October 22, 2015:

Satana ups the stakes when Bluebird and Nightwing have their latest confrontation in Meat is Murder.

A random mansion in Midtown


NPCs: Cultists



Mood Music: Deftones - Change

Fade In…

'Harper.., Harper it's me..'
'Hey! Long time no talk, for all of.. four months, what's up?'
'I didn't know who else to call..'
'Jason? What's wrong? Why are you whispering?'
'I.. I need help.. there was this man.. and he..'
'Jason, don't explain, just tell me where you are.'
'I don't know where I am!'
'Jason, stay quiet. Stay quiet and stay on the phone, don't make a sound, don't move a peep. I'm coming, okay? Jason.. do you understand..'
'Harper.. please.. he's doing something with..'

The clue was the sounds of the squealing that was heard within the backdrop, the heart of Harper Row dropped out of her stomach, back and and clenched right at her throat where swallowing was just tight. Her eyes immediately begin to water as she drops her phone, grabbing her burner that has the number of Nightwing saved.. she was supposed to be on the down low. Low key. Hiding from this supposed David Cain. But he couldn't be worse than this monster.

"Cullen, lock the door, stay inside.." She tugs on her mask, her hair pushed behind her as she assembles her gear. Bluetooth pitched in her ear and she quickly rushes to the computer to load up a tracer program to pinpoint Jason's location. "Cullen, watch the screen, make sure that this signal DOES NOT MOVE!"

"But Har.. what the hell is going on?"
"I can't explain buddy but you gotta keep watch, and keep low!"

There was really no time to explain. He along with Batman knew her identity, but if Cullen knew the horrors that she's witnessed lately he wouldn't be the one that stands by. He'd be at her back. To keep him in the dark when he already knows so much is hard. The stairs were scaled and she immediately hops on her bike, the drone high above her head kicks into life and begins to follow her as she races.. She knew where this was.. it wasn't some abandoned warehouse.. but it was a house somewhere in the suburbs. That much she knew.

"Nightwing.. somebody. Someones in trouble. I need help. Its HIM!"

That call went out on a secure channel that she has no doubt EVA has access to, not that she knows EVA.. but still! There's an in! (Totally broke the wall there.)

"Cullen, start.. system and ping me the address, send it to my phone!" The address was soon uploaded and immediately relayed along the networks. This was serious business here!

Dick Grayson had been deep in research himself, hidden in the archives at the police station going through old files. He'd just applied for reinstatement to the force, ending his leave of absence. Time to get back on the beat, back in the trenches. He'd intended to have this business - this 'Professor Pyg', as he'd learned just recently - put to rest beforehand, but the leads he had were thin. This maniac hid behind his followers well and following trails back to the main himself had so far been fruitless.

When he gets the notice from Harper, he quickly makes his way from the precinct. By the time he enters the alley behind the building, he's half-changed.

By the time he reaches the rooftop, he's Nightwing.

He wings from roof to roof, moving quickly and homing in on Harper's signal. She didn't tell him where she was going, but he knew she was. She had the bug, just like the rest of them - no way she was sitting on the sidelines, whatever Batman said.

Fantomex didn't like Pyg's handiwork much. Bad memories of mad surgery, you see. Still, he has this code about not getting involved, stay cool. Sure, he breaks the code all the time, but usually it is because of mutant issues. Mutants have lots of issues.

You know who was much more horrified than Fantomex? E.V.A.

So when the faux French thief suggested maybe they could, perhaps, do something about this mad surgeon crazy. E.V.A. took into her virtual hands to study, hack, research and listen to the waves. That is why she has interrupted Fantomex leisure time with Satana. The /one/ time they were having a serious conversation and admitting that /maybe/ they do have human-ish feelings, after all.

And so the flying saucer slides swiftly and quietly through Gotham's dark skies, homing into Harper's cellphone.

Discussing them, though it was confusing to sort them. When instinct and ways were base and more primal and /real/, without thought, without regret, apex predator…. Satana was like speaking to a child with the logic of one who grew up on a different world of cartoons. Though some similarities lay, others did not. She appreciated where Fantomex sought to eliminate… to a extent. And now, a master magician insisted she needs to revert, remember, and that with the show of reaction to this human horror…

"Only *I* should be causing that look."

