Suicide in Midtown

March 31, 2017:

Metahuman terrorists unleash chaos, disruption and murder in a Midtown train station. Members of the Suicide Squad respond, as does Captain Marvel of the Justice League … and the mercenary Deathstroke.

Midtown Manhattan - New York City

Situated between 14th and 59th Streets, Midtown Manhattan is *the* tourist destination in New York City. It is also the largest central business district in America. Most of the tallest skyscrapers in the city can be found here, from the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings to Stark Tower and the Baxter Building. It's also home to Times Square, Broadway, and Fifth Avenue.

In the day, the traffic is non-stop. In the evening, bright neon lights light up the street such that it looks as if the sun simply doesn't set on the city. But, then, there's a reason New York is called The City that Never Sleeps. This, right here, is it.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

New York City. Midtown. Middle of a busy Friday afternoon. Right around rush hour.

There's an explosion at the Port Authority. Smoke billows out of the station, and people flee from the scene as quickly as they can. It's not quickly enough for some of them, however. In the center of the chaos move several metahumans. Where they came from and how they got here is a mystery. One moment, the bustling bus station was business as usual. Now, however, it's all blood and chaos, pain and death.

There are 5 metas, all told. A man in an armoured lion suit that shoots razor sharp claws and launches high powered grenades from his mechanical tail, a speedster with explosive javelins, a whirling dervish of a warrior with flaming scimitar, a white-garbed Thuggee, and… well… the other one isn't quite recognized as an obvious threat. Yet.

Generally, given NYC's propensity for attracting heroic meta types, this wouldn't be high on the list of 'Suicide Squad' interventions. But, the Wall gained a significant piece of information via satellite feed. These terrorists match the profiles of a small group of terrorists in the Middle Eastern country of Qurac — a heavily anti-American country with a willingness to send their metas up against the best the US can throw at them. And the worst.

It's unfortunate the Suicide Squad didn't get enough of a heads up to be able to entirely prevent the attack. But, at least they're here now. Or, rather, three of them are. Arguably three of the more effective among them. (Don't tell the others the Wall said that. She's likely bullshitting.) Their mission: take out the terrorists, even if the NYC heroes arrive to save the day.

NYC heroes? Nah, this one gets a bigger profile than that. Captain Marvel is known 'round the world, and known well. American heroes? Yep, she is that. She may not be Captain America, but she's pretty damned close. And she flies. Not to mention being a woman. Folks like Qaracis hate that even more, to be sure.

The first clue of Carol Danvers' approach is the fire trail of her descent from space, barely keeping herself below the speed of sound as she descends having skipped across the atmosphere from a good ways away. How'd she find out about this so fast? Good question. Maybe someone will think to ask her, later.

The scourging fiery trail is absorbed into a golden glow as Captain Marvel banks her flight path past a few of the high rises and then pulls up sharp, streaking thirty feet or so above the streets as she shoots for the air above those fleeing civilians, right through the big front entrance. "So, you folks want to cause trouble? Well, trouble you got." she shouts as the heat wafts off from around her, and photon blasts aim to pull up short any trying to pursue the civilians.

Bane knew what dirty business the American government had involved itself in. There were no books on such a thing in his prison, but there were a great many on past cultures, ones of such imperialist notions whose culture was celebrated for study, vindicated in destroying, or villified for breaking of paradigms. It was all strategy to Bane, taught young with a moral element by his Jesuit priest mentor, but stripped away as he grew older so he merely saw the strategy. The agencies of man, these were merely human concerns, he was taught. The ultimate element was the human decision in these things. And the human decision could be as complex as saving the life of the warden from a prison savage to out one's self as a traitor in order to prevent a food shortage that would starve everyone, or as simple as breaking a man for attempting to hurt you. Many things were lost to time, the old priest said. But God sees all. Bane would ponder that for a long time as he continued to live in Pena Dura, with dreams of the Bat looming over him, pondering if the Devil and God were the same thing. He had made one pilgrimmage, after the Venom experiment had allowed him to escape, but robbed him of his spiritual community and plunged him permanently into chemical anomie. He had gone to a hill over a city, and visited Christo Redentor.

