Gang Related

November 15, 2015:

NYPD and a motley crew of heroes foil a shipment of slaves and fishscale. (Emits by Lillith)

NY Harbor


NPCs: Jiminez, The Metas, NYPD SWAT.. slave girls.. Apophis Detective Hammerman, just a lot of people folks.



Mood Music: Tupac - Me and My Girlfriend

Fade In…



"All I need you to do is tell me what's going on, where the trade is going down and what the trade is going to be, or immunity is off the table." - Detective Hammerman slams his hand upon the table, nearing the point of rising from his chair. Lillith watches from outside the room, arms folded about her chest as she glances towards the Commander. "You should let me in there, Boss." He says nothing.

"I ain't givin' you shit. Fuck you. Fuck this chair. Fuck these tables, fuck those pictures, fuck you and your coat, fuck those shoes you wearin', fuck that stupid hat upon your head, fuck your fuckin' crater face, fuck this room and your badge and fuck NYPD. I ain't giving you shit. Get me my fucking lawyer." - Hector, he wasn't the smartest of the Metas.

"Very well then." Hammerman murmurs, anger clearly leaking from his bones as he gathers his papers and promptly exits the room. He says nothing to Detective Crowley or the Commander, who gives the go ahead for her to enter. And once she does, she turns and locks the door behind her, standing there for a moment to gather her thoughts.

"OH, so they bring the pretty bitch in to get me to talk. What a fuckin' joke. I want my lawyer, like I said. You can't ask me shit until he gets here."

Lillith moves away from the door to grasp the chair, sliding it towards the cameras to stand upon it and shut them off. Soon after, the blinds were lowered to blot out the sight of what was to come?

?the sounds of Hector screaming.


Shipment container 23491, 23281, 11833. Illegal containers, at O900, wire states huge shipment of Cocaine and Heroine. Possible skin trade. Need every available officers at NY HARBOR post haste. INTEL highly sensitive. Hostiles armed and dangerous. Possible mutant and meta involvement. Lethal action advised.


Scores of SWAT members begin to suit up, Detective Crowley on hand drawing on her own armor as Hammerman storms into the room, both detectives matching gazes as they give each other a nod.

"I don't need to tell you how hairy this situation is. But word is, the leader of the Metas on this side of the ocean will be enroute. Nasty mutherfucker."
"We'll get 'em, boss. Don't worry."


The doors slide open of the first shipment container, the people within begin to cower, some of the women start to cry as the men line up outside, some of them laughing while others look a little green, the rocking of the boat draws queasiness to the gills but they were steadfast.

"When we dock, all of you pinche putas will get in a straight line and into the trucks. I hear any screaming, any hollering.. we'll get the barrels.." And everyone knows what happens if you cross the metas.

The door slams shut as the horn begins to bellow, marking the entrance of the ships to the dock.

Meanwhile.. NYPD and those following begin to gather, laying in wait for Crowley's signal..

A hand lifts.. guns slowly raise and chaimbers checked, shields produced, helmets smacked..

..and the hand lowers. It's time to move.

"…this is a bad idea…"

The voice comes from a cellphone in the hands of a certain wanted criminal, sitting on a crate just offside at the NY Harbour. The man is dressed 'incognito' - that is to say, he has his hoodie up over his head, such a great disguise - and sits next to a half-drunk bottle of beer.

Half-drunk… because it is frozen solid.

"…I don't care," the man with the chilled beer says into the phone, his words spoken slowly and precisely as if each one were carefully chosen for its literary merit. "Guys who deal drugs in my city, dropping bodies in my city… I want to see what goes down - and make SURE it. goes. down."

"…want any help?"

The man lifts his head and blows out a cloud of warm air from between his lips. "No." He hangs up as soon as he spots the barge approaching the docks and he lifts the beer to his lips, only to scowl at its frozen contents.


Sometimes Lunair wonders if she should pick up another hobby. Is shooting gangsters really such a good hobby?

Maybe she'll take a new one up. But if and when she hears news of Things Going Down(TM) (really, not hard to listen in to the police). Oddly, Lunair can arrive quite stealthily. There's a simple box overturned on the docks. Just a box. That's right, a box. There's a cute pin-up lady drawn on one side. But it is a box.

Although the Titans weren't included in the bulletin transmission, they don't have to be, thanks to the certain friends in technologically-enhanced places they have.

Vorpal cares very little about illegal narcotics when the possibility of skin trade is involved. He remains invisible, crouched upon another crate in the Harbor, his nightsight pinpointing the position of his potential targets. He's not grinning, because this isn't funny. Now, when he gets the traders all to himself? THEN he will grin, but they won't like it. Not one bit. His sensitive ears twitch, scanning the sounds of the docks to see what he can pick up.

Red Hood monitors a few different stations and heard of this happening. Drug dealers and human trafficking. It seems like a good night to shoot some Bad Guys (tm). Loading up his arsenal, he's there when the ships begin to dock, hidden in the shadows like any good Gotham-trained vigilante. A sniper rifle is set up on a rooftop and he peers through the sight, prepared to shoot the first person who seems to look like one of the felons involved.

Magdalena has the best information source available - an all-ecomposing deity who knows everything - so she too finds herself watching the barge arriving from a hidden position atop an old warehouse. She had been tracking down one of her six hundred and sixty six demons but this is /probably/ not related.