An echo of moments and when another echo of E.V.A interrupts that moment of a humanesque expression fades back to that rage that had remolded metal bars at the zoo. The red glow around tips of fingers comes and goes when she slips back and away from Fantomex, drawing a single digit around the non-existant door of EVA's sides as if making it so. "I think it is time our company parts ways for the night." She was aout to try and rival the Gotham horrors as she had previously promised… And her humanity could not be hanging out.

When she was alone, she often wondered what Batman would say. If he was the sort to give lectures, or the one to teach by showing.. do what I do but not as I do, because you're smaller than me and I'm more fit. Things of that nature, but there was no time to think about it now. The way he gives orders was not a please and a thank you, it was do it and do it now, and if you fail that is on you. Sort of. At least that's how she interpreted.

But those were thoughts only mere moments go, now her thoughts went to Jason. Sure, she's had a crush on the guy and helped him with his homework. But it didn't go any further than that. He became a really good friend when the chips were down and he needed his lights re-wired because the bills were tight. Most of her classmates were already out on their own, out in the Narrows or elsewhere. And no one wanted to be in the Narrows.

"C'mooon. C'moon!" She nearly shrieked at her bike, pushing it to its limits as she finally approaches the house with a skid and an abrupt stop that would make anyone jealous. She barely even had time to put up the kick stand, for she was already on the run towards the door, gloved fingers curled into a fist, eyes narrowing in determination as her foot strikes out and the door slams open and she disappears inside.

'Over here..'
'Where are.. what is..'
'Oh god.. OH GOD NO!'

Both dots upon the computer bleep out. There was nothing there. Cullen frantically begins to tap and pound upon the keyboard, tears already in his eyes as he begins to scream into the phone. "Harper.. HARPER! HARPER ANSWER ME!"

Dick Grayson sees the GPS tracker get wiped out at the same time, swearing under his breath as he makes his way there. He pushes himself to the limits of his physicality, his ligaments screaming as he twists through the air to hook a fire escape. His thighs burn as he tenses and makes a leap that no human should even attempt, his fingers scraping the edge of a ledge and pulling himself up. No time to think, no time to bleed.

Just get there.

He sees her bike first, angling towards the obvious entrance and going into a sprint as he arrives.

"If you wish so, princess," replies Fantomex with a sigh. He has been listening all the time. Which means the redheaded devil was somewhat ignored. "I do apologize for cutting short our midnight stroll. I will make up for it next Sunday, je te promets."

The wall of E.V.A. slides open, and Fantomex jumps down from some forty feet on the sky, landing on the rooftop with a soft thud. And a grunt. He should have waited a couple more seconds, and ten feet less height. Why is he in such a hurry? Also, he is not alone. "We meet again, monsieur," he greets Nightwing.

Satana steps back, that gauzy dress only solidified where the sepentine wrap of silk bears shadows. A scant covering that slowly begins to reshape and take form, the slitted falls whipping in the wind just before she drops from the opening, the auburn hair extending to dance with that reformation. "I wish…"

The words falling into an empty echo before she is gone leaving nothing behind.

Where she reappearsis in that targetted abode, but the darkness is her counterpart, the silence and muted passing of the demoness easily for those who find a solace and comfort in the shadows. The only give away is that of the reflection off of her eyes, eyes that took on a reptilian gaze backed in embers of brimstone. A predatorial air that keeps feet sliding over the interior and seeking solid ground before every weight is shifted. She wanted to meet this horror…

And she wanted to /consume/ it.

They all converge into that single spot. The three of them, the forth and first gone deep inside and the only remnants left behind was a scream. And the scream of Harper Row was a terrible, foreign thing. The Bat-children do not do such, so to hear it is alarming.

Candleabras line the walls of the large house from what they could see at any angle, flickering with the gust of wind that the open doors and windows provide, an eerie scene placed out of a horror movie of a house most haunted, but this.. in a different way.

In Gotham's way. In the way that Professor Pyg must be made proud.

The stark white carpet, or what used to be white is smattered with stains of brown and fresh red, drag marks that seemingly overlap each other back towards the kitchen, the comm and glove of Harper Row in the middle of the congealed mess as well as a dragged bootprint of a struggle.

There was an arm that lay in the corner, fingers curled into a slight fist of a man, and if anyone could guess, he may have been in his fifties. Mirrors and pictures line the wall at odd angles, crick and crooked with eerie smiles of the family who had once lived there. Even a couch was upturned, table broken in half, dust gathered among the surface and wood split and cracked due to the swelling.


