Task Force X: Fonging the Tong

May 01, 2017:

Task Force X is…tasked…with kidnapping a member of the Tong. They're successful. Technically.

Chinatown - Gotham

The Vincefinkle Bridge leads in to Chinatown from here one can find
themselves in direct route along Gate Street towards the beautiful highly
cultural China Basin, Gotham's predominant location for all things Oriental,
home of the Vauxhall Concert Center, Kyoto Twers and the Asian Markets.

Further northbound the highly diverse Upper West HIll lies, a location known
for it's upper class directly mixed with it's lower. Parts of Upper West
HIll are beautiful, majestic, new mingled gorgeously with the old while as
others like Battergate have fallen in to ruin and poverty.


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Waller


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

Gotham's Chinatown district looks about as close to Bladerunner's 2019 Los Angeles vision as one could get on the East Coast in 2017. Minus all the flying cars, of course.

Suicide Squad rarely makes ventures in to the public and if they do it's under the utmost cover. Lady Mastermind and Taskmaster of the squad are likely the best candidates for going incognito. The basic intel is this is meant to be a simple snatch and grab, show up, take a Triad member named Andrew Fong and make it to the delivery point. What no one told Taskmaster or Lady Mastermind is that this subgroup of the Triad has access to high-level technology, gear that they should not have access to.

Very cliche that they find Triad in Chinatown but Gotham itself fit the cliche bill rather closely. The smog filled gothic streets with their dim lamplighting, colorful flickering always broken billboards, streets crawling with the crooked and corrupt. You would think this place would be welcoming to the twisted and deplorable sorts like the Squad but no, not here, Gotham's criminal underbelly has a very rigid and structured modus operandi, you have to be a part of something here, know someone, or be royally badass and commited to carving a name out for yourself. Who has that kind of time or masochism?

"Across the street, that apartment complex on the right. That entire building is Triad owned, they house all their hitters there. This guy we're after, Fong… he's fat and sloppy, not a fighter. Likely won't be an issue snatching him up… but… " Taskmaster is disguised by his image inducer, he looks like a tall Asian man with thick black shades and an Elvis Presley like hairdo. A trenchcoat and scarf topping off the very ugly outfit.
"They have eyes allover. Check the rooftops and in the windows, cameras."


Lady Mastermind, over the last few weeks, has exposed herself to her 'team' as less a mastermind in the art of smash and grab, and more an expert in fighting unfairly, quietly, rudely. So when called up for a kidnapping, the blonde was happy, no, overjoyed at the concept of earning some time off of her sentence and a little fun. Packing an expensive Gucci purse that consists of everything a 'lady of the night' needs, complete with a Sig-Sauer P220 Equinox .45ACP with three extra mags? Regan Wyngarde is ready to go.


Lady Mastermind, over the last few weeks, has exposed herself to her 'team' as less a mastermind in the art of smash and grab, and more an expert in fighting unfairly, quietly, rudely. So when called up for a kidnapping, the blonde was happy, no, overjoyed at the concept of earning some time off of her sentence and a little fun. Packing an expensive Gucci purse that consists of everything a 'lady of the night' needs, complete with a Sig-Sauer P220 Equinox .45ACP with three extra mags? Regan Wyngarde is ready to go.

"Andrew Fong even sounds like a fatty's name. Fat and sloppy is fat and stupid. Hopefully his backing crew are, too." Regan whispers, stepping down the street in tall, dangerous heels and a skimpy, black dress with a layered skirt that only barely covers the back of her thighs. Hence the purse. "I don't speak Chinese but I can find a common ground."

The corner of Regan's red, painted mouth leaps impishly. With a quick glance upwards, her blue eyes peek through layers of mascara to the corners, sweeping quickly for cameras, on a path that will lead her towards the front of the apartment building.


They also have not necessarily have been told, or noticed yet, that there is another new vigilante in Gotham, an avenging angel. But he does not use black and grey, but red and gold as his costume, hood and cowl and cape concealing his identity, the Crusader's cross on his mantle. He's on top ofone of the buildings, watching, from a place where a camera might be, silent and still, save for the red cape that stirs in the breeze.


