The Adventures of Captain Deadpool (and friends)

February 27, 2016:

Lwa and Tiny go out for Mexican food. Deadpool did, too.

Otisburg - Gotham

Otisburg was originally three separate locations but after the 09'
earthquake restructure it's grown in size and those residential, commercial
and industrial burroughs have all become a part of Otisburg. The Otisburg
section of Gotham City stretches Burnley and it's Bay Side harbors
overlooking the Gotham River and Arkham Asylum up northwards where it flows
in to Newtown, the Scituate, Bryanttown, Grant's sporting district, West
Village and Amusement Mile of North Point.

From residential, industrial, entertainment and commercial Otisburg is a hub
of activity with it's lionshare of opportunities to be had.

The direct portion of Otisburg is actually called Bryanttown and is
dominated by heavy industry and chemical factories. Ace Chemicals, Wayne
Chemicals and Brant Chemicals all host sizable complexes here that run off
along Sprang River through a very high-tech set up of water filtration
systems. It is in Otisburg that one can find the easiest access pints to the
very complex underground waterways and sewage tunnels of Gotham City.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

"Say what again! I dare you! I dare you to say what again!" Deadpool shouts at the fellow he's got at gun point. It's utter bedlam in the cafe, and between the smell of burning powder and the screams of patrons in cover, it looks like whatever situation was going on has vastly deteriorated.

"Que?" the fellow says, in horror.

Well, he didn't say 'what'. "He said it in Spanish!" Deadpool snaps aloud. "And I know, because I speak excellent Spanish!" You do not, you only know how to order beer and ask where the bathroom is, you putz. "So?" Deadpool demands of the air, ignoring the confusion on his target's face. "Who are you, the king of Spanish?" Doesn't Mexico use a President? Yeah, Spain uses a king, though. "Actually I think they're a parliamentary monarchy," Deadpool supplies.

Outside, one of the cops surrounding the restaurant gets on the bullhorn. "Sir, put down the gun," he blerts into the crisp air. Outside the Mexican restaurant, about a dozen cops cars and SWAT are pulled up in a semicircular cordon, and they've got weapons aimed into the building. The street level windows are completely gone, and the bullet holes around the area indicate it was a pretty good gunfight.

"Hey, hang on a minute!" Deadpool snaps at the cops. "I'll put my damn guns down when I get my chimichangas!"

"Sir, you are escalating the situation," the cop replies.

"Escalating my butt! I just wanted some food! How did I know this was a front? How come they don't label these places 'Mexican Restaurant— Actually a Cartel Front, DO NOT ORDER HERE'," he demands, looking back at the terrified sicario he's poking in the nose with his heavy pistol. "Or at least don't hide your heroin in the #10, then get pissed when someone orders THE NUMBER TEN!"


*BOOM* Blood and brains spray, and Deadpool shakes his head sadly. "I -told- him not to do that," he mutters. It's true. I heard you. What? I was in the bathroom. Oh, you killed that guy. Nice.

Lyn was taking a walk through Gotham. Assuming that she was heading toward a certain town house perhaps ready to beg one of the men that stayed there for another warm place to sleep that night. Along the way, she ran into the same towering figure with dark hair and intense azure eyes that had earlier that day punch a monster into next week. He didn't talk much, but he did walk with her.

"Well, y'doin' good s'far. Y'punch better dan I ever could. 'mean, don' even know what type a'monster dat was, neither. Don' like what it did t'my head. H-hey…stop dat. It's just hair."

The man easily towers over the girl, but she does reach up and lightly wave-slaps his hand away from brushing against her floofy hair. Again. "What y'say y'name was, again? Tiny? Y'shittin' me, right? Who came up wit dat? Hope it wasn't you." She muses, her smirk pressing a dimple into one cheek. And then, they come into view of the 'Mexican' stand off. "Well…guess we ain't gettin' Mexican t'night after all."

"I'd never seen anything like that before," Tiny says with a shrug while walking beside the young woman. "That creature, or those people acting like that." Of course, the former lab rat doesn't point out he hadn't seen anything like the city either…but that wasn't exactly great for cover. Better for people to think he was a little slow. Pulling his hand back from that floof when it's slapped he gives a little apologetic look. "Sorry I just…where does your head actually start?"