Those sounds echo through the house, along with smacks of a cleaver against meat. Each time the *THUMP* falls there was a grunt, a groan.. and another smack.


And a flash of a rather big man in the pig mask descending into the basement. Yes. He knows that people are here. He knows that people are watching. But this man? He does not care.

Dick Grayson nods to Fantomex, "And for much the same reason," he says. He kicks his way in, his foot lashing through the remnants of the door, sending splinters. "BLUEBIRD!" he calls, using the codename as he's been taught, even if his first instinct was to shout her name. She's going to be all right, though, can't thick any different. Doesn't mean he doesn't want to skin some knuckles on some pig-worshipping mofos.

He sees pig mask making his way down and sprints into action, actively leaping down into the shadows, throwing his knees first to drive into the back of the man, wrapping an arm around his neck and riding the brute down to the ground, whatever the ground is. Dick feels like hurting somebody and this guy's a prime cut.

Fantomex pauses a few steps from the door, looking at the scene. Home invasion by pig-masked lunatics? But that doesn't fit with the phone conversation. Nightwing charges, but the man in white prefers to map the dwelling and study the situation more carefully first. Then he hurries towards the place with the sounds of the cleaver hitting something.

The scene itself flickers in Satana'smind. A fast forward with lines throughout to crackle, sepia toned to fit the red. Pictures half kilted, blood dries and fresh, congealed, where the Basilisk unfirls a forked tongue and tastes…ooking at her with the eyes of a horror… When Satana follows her own sense towards the kitchen her body slinks through the darkness of the house, evading the half light of candelabras though with every step the broken lighting hits the moving shadows as they reform her attire. Black latex, smoothed over every contour save that of hips, clung to sides in rings that she gives the appearance of looping through flesh and adhering the attire in a simple mould that not only /clings/, but is from within. She gave pause when the Nightwing lunged for the masked pig, nostrils flaring in the scent of flesh reformed, reknitted, embalmed to placement. Death here and that which was not yet there and worn upon a facade becomes her target, even as Fantomex slides by and gives her no notice. Just as well, she is not part of a team, not this team, she has her own desires…

Following the red stained road to the kitchen she finally enters, no hesitation, no desire to hide or have a savvy affair of it, she simply pushes the swishing door aside and…

Leaves it to swing and swoosh closed as if a ghost had passed…

There and not, but in the furthest corner the darkness loses its hiding place as does her incantation, hoping to have given enough distraction to unfirl from her shadowed cocoon and place stilleto'd heel silently upon the floor, and if there is a living presence, her other stilleto seeks to burrow itself within a body part.


The larger man topples to the ground as Nightwing rides him down the steps, his face hitting each step as his arms flail until he hits the bottom at an odd angle. He remains unconscious, which is good for Nightwing, save for the many people who were found in the basement, chewing and biting upon the legs of three dead men as if they were possessed. One stands in the corner holding a book, his words quiet.. echoing through the noise..

'Man is meat.. eat!'

But then that cadence stop as the motley crew of men and women look up, their pig masks bloodied, looking onto Nightwing ravenous.

"MEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!" A woman shrieks out, long nails immediately splayed as she's the first to charge at Dick, whilst the others soon follow suit, attempting to bum rush and gang upon the lone hero.


The large butcher descended the stairs, leaving taller man in the corner. He hung from hooks that lined his back, twisting and twirling, and upon the table was a young woman, in her late twenties, upon the table. Her eyes were wide and bloodied, her breaths almost ragged, legs gone as well as an arm.. but in it's place are a pair of stumps that are too short to be human. The nails were calcified, thick and pointed, wriggling and twitching as the nerve endings attempt to mesh and meld with its human counter-part.

'ECH! ECH!' She manages to cough out, it could have been a scream or a cry for help, but the sound repeated itself, even as a stump.. stubby leg reaches out towards Satana and Fantomex..

A thin man, tall and slender took up the mantle of the larger man, attempting to rush towards the basement to approach Nightwing at his back. It would have been a true swarm, Nightwing the key to be dismembered and fed to the followers of the Pyg yet instead, a raking blow sends him toppling against the hooked man, who swings and cries out in pain.

"MAN IS MEAT!" He yells, his teeth jagged and rotted, black ichor dripping from his mouth like ooze as he slithers to his feet, hatched raised with the means to do harm to the interloping two.