And when he touched it, he found it was made of plastic. Oil. The blood the vampire sought. It was the cause his mother had fought for, there in South America. It was a cryptic riddle he could no longer understand. He could sense some feeling of loss, as if someone had died, but he could not place who.

It was himself.

Bane revisits this moment in his troubled life, as he sits in the back of a National Guard mechanized infantry transport, being deployed three blocks from the incident, north three and east one, at his request. He stands as the Bradley comes to a halt and the back opens, slowly trundling out on his steel toed boots. He begins walking through traffic, his red goggles hiding his eyes, people watching him wide eyed as he moves towards the violence at a steady clip, not running or even speed walking, but rather moving with obscenely reptilian purpose, bundled in his wide muscle and thick bone.

Deathstroke's eye narrows behind his mask as he stares down from the rooftop and assesses the situation. The staff in his hand makes a soft hissing noise of metal on metal as it collapses back down to it's smaller length and he slides it into it's place on his back, "No." he says simply, turning to walk away from the rooftops edge. "There is no return on investment for me here." he moves to leave the battle to the other two. "Call me when there is someone with a name worthy of taking down. I don't do charity work." his voice carrying easily over the coms.

And then he catches sight of the fire trail coming down from on high and he focuses on it, narrowing his vision until it telescopes in hard enough to allow him to discern a uniform. Hrm. "Then again." he says into the coms, turning back towards the lip of the building, "I could use a work out." and he leaps off, the staff once more extending in his hand as he falls. He impacts hard and rolls with it, redirecting his momentum to the side quickly enough that the roll sends him a good ten paces before ending with him on his feet. The end of the staff glows and a stunning bolt of energy lances out towards the speedster to get his attention. Appetizer for the fight proper, Deathstroke is good with speedsters.

Alex does not have the same level of practiced skill the others have, though she is both practiced and skilled. Nor does she have any special enhancements beyond the alien-made armor and weaponry she's learned to favour in a world full of superbeings. What she lacks in superhumaness, however, she more than makes up for in pure human grit and good old-fashioned determination. Never give up. Never surrender. Galaxy Quest be damned. "Take out Onslaught," she says to her team over coms before they engage (like they care what she says), "but minimize collateral damage. There are civilians out here and we want them to survive!" And, yes. She does care about that. So, they'd better, too.

As the fiery column streaking across the sky coalesces, so to speak, into Captain ever-lovin' Marvel, however, the DEO agent grimaces. "Aw, c'mon," she mutters to the universe at large. "You couldn't have sent Spider-Man or something instead?"

Oh, it's not that she dislikes Captain Marvel. Quite the opposite. She admires the woman. And she knows damned well her mission is going to conflict with the mighty heroine, just as it has in the past with her own sibling. She sighs. Ah well, at least it's not a Kryptonian or Amazon. .oO(No. Just someone on the same freakin' level, Danvers.)

As Bane moves along the street, people get the hell out of his way. Aside from the fact that he's a walking mass of muscle, he looks like a villain out of an old-style (read: 1980's) horror movie. And, with all the chaos happening just blocks away, no one wants to get caught up in more.

The speedster Deathstroke targets is fast, though not Flash-fast. He sets up an inadvertent pattern, however. Three seconds of speed followed up by a volley of javelins — some aimed at people some aimed at infrastructure, all of it meant to add to the chaos and fear. When the mercenary's bolt streaks towards him, he zips out of the way and turns to launch a javelin back from whence the attack against him came.

The man in the armoured lion suit looks up to see Captain Marvel hovering overhead. He launches a grenade towards her not so much to kill her, he's at least passingly familiar with her reputation, but to buffet her around a little before he follows up with a volley of razor sharp claws from his fingertips.

Meanwhile, the thuggee assassin moves methodically through the crowds, grabbing hold of first responders and garroting them before they even realize he's at their side. And the man with the fiery blade wades into the thick of things, slicing bodies in half and taking heads off shoulders.