Bane has no disguise besides a heavy, loosely fitting trenchcoat, likely made custom to order for his gargantuan frame. "You locate the principle, Mastermind, then I will cause the proper disturbance for you to extract our target." He turns about and lifts a large, matte black case from behind him, setting it down before him. He bends forward and carefully flicks the locking joints open, craning the case open with a gentle movement of his huge, hidden arms. Inside is a triple-barrel vulcan, man portable, with a long chain of uranium-depleted rounds cocooned together next to the weapon, inside a plastic wrap. "I am a selective shooter, but make sure you do not cross my fire."

Bane slides the chain of bullets out of their wrap, before jamming the metal clip-feed into the side of the vulcan cannon. He straps the front onto his right forearm, before sliding his arm forward to grasp the handle and move to a standing positioning, grunting as he hefts the gun. He flicks a switch, and there's the sound of a ventilator, cooled helium being pumped into the center of the weapon to keep the barrel from overheating once it goes live.


This apartment complex in Gotham's Chinatown is one of three such 'fortresses' for this particular group of the Triad. It is named something Taskmaster couldn't translate to his team earlier about 'Man' or 'Meeting of People' he failed on explaination there. What intel there is that is also available to Azrael is that this location traffics in firepower and men, from the uniitiated Blue Lanterns (not those kind) that loiter around the lower floors waiting for tasks to the 49ers of the bottom floors and their higher ups.
The higher up, the more likely they are to carry long knives or machetes. It's a token of pride for many of them and tells a story of where they come from. Those lessers, the fodder, the man guarding the doors, the rooftops, hovering about the streets to appear 'normal' in disguise, they carry traditional firearms, semi-automatics to the occassional concealed shotgun. Concealment only goes here as far as the trained eye will allow and those gathered about the 'Fortress of Man' are very much professionals.

Taskmaster makes a click sound with tongue and teeth, "Lets hope you don't have to use it. We're here to get one man, not bring down the entire building." Not that he would mind. Satan aka Amanda Waller might but whats the worst she can do? Blow off an arm or leg or head.
"Anyone see any entrypoint? We need to make this quick. They'll make us out soon and our cover will be blown."

Right now the dark becloaked form of Azrael goes unnoticed but he too should be seeing this place is set up as an anti-Bat structure, cameras angled in positions, what looks like laser lines shooting across the rooftop in spots. Possibly even pressure plates from the way the men are careful how they patrol the roof, there is all together about three on the top of the building, their armaments not simple sidearms but actual tier 1 high-tech, modified assault rifles with attachements that look progressed.


"Alleyway door. Clear firing line for both of you." Regan whispers beneath the clacking of her heels. Already, the guards at the front door to the complex are taking notice of her. Hands rest over coat pockets. Eyes wander. Regan looks down the alleyway as she passes it, and with a bat of her eyelash, the two guards there turn to begin walking her way.

Regan extends her arms to the sides as she ascends the steps to the apartment building. The bag hangs from her wrist. In a saunter, she can be heard over her earpiece, taking on an English accent.

"Hello, gentlemen. The agency said the Chinese phoned out for Western." Visible from streetside, alley, and rooftop, the blonde's bag is taken from her and rifled through. She's guided to the side of the entryway where one guard gives Wyngarde the most egregious pat-down in history. The guard going through her bag picks up a gun and holds it aside while he rifles through the rest, having not registered the firearm exists at all. Lady Mastermind…is doing her powered thing.

The bag is returned to her, and with a straightening of her skirt, Regan is escorted inside.

"Cozy in here, isn't it?" Regan speaks to her guide, amidst the ding of an emevator. "A bit breezy, too, but I'm sure my client won't mind." Regan can be heard shuffling about, small talk with the goon. "Floor number three. My lucky number."


Bane watches the front of the building quietly, keeping the vulcan tri-barrel behind a parked pickup truck across the street and down the way, the pickup also hiding all of his masked face but the side and his left eye, and his left shoulder. He slowly steps right, completely hiding himself and looking to Taskmaster. "I will pin the Triads down once I have the signal on the uplink. This weapon is loud, and frightening. They will take cover and rush to defensive positions at the front of the building. Mastermind is right, we get the principle out back." He raises his eyes to the rooftops, looking at them, pensive with strategic trepidation. "I recommend you meet her once she has the mark, to avoid him being disabled from being able to move on his own."