Magdalena mumbles a prayer to herself, her fingers opening and closing around the Spear of Destiny before she takes a deep breath as the barge docks. She is totally aware that she is not alone tonight. There seem to be plenty of others here to do good…or not. "God wills it."

The man known only(okay, mostly) as Logan has a way of finding out about things. It isn't just his senses — though they were what drew him to the screams and the scent of fear sweat as some of the Metas' 'merchandise' was dragged into a van a few blocks from his apartment a week ago. It isn't that he knows a few people - employers, snitches, friends - who have a way of knowing interesting things, though he would've had a harder time connecting the Metas to their speeding van otherwise.

It's that once he knows what to ask and who, he can be awfully persistent— and ''terribly'' persuasive.

Hector is not the only member of the Metas who's had a bad time of late.

Tracking and persuading have led Logan to— a shipping container, where he crouches in a corner wearing ratty jeans, a wifebeater, and an old trucker hat. If anyone looks, he's just a migrant on his way to someone's coca fields.

''If'' anyone looks. His breaths are nearly nonexistant. His heartbeat runs at a syrupy crawl. He has not moved since entering the container; he may as well be a squat, hairy statue darkening a corner of the box.

When people begin filing out, his eyes narrow just a little, waiting for an opportunity as tightly wound muscles twitch in anticipation.

"Yeah, cabrone…" One man speaks, slapping his hands together as the 'slaves' begin to filter out into the open. "Once Jiminez see what type of stock we brought in we're going to be fuckin' rich!"
"Nah man, Jiminez is going to be fucking rich. We're just going to be hood rich."
"Nigga please. I got mine!" He pats his chest and laughs, even reaching out to pat the ass of a woman who jumps and begins to sob quietly, her fingers clutching her face.

Another watches from the crates upon which he sits upon, his fingers curled halfway as the large knife he carries begins to pick beneath his fingernails. "Stop fucking around and get them into the fucking van." A soft hiss surrounds him, the coil of the snake drawing itself from his back to wrap around his midsection.. and soon upon the wrist in a protective embrace. Anyone who was intuned to the matters of good and evil, could feel the demonic presence that leaks from the man. Even the Metas knew that this dude was not right.

Lunair went overlooked for the most part, whilst Hood's position remains true. Logan? He was just another body to be put to use in the warehouses that manufacture the fishscale, picked because he was brawny. He wasn't going to be a shaker, he was just going to be a mover for Jiminez.

The SWAT teams move out, Lillith at the helm as she draws a fist upright, her pistol soon holstered as she touches upon metal to brace herself. These things usually happen at inopportune times.. but she had that gut feeling..

Frozen beer.
The angle wasn't right.
Who is that man watching.

She draws out a shrill breath, shaking her head just a touch, taking a slight step aside to rest a hand upon the leads shoulder. "Take lead. Remember, we want Jiminez alive."
"Where are you going?"
"To your six."

It was a damn lie..

The SWAT team rushes forth, filtering in through the maze as they are trained, yet the first hollar comes from one of the Metas, who spots them not too far off. "WE GOT COMPANY!"

And gunfire there after…

"Slaves," Cold mutters to himself when the cargo becomes clear. The man's voice tenses with suppressed anger - few things have ever caused him to lose his temper, but this would do it. "They… brought slaves." As he pushes himself off the crate upon which he had been sitting, faint lines of icy blue run up his bare arms from his hands, leaving a light frosting on the crate itself. He turns his head slowly to glance behind him as the SWAT teams begin moving out…

Then he looks back at the barge and the human scum (the slavers, that is) on board.

"That… was a mistake," Cold murmurs and he crosses into the middle of the harbour, completely exposed. "A really… big… mistake." The man known as 'Captain Cold' to some kneels forward quickly on the ground, slamming both palms down on the hard surface. Instantly, wide tendrils of frost lance out across the dock toward the barge and down into the water with enough force to make waves.

Waves that then freeze on the spot, tipping the ship sideways, but not enough to capsize it. When Cold looks up, his arms and upper body are coated in ice, his expression fierce.

Also, while Lunair may be completely lackadaisical, she does seem to dislike human trafficking immensely.

She is listening to the cargo coming in, her unique - viewpoint - she has a pretty good idea of what is going on.

And then gunfire. Lunair knows that sound very well. She remembers it in the dusty, muddy, bloody plains and fields of Africa. A chorus bringng death, wounds and horror as metal pings by. Lunair will move her box to cover. And then she pops out of it, coming out in black and forest green armor. It looks like something ripped out of Metal Gear R. or something. She pulls an immense, automatic gun that is nearly as big as herself. "I really. Really. Hate people like you." They brought slaves. And she is going to take a little lift, if she can see the ice and waves. She is notably going to avoid the innocents, going after the slavers. She is unsupervised, the chain is off.

They do have company, indeed.

Vorpal's ears and night-seeing eyes have caught on to the situation from his perch (no, it isn't attached to a scratching post), and now it is a matter of creating the necessary distraction. It's not just a distraction to keep him safe, but also to help the incoming S.W.A.T. team still retain the element of surprise- by creating a bigger surprise still. They would need it, because the Fae side of the cheshire cat could sense the demonic essence in the periphery.