Perhaps most startling, however, is not the reaction of these terrorists to the appearance of the hero and squadron, but rather the fact that normal people begin turning on each other in fear and hatred. Some react in blind panic thanks to the fear they feel. Others lash out violently, as much a threat to those around them as any of the Quraci metas.

Bane reaches up to the earpiece in his left ear, pressing the switch behind the unit, through his mask. A confirmation single beep in the proper tone agreed on for Bane sounds out, to make clear he's registered the order, and is prepared to obey. The sounds of the chaos grow closer to him, as he ignores those around him, merely watching the street ahead of him. He turns between a pair of parked cars, and steps up onto the sidewalk, fingers curling inwards into wrestling grasp position as he moves along the pavement past shops and offices, hearing the nearby screaming of first responders to the horror of the Thuggee's dancing strangles and throat smiles. As cops drop, he feels nothing, not even fear for himself, merely calculating the rate at which he hears police officers and SWAT members die, as the shouts begin to near him.

And as the Thugee moves to strangle a cop, Bane steps out from behind a corner where he had paused and waited, listening, having used the police officer - who had expected Bane's protection - as bait. The police trooper was not a civilian, after all. As the Thugee moves behind the police officer with the garrote, Bane's right hand moves out at the ivory-clad assassin's neck with a grasp, attempting to slide his large fingers around the back of his neck and press his right thumb behind the Thugee's left ear, as his fingers attempt to clasp the neck. And then, a wrenching squeeze with his thumb moving across the skull from the thumb's point.

Bane quietly calculates the attentions of the man with the fiery blade, the unknown quantity causing the terror riots not yet registered properly, due to his solipsism.

Javelins moving at speed? Yep, those are missiles. Guess what ace pilots train to blast out of the sky? You guessed it! Probably damned annoying, the way most of the speedster's javelin shots are getting blasted out of mid-air by the photonic blasts of Captain Marvel. But it does mean she's concentrating on those shots quite a bit. She hasn't quite figured out that the chaos is increasing from civilians turning on each other, and she misses the grenade until it actually is almost on top of her.

Being a contact explosive, it goes off. It's a powerful shot, but - as the lion-armored murderer expected - not enough to actually damage Marvel, especially not having just absorbed all of the energy of her descent from space. But it does deliver kinetic force, and her mass is thrown aside by that, like it or not. She doesn't, but the best she can do is fly counter to that force. She does, but she's still blown back halfway across the station before she heads back to her hovering position.

Once back into position, Captain Marvel changes her target selection, and fires a pair of heavy photonic bolts at the lion suit, just ahead of that incoming volley of razor claws. What fun! If she had to pay for new costumes after fights like this, she'd go broke so fast … damned things hurt. Now she's mad.

Deathstroke twists to the side even before the speedsters releases the weapon and Slade snatches it from the air where he was as it reaches him. Continuing the turn on the ball of his foot he launches the weapon in a new direction before it's momentum can even come to a halt, sending it hurteling for the back of the sword weilding assassin. "To slow." he says flatly into the air, the staff in his hand spinning lightly through his fingers and sending a second lance of energy in the direction of the speedsters legs. Using both length weapons ambidexterously dosen't seem to limit him, but it does help draw more attention.

The Thuggee is not, perhaps, on Batman's level, when it comes to his martial arts ability, but he is no pushover, either. He would give the Caped Crusader a run for his money. Thus, he becomes quickly aware of Bane when the large man reaches out to grasp the back of his neck, the thuggee slides around, drawing an ornamental kris dagger and sweeping out towards Bane with it.

Captain Marvel's bolts hit the lion-man square in the chest. He staggers, knocked back several feet by the force of it. But he is not knocked down. And he knows he's scored a hit on the woman. A grin spreads across his strong-featured face and he leaps forward, sending yet more claws towards the heroine.

The speedster is distracted by the fact his javelins are being picked off from the air. He hasn't time to react, though, before Deathstroke is catching his latest throw and redirecting it towards his teammate. "Oh, yeah?" he retorts. "Try this on for size." Yeah, he can only move in 3-second bursts, but that allows for quite the volley of explosive missiles to be sent Deathstroke's way.