From above, Azrael watches the the guards, and then the interesting people making their way to the building as well. The Tongs and Triads are criminals, and the people making their way closer look like a mission, and for the moment, he simply watches, and sets his own radio to start scanning for signals. If their broadcasts are unencrypted, he could listen in, but they might also hear another party come on the frequency.


Radio silence has been a thing from the go for the Suicide Squad. Their entire mission is meant to be an obfuscated one, though, no one anticipated on Bane bringing in heavy ordinance but thats the thing about this pack of wildcards, they're likely all insane.

Taskmaster chuckles at Bane, "You want to make yourself one big target? Groovy." It makes sense to draw them all to one direction, a solid plan if you can find someone brave enough to be that huckleberry. Bane isn't about to get argument from the Man of a Thousand (stolen) Moves.
"I'll meet her around back." If all goes according to plan. Striding as casual as he can the disguised Taskmaster departs the immediate vicinity.

Inside the Fortress of Man; Regan will see the insides of the building now, it looks like any apartmet complex, actually very well kept as many of the unitiated and lower run 49ers are used on the bottom floor much like janiters and help, their eyes kept respectfully down, they look almost humble and servile until one looks close enough and spots signs of a hidden blade or firearm. The only ones with obvious weapons being the gaurdsmen who have pilfered through her purse then set off to leading her higher up, second floor, third floor. Quiet ride in an awkward elevator.
The third floor allows release and she is guided down a hallway to the second door which opens up in to a large, lavish room the central part of it lowered from the rest where a man stands, dyed blonde hair, sunglasses, slender in a purple suit. "Hello, welcome to our home." A smile, white teeth, tan features. A tattoo of a hand of some sort curling up his neck. A machete sits on the table not far from him, seated not afar away on a sofa is a round fellow, short, perhaps no more than 5'1" his face recognized immediately from the photo captures Taskmaster showed as Andrew Fong. He refuses to look at Regan, instead staring down at the table in front of him.
"Please, come in. Introduce yourself, I am Ajay. This is my friend, Andrew." A motion towards himself then a wave towards the man on the sofa. The eyes of Ajay unreadable as he studies her behind those shades.

Azrael can see motion on the rooftop, one man picking up a cellphone, dimmed video display keeps the light low. His comrade with the lit up cigarette not helping in concealing their location.

High above a Stagg Industries Zeppelin circles, floating lazily past in it's usual circle. Just some Gotham ambiance, nothing more.


With a tall back and a feigned sense of confidence despite the need to care, Regan strides into the apartment room with a bright-toothed smile and lidded eyes. A brush of hair sweeping over her eyes, she lowers her bag to her wrist and lifts a slender arm, twittering her fingers Ajay's way.

Time for the performance.

"Hello, Ajay, hello, Andrew, my name is Rebecca." Regan continues in her posh, English accent. From the higher streetside, she's visible slinking her way to the skinnier gangster, brushing a finger down the front of his tie and giving it a playful tug. Her skirt swings and she turns towards Andrew. Her words crackle over their comm-signal, keeping her team informed of her progress. "I'll have to thank you two gentlemen. My night was rather uneventful, but my management sent me your way and things are looking like they're heading in the right direction."

In her turn, Regan's eyes flash to the corners, looking for cameras, until she ends up on Andrew's lap. The bag drops into place beside her and she's pawing at the overweight man, hiding the fuzzy sensation of disgust somewhere else.

"But it's a little warm in here." Regan continues, in character. "Ajay, love, would you open up that window over there for us while we work out the details on…just which items from the menu the one, or two, of you were looking to order?"


As Taskmaster departs in his disguise, Bane slowly turns about and puts his back against the passenger side of the pickup's cab. He reaches up with his unladen left hand, grasping the truck's rear view mirror and snapping it off. The tool now in hand, he tilts it out from behind the truck and watches Taskmaster's progress towards the building, letting his vulcan touch the ground at the barrel tip to relieve some of the pressure of holding it. He slowly angles the top of the mirror forward, doing a downpan, before letting it lean upwards, committing a fluid view of the building to his eidetic memory in order to plan his assault, when it comes time to go live with his squad automatic weapon. Then, he drops the mirror to the ground, letting it fall with a quiet stiffness of his hand. He doesn't want a Triad seeing his mask's red eye goggles by accident. He knows how acute the Yangtze eye can be to motion from experience as a mercenary in Southeast Asia.