Dick Grayson draws his escrima sticks, filling each of his hands like an old west gunslinger, only with, y'know, sticks instead of guns. He lashes out, letting his rage loose on the cannibals. He moves with a rapid spin, lashing out at one with a foot as he brings his stick down on the neck of the woman. He throws elbows and knees as well, using every weapon his body has its disposal. While he's non-lethal, as always, there's no quarter given, the raw ferocity of his blows sure to leave a mark as he strikes efficiently, looking for any evidence of Harper amidst the cannibal horde.

"Bluebird!" he calls again, "Answer me!" he shouts, ducking a blow and hearing a satisfying crack as he drives his elbow into the spindly ribs of a cultilst.

Satana had yet to reveal herself here, not yet as being involved for Fantomex or Nightwing's senses. And there was good reason for that, because when her heel lands it is done with a ferocity to leave a deep gash across the expanse of his torso, but that does not stop her momentum even as the twisting kick pivots to follow through, bringing her back full force to maintain between Fantomex and the hatchet weilder.

"How many has that lain open and brought an end to?" The inquiry should have been concerned in tone, but instead a pleasure rides through her words to end them in a purr while distance closes and she seeks the weapon weilding hand to grip him at the wrist and turn, almost as if moving into a waltz with the demented being, but as she slides his hand along the deep 'V' of her attire with that hatchet gliding a path along her skin the smile widens…

Quartet of canines flash and dimple against lower lip as however many souls had been taken by the hatchet rise from the blood laden blade in the form of red glowing moths to encircle them, and if the cultist does not move away quick enough every time a moth lifts and her hand keeps to his there is a popcorn like sound of those tiny bones slowly being broken while she twists.

…."Give me all of your lambs." In a flash those pupils move to slits and a forked tongue glides forth to flick across lips.

Fantomex follows the butcher into the kitchen in complete silence. Although the maimed woman can see him, the man won't hear him, likely not noticing the thief's presence at all until… well, Satana appears and beats the crap out of him. "I don't think he is the real responsible for this sickening business, princess," comments the white-clad thief. He goes to examine the maimed woman, but a glance reveals what he suspected. The grafting is not the work of the mad surgeon, just some butcher work. "Help is coming," he tells her.

Somewhere over the house E.V.A. is phoning to the closest hospital, requesting an ambulance.


The flying limbs and escrima of Nightwing was majestic in the same sense the way Satana makes her mark against the man wielding the axe. Both take command of the room and draw down upon their foes with blood and body flying to land upon the floor; the other staring wide in shock and horror, but a touch of awe once the serpentine tongue draws from perfect lips to lash and lick against them.

Bodies fall and twitch around Nightwing, his bit of anger did it's work, leaving them all upon the ground, leg this way, arm that way.. amidst the foul of the bodies upon which they feast.

The cultist remains within the corner, book pressed against his chest, reciting words in latin.. pig mask nearly hung low as he keeps that safe distance. As the final words were uttered, he makes the sign of the Pyg, then begins to croak a laugh as Nightwing yells out for Harper.

"Its too late.." Harper Row wasn't there.


The man stares in horror as Satana takes command, the shocking grasp of his wrist causes him to try to wretch his grasp away, to bury the blade within her shoulder.. but he couldn't break free. Each crack of the bone.. each fly and wisp of the blood red moth, had his mouth open wide in a scream, his knees buckling til he kneels before her, his thin fingers grasping against his forearm as it feel as if it were turning to dust right before his grasp.

The woman was trying.. trying her best to hold on, her bloodshot eyes glancing towards Fantomex as she tries to twist and worm her way off of the table and into someones arms. She was going to live, that was for certain, but what type of life would she lead as she was.. 'H..h..h…th.. girl..' She sputters out, the noise ejecting from her lips, her body shuddering in pain.

Dick Grayson grasps a hold of the cultist by the throat, pinning him against the all and lifting him up until his feet dangle off the ground. He angles his hand just so, applying pressure without choking off his hair. This leaves the ability to speak intact, even as his fingesr press down on pressure points, sending throbbing bolts of agony directly into the freak's ill-used brain.

"Where is she? Enough of your games, answer me," he says, leaning in until the man's fetid breath almost curdle's Dick's stomach, his hand tight as he demands to know the whereabouts of his erstwhile partner.

Satana is not here for Bat or Bird, she is here because they should know no fear unless it is she who instills it, brings that reaction, brings him to his knees….