Demons. You could never trust demons. The Fae race and the Demons have been at each other's throats ever since the Morningstar tricked the Fae into leasing out a portion of Hell to establish Faerie once they left the world of man. Lucifer's 'rent' of a Fae sacrifice every seven years is something no Fae will ever forgive or forget, even the Unseelie court. Even if the compact was undone by someone who dwelled in dreams. Demons were to be thwarted. Demons were to be mocked and, eventually, sent back to whence they came-

"Trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, and that his soul may be as damned and black as hell, whereto it goes!" Vorpal hisses. The Bard was a favorite of the Fae for quotations. Can't imagine why.

Above the slavers there is an explosion of sound like that of a sonic boom- and a sudden light reveals what has arrived. The princess of Themyscira, Wonder Woman herself is flying down towards them, her lasso glowing like the furnace of Hestia herself and illuminating her scintillating figure. She is coming, her expression seems to say to the slavers, and she is coming for you!

Vorpal's illusion of the Amazon is not like your usual sorcerer illusion: if you disbelieve it, it is still there, because it is a twisting of reality in order to create an actual image, actual sound and scent, albeit substanceless. To all senses psychic and magical, there is a will in the illusion, because it is a working of will, and thus it may temporarily fool some into believing that Wonder Woman is there.

That's all Vorpal really needs. Cold unleashes his freezing and Lunair- oh, he knows her style- starts also attacking the slavers, which adds an even greater level of terror (Lunair AND Wonder Woman teamed up?) that he can exploit as he quickly Rabbit Holes himself into the spot. While Lunair and co. fight the slavers themselves, Vorpal's priority will be to teleport the poor women out of the fray and past the SWAT team, into safe spot, via his Rabbit Hole.

"Don't be afraid," the cheshire cat says as he tries to grab the nearest woman and push her towards his hole, "We're here to save you."

Through the sight, Red Hood watches the man assault the woman, but he also catches sight of the snake-like man. Interesting. Even as he considers who to choose as a target with the sniper rifle, Cold's, Lunair's, and Vorpal's attacks go off. That will actually provide a nice cover for his own shot. The rifle is then aimed at the guy he's dubbed (to himself), as 'Voldemort' and he fires two shots before abandoning the gun and rapelling down to join the fray.

After all, it's no fun when one is stuck, safely, on a roof!

Magdalena shivers as she feels the presence of the demon ahead. Maybe this is connected to her demon hunt after all. She springs off the roof of her building and sprints for the barges as all Hell (or Heaven) is let loose. The air is filled with bullets and screams of anger, panic and pain. The armored woman darting and rolling across the battlefield, aiming straight for the source of the demonic discomfort.

Magdalena can't afford to take notice of the arrival of Wonder Woman, not when she has evil men trying to turn her into a lead pencil. The bullets ricochet off her armor if she isn't able to dodge them completely, her Spear returning the gift of pain with interest. It slices through limbs and weapons with disturbig ease. Magdalena doesn't seem interested in killing them for now. Painful, bloody, permanent incapacitation is enough for now - and is the Christian thing to do - but there is one there that she would be more than happy to send back to Hell. And she is getting closer.


Logan can almost feel the snake's tongue slithering into his ear. As close as the man giving commands is, his voice alone would've been enough to give him away to the mutant; everything else is unwelcome corroboration. His nostrils twitch— and then flare.

Burning rubber. An encroaching wall of fumes.

The cordite hits him as its accompanying reports draw an irritated roar from his throat. Tightly wound tendons explode into action and the hairy statue becomes a rending blur as he tries to bring the commander down to his level with a clarion


That, or take his legs out from under him a bit more literally; he's maybe 80 percent sure on the man's precise location, which leaves a pretty healthy margin of maiming. Today, this suits him just fine.

Lillith moves through the maze quietly, stopping every now and then as a few of the Metas who took up place behind the area themselves begin to close in, attempting to capture the SWAT team into a circle of fiery death. Imagine that, it would be worse than the Valentines Day Massacre in itself, thirty dead SWAT members would make Jiminez proud.

The footsteps were close, but with an arm outstretched, Little grabs one by the collar to hold tight an arm around his neck to quietly choke him out.. and then she presses on.

This was the area in her daydream, out in the open.. the man whom she saw has his back to her.. all well and good. And yet, not. The ice that draws from his hands causes her to gasp, her hand covering her mouth as she quietly toes the line… was he on their side?

Either way. This wouldn't do.

With a quick and quiet sprint, her peacoat is flung to the side as she withdraws her glock, hopping over the crate to march forward, gun raise and soon pressed to the back of Cold's head. "Move an inch and I'll fuck up your noodle. Hands in the air, and slow."

The ship becomes abuzz with life as the gunshots ring out, SWAT was fully on engaged with the Metas upon the ground while those on the boat work to keep their precious cargo 'safe', for lack of the better word. A bullet whizzes by, immediately taking out a meta upon the left, who falls back upon the ground and clutches his shoulder in a scream. This sends the 'slaves' into a panic, screaming and ducking with the intent to get away. And the one who remains upon the boxes of cargo, seems unmoved.

"CORAL THEM IN! BACK INTO THE CONTAINER!" He barks out, finally jumping from his perch as the snake uncoils itself with a plop to the ground to slither around his feet. That was until his eyes alight upon the presence from above, his fingers curling into a fist as he looks up, with others following suit.

From Mexico they've heard the rumors and have seen her in her plight, her full battle glory, they know that gaze as it struck fear in the hearts of many men, Metas included.