"Rebecca." Ajay toys with the name then proceeds to pluck at his own tie, brushing it off making sure it falls flat again. His smile hiding his own disgust. Several seconds of preenining he then looks towards their guest and speaks in varying dialects of Chinese; starting with Mandarin.
"You understand anything I am saying?" A simple question, he then looks to Andrew. Andrew shifts uncomfortably underneath Regan but not due to her, it is the scrutiny of Ajay that clearly has they rotund fellow feeling out of place. He continues to look down, his palms sweating and a bead of moisture rolling down his brow. "We go through very select companies, your management as you say is not one of them. We also forbid Andrew from making anymore calls for uh Western girls." Ajay tips his head, "Why did you come in to one of the Flying Monkey Triad's three sacred houses? That is my next question."

One of those men above, on the rooftop takes off in a run grabbing up a case, a long one and begins to open it up, a rifle, more than a rifle a long one, components being pieced together as his companion remains on the phone. They're not taking chances. It is also clear to Azrael from his vantage that this weapon doesn't belong in Gotham.

"In position. When you're ready, Regan, let us know and we'll start up the fireworks." There is usually only two reasons Amanda Waller sends them on things like this and shes always careful when its in the States, its to dissolve an international (or greater) episode or she wants something. Taskmaster can only wonder to the importance of Mr.Fong.



Maintaining her English accent, Regan, would-be Rebecca, blinks her long, black lashes at Ajay and chews at the corner of her lip. Confusion lines her eyes as she looks between the two Chinese men, awkwardly. The tip of her index finger slides down Andrew's jaw while she continues.

"I'll have to apologize, Ajay. I don't speak China-speak, but your English is very good. Which is why this is going to be so awkward. Allow me to show you my business card." Regan reaches for her purse, slips her thin wrist inside, and wraps her slender digits around the grip of her .45 ACP.

A psychic haze flitters out from her mind towards Ajay. To his perspective, the room is suddenly filled with water, rushing through his mouth, his nostrils, drowning him.

"One of you is disposable. The other…isn't." The sounds of a choking, gagging Chinese man is obvious over the comm-line. Through the window, visible from the rooftops, the man falling to the floor, arms flailing and kicking in an attempt to swim before he drowns in his own spit, is as well.

The gun clicks. Regan puts it to Andrew's forehead and rises, pulling on Andrew's tie to drag him along.

"We're made, guys. Andrew, you're coming with me. Can one of you guys seriously kill that dirtbag at the door, for me?"


Bane emits a soft grunt as he lifts the vulcan upwards and before him, his hand reaching to a ratchet handle and pulling it into place with a clench of his teeth. A faint whirr murmurs under the hum of the ventilator for a moment, before the three barrels of the gun slowly start to cycle in an inward circle. He flips off a guard with his fingers, the guard pushing aside and forming a grip guard for his outermost knuckles, before sliding his hand around a trigger handle. His thumb locks into place on the top of the trigger handle's pommel, and he quietly leans out, looking down the street from along the frame of the pickup truck's windshield. Time to bait the first one.


A Triad sees the unmistakable shape of Bane's English mastiff head and looks to the side, shouting at the visibility of the mask. It's the Man Who Broke the Bat. Shotguns come out of trenchcoats, submachine guns come out of garbage cans, and pistols come out of holsters, as Triads out front scramble, local neighborhood toughs scattering to warn other Triads in the area that the Fortress is under attack.

Bane steps out from behind the truck, smoothly, keeping the hood of the car as cover for his left flank, sweeping the vulcan into position. He fires a quick burst with a squeeze, the vulcan barrel rotating briefly. The door to the apartment complex blows apart in a shower of wooden splinters, screams of panic coming from the Triads and the entire neighborhood as they scramble for cover, one on the steps firing wildly since the shower of brick piercing rounds and hot white tracer just flew over his head. Bane then turns about with the gun in hand, his back to the truck again, as return fire is returned sporadically, Bane waiting for the Triads to position and get more men out in place to exchange fire with. He wants to force them to chokepoint, not draw out their line inside the complex.