It's an odd question, but one suddenly and thankfully diverted by the sound of the gunshot and the sight of the police officers. "What's going on in there?" he blinks before already starting to walk towards the building without a second thought. Yeah…he'd never seen a police line either.

Amazingly, all hell hadn't broken loose at that point, because all hell promptly breaks loose -right- when Tiny says that. From the second-story window over the cafe comes the sound of shattering glass, and like a hellish thunderstorm automatic gunfire rings out. Cops break for cover and shoot back wildly, but the sturdy brick walls absorb the lead flying upwards. In short order it's clear that the dozen or so uniformed patrol men are outgunned, and SWAT's pinned down in their armored van, unable to break loose from the withering hail of fire.

Simultaneously, from behind Lyn and Tiny, two large F-350 vans with illegal window tinting race up, nearly drifting the corners. One pulls up a few yards away and the side door opens, revealing more heavily tattooed sicarios in lightweight body armor and sporting illegal, crude looking automatic pistols. "Vaya!" the leader shouts, jumping out of the passenger seat to rush to the aid of the ones in the cafe.

"Oooh! Someone's started a party— and I'm not invited?" Deadpool says, the white holes in his eyemask widening. He peers at the cops scrambling for cover, and it doesn't take long for him to figure out where the extra bullets are coming from. He turns and dashes for the rear of the cafe. A fellow whips around the corner with a shotgun leveled at his hip, but Deadpool taps him twice in the head before he can get a shot off. John Wick, eat your heart out!

He thumps up the stairs to the second floor and kicks the door open, and with a pistol in each hand he starts spraying lead rapid-fire at the gang that's upstairs.
Which is all well and good, but it still leaves the cops scrambling to dress their defensive line, putting Lyn and Tiny right in the middle of the action with reinforcements coming in hot.

"Where does my…wat de hell type a'question is dat?" Before she can continue to explain that hair does not equal skull size, she is caught off guard by the taller man secondary curiosity. Almost like a puppy, or kitten, she watches as something new and shiny claims his attention, causing him to turn toward the line up.


Like a ticking time bomb, everything goes from 5 to 100 in a span of seconds. The girl may have powers, but she can't really do much of anything against bullets. "Get down, boy!" She calls out to Tiny, still wonderfully unaware of his own skills.
Her hands sink into her hair, as if they would protect her from getting shot, her eyes close and fall into darkness just in time to smell burning rubber from vehicles trying to stop on a dime and claim 9 cents back. Nervously nibbling her lower lip, she tries to find someone, anyone, that looks a bit more important than everyone else. There are baddies here, with guns, behind cops.

Time to act. Flipping off her shades, she swipes her hands against the ground, pulling up any amount of dirt, gravel, and even glass, that she can. Rubbing her finger tips into them, she focuses on the man who yelled some type of order, and after murmuring a few soft words, she places her fingers against her naked eyes, rubbing in the jagged, disturbing objects.

It's a legitimate question, but one he'll have to answer another time as he goes walking into the open just in time for the gunfire from the upper floor to start raining down. He does -start- to take cover, but when he feels the thump against his jacket, then another and another the man sort of stops still, looking down at the bullet-holes appearing in his clothing but not in his flesh. Huh.

For a good moment he's completely dumbstruck to the point of not instantly noticing the vehicles that pull up screeching tires and unloading more men. But his big green eyes snap up now towards the charging leader and he moves, stepping up towards the man with increasing speed. No words spoken by the Kryptonian clone, but then he wouldn't know what to say anyway.

The fellow is rallying the charge when he stumbles, then stops, sweeping his aviators off his face. His cohorts fumble and lose momentum when he starts rubbing at his eyes, using first one then both fists. A groan truns into a scream, then a series of high, urgent shrieks, missing any semblance of meaning. Blood starts to pour down his hands and the more he rubs his knuckles, the more it hurts, and the more ruined his eyes become. "Agua! Agua! Rapidamente-" are his last words before Tiny's abruptly close enough to lay hands.