Some Metas begin to scatter, leaving the slaves for Vorpal's picking, some willingly push themselves and others with them into the hole, while the woman looks on to the fae spirit with thankfullness. "My name is Alicia, and I am forever in your deb.. EEE!" And down she goes.


The shots fired from the Hood hit true to home, striking the demonic man right in between the eyes with shocking precision. Gotham is here, and it is so lethal.

The man's head leans back, his mouth hung open in shock, and it slowly begins to stretch.. the sound of crawling and chittering of bugs reveals itself in the form of a lone snake that draws itself from it's depths. It's a wonder as to why Jiminez chose this one as his chosen few.

The growl from Logan gets missed by the commander, but he was swiped and brought down to the ground upon his back, not exactly choking on the snake that eject itself from his mouth, the slithering mass coiling upon the ground as many more began to spill upon the decks of the large ship.

Those being mowed down by the threesome hurt. Some dead, some alive.. others charging in the face of madness towards Lunair guns blazing, some attempting to shoot down Hood from his fallen-from perch.. and another leaping towards Logan in a crazy war cry as a woman ducks out of the way and slides into the rabbit hole with shocking precision.

Mayhem. It has been brought.

Spotting the arrival - illusion or not - of Wonder Woman, causes Cold to briefly closes his eyes and shake his head dubiously, despite bullets flying overhead already. And the presence of cops.


He's helping cops.

Isn't he?

"What is it with heroes and their entrances?" he mutters to himself - ignoring the fact that he just froze part of the harbour. And then there is the problem of the trigger-happy police officer with a gun pressed to the back of his head. "Speaking of entrances…" he mutters again, his words slow and deliberate.

Cold obeys, standing to his feet with his ice-covered arms raised… "You know, Officer…" he tells Crowley over his shoulder without turning his head; his expression is tired - no, bored. Annoyed. With an undercurrent of angry. "As much as I like a good dance with the law, the REAL 'bad guys' are THAT way, on that barge, and - in case you haven't noticed - I'm NOT on their side. Would you mind - "

He never gets to finish the sentence. A hail of bullets from the slavers in his and Crowley's direction strike the crates and ground all around the officer and criminal - some of them shattering on the icy shielding that coats Cold's arms.

The nearest of the SWAT team (to Cold and Crowley) drops screaming, a bullet in his thigh. Another officer drops, clutching nothing. Dead.

Lunair is helping the heroes. She's doing her best. She resists waving to Red Hood because that was A REALLY GOOD SHOT. "Good shooting!" She offers over to the hooded man, though she probably draws a lot more fire by being noisy, armored and barreling in. Lunair switches to two SMGs, blasting at any slaver foolish enough to charge her. Unfortunately, an officer is in the charge. "THIS. IS. A DOoooooooooo— no, that's just wrong. This is a serious fight." *BOOT* and into the water he goes.

"Just help the slaves, gosh!" She really is childlike in a lot of departments.

Lunair pauses. "Oh, whoa. Ice dude." GOTTA invite him to the next party. And Wonder Woman. Sweet. She's more noise and mayhem than marksmanship, knowing she can mend armor - though she does get knocked back and goes rolling like the NRA's finest tumbleweed. And she pops back up. "Rude!" *BULLETS ENSUE*

The Wonder Woman illusion is only effective until contact is achieved, after all, since she lacks all substance. That doesn't matter, the illusion has done what he needed it to do. Once he has gotten the slaves across the portal, the cheshire cat grins rather horribly.



A glowing, purple mallet appears in the cheshire cat's hands as he closes the Rabbit Hole. The mallet is in the shape of a flamingo, and it is so large that it could probably make Harley Quinn fall in love. He swings that mallet with sweet abandon and the expertise of a trained fighter, not holding back against the slavers.

He thinks he catches sight of those fighting in the vicinity with him "-hey, this is quite a reunion!" he shouts. The Wonder Woman illusion is dismissed in favor of blinding lights that he directs towards the nearest foes, "Coffee and donuts after this?"

Red Hood ziplines right into the fray, his guns blazing and firing even as he lowers down to the ground. Once his feet hit the ground, he's ducking behind a crate or a car or whatever for cover, but he hasn't stopped firing. A flash-bang grenade is tossed towards the group firing at him and if it catches a few of the SWAT members, oh well.

While the baddies are blinded, or semi-blinded by the grenade, Red Hood pops up and fires at them, guns in both hands. Let Wonder Woman handle the big, bad snake. Or not, as she disappears. Rolling his eyes under his helmet, Red Hood calls out, "Anyone want to actually get Nagini there?!"

Magdalena dodges, parries, thrusts and slices her way through anyone stupid enough to get in her way on the path to the demon. A demon that suddenly has a lot less legs and slithers along the ground like all such creatures must. From under her cloak she produces cross-shaped throwing knives, their blades dipped in Holy Water, that she flings at the largest serpent. Even a nick will cause it some discomfort but those that pierce its scaly flesh will make it scream. And a screaming snake is something to hear.

Twirling her Spear in her hands, Magdalena strides towards the snake to deliver some divine justice…and then sees that the SWAT team are in trouble. Surrounded and collapsing back in a circle that brings to mind Little Big Horn, Magdalena is conflicted - but only for a moment. Innocent lives need saving first! Cloak billowing out behind her she sprints for the distant SWAT team. "Hold that snake!" she yells back at Logan…Vorpal…anyone brave enough, and stupid enough, to do as she asks.

The *plop!* is all wrong when the serpent-tongued man falls into the container because, well.