This gets Azrael's attention. The sudden eruption of the firefight makes him stand up, a familiar sillhouette against the sky, except…it's not the Bat. Close, but….not. The woman inside, the men ougside. Firefight, and the large gun. Something definitely is happening, but who is good? Who would God call His own? And he could choose which side, if either to support. So fire suddenly lights the night as he draws his sword, and then the Azrael runs down from the rooftop, to a fire escape, and then vaults over it to land down on the street.


Andrew Fong makes no attempt to run from Regan. He has never been the sort who could put up much of a physical challenge anyways. Almost obediantly he follows after her. "Did you kill Ajay? His family will not be pleased. Not pleased at all." A huffed revelation. The man may also sound a bit amazed. "What did you do to him, poison when you touched his tie?"

Outside: The 'footsoldiers' and those meant to keep watch are scrambling, their own weapons coming to bare as they return fire on the Legend of Santa Prisca.

Nearby where Azrael lands is a group of Flying Monkey Triad are they turn, one of them falling over and pointing, "its one of them!" One of /them/ likely the Bats and Birds of Gotham. It's a fearsome reputation to host and most low level thugs fall under it's fear factor ranges.

Rear Entry: Taskmaster has made short work of the men guarding the rear exit. The alley beyond it more heavily guarded but the direct vicinty which was only two men lays open. Both downed, one a broken neck and the other split from clavical to heart by a sword swipe. Not a clean kill. "Careful, some of these guys have fancy moves. Southern style Kung Fu I'd wager." Wager is being humble. Taskmaster instantly recognizes these kind of things. Its just what he does. "Shows rolling. We might have three minutes before cops arrive, shorter for the creepy crawlies."


guard* Guarded* Pesky A U


"Ajay forgot to pray to his little red book and the Chairman struck him with lightning," The accent is gone now, entirely, but the sarcasm is not. Regan yanks Andrew by his necktie into place behind her and steps over Ajay's body for the door. Ajay did not die well, either, with a purple face and a trail of saliva streaming the corner of his mouth. "Not that CNN's ticker couldn't run faster than you, fatty, but if you try to run, you'll see how much faster this," Regan taps the barrel of the gun against his forehead. "Runs faster than you. Got that, Dumpling?"

Regan shoulders out into the hallway. She scans it with her gun raised in a straightened arm, then hustles Andrew out to the stairwell. On the way, the floors beneath her rumble. It sounds like the front door.

"Thank you!" Regan cackles sarcastically, toeing open the door to the stairwell. A guard is there, eyes suddenly surprised. Regan pulls the trigger and kicks him down the stairs. "I'm on the move. Thirty seconds. Can you believe these guys don't dig white girls? How effing racist is that?"


Glass and paint chips shower Bane as the sporadic gunfire returns from the Triads, falling down around his shoulders and over his brown trenchcoat as he grimaces. Slowly, his grimace turns into a rictus grin.

Bane steps out from behind cover, strafing with a slight backstep as he squeezes the vulcan down. The uranium depleted rounds fire in short bursts across the dim street, sending Triads off their feet as they're sawed apart by the bursts meant to be fired from an Apache combat helicopter. Blood and internal organs and screams pepper the night, as bodies drop to the ground in shaking, shuddering agony. He reaches a van parked down the street, and disappears behind it, letting his gun wind down as the ventilator hisses with the helium cooler unit making a thin steam rise from the hot barrels, the spin of the gun winding down as Bane lets it rest. And then, comes the pulse cannon from the roof, blowing apart the van Bane is behind with an explosion of molten plasma. Bane staggers forward, disappearing in a fireball.


"It is the attitude. You're culturally insensitive and brusque. Why would anyone find that attractive?" Hard to tell if Taskmaster is serious or not as the voice modulator interferes with emotion conveyance. "We have an incoming Eyespy cam to help us find an escape route. I think Satan is not pleased we went the obnoxiously loud route."
A spin low underneath a swiping machete and a Flying Monkey is laying on the ground screaming in agony at his missing limb. The Skull faced mercenary doesn't take a beat to slow. He is clearing the alley opposite of Bane's distraction. A distraction that has the city streets lit up in screams, gunshots, bloodshed and now exploding vans.
Azrael's appearance is like that of a vengeful wraith, a flaming sword tearing through Triad members adding to the mayhem.

