll if not for the hope of pushing back against days like today, as handy as they can be for settling simpler disputes.

So enforcers and ranking members alike fall into roles they've rehearsed for years: the enforcers pull guns or swarm towards Sabretooth, while most of the men in charge hit the ground and start looking for a way out. There are some - curiously, they tend to be either quite old, or quite young - who stand their ground and pull smaller weapons to try and take shots at the feral mutant, for all the good lead does against a man who's felt the bite of adamantium.

As the Red Hood anticipated, higher ups are fleeing every which way. A cluster heads towards the sectioned off conference areas, or towards the lounge, where they hope to hide beneath or behind furniture while the intruders are dealt with. Despite their retreats, they shout orders at their men all the while. Orders, and cries for bloody vengeance.

Others still try to head for one of the several alternative exits - loading areas, an emergency exit, a separate side door, only to find neon-lit reapers waiting for them with lead pipes, shotguns, and silenced pistols. Following a series of failed escapes - or, perhaps more accurately, a chain of shotgun barks - a blood-splattered Multiplex strolls through a fire exit, smoke still trailing from his barrel.

"Truce is over, vatos!" *BANG!* goes the shotgun, making a mess of a man running across the convention floor towards Creed with a machete. "Mister Martinez is coming for what's his— everything!" *BANG!* "Comprende?!"


One of the enforcers turns from trying to line up a shot on Creed to put a slug in Multiplex's head as soon as he finishes his announcement.

Multiplex Prime grimaces beneath his mask and checks that fire door off of his mental list of places to enter from.


Victor Creed isn't exactly coming out unharmed, but then harmed is a relative term when it comes to Creed. When he comes out of the initial dogpile, there's a machete chopped into the meat of his shoulder and blood running from a gash in his forehead. He's smeared with blood and gore and steps over at least a dozen enforcers who saw their death shine in the cat-eyes of the man now standing over them.

One hearty young vato runs out behind him and unloads with a pair of automatic pistols, all John Woo style, blasting holes into Creed's back, getting his own share of blood spatter. As he empties his clips, he raises his guns in the air, victorious, "DIE, GRINGO!" he yells.

Only to have Creed very slowly turn at him. And smile a smile full of fangs.

Then Creed demonstrates the precise amount of strength needed to simply tear a human head off the torso, said head then getting thrown and hitting the back of a fleeing boss, knocking him down and making him scream like a little girl for a few moments, clutching the head of his idiot nephew until Creed walks up and casually ends him with a stomp on the back, the big mutant grunting as the pop of vertebrae seals the deal.

Red Hood isn't in the area with Creed, so it's probably a good thing that he doesn't see the man torn apart by the other's clawed hands. Instead, he saunters to the lounge as Multiplex has the exits covered. Hiding beneath and behind furniture isn't going to fool one trained by the World's Greatest Detective, or whatever that rot is.

"<Gentlemen>", is offered in Spanish, "<Today just isn't your day. Now, you can come face Death like men, or like cowards. Either way, he's waiting for you.>"

Calling them all cowards is, perhaps predictably, a pretty good way to get a rise out of them. +1 Red Hood!

And then +a shitload of bullets as wounded ego after wounded ego pops out of hiding, pistols blazing. They are not great shots, and not all of the furniture is actually occupied; there's cover for the Red Hood if he needs it. Cover, and, doubtless, a few openings to put the show o defiance down before it gets too out of hand.

Nearer to the keynote area, gang members are collectively inching back as Creed turns one of their superiors into a mancake. These are hardened criminals who have grown accustomed to terrorizing civilians and rivals alike wherever they go. Of all the times they imagined days like today, not one of them dared to dream of something as awful as Victor Creed coming for them.

And yet, as they watch the men they've pledged to fight and die for disappear through various exits, they know that should they give into the uncertainty, the mortal terror gripping them as one of the world's deadliest mutants hunts them… they'd still be running into the arms of certain death.

<He… he can't… > one of the older men, already drenched with the gore of his fellows exhales. The rifle in his hands has never felt heavier. <He bleeds. He's— he's just a man— no—! He's just an animal that WALKS like a man!> By the end of his brief rally, he's bringing his gun up to punctuate it with a few squeezed off rounds aimed at Creed's back. A few others join him in firing rifle rounds and buckshot shells.

Nobody, at this point, is dumb enough to try charging him and his claws.

Speaking of the bosses: a Mulitplex raises his pipe as man in Armani staggers out, bloody and terrified… only to relent and sink back into the shadows before he's spotted.

Once that man has gone, Multiplex punts another body so hard that the head sails into the fracas; he is close on its heels, lighting up stray runners in a somewhat more proactive fashion.

Eventually - call it thirty, maybe sixty seconds - the escapee will manage to get behind the wheel of his car and peel the hell off, sending up a report that Creed's sensitive hearing might catch if he isn't too consumed with blood-letting.


Victor Creed seems to bow for just a moment under the sheer onslaught of gunfire, bullets and shells tearing through his flesh, splintering bone, seemingly driving him to his knees until he opens his mouth to scream and starts…laughing. Mad, blood-spattered laughter. "I accept all of your kisses in the spirit in which they are given. Let me give you my love in return," he snarls.

What follows would most mercifully be called a slaughter, although he doesn't always go straight for the kill, disemboweling, hamstringing, crippling, maiming. The sound of sobs mingles with the death rattles of the men around him by the time he's made his lethal rounds, looking around with a flare of his nostrils as he takes in the lethal work of his comrades. Not bad for a couple of bleeding hearts.

Red Hood isn't stupid and he isn't Creed, able to take bullet after bullet. He's wearing body armor, but that can't stop everything. He probably got a few bruises and grazes, but he's more than happy to use cover and his skill to make himself quite the moving target for these mediocre shots.

He, on the other hand, has trained in this and is able to fire off shots mid-sommersault or from otherwise awkward angles. In the end, he's going to make sure that no one actually suffers their wounds for long — their deaths are swift.


Multiplex Prime storms the front entrance, letting off shotgun rounds at the few men still writhing around Creed.


And then, into the air, just for good measure.

"Vaya con dios, bitches!" he exclaims. "That's right, you dead motherfuckers!"

By that point, Creed has reduced the lionshare of the men around him to body parts and bone fragments amidst an ever-expanding sea of blood. In the end, some of them did try to dig their nails into his skin or jam knives between his ribs, not that it mattered much. The few who are still living by the time Multiplex is inside won't be for much longer.

Meanwhile, Red Hood's game of close quarters cat and mouse left bodies draped all over what was a fairly nice collection of furniture, bleeding from expertly placed bullet wounds. Several still wear shocked or enraged expressions as the life leaks out of them. Many clutch their guns defiantly, even now.

The lone survivor of the Convention speeds through the neighboring barrio, screaming nigh on incoherently into his cell phone about Aurelio Martinez.

"Knew they wouldn't be shit," Multiplex Prime assures as his other bodies break down into bright blue particles. "Not for us."


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