The javelin Slade sends towards the fiery sword wielding terrorist hits him on the shoulder, exploding on impact. He is thrown forward and lands among a frenzied throng who turn toward the source of the attack. Although bloodied and requiring a moment or of stunned recovery, the man is on his feet quickly enough and able to defend himself against the swarming crowd. Of course, that only increases the body count.

Alex moves through the crowd somewhat like a salmon swimming up stream. It becomes apparent to her that the people are fleeing not so much from the carange — though some are cognizant of that — but more from their own internal terrors. She turns in a slow circle, her weapon raised, trying not to shoot any of them as she makes her way further in.

In time, she reaches the side of a small, red-haired girl wearing a green dress. "Hey!" she says, upon seeing the kid, "Hey, c'mere!" She lowers her weapon so that it points away from the child. "Let me get you out of here."

The little girl runs towards her, throwing her arms about Alex's neck. Alex lifts her up and the little girl gives her a wide smile, curling her hands around the back of Alex's head. "It's okay—" Alex begins to say to the little girl. Then, however, she gasps as, to her eyes, the skies above split open and platoons of flying aliens with advanced weaponry begin pouring out of rifts in space. "Oh, God, no…"

She swings around. The girl drops to the ground. Alex lifts her widowmaker and takes aim at a green-skinned monstrosity… And fires her weapon right at Captain Marvel, alone in the empty skies.

Bane's outstretched hand is stung for his trouble, Bane having the wisdom to close his fingers together as the Thugee swings around and draws the curved blade and flatten his hand. The blade slashes along Bane's palm as he lets it move outside with a bull-like chuff of nonchalant disabuse, before the knife cuts across the insides of his fingers and palm and he growls in lieu of a grunt. He will have to dance with this one. Another grappler would be a simple feet of a trap, but this one is a dancer. Bane will see if the Indian considers his dance a chore, or an art. A man performing a chore is ever dutiful, but brings aggression. And an artist demands the prideful touch. Bane fights with neither chore or art, but science. Only a fundamental fighter can defeat him, such as the Bat. And the Bat was broken merely by his mind, too focused on the safety of others than his own.

Bane will have to deduce this one.

Bane's dripping red hand curls into a fist as he widens his stance, and puts his right shoulder forward with a charge at the man in white. He does not look, merely listen to footfalls, to see the response. And it is not a commitment in any sense for Bane, already spinning around into an opposing stance just past the spot where the Thugee stands, as Bane turns about, to hide the Venom tubes and keep his right side at the assassin he faces. Cut me, matador. Slake your blade's thirst in my hide.

Deathstroke smirks at the bevy of missles now streaking his way, and the staff whirls in one hand while the other pulls a pistol from his hip in true gunslinger fashion. Eight rounds. Eight exploded javelins, the last of which is close enough the force of the explosion causes Slade to slide backwards a full five feet. Between that and the staff, he avoids any direct hits, though he can feel a small trickle of blood warm the palm of his hand. He glances down to his bicep where six inches of twisted metal javelin is jutting between links of his armor. He grins behind his mask, "That's it?" he asks, looking back up towards the speedster, "That's the best you can do?" he tosses the pistol aside and the staff returns to it's place on his back, his hand returning with the bare glistening metal of the bastard sword he carries.

"No one puts in the work anymore." he says, pulling another pistol, "I blame social media." He turns his hand slowly, twisting it so that the sunlight plays along the blade and he aims the sparking glint for the speedsters eyes, waiting for that single instant when the other man flinches to fire the gun, aiming to put a heavy calibre round through his hip. Hips are better then knees. You can still drag yourselff with a busted knee, a busted hip means you're not going /anywhere/.

More launched razor claws, more ouches for Captain Marvel, and more slices into her costume. The CCA might start objecting if she keeps this up, but dodging the darned things just means they'd fall into the crowd; she'd rather take the hits herself than let that happen. Just one of a host of silly things about being a heroine.