When the deranged falls into place before her she keeps going with his broken limb still in her grasp. Those claws push forth, needle tipped and hooked as if to place perfectly around the broken appendage that brings the being to supplication. In her lean that vitae huen hair spills over her shoulder like a curtain of ichor, but every drip landing in a wet *slap* upon the floor between herself and her subject.

When Fantomex speaks her lean does not right, but her eyes lift, those eyes of something far more primal and /base/ while those moths flutter in the space surrounding her, breaking shadows and silhouettes across her facade. "He may not be, but they will know what they have done and abase themselves for their horrors unwelcome." Though as she speaks her other hand reached for the mans head, caressing through greasy locks to clutch him as if a babe… draw him closer… And when her dark stained lips touch upon his that tongue leads the guide, drawing split tip over his chin to curl upward - beconing forth… Yet another moth his throat choked with it as he begins to shrivel in her grasp, clutched to her bosom like a babe.

Looking to the woman Fantomex seeks to soothe her upper lip curls, those eyes alight with what dances around her in wait of consumption. "Her misery needs taken, but I cannot." Though with the closing of eyes and a deep draw of breath in those moths dance upon lips, balancing on the pillows of flesh before being swept within by venomous gluttony. A whisper unheard but moves her lips in incantation…

Fantomex catches the woman and concentrates. "Calm down, you are safe and all will be well." No, it won't, as living with three missing limbs is going to be pretty though. But he needs her attention to take her mind out of the nightmarish reality to a less painful one. Besides, lies come easy to him.

In the illusion, she woke up from a nightmare in the morning, and in the afternoon she is dancing with a handsome stranger in high-class club. Somehow, it is in Paris.

In the kitchen, Fantomex lies her down on the table, and stares as Satana drains the butcher from his life energies. "Non. They are out of their mind. Perhaps mind-controlled, Satana. Killing him solves nothing."


The laugh, even as he's choked and lifted from his footing against the wall causes his eyes to roll, the sound almost a mockery in his questioning. "You're too laaaate.." He sing-songs out, his hand slowly lifting to point towards the closet door…

…and then there was a sound..

..a sound that gently raps..

..raps against the chamber door. Or more like closet.

Inside, Harper was there, hung by her neck with a thick rope, her fingers tight against to separate the rope from skin as her feet kick and body swings back and forth. She was getting tired, her breaths were ragged, her feet lash out and begin to kick mercilessly..



Kicks against the door that resemble a heartbeat that was slowly beginning to fade.


The woman stares deep into Fantomex's eyes.. her soft whines and eerie noises dying down to the point that only her breathing is heard. She had full use of her facilities in that dream, the small cafe playing a hint of jazz, the smooth french contralo airly belting out lines that would make toes curl and knees weak. The gentlemen held that gaze, a smile and a laugh as he twirls her into a bend, then draws her upright and holds her close in a sway that matches the way the saxophone plays.. this was heaven. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and pastries, mingling with the smell of sea-salt and nature..

The womans eyes close upon the table, shock fully taking over her..

The man, he just dies. There was nothing fanfair or ficticious about it. He shrivels up like a prune, the moth of life dancing from his figure and into its rightful place.. and yet.. on the distance, in the horizon.. they with keen ears can hear the sound of sirens..

Dick Grayson moves to the cabinet quickly, tossing the man aside as he moves and tears open the closet to find her. He doesn't waste words or breath, moving to support her weight and get the pressure off of her windpipe as fast as possible. He pitches his shoulder in under her ribs, lifting quickly, then snakes a hand down to his utility belt, popping a short-bladed knife and lifting his hand up to start sawing through the rope.

"It's okay, I've got you, you're gonna be okay, you're safe now, I'm here," he says quickly, trying to slow the racing of her heart.

The words od Fantomex did not stop her, the husk of a abeing dropped to a pile at her feet while sharp nails pluck those souls drawn from the hatchet from the air and to her lips. One… "No, nothing holds them in thrall." By… "It is religion." One… "They chose the wrong god is all."

Her eyes focus upon him and then fall to the woman who he just calmed and let pass into her own mind of lies he created for her. Slowly, her eyes rise back to him and remember their conversation, her lips moving again, no sound coming forth but exhales and the language of Hell eminating a heat from her that has the lights flickering in answer to beck and call…

"But I can remind them all…" A touch upon a fixture and an enflamed swrpent begins to slither from the glow upon her hand, moulded and created from the Hellfire to sink within the wall and spread, splitting in twixt, thrice…. Like the walls suddenly gained veins and bured black in their paths across the wall her flame and rite took to the walls, floors, ceilings, seeking.. One by one setting Salem to shame.