"No clue who he is but lets use him to get out of here." Taskmaster isn't exactly sure if he should check on Bane or not, if he flatlines thats just part of the gig but if hes alive and he doesn't help him, what would that saya bout the Skullfaced merc? Maybe Bane wouldn't like that very much either. "Hey big guy, you alive over there?" He isn't going to budge. Two more *PLOOMS* of pulse fire carpet the streets from above. High tech firepower at it's finest.

Andrew despite the threat of losing his brains, stops and tries not to move. "We can't go out there. We're going to die out there and even if we don't die out there Ajay's older brother is going to kill us. You marked us for death."


"I am not culturally insensitive or brusque!" Regan calls out over the com-line while she's swinging a hand around to clap Andrew in the face. The slap is audible over the line, but the red handprint that'll form in seconds will have to wait until later. Turning on her heels near the side door, she jams her finger in Andrew's pudgy chest. "STOP. BEING. A. PUSSY." Regan hisses. "Marked for death means that I'm the only way you're going to stay alive, and you're coming with me. Man your fat ass up."

Regan huffs and kicks the exit door open, spilling out into view of Taskmaster. Keeping low, she continues to chatterbox over the line while she spies a Triad running out into the alleyway with a machete. The .45 bucks in her hands. The shell flies. The shadow goes down.

"Hey guys. Big guy. Don't be dead. Ajayyyy's older brother's gonna kill us all." The socially brusque Regan giggles. "OooOooo…"


Bane had not calculated for this level of technology being available to the Triads, only the sophistication being present. Together, they are a deadly team. But at the moment, all he is thinking off is the concussive force of the van exploding, the third degree burns melting his trenchcoat into his flesh, and the shrapnel lodged in his back, still smoking. His mind's eye flashing black and red, he bursts out of the smoking ruin of the van and runs directly across the street through the plasma explosions to either side, not bothering to evade as his smoking, bloody form charges forward without the aid of Venom. He does not have armor, merely willpower, as he surges across towards the alleyway his allies are at. And through an entire firing line of Triads, taking round after round, like a bronco, swinging an arm out to grab one by the head and hurl him sidelong with a torquing motion of his upper body. The Triad goes flying discus-like into the others, before smashing into a street lamp and breaking both himself and the lamp.

Bane reaches the other side and stumbles into the alleyway. He drops to a hunch forward, putting his gnarled black hand against the wall and breathing hollowly, a sucking sound emerging from his chest as he stumbles a step before the three gathered there. His mask is torn up, his right eyegoggle removed. "Bane checking in," he wheezes.


"You sure about that?" Taskmaster fires back as Regan proceeds with Andrew. The 45 round dropping the Flying Monkey the mercenary was about to clobber with his round shield. He replaces the shadows presence now fully clad in his usual modernized TAC gear. The image inducer already lost juice, it is pointless in combat anyways as it doesn't render and hold images fast enough to keep up with rapid movement.
"We're clear this way but not the other end and I worry if we get past those buildings there if the sniper with the fucking boom gun won't see us and just fry us all."

A look up and he grunts, "Out of range. Nothing we can do to those snipers."

A rounded flying drone zips down the alleyway and flashes a light at them, once then again before turning around racing through a sidestreet. Directly through sniper visibility, brief visibility but enough that one shot may go off. Two if they move at Mr.Fong speeds.

A comms transmission: "Sheba is waiting. Follow the Eyespy and do not get caught. If any of you go down you will be executed as per our plausible deniability clause. Good luck."


"Why leave it to someone from China to determine what's brusque in America. Duh." Regan mutters, stepping into the alleyway as well. Dragging her little care package by his necktie, she mouths a blessing to herself and slips into the cover of darkness. Over the blood and bodies left behind Tasksmaster she goes, her voice is smiling over the line. "I really do admire your work. Oh, and welcome back, big guy. Final stretch. Churros for everyone on the boat."

Waving her pistol, Lady Mastermind lulls her eyes closed and reaches out as far as she can with her psychic energies. She tries her best to warp an illusion around herself and the package, masking them to look like two Chinese gangster thugs with machetes, searching for the big-bad people who had bothered them. To Bane and Taskmaster, however, just Andrew Fong and his cultural expert kidnapper, Regan Wyngarde.

"Be very quiet, Andrew, or you'll die." Regan whispers, trying to slink their way through the shadows after the Eyespy.