Logan wasn't exactly expecting all that serpent to hit the ground with the man.

But: now that it's here, he has to deal with it. Because he now has two sets of wickedly sharp adamantium jutting from his forearms, 'dealing with it' means lunging towards the writhing mass with broad swipes meant to help him make snake sashimi of the horrible thing.

There's just so much of it, though— more than enough to roll oppressively against him while he works his claws out of its flesh and crush him into its slick, undulating bulk.

His distraction allows what would otherwise be a suicidal Meta to leap straight at him with a metal bat. Its warped and scarred surface hisses ominously as it rips through the air. Halfway to Logan's skull, the air combusts a foot away from the bat; by the time contact is made, it is white hot and screaming.

"RrrrrrAAAAAAAAAGH!" Logan roars over the sound of the flesh over his skull blistering and blackening. Forearms flex as he thrashes in the serpent's coils. Embedded claws shred flesh with abandon until its grip loosens enough for him to stumble free.

All while the frenzied Meta continues searing chunks of his scalp and face away with vicious swings of his bat— which goes a long way towards explaining the stumbling. There is a pause, however, once Logan is able to turn fully towards the man. They meet eye to bloodied, enraged eye.

It's the last thing the Meta ever sees.

Since his original plan had been to question the guy giving orders and the guy giving orders is probably going to have a hard time talking with a goddamn snake coming out of his mouth, Logan decides to improvise. Any further wrestling with the goddamn snake will have to wait until he's done.

Maybe fifteen feet away, a Meta is pinned down behind a group of containers. It isn't the officers that have him stuck; he was exchanging fire with them moments ago, but he hasn't popped up since the snakes began carpeting the ship. They haven't reached him yet but he knows - he knows - that they're closing in around him. A line of wetness creeps down one of his legs— and then drips down to the dock as his feet leave the ground.

"Don't suppose you wanna tell me anything about a man named Jiminez," Logan rumbles in his ear while hoisting him up by the collar. Hunched on one of the Meta's cover containers, the mutant has the decent vantage for orienting his captive towards the snakes. He lets the Meta figure out what might happen to him otherwise.

"I know exactly where they are. And we have all the help we need. You need to get your a.." Just when she was about to give Cold reprieve, the world begins to slow, her finger slacking upon the trigger as her head slightly hangs to the side. One.. two.. three.. several Metas in all fire down upon the gathering with her included, the bullets at a slow motion which causes her hand to drop, the other to reach out to grasp Cold and tug him towards her in a dance. That embrace was nothing kind, a hard grasp that would spin him possibly into action but would give her the limelight to lower to her knee to shoot with scary precision into the darkness.

"There are more coming.." One SWAT member runs up towards the two.. soon falling to his knees, his body shaking and trembling in the throes of death. Lillith reaches out to grasp the mans hand, holding onto him to see him into the afterlife.. while touching to the heart yes.. it only angered her more.

"Get the hell out of here dude.. before you wind up dead."

Lunair was getting the shitty side of the getup, though her getup is what actually protects her from getting dead. The Metas don't let up, but she has a little bit of help, a few Swat members taking the bull by the horns and tackling a few that fire at Lunair, billy clubs extended and beating the attackers until they're unconscious, cuffing some and falling to the bullets that smack hard against their kevlar. But they were a sort that would not be swayed, there was a job to be done.

Surely some of the crew that was near Vorpal gives him pause, a wide-eyed stare full of 'what the fuck' and a slow backing away. One Meta jumps overboard to hit the hard ice below, while others take the chance to climb over cargo and other debris to run to safety.

But there was one unfearful from the bunch, a guy no older than twenty who smacks his fist together repeatedly, each hard pound draws those fist to enlarge with shocking size. He has a hammer of his own, and charges towards Vorpal with each crushing fist that smacks against the ground of the ship, causing it to shake and tremble.

Red Hood's attack was glorious of course, he moves like a man possessed as each try to take him down with a bullet or a brick, some taking shots to the gut and curling up like women when their Aunts come to visit, others folding faster than Superman on laundry night; their butts puckering and balls fleeing..

But not the commander. The shell, the meatsuit that writhes and slithers upon the ground squeals as one of it's snakes was hit by the holy water, the other snakes attempting to tangle and wrestle with Logan who.. successfully gets away.

But you leave a snake alone to play..


This is what you get for not tackling the problem head on. While the crowd was thinning and some of the SWAT members quickly drag their captors away and into custody, while bodies remain upon the docks twitching, groaning out in pain..

The slithering snakes begin to build themselves from the ground up, some falling to the ground to slither around and reattach themselves to the horde, the snake-made man soon drawing out and into the darkness ..

"I.. I Jiminez.. fuck you both! Fuck everything! I can't deal with this shit man! I got kids! I got fuckin kids man I just wanted them to get here man! Land of the free and all that bullshit, man you gotta let me go!"

..All the while.. the creeping sounds of chewing and hissing could be heard at Vorpal and Logan's back..

Cold scowls back at Crowley, crouching on the ground behind a hastily cast wall of ice. Shards of it fly in different directions as bullets ricochet off its surface, but the man's shield… holds. For now. At Crowley's orders to 'get the hell out of here', he snorts.

"Like hell."

As soon as there is a break in the hail of bullets flying his way, Cold stands up and takes a leap at his little wall of ice. Although it seems for an instant that he will miss it with his foot, pillars of ice shoot up from the ground underneath his feet - one, by one, by one, and so forth - effectively providing him a staircase into the air.