Fantomex hmms, "Interesting," definitely eases his conscience. He is a devoted atheist, so all the religious people are several steps of deluded in his mind. Those who kill for religion probably need to be shot. Or soul-eaten.

"Uh-oh," the hellfire snakes are a different thing. Satana is out to probe she can be nastier than the crazies. She is going go fail, and Fantomex thinks it is hilarious how hard she is going to fail. But she is also likely will burn down the house. "I'll wait outside, I think I heard the cops coming." He picks up the injured woman again and heads towards the main door.

The harshness at which Harper coughs was loud, even as Nightwing holds her upright and cuts the rope away, she finally allows her hands to drop to hang loosely at his back. She was finally free, the shrill, quick breaths that draw from her send her into hyperventilation, and soon she passes out upon his shoulder… she was out.

The house was another thing after all, the snakes that begin to roam and tool the house find their marks, each body that Nightwing dropped begin to writhe and squirm, some grasping their chests and screaming out as if they were burned too deep. Those cries were endless, even the cultist that remained laughing against the wall falls to his knees in a loud scream, writhing and bucking against the ground as if it'll stop the burning.

Perhaps the evil was too great in this house, so much death that littered the floors.. it all catches. A quick spark of a fire sends the walls of the basement aflame, trapping Nightwing and Bluebird within as the bodies of the now living, soon deceased begin to wail and crackle upon the floor. Even the kitchen lights up with flames, the metal of the hooks that keep the man hung causes him to gasp harshly and scream ever so loudly.


The house.. it was quickly falling.. ready to crumble all around them.

Dick Grayson hefts Bluebird up over his shoulder, trying to hold her supported on his shoulder and makeh is way out. He tries to spot a way out, moving quickly to try and drag some of the broken cultists along with them. He knows there has to be some solution, some way to put it out. He grits his teeth and tries to find a basement window, moving around quickly as he can, not wanting to leave anyone behind, even these twisted, demented souls…

Satana waited as Fantomex picked up his own ewscue and departed, for a reason. The flames licked up the walls, a climbing lick of flaming tongues that whisked upwards and spread along the walls like a creeping blanket of heat, a rolling wave that consumed and curled wall paper, split paint, and made wood curl, groan and crack as it took on an embered glow…

Though around her nothing touched, the red carpet only burning the tainted while the last that were not already damned fled or like the marionette upon hoooks and chains before her… screamed…

Turning her back to him she stepped away, those booted feet now bearing the white furred hocks to spill over sharp stilletos, but as the blanket of fire parts like a Red Sea for her she pauses and her brows furrow. Every scream, every whimper from the meat hungman makes her shoulders rise as tension ascends along her spine and the skin beneath ripples, wanting to let more free. Long tendrils of that spilt blood tresses lift and flail in the heats wave of air that compresses within the melting walls, those reptilian eyes nictating a blink in his direction to cast an eerie primal green glow.

"…Fuck me." The distance between herself and him closes, the fire spellcast does not touch him, but that does not speak for what is true flame and when she reaches him her hands touch the chains, twisting them to pull them from his flesh with a wet suction of noise while her body is the only thing he can collapse (and bleed) onto.

"Oh god, thank youthank you… thankyou!" The paniced cries morph to sobs of gratefulness as well as a worship she found distasteful. Upper lip curls.

" Satana." She corrects as she rises a hand and pulls him free of her form like he bore a flesh eating disease… or was one of those hairless ugly dogs and left him hefted in her grip as she approaches the top of the stairwell to look down into the dungeon…

"And for those who seek /real/ deliverance… Or a breath of fresh air…" Her hand lowers, fingers splayed to reveal every hooked nail… The flames split and dance away, clearing a heated path for the escape of any who deserve life, and those who also came in for a purpose.

"You have… ten seconds." And with that Satan steps outside, every step gathering the small dancing flock of moths within the air around her. Stopping beside Fantomex she lifts the shuddering and snivelling man that bleeds from the wounds upon his back, holding him out in display with his feet above the ground just before dropping him there. "You deal with the human do-gooders, they do me no favors and I am loathe to lose more beauty sleep." A sidelong glance towards Fantomex and she begins to lift into the air and departs with a trail of those moths tailing her wake.

The two Bats were none of her business, as she was here to simply let out that rage and go home.

All in the sake of humanity.

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