The other gangsters unload a burst of automatic fire at Tiny, but it peppers his skin and blows into fragments, accomplishing nothing except wasting ammunition. The cops start to fall back into a more disciplined line, and return fire upstairs while SWAT deploys and lays heavy suppressive fire on the brickfront. Other cops dash towards Lyn and Tiny, shouting at the woman to get clear and opening fire on the gangsters.

Upstairs, Deadpool's having a cinematic good time. "Yeehaw! Come get some!" he shouts, gleefully. The slides of his big Desert Eagles chug back and forth as he wreaks utter havoc with the heavy bullets that gun can throw. A spray of gunfire stitches a bloody line through his stomach, but Deadpool hits the shooter twice in the chest. The impact against body armor sends the fellow flying out the window behind him.

Guns run dry, and Deadpool holsters them and switches to his katanas. The first sicario rushes a door and gets skewered. "I like to keep these for close encounters," he confesses to the fellow who gurgles and twitches. Deadpool leaps into the next room with the blades flickering like he's blocking bullets. TOTAL BULLSHITTERY, BTW. "I know! Blocking bullets, that's stupid. Being functionally immortal 'cause of a healing factor caused by a psychotic government agent's wildly experimental programs? SO much more believable," Deadpool announces. He cuts two more men down and dashes forward, sliding on his knees under a spray of gunfire and coming up with a disemboweling slash.

Lyn smirks at the man begins to cry out in impossible pain. There was nothing there, nothing to wash out, but the damage had been done. Clearing off her own peepers, she hears another cop talk about taking cover, and in a glimpse, she notices that Tiny, that odd blonde that didn't understand a whole lot of anything, was unmovable. Blinking, she pulls away and takes some new cover for herself. Her fingers wrapping around the edge of a car, her hair and face peeking out inquisitively.

One spell was done, but it was time for another. A few deep breaths in and out, she digs into her pocket and pulls out a small hunk of chalk, lovingly lifted off her companion from the night before. Her head rolls to one side, lips moving once more as she draws small shapes on the ground before herself. Her eyes roll back, becoming half lidded to where only slits of jade show through a fanning of long lashes. One hand down, she lifts it, doing a slight rolling movements with her wrist and fingers.

If this worked, if the fates were kind, then the tides of luck would be shifting for those of the gangmembers. Her focus being their firearms.

Bullets don't hurt him, that's something the man files away in his mind while he advances on the thugs and finally reaches out, gripping 'El Jefe' who hadn't realized what he was charging at right away, he hoists the man upwards one-handed and reaches for the weapon the man had been sporting. He's not trying to take the gun, instead he simply grips the barrel and -squeezes- it till it shatters before looking onward to the remaining gunmen. "Stop." He says simply. "Or I'll have to stop you."

"Pinche! Supremos!" one of the gang members yells, backing up in wide, bounding steps, feet splayed apart. "Vamos, queres lucha con el!" he shouts, turning and making a break for it. He turns and tries to fire a burst of automatic fire at the cops, but the gun goes *boom*boom*clk* and goes dead in his hands. He fumbles with it, trying to correct the malfunction, and the gun goes *bang* once more, the bullet going wide— and then the magazine drops out of the receiver. "Bastardo!" he shouts again, smacking the gun with the heel of his hand. Bullets fly through the air and hit him in the lower torso, and he goes down with a thump and a groan of pain. More lead flies, and the other drug and gang members find themselves stuck between the cops and Tiny's huge, invulnerable presence, and throw their guns down and get flat on their faces. The ones closest to the edge of the fight turn and ditch their firearms, fleeing into the alleys like rats escaping a ship.

Upstairs, Deadpool cuts down the last two drug dealers. Even the red dye in his uniform isn't enough to conceal the blood splattering him, and the inside of the building looks like an abattoir.

"See, all this drama," he tells the fellow who's bleeding out on the ground. "For want of just taking the #10 off the order list. Am I seriously the first person who's ever walked into here and ordered the oxtongue chimichanga with extra special sauce?" he inquires. The drug dealer wheezes a few times, burbling, and then goes limp.

Deadpool flicks his katanas around in circle to clean them and sheathes them on his back once more. "It's true what they say, customer service is dead," he complains to the corpses. "Now where am I gonna go for my taco fix? Taco Bell?" More like Taco HELL, amirite? "Hah! Classic," Deadpool chortles.

