May 02, 2017:

Rose and Regan …. simply had this coming.

Belle Reve Penitentiary - Louisiana

Where the fun happens.


NPCs: Amanda Waller, Prison Guards

Mentions: Bane Taskmster


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Belle Reve Penitentiary. Where the fun happens.

Regan Wyngarde has been returned to the swampy prison for hours now. The Sheba, a stealth helicopter, returned her for debriefing and questioning, but a 48 hour call had been ordered to Taskmaster and Bane to circle around in Louisiana. Which means…shortly upon arrival…that Regan learns that she's probably living in Belle Reve for the next forty-eight hours.

Needless to say, the criminal who'd signed on with Task Force X, is non-plussed. Carted off to the specialized end of the prison for the team, Regan eyerolls at nearly every psy-blocker she comes across. Each being worst than the next, she gets it, she gets it. Louisiana, for her, is very quickly becoming her least favorite spay and neuter clinic in the world due to their penchant for cutting off her ability to work her magic.

Hours have passed in the lonely rec room. She's been given a stack of prison orange, undershirt, prison orange pants, and the worlds most unremarkable panties to change into, but Regan hasn't yet.


Thumbing her nose at her BlackOps correction agency, she's remaining (for now) in her slinky hooker wear: A black cocktail dress with a layered hemline that barely covers her ass, eyes loaded down with mascara, ruby red lips, and NOT the heels she had confiscated due to their sharpness.

"Fuck. This. Place." Regan sings under her breath as she walks around the room in a circle, ignoring the television in the cage and the couches. She's pacing, like a caged animal, walking off her frustration.

Ravager returned back as per check-in.

.. Tick-Tock.

But when she looks up to monitoring security cams as she signs her Jane Hancock… "Stupid Bitch."

Ain't My Fault

Ravager was free to go back out into the world, the door buzzes, bolts chamber from the security door, her scan is ran… Freedom's breeze is felt and her wrapped hand curls lightly. She had a mattress on a floor to return to in Red Hook! "…Sh/ii/t."

The leather coat is shrugged off and she tosses it onto the belt, the pivotal ricting of trigger'd pulley along back is revealed with twin pistols and blades that reticulate into it. All unloaded onto belt and she basically strips to get through the metal detector and handed the same…

"No." The panties are tossed at the guard and she slides the stupid Kool-Aid Orange Suit on.

"Freeball with Ping Pong. I owe her one." After the usual pat-down, check, footies handed over with gross ass flip flops she just pinches them into fingers and drops them beside the rec-room door as it is unlocked and she is ushered in.


"Alright, Devil In Prada, you chose not to go to the concert…" Buddy Christing Regan, Ravager props against the wall as the door is lobbied shut.

Misery loves company.
In that, Regan seems overjoyed at the sounds of someone preparing to re-enter the prison for her sake. Regan relishes in it, grinning ear to ear as she walks around the stack of clothing waiting for her in the center of the room, daring it to move a step closer to her. It took some begging, but she's wearing civilian for the next hour or so, or at least until someone with more authority barks at her and tells her to dress like a loser.

"Roooooooose." Regan dimples and drops a knee a few inches, showing off her dress to the international assassin. "I didn't go to the concert, but I got to have some fun and," Regan throws her arm in the direction of the door Rose has just walked through. "I'm totally winning the congeniality game with the guards."

With a turn on her heel, Regan sashays in her dress over to Rose Wilson.

"So let me guess," Regan's eyes narrow, thick mascara making her eyes all kinds of Maybelline. It's the teasing face. Regan looks like a serpent every time. "You got kicked in the face by a crowd surfer while I was doing infiltration wetwork? I don't know which one of us got off easier but-" Regan grins and gives the lapels of Rose's orange jumpsuit a little tug. "-it's obvious who still has her dress on."

"I put this shit on to see what the—-" Rose is watching as Regan approaches in her attire, that single eye bearing swell and split over alabaster brow, narrows.

** The lights go from incandescent to darkness.. **

"…Fuck did you do? I headbutted some 9-10.." Ravager pivots and grabs the thrown arm of Regan, looking from barred window to sealed door.

** The blackened lights are foreboding. But with a sudden slam and switch, the dark goes to
red flickering of security lights beneath caged holders upon far corners. **

"I could have stayed nicely redone in my leather, butnooooo, you or me. Hooker, I hate you…" Stated as the light rotates and flcikers over both of their faces and around them like surround-sound other doors are slammed into lock!
…But theirs?