Concentrating on exchanging shots with the lion-armored figure, Captain Marvel is not watching for an apparent super-soldier heroine - she doesn't recognize Alex, but she recognizes the type, and is used to meeting folks who are new or whose idents she doesn't already know - to turn on her. She had already seen Alex rescuing civilians, so why would she expect … WHAM!

Captain Marvel takes the round from the 'widowmaker' and she is thrown in the opposite direction, sailing past the lion-armored attacker and smashing into a wall. Most impressively, however, would be the gout of blood that trails behind her … and the hole that just opened in the roof.

Because that shot didn't just hit Marvel. It punched right through her.

The Thugee does not consider himself an artist. He considers himself a devotee. His dance is not a chore. It is an act of love. His goal, despite the mayhem he brings, is to delay the coming of Kali the Destroyer and each murder he commits adds 1000 years to the due date. Thus, he is a devoted combatant, efficient and focused. His eyes narrow somewhat as he sees hardly a twitch from Bane with regard to the pain he inflicts. There are those soft grunts and growls, however, so he knows he's hurt him, nevertheless. His blade is quick, as are his feet and hands. That said, he is still not the Bat.

The speedster watches Deathstroke pull out his blade. He readies his javelins and makes a dash, intending to stay out of the immediate sweeping range of the weapon while retaliating with his own. It should be noted, however, that the speedster is young. Enthusiastic, sure, but not nearly as experienced as the grizzled old merc.

The lion man laughs right out loud as Carol is taken from the skies by one of the apparent good guys. "Badb!" he cheers, "You are gift straight from Hell."

The little girl laughs with glee, concentrating her terrible power on the hapless non-meta in the alien armour. On the bright side, this does free up much of the crowd from her influence, making it a whole lot easier for the surviving first responders to continue the evacuation. Until, of course, Babd manipulate's Alex's mind to see the first responders as landed aliens. Captain Marvel is strong enough she might survive a hit from a high-velocity, high-tech projectile meant to knock Superman out of the sky. Your average SWAT team member? Not a hope…

Carol Danvers has been shot before. Back before she was a metahuman, before an alien wish machine turned her into Captain Marvel, she was a pilot. A soldier. A spy. She has taken her fair share of bullets. This one won't kill her. But it is the first time she's been cored through by a projectile in a long time.

That hurts!

Marvel presses one hand over the abdominal exit wound in her front, staunching the blood flow as much as she can. She has absorbed enough energy that she can feel the wound trying to close; she's not likely to die from this. But yowch, does that hurt! Carol screams as she levers herself out of the crater she has put into the wall she impacted, and then launches herself back into the air.

Marvel's primary target was going to be the lion armor again, until she sees that soldier from earlier aiming … what the Hell is that thing?! … at the crowds. Oh no. Oh God no.

There's no choice. Carol grits her teeth, and she dives, leading with several photonic blasts aimed at the weapon, trying to impact it, damage it, dislodge it … but she's not stopping. She follows those blasts with herself, speeding, flying, ready to rip the weapon away and use it like a club if she has to … or die trying.

Bane rolls around to face the Thugee as he's dodged, as planned, watching the fervor with which the blade dance is performed, feeling the knife cut across the conditioned flesh of his back and the thick muscle. He stares at the Thugee impassively, bleeding, as he reaches up to his neck and squeezes the base, activating the throat microphone. "«Ma'am, you have a psychic on you,»" he says, as a SWAT member blasts past him off his feet, the impact of the shot killing the police officer without so much as a sigh. "«We are engaged poorly.»"

He takes his hand down, and presses his hands together, rubbing the blood on his right palm into his left. "You will not sting me to death so easily, gadfly in scorpion's slippers," Bane says with a roll at the Thugee, knowing a fanatical fighter's weakness. "For I know that you choose a coward's way of death for yourself." Bane suddenly roars and charges forward, this time with more than a silent shoulder tackle, his left arm swinging up and around with a palm aimed at the Thugee's head to slap him, his body churning as he stomps forward with a sudden sprint that breaks from his standing position with nary a warning, showing his true speed.