And because that's such a nicely anticlimactic note, after a few more moments of looking around to decide what to do, he turns around and walks back down the stairs and out the front of the cafe.

"It's okay!" he shouts at the cops, holding hands aloft. "I've killed all the Mexicans!"

You asshole. "I mean, the drug dealers! It's okay," he assures everyone, patting the air with his palms. "I'm not racist— I'm Canadian."

Lyn blinks back into reality, and those tics of time have gone. It's over, well, mostly, and looking down at the marks on the ground, the girl stands up and rubs them away with the toe of her boot. Chalk away, she crosses her arms loosely under her chest, and seems to forget to put her glasses back on.

She's staring forward, watching the cops, the men running away, and those laying on their bellies, just waiting to get the hell out of dodge/Gotham via the back of a squad car. Then there's Tiny, with his newly bullet aerated shirt, and that stare down factor of a brick shithouse.

Then…there's the guy in red. He causes her to quirk a brow and even cant her head in obvious confusion. She eyes the cops, then DP, then back again, just waiting to see what they'll do about the bloody Canadian.

The leader in his hand? Tiny drops him unceremoniously with a thud before pulling his jacket back into place over the shirt…it doesn't really look that much better with all the new holes in it, but he's making an effort right? The tall man steps towards the line once more, eyes searching for the short woman he'd been walking with first and only relaxing after they fall on Loa. "Are you okay?" he questions.

Then the man in red steps out.

The experiment turns his head to look at the katana-wielding gunslinger, the second strangely dressed person with a talent for violence and a taste for red spandex. His eyes narrow for a moment, but not so much out of anger as a frustration of not comprehending something he knows probably should make sense to most. What's worse? Knowing nothing, or knowing you know nothing?

"Goddamnit," one of the cops near the two bystanders mutters sourly. "Friggin' Deadpool again."

The cops start to turn guns on Deadpool, and he points a finger at them, eyeholes narrowing. "Hey! I see what you're doing there," Deadpool barks. "Now, the way -I- see it, I just cleaned out an entire friggin' den of heroin smugglers," he tells them. "I'd just as soon get on Twitter tomorrow and see #TeamDeadpool trending, arright? But you guys know you aren't gonna drop me without SRD here, and they're … what, like eight minutes out?" he asks.

His hands drop to his belt, thumbs looping through it. "So the question here is, do you guys wanna throw down a gunfight with the World's Greatest Mercenary, or just chalk this one up as a public service and let me get away?"

"Also, teleportvanish!"

He grabs the buckle at the front of his belt, and with an electric *bbzzrt* he just… disappears, like an illustration suddenly turning one-dimensional.

"Hey, nice work," one cop tells Tiny as the others swarm the surrendered gangsters. "You really stepped up there. Wish -I- was bulletproof," he says with a sour tone. "Donno which team you're with, but you can pitch in anytime like that," he says with a grin. He offers Tiny a handshake— Lyn's efforts seem unrealized and therefore, unacknowledged.

"Deadpool." The Creole murmurs gently, simply repeating the name so that she can mentally link it to a face. Well, a mask, but same difference sometimes. She nods to Tiny as he questions her well being, and stepping back, she allows the light haired man some space to enjoy his congratulations. Her own actions being as they are seem fine enough to her. You don't do magic to be seen, and if you do, get the money up front.

Walking down the sidewalk, just a little ways from the scene, she begins to study a mini-map that details out whatever bus route might connect with this stop. She's searching for a street in particular, it seems, and only after finding it does she slip her shades back on and calls back toward Tiny. "Hey," she waves. "Y'comin', big'un? I promised tacos, n' don' look like we gettin'em dere anymore."

And he's gone…how'd he do that? More questions and very few answers. At least he's thanked this time as he looks down at the police officer offering praise. "Oh uh…thank you." He offers almost sheepishly. Deep down? Tiny is apparently a big bulletproof puppy. Nodding his head, he's almost too grateful when the Creole calls back to gain his attention and give him an excuse. He steps away from the cop after returning the handshake very VERY carefully and then starts towards Lynette. "Thanks, I better go."

One light jog later and he's back by the 'floof' and the Creole attached, giving a little grin. "Sounds good. I do have just one question though…what's a taco?"

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