As he falls, he extends both arms before him and projects twin torrents of absolute zero temperature at the air beneath, creating a veritable slide. His feet strike the slippery slope and the man whisks downward and across the dock in the direction of the barge. One more slide projected - this time going upwards - and he soars toward the ship's upper deck.

Hurling shards of ice at the mass of snakes upon it.

Behind Cold, the combined wall and 'steps' he had used to get into the air… form the image of a fist with a middle 'finger' raised… which anyone standing in Crowley's vicinity will likely notice.

Well, this escalated quickly. Lunair seems a little amused that Red Hood is ziplining in. "… what's a Nagini?" She asks him, in all sincerity. Someone lives(d) under a rock. Lunair really doesn't know. She seems in awe of the angriest nun(TM) and well, most of the combatants. She appreciates the help, and in turn, pays it back by nudging officers out of the line of fire(s). For her part, as the combat thins, she's taking more precise aim. "Thank you, sirs!" She really is glad for the help and relieved the slaves are getting out.

"Oh shit, snakes on a dock." A geometric- "Oh my god, snakes on a geometric plane." SOMEONE was going to say it. And she did. Boom.

For her part, she blinks at the ice. "Um, cool." Derp. Then, at the sound of SNEKS, Lunair hesitates. Poor sneks. She likes sneks. She has to think a moment. BAD SNEKS. And now it's time for - a shockwave staff. Sonic booms and shockwaves ensue as snakes go flying.

Eat your heart out, Samuel L. Jackson.

Vorpal quietly thanks Lunair for taking care of the mother-in'g snakes. Especially since right now he has bigger probems as Mister Hammer Hands comes for him.

True to the chaos cat's nature, however, it might not surprise some that Vorpal decides to face this with a song, as the Beatles appear on deck, singing:

~The judge does not agree and he tells them so oh oh oh
But as the words are leaving his lips
A noise comes from behind

Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon his head
Do do do do do!~

"Let's talk about your aggression problems!" Vorpal says, hopping onto a construct platform that levitates off the ground, to keep him from toppling over from the shockwaves. His grinning, insouciant expression is targeted exclusively at the Meta, "Don'tchaknow that all you need is love? C'mon and give peace a chance."

He is a perfect target for a swing of one of those crushing meathooks the man has. It's exactly what he wants- if the young man swings at him, Vorpal is going to open a Rabbit Hole in the path of that blow… and open its sister right at the back of the meta, hoping to get the man to, yes, hit himself.

He's not going to say 'stop hitting yourself', because really, the Beatles said it better. If it works.

God, he hopes it works.

"Harry Potter," is called back…apparently even Gothamites have heard of the Boy who Lived. Red Hood continues firing at the gangers…maybe some metas aren't hurt as much by the bullets, but unless they're armored, they seem to work well enough. If anything, it's a distraction and a barrier for others to come to their aid.

After another round, he ducks behind cover to replenish his ammo. One gun is actually capped with a cannister and he ducks around to fire it into the snakes. Maybe tear gas will do something to them…don't snakes smell with their tongues?

It means he will need to reload that gun in a moment, but it's worth a shot while the other fires at gangers.

Magdalena is not an angry nun. Wrath is a motherfucking sin and Magda don't play that. What this is, is 'Religious Education'. Sunday School with spears and swords. The descendent of Christ reaches the circle around the SWAT guys and grabs the likeliest leader of the thugs. Not to snap his neck or slam his head into the concrete, but instead she stares deeply into his eyes. "Do you see" she whispers. Magadalena reaches into his very soul and finds what is left of his humanity. And then she shows him the Hell that awaits his present course. He pales and starts to jabber as his gun falls to the ground. "You see what you have in store? What your friends have waiting? Look, it is even closer than you think." She turns his head to stare at the giant demonic snake forming. "Do you want that?" He trembles as he shakes his head. "Then order your friends to stop and help save their souls." With that she releases him to try and get the metas to surrender…she now has a demon snake to deal with. No rest for the saintly.

Freaky mutant senses or no, Logan and his captive probably hear what's behind them at about the same time, which is probably more upsetting for the Meta than it is Logan.

"Yeah? You wanna see 'em again?" he hisses as his body grows tense. "Tell 'em what a great dad you are, sellin' girls into slavery for 'em?"

He waits. Even if the Meta cracks immediately, he gives it a second or two for the predatory chorus at their heels to approach a crescendo.

"Jiminez." Following that succinct command, he hurls the man into the water while straightening to his full height, then adds, "Stay put. One way or another, we're talkin' later."

In one smooth movement, he twists and lunges towards the gnashing hell consuming the ship. Briefly retracted claws return in time to commence cutting snakes to ribbons in an effort to keep ahead of their slithering inevitability.

The sonic booms bursting periodically actually prove beneficial to a degree: each one hits his sensitive ears like a hook from Tyson or Grant, spurring him to rend just a little more viciously as the pain inflames him.

Of course, they ''also'' make it difficult to concentrate on anything ''but'' hacking anything that slithers, which includes giving much attention to non-hacking methods of keeping them from swarming him.

Freaky mutant senses or no, Logan and his captive probably hear what's behind them at about the same time, which is probably more upsetting for the Meta than it is Logan.