People often think that the enhancements in Slade's mind have made him somehow more intelligent. This isn't exactly correct. It's more about speed and analytical leaps of understanding, less like an inventor and more like an artist, intuitive understanding greater then the sum of it's parts. At several times the speed of even an exceptional human mind. It's how he can process the scene in it's entirety in the blink of an eye and see the openings other's cannot.

The speedster runs directly into the flash of light from Deathstroke's sword a fraction of an instant before a .45 round shatters his pelvis, rending any more speed, or pretty much any movement in general, a nonstarter. But that was going to happen anyway, Slade saw to it thirty seconds ago when he got the kid's attention with the stupid verbal barbs. It's the opening he spots in the armored lions gloating that others might not have. Even as the bullet hits the speedster Deathstroke is spinning in place, twisting from his foot, putting all of his enhanced strength and considerably weight into a turning throw. The Promethium sword that is his trademark leaves his hand like a throwing knife, if a throwing knife were five feet long, never dulled, and was nearly as indestructible as Adamantium. It whistles through the battlefield in a glinting blur, heading for the lion shaped head of the armored gloating terrorist.

Captain Marvel's photonic beams strike Alex, pushing her back. It's not until one strikes her hand, however, that the weapon is knocked away, and by that time the heroine is nearly on top of her. Scrambling backward, Alex is reaching over her shoulder for a glowing green sword when Bane's voice crackles in her comm. "Psychic? Shit. Where?" Now, no one go getting their hopes up too high. She hasn't registered there's no alien attack. She's merely registering there's a psychic attack on top of the alien attack. And, frankly, she figures it's one of the goddamned aliens. Maybe even the one about to bowl her over.

The Thugee is also bowled backward by his attacker. Bane is much, much faster than he looks and the lean, wiry Indian is momentarily surprised by that speed. Momentarily, that is, in the sense of the moment that Bane hits him like a bull rampaging over a too-slow matador.

The lion-man is well armoured. All except his face, it seems. His speedy companion goes down to the first sword swing, but the best the lion-man can do is fire a grenade and a handful of claws at Deathstroke before the blade slices through one of his eyes and into his skull.

The man with the fiery sword is not a foolish warrior. Indeed, were he so, he'd have directly engaged the 'heroes' much sooner. Now, however, with three of his team down, he retreats back into the smoking building, radioing for extraction. Whether or not the little girl scrambling out of the way of the dual projectiles Captain Marvel and Agent Danvers have become manages to escape with him is not nearly his first concern.

Bane stands over the Thugee, after the charge is complete, staring down at him as he places his foot over the Indian's kris knife. "Do you think you are a terrorist, Heathen?" he murmurs with deadly intent, his foot slowly depressing on the knife until it snaps. "I am an American. /I/ am a terrorist." After the brief discussion of philosophy is given, Bane steps about to the Thugee's side and delivers a painful kick to his stomach as he lays on the ground, to disable him. He produces a huff and turns about, leaving the beaten man behind him, moving towards Alex Danvers and Captain Marvel with his hands in fists, moving slowly and carefully to see who is still about. His left hand is on his throat mic, ready to activate it once he spots the psychic's improper movement.

The damned weapon seems largely impervious to her shots, and only a desperate blast at the shooter's hand manages to bring down the weapon before it is fired on those first responders. But then Carol is right there, and she has to engage this woman before she attacks someone else. And now she's pulling - Holy crap, is that Kryptonite - a kryptonite blade out to engage. Captain Marvel snaps a hand out to grab the woman's wrist, trying to twist and squeeze, to force Alex - she hopes - to release the weapon. Somehow, she's sure this isn't going to go well.

Deathstroke shifts his bulk slightly, down and to the left, letting the grenade sail just over his shoulder to land amid some cars twisted up in the street behind him. He grunts under the impacts of a few of the claws, but ignores the pain, letting his mind do it's thing and lock it away for later processing.