Bane calculates quietly, despite the pain, forcing it from his mind with the same sort of determination forged from putty made into diamond that represents his life story. "We will never make it out of here as a unit with a simple run." He looks up, squinting. "I will do something about those snipers. Taskmaster, you distract the Triads in the way of the street team. I will definitely die on a street run, or possibly taking down the man on the roof. But we will all die regardless with the men on the roof intact." He exhales slowly, as he moves to his Venom injector. "Hence."

The green liquid pulses into the back of his head as his burnt, pock-marked flesh warps and flexes, the bullet wounds forcing him to scream in agony with a rattling cry as his cooked deep tissue wrenches apart while it grows, his veins throbbing in every inch of him as the shrapnel in his back causes blood to dribble to the ground. He shudders and shakes as adrenaline and rage and focus take over, his lungs opening deeply to engage his tired frame in one desperate run as he feels himself alive, more than he has ever lived before.

And then, he's up the fire escape, climbing upwards on the outer edge with his huge hands and his steel toed boots, the meat pulped mountain of beast man climbing towards the apex of the apartment complex, scaling Mt. Olympus to duel the servants of Zeus.


"You… you're B-Bane and you, you're… Sportsmaster?" Andrew puffs through sucking gobs of air. He is winded heavily, as the Eyespy flits off. "I can't keep up with that thing… heart attack." A wheeze and he clutches his chest (too low for the heart). "My sides hurt. My lungs are burning up."

"Sportsmaster? You chubby wad of… " A grumble from Taskmaster and he abruptly fires two rounds. Two gangsters swinging around the corner flop over dead. A bullet for each. "I'm the goddamned Taskmaster! Get your shit in order Fong the Tong. Sportsmaster, stupid assed Sportsmaster, "Tasky mutters to himself as Regan takes off and Bane venoms out.

"Shit shit! Alright, we'll do that. Solid plan if there is any. Watch your ass, blondie."

The shield tucks in close and a running leap sends Taskmaster over a parked car to land in the center of three men, using them to block himself from possible sniper fire while moving at rapid speeds from group to group, shield, gun, feet, knee, headbutt combos aplenty. He isn't Captain America though and will tire out quickly.

As Regan takes off after the Eyespy a green dot zips past her follows the drone then turns back around, tracking down towards her. The pulse rifle's laserpoint. It hovers just about where she is and then snaps off towards Taskmaster's location. A shot firing off in a loud crescendo of VOOSH POOM the ground erupts, a man explodes in to a geyser of blood and fragments.

Bane's quick scale has him closing in on the rooftop, spotter, gunman and the third, where is the third?

Andrew needs no more encouragement to hug in close to Regan, following right up on her back as he tries to stay as close as possible. Almost breath on the back of neck close as a small whimper escapes him. "Why does this keep happening to me? Why can't I just have a normal life."


Regan's breath hitches as the green laser swings her way. She reaches for Fong's shirt, about to pull him in front of her body to save herself, but then it turns one of the Taskmaster's human shields into a gelatin bomb. She sighs relief and points her pistol at the ground, skittering along with a sweating, panting Andrew Fong on her back.

She hasn't yet truly noticed.

"Go, big guy, kick their ass!" Regan whispers onto the line as she head-trails Taskmaster in his work. The part of carrying the package is boring, but important, so she can spare a few seconds the watch the two work. There's a glitter in her blue eyes and a gentle smile that follows. "God, I love watching you two work. Seriously. I wish I could record it because click it's bank-worthy."

Three more feet and she suddenly makes a retching sound and digs her elbow into Andrew's arm, shoving him off of her body a little bit. "Ohmygod. Ew! Ew. No." Regan pits her elbow to keep some distance as she follows the direction of the EyeSpy. "One. That's Bane and the Taskmaster. They're both awesome but one of them has gross veins and I can't even. They both make killing look like Olympic sports; they should be." Regan scolds the Tong with a tug of his tie. "Two? Because you're a Chinese gangster in serious need of a yoga class. You want a normal life? Stop breathing on my neck like a high school date, conjur up a three year plan in that stupid head of yours, pay off the cleaning bill on this dress I stole, and add an elliptical to whatever plea deal you end up with." Regan snort-squeaks and creeps around the edge of a dumpster, following the line.

"Fuck, I love this job sometimes."