"Yeah? You wanna see 'em again?" he hisses as his body grows tense. "Tell 'em what a great dad you are, sellin' girls into slavery for 'em?"

He waits. Even if the Meta cracks immediately, he gives it a second or two for the predatory chorus at their heels to approach a crescendo.

"Jiminez." Following that succinct command, he hurls the man into the water while straightening to his full height, then adds, "Stay put. One way or another, we're talkin' later."

In one smooth movement, he twists and lunges towards the gnashing hell consuming the ship. Briefly retracted claws return in time to commence cutting snakes to ribbons in an effort to keep ahead of their slithering inevitability.

The sonic booms bursting periodically actually prove beneficial to a degree: each one hits his sensitive ears like a hook from Tyson or Grant, spurring him to rend just a little more viciously as the pain inflames him.

Of course, they also make it difficult to concentrate on anything but hacking anything that slithers, which includes giving much attention to non-hacking methods of keeping them from swarming him.

"Motherfucker.." Lillith manages to hiss in Cold's direction as he effectively gotten away from her grasp and given her the finger all in one go. The direction he went is noted, winced at, and soon the gun hand trains out from her crouched position to fire into the darkness again, holding onto the hand that's grown slack within her grasp. He was gone from this world, but his notice saved a dozen of lives this night.

She rips the walkie from his shoulder, clicking in three times before she speaks into the comms:

"Officers down. I repeat. Officers down. Injured and casualties, send as many busses as you can. And we need backup! Friendlies on the scene!" (If you can consider Cold a friendly. It must be Thursday.)

"Jiminez is.. he's.." But the meta's eyes grow wide as he takes a look upon the scowling might of Apep, the howling snakes in a constant state of movement as a hand reaches out to try to pluck only to suffer a slash of adamantium claws that sever makeshift fingers only to be made anew. The meta? Glad to be out of the grip of the Wolverine but is suffering a broken ankle from the fall. But fuck that noise, he's crawling across the ice to get away from ever being seen with that crew again.

Call it guilt.

Meanwhile, the remaining SWAT team is forever thankful for Lunair. She provided ample cover for them to get to safety, a few lingering behind in a way to 'protect' the young woman and assist in whatever she needs.. yet the sonic boom causes them to collapse upon the ground, fearful of feedback.

Apep rattles, the snakes breaking apart in middair admist the booms and slashes, yet comes together again in that frightening construct to try to bring a fist down home towards Logan, the demon god will never give up until the steeled man is crushed between its.. feet.. whatever that is..

The hammer fist boy does in fact swing towards Vorpal, he wasn't as skilled in the ways of battle that Vorpal was, for once that fist goes flying.. through the portal.. out the otherside to bring its full weight crashing down upon it's own jaw.


This is the sound, pretties, of a jaw shattering and a kid gone down. It hurt like hell, and he was awake to live the tale and actually sob loudly about it.

The smoke bomb that was thrown upon the desk does wonders. Check that, tear gas, for the snakes hiss and rattle, nearly coming apart all around Logan, for there was a few that even try to latch upon his skin in vicious bites just to the the taste of the gass from out of their mouths..

The man that Mag's holds onto sees the truth in her eyes. Fiery pits of hell and suffering all plague his senses. He didn't just sign up for this job, he gave his life to the Metas and forgotten everything afterwards. And this was all but a mistake. His family that he left behind all in the search of glory and power, suffered with constant threats of his many mishaps and even lost life and limb because of it. And he didn't care one bit.

"FALL BACK!" He suddenly begins to scream, "FALL BACK NOW!"

The few remaining Metas who were wise enough to recognize the panic, to understand the weight of the fear that dripped from his voice, does so.. running in every which direction which leads them into the hands of the SWAT, or felled by the remaining bullets that fly through the air.

Amid slashing claws, flying bullets, spreading teargas and striking serpents Cold lands on the deck.

Immediately, his face contorts in a grimace. "Perhaps this was not just a great idea after all…" he manages to mutter before being forced to put an arm over his mouth. In response, Snart's cold-field kicks in, freezing anything within striking distance of him instantly. Bullets stop in mid-air, and snakes… become ice-sculptures.

Fortunately, Snart is not close enough to Logan to affect him.

The captain of cold takes one look at the construct of snakes and then at Logan. "Look alive," he mutters loud enough for Logan to hear (easily, considering it's Logan), and stamps his foot on the deck. As with the docks, frost lances out from his foot and erupts right underneath the construct - a single spike thrust up into the sky, that then branches out into a tree of sorts.

A Christmas Tree.

With bits of serpent skewered all over it.

And a snake's head on top.

Cold smirks.

"Happy holidays."

Oops. Lunair will apologize to Logan. Later, though. She is busy clearing the way of snakes. "Bad snakes! BAD! Hi officers! Please be careful and take cover." She might be cheerfully murderous, but Lunair is generally good. She is glad the SWAT team are thankful for her. Most SRD see the firepower she packs and report her harder than a farmer in WoW.

"I am okay! Please to be getting away from SNAKES!" This is true.

And then suddenly, SNAKED TREE. "Oh wow. That is so haunting my nightmares." Yup. But once the snakes are a bit more clear, Lunair will check in on Hoodie.

"Now you know what it's like ya little brat, maybe you won't be so quick to hit the other kids!" Vorpal says, stepping off his perch and giving Hammerhands a glare.