He smirks slightly, watching the armored man's head snap back and his big bulky body fall with a large sword sticking out of it's face mask. Almost as an after thought he raises his hand and fires another round, barely bothering to aim first. There's no need, his target isn't mobile anymore. The speedster's head snaps back, painting everything behind it in shades of red and gray. Two down. Hrm… Alex has Kryptonite. He files that away as well… and grins wider behind his mask.

Alex lets out a shout that's halfway between a cry of rage and one of defiance as Captain Marvel barrels into her. Her hand is caught by the (ugly green!) alien colliding into her and, despite the protection of her armour, she releases her grip on the sword, which clatters to the ground beside her. It's only as the pair impacts the pavement that her vision clears enough to see a blond human face before her instead of a leering green maw. "Holy shit," she gasps. "The kid!" She's not stupid. She thinks fast. And her mic is open as she calls out. "The kid is the psychic!" And she's the kid's victim. "Shit," she gasps again, caught beneath the superheroine. Her head falls back against the pavement and her eyes squeeze shut. "Shitshitshitshit." On the bright side… she does relax her body enough to signal the fight is gone from her.

'The kid', by this time, is scrambling to get away into the crowd, trying to head back into the building to follow the man with the fiery scimitar. The lion man is apparently dead, as is the speedster, and the thugee, if not dead, is certainly out of the count — all of them easily collectible by authorities… not that there are any authorities here to do that just at this moment, beyond the SHIELD and DEO agents on the pavement.

"You clear, soldier?" Captain Marvel gasps out around a groan, the pain in her gut not letting up. Alex's armor will have a splatter of another Danvers' blood across the front after this, but once Alex can confirm by responding clearly, Carol releases her, floats up to her feet, and lifts the armored woman with her to get her on her feet as well. "For the record? That f*ing thing hurts." she snarls, and then lifts off, surveying the situation from the air looking for any remaining trouble spots. "Control, this is Marvel. There are other operators on scene, we have several opposition casualties. At least two subjects seem to have escaped this scene. And I'm going to need … a lot of energy and some asprin." she reports in.

As the psionic flees through the crowd, Bane ponders the worth of pursuing such a difficult target with his particular set of resources. After his mind cranks and slides through the anormative decision process common in grappling and wrestling, he deigns to allow her to escape, unless Deathstroke wishes to pursue. He depresses his throat mic. "«All enemy operatives clear. Vacating area for public awareness purposes.>" He lets his arm drop from his neck, and slowly moves to climb into an empty SWAT van, after DEO radios ahead. The doors close, and the van accelerates out of the neighborhood, taking Bane back to his initial staging area for a debriefing, and medical attention for his deep lacerations.

Deathstroke snears and walks casually to the downed lion man, "I don't hunt children." he says into the coms as he grips his sword and puts a foot on the dead man's face. He yanks and the sound of bone on metal is audible and he flicks his wrist, wicking the blood free. He turns to walk down an alley and into the shadow's there, heading towards a sewer access he already mapped out. He tosses a little salute Carol's way, just before he steps into the darkness.


The expletive sits on Alex's lips as she hears Marvel's voice. "Clear," however, is what she says aloud. But Carol would doubtlessly recognize the weight of emotion behind that single word. She might as well have cursed. It's quite unlikely Alex will forgive herself for this anytime soon. (And equally unlikely she'll ever go out into the field ever again without her anti-psi headband — whether or not Regan's with them.)

As she's brought to her feet, she steadies herself. She looks around, her expression bleak and shuttering down into a soldier's simple game-face — all duty until in private.

She turns to Carol. "I—" But flinches from the snarl, the rest of her words left unsaid. Just as well, perhaps, given the other Danvers' justifiable ire and flying retreat. Lips thinning into a grim line, Alex moves to retrieve both her sword and her rifle, sheathing the one on her back and slinging the other over her shoulder.

Into comms, not bothering to really acknowledge anything else said to her over it, she finally says, "Pull out. Meet back as the rendezvous for extraction. Command, area is clear. Send in clean-up." There's very little inflection in her voice, merely the clipped, serious tones of a squad leader.

Tonight, she will very definitely be crawling into the bottom of a bottle, God help her.

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