Bane slams his left arm onto the slate stone ledge of the roof, then pushes himself up and slides over with his legs, landing with a smooth motion. He sees the man with plasma cannon and spotter, not even aware there is a third. In the psychotic thrill rush of pain and burning fire and metal ecstasy that makes him feel like Lucifer dawning to create a grand universe within the dungeons of Abaddon's tomb, he does not consider these things. He emits a screaming laugh as he runs at the two artists of death, not understanding what exactly is funny, the gesture entirely inappropriate and caused by his physiology misfiring in line with the Venom and the bullet wounds grinding into his internal organs, muscle tissue, and bone. Despite the damage, his frame is a champion sprinter's, in perform form his body be damned.

And then, as if he was an Egyptian golem of flesh and scorpion's shell, the blackened raging husk of Bane reaches the sniper and spotter and grabs the sniper by the neck before he can swing the plasma cannon around, lifting him up and swinging around in a charging circle. He swings his arm out, sending the sniper - and the cannon - sailing off the rooftop precipice and flailing down to the ground in silent reverie, as if Bane was a Baal and had just cast Moses himself out of the Seven Heavens.


The Triad are amateurs when it comes to combat with a man of Taskmaster's calibre, they're better than most but fall below his high standards. They should hire him sometime to teach them. They would likely find that an insult though as they have their own traditions in the martial arts, maybe he'll get lucky sometime in the future and run in to one of their masters. That would be a better challenge. A cleaver is blocked, a head is caved in by a heel kick. A roundhouse puts another man to a sprawl, a sprawl that is landed upon with a shield rim and the crunching of a nose and cheek cavity. It's all rather methodical, fluid. Moves of Daredevil flowing in to Captain America a dancy backwards Bruce Lee, a snap heel that looks like it belonged to Elektra and even a Harley Quinn sideflip that looks far too comical for a man of Taskmaster's armored bulk. Eight, nine, hes about to stop counting because they're spreading out and… SPLAT. Sniper on the ground.
A look up and he can vaguely make out Bane's silhouette. A shield salute a look towards Regan and the package and Taskmaster runs his own direction, away from the flashy lights and sirens of the first responders that are about to show up. He is too far split from Regan and Andrew.
Bane is on his own. They'll not get far anyways, Waller always keeps track of her favorite toys.

Andrew has nothing to say in his defense, if anything he might be sobbing between air gulps and lungfire. "Just save me. Just save me." He can be heard murmuring.

Ahead the black stealth helicopter awaits, the doors open already as the pilot grins past his large mustache at Regan's arrival. "Mission successful, package secure."

Comm transmission: "Bane and Taskmaster, you have 48 hours to find a way back to Belle Reve, no more casualties. Today was a goddamned clusterfuck and somebody is going to be accountable. Sheba depart."


Regan lifts a hand in a joyous wave to the Sheba's pilot. Her gun hand sways out, presenting Andrew Fong like a letter on Wheel of Fortune. Her grip shifts from his tie to his collar, and the last few feet to the Sheba are spent shoving him onto the helicopter. Lithe and dextrous, it doesn't take Regan much to grab a handle and swing herself onto the helicopter, dress and all. Her gun is shoved back into her purse and off come her heels with a closed-eye sigh of relief.

"Not it!" Regan replies on the comm, as if it'll instantly make her not the one responsible for the clusterfuck. "I hope this doesn't mean I gotta spend two days there…"



Bane makes a mental note to report the lack of warning for what appears to be Intergang technology with this Triad unit. If he knew, he would've done a building breach and applied a much more vigorous ground game. Bane continues to charge after the sniper leaves his hand, his spin complete leaving him facing in the direction of his inertia, and grabs the ledge on the other side with his right hand, letting himself go over and swing around like a more agile version of a giant simian, swinging to face the building as he hangs off, feet on the side. He looks behind him, once, before he jettisons off the roof and slowly falls to the ground, making his body limp as his legs stay bent at the knees, soles facing the building, and his arms out at his sides.

With a crash, Bane lands on the roof of a sedan, glass breaking as the frame whines and groans as it caves in beneath the Venom-using madman.

Slowly, Bane rolls off the wrecked car and onto his feet, adjusting the knob on his gauntlet to introduce the Venom counter-agent. Venom lurks off down a one way street the curls along a tenement set aside for Triad prostitution operations and sweat shop labor housing, limping into the night.

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