Right, now he had to help the little squat guy with the serpentine monstrosit-

OR NOT. The cheshire cat slowly walks in the air, over insivible platforms he creates (because he loves to keep people guessing about his powers) and approaches Logan with an expression that is both amused and disgusted at once.

"Deck the halls with gore and heaving, falalalalah, falala-braaaaap! Down we now our Peto-Bismols, falalah, falalah, lalah-gaaah!"

The cheshire's spandex outfit has transformed into a little santa suit and he has a santa hat over him, the end with the bell jauntily hanging over one side of his face.

"Yes, Logan, there is a Santa Claws!" and cue Cheshire grin.

Red Hood continues firing as the thugs begin trying to run away, but the shots stop with the Snake-tree erupts into existence. The guns are held up but he just sort of stares at the gruesome sight before letting the guns just hang from his thumbs. "That's it. Mic drop. I can't do anything better than that. Done."

Even he knows when it's time to just step back and admire the handiwork.

Magdalena doesn't step back and admire it…impressive as it is…she knows that's just pissed off a greater demon, not stopped it. Though it has also given her something to aim at. She'll thank Cold later. Running pelmet across the deck she leaps up onto a crate, then up onto Logan's shoulders…she'll apologise to him later too…and then springs forward towards the giant Snake-Tree. The Spear of Destiny leading the way it crashes into the crystalline shell and burns into the demon soul trapped within. Her impetus carrying her through the 'tree' and down onto the deck beyond. She rolls on her landing before coming to a crouched stop with her back to the now shivering tree of snakes - it looks cooler to onlookers. The demon snake swells as divine power courses through its trapped body…and then it explodes as its spirit is sent back to Hell. The ice becoming an early snow fall. Please don't eat the snow.

Logan is bristling with ice by the time Apep strikes. The bleeding mutant manages to meet the compressed mass of serpents claws first, which is as much a show of defiance as anything else. He certainly can't outpower the Sun Swallower, so he mostly just manages to cut some of the snakes away as the rest spill over him.

He hears Snart's warning but doesn't comply— can't comply; Apep's extended limb and Cold's precision mean that he doesn't need to, though. While many of the snakes clinging to Logan go unskewered, unfrozen, the sudden loss of divine mass makes them a hell of a lot easier to deal with.

Which just about makes up for the ice intermittently popping out of his back to shatter on the deck.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters to himself while throwing snakes at the cabin and into the water, slinging them into supply containers, and generally doing whatever he can to divest himself of them with extreme prejudice as he bolts from the gas and past the cat with rivers of tears and snot streaming down his face. Every word that follows is much worse.

"Logan, that's disgusting!" the cheshire calls to his running sometimes-ally, "Good job!" What? It's funny. Usually Logan is full of kickass and squirts it everywhere to unsuspecting foes. Now, it's mucus.

But that's when mademoiselle Madeleine (Frech version of Magda, now you know, and knowing is half the battle!) does like Neon Genesis Evangelion and thrusts her Longinus, slaying the demon. The problem? That thing is RIFE with holy energy.

The Fae don't quite get along with holy energies. As the feedback from the slaying irradiates outwards, it catches Vorpal-

And suddenly there is no Vorpal, only Keith O'Neil, a red-headed human dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.

And floating about five feet in the air, where the invisible platform he had just created has ceased to exist. Behold as gravity takes hold, and the inevitable happens.


And there were some snakes Logan didn't quite get to just yet. Don't worry, because Keith is falling on the knot of them… and, thankfully he doesn't get bitten by sheer luck. Because he basically squishes them to death and is now, in fact, covered in snake goo and blood and all sorts of disgusting things.

"OH FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD!" he says, holding his arms before him, an expression of extreme disgust on his face.

Logan, you have been avenged.


Twenty Fathoms South:

Binoculars catch the scene from far away, a man in the all typical white remains upon the boat, one foot pressed against the perch of it as a cigarette hangs from the side of his mouth. Smoke plooms as he watches the melee from afar, drawing the binoculars down as the row of men stand behind him, black suits in all that would put the C.I.A to shame.


The ray of Holy Light acts as a beacon for the police, ambulance, and firemen to head towards, their sirens in the distance, a wake up call for most of the men who were too injured to move, and a sound of saving grace for the police officers upon the scene with their many captures ziptied and held off. Lillith was among the few, the few who manage to get to the barge just in time to see the mess of the boat itself, and the carnage that alights upon it.

"What. The. Fuck." She manages to say aloud. She wasn't mad at all. Not at them. They saved the day and apparently, thankfully, she missed the pure guts of it.

"IA is enroute, Detective.." One of the SWAT Team members calls out, Lillith looking over her shoulder to offer up a nod and a.. wrinkle of her nose towards the scene itself.. "What the hell is that smell?"

But the heroes, each feature was committed to memory, from the redhead boy who fell from his platform to the Magdalena who carries the blood of Christ in her veins. A silent word of thanks before..


Those who roll with Lillith often times don't appreciate a vigilante handout.


"Para folla bien . Tenemos un topo en nuestras midsts y necesitamos dar cuerpo a cabo ahora . Gire el yate alrededor, apuntar hacia Metrópolis. Vamos a atracar allí y conseguir el resto de la expedición y en los camiones . Envía la palabra . Y quiero que todo el que encabeza la investigación encontrado y muerta!" Jiminez barks out, tossing his binoculars into the water, pitching a right fit of flailing limbs and kicks to his men who take the beating and flee before they're hit.



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