Un(fucking)locked with a slam, and in the door several guards dressed in swat attire blockade the entry as it rolls open and leaves them in a club scene without Molly.

*"Seems you have forgotten who you work for."*
The voice of The Wall is hard to ignore as it seemed /pissed/ but amused non-the-less… For her own reasons.
*"You are still convicts. Don't get comfortable, girls…"*

This would have seemed like a scene made in some man's heaven as the nozzle held in a guards hand is brought forward, but the reality of it is…
It's a fire hose, and getting hit with that at full power is worse then the mosh pit Rose just went through, and is about to go through again.

… Because this is the only pussy you people are going to get!

"…Fuck you, Bitchca—-"

The hose is fired on and the room is pressured then, the high power hose not just //one, but each suited guard bearing one pulling the lever on them under The Walls order to slam them in an assault of reminder
…and warning…

Too Comfortable.

*"When you are done here…. Learn to Pr(e)ay?"*

Regan's face turns white as the un-fun lights turn on. There's a glimmer of hope in her eyes that lasts a split second. Could it be there's a riot in another cell block and they're going to be locked into this rec room for hours alone? They could play 'Patty-Cake' and tell stories about people Ravager's seeing and people Regan isn't!

But not. Regan knows it's for them when she's greeted with the presence of riot gear and Satan herself over the loudspeaker. Regan extends a hand, truly surrendering in the face of a beating she's not physically capable of cashing without the help of her mouth or her ass.

"Oh come on! This isn't fucking necess-"

The firehose hits Regan in the stomach. The wind knocks out of her in a pitiful, choking sound, throwing her forward on pedicured heels. She slips and the weight of the water sends her choking, choking like the lives she enjoys snuffing out in their own saliva, back towards the wall.

Forget dignity.
She'd have been better off in the orange jumpsuit.

Regan coughs where she doesn't shriek out like a furious teenager, trying to be heard over the roar of the firehoses that punch her in the face and shoulders, rendering the proud woman into an ant under a magnifying glass.

Waller takes her pride.
Regan can't stop it.

You will give your rifle, a girls name…

Ravager's orange darkens under the onslaught of the hose, almost going an ugly red with the pressure of the super soaker 5xxxxxx! The look to Regan is one of 'Don't ask, don't tell!', just before they are both blasted back and wind is knocked by the impact upon solar plexus…
… The backs hitting the wall as The Devil speaks her proclamation over the speakers of the SUPER-Max Prison, leaving them to hear… Whatever they can through water-clogged ears…. Or Ego!

ROse's back hits the wall beside Regan's, breath forced out one way, then another, her gasps water-logged until she is left on a dripping and puddled floor spewing for air like a drowned rat….

"Fuck, yo—"


The hoses unleash and from all fours and dripping Ravager is //pressed back onto the wall, two for one -lifting- her off her feet to ascend and then off.

Dropped back to the floor she watches as Regan's form is taking the same beating.
.. Something to say for designer threads, they with-held far lnger then that of the orange jumpsuit under the torrent that is comparable to being barraged by Bane… Maybe pre-veininess??

Both of them are taught new ways to take flight, and re-learn how to breathe!

"Shu-pp…- cack!&(&^&!!" Landing on the floor with something akin to a splat, Ravager just curls fingers (even if bruised) into a fist while she peels her head back and drops slick from pale ends of hair and rivulets run from beneath a patch…
None of them can stop it, even if it feels like they are being hit by a train…

… "I'm Agnostic…." End of story…

A fresh streak of blood trickles down the back of Regan's head, gifting her blonde hair with an impromptu dye job. Paint as you will over concrete, there's always sharp points, and the back of Regan's favorite head found one, alright. Two stitches, at the least.

Try as she may to keep the firehose off of her belly, she swings her arms at it, but in finding the water, all it does is blast her hand away. She gasps, lips parted as wide as they can, trying to find a way to breathe in the onslaught. Her belly is a tight, tiny thing, and the pressure from the hose is more than enough to keep her diaphragm locked in place, even while her ribs strain under its force.

Then again, the man with the hose has a grudge to fill. Is she the one who called him 'Discount John Goodman'? Yes. Regan's the one who called him that.

The firehose lifts, a hard, primal punch against Regan's pretty, pretty face. Through stringy hair and a trickle of blood, mascara streaks from her eyes after the first round ends.

Regan falls onto her hands and knees, sucking in a raspy breath. She'll be coughing water out of her lungs for days. She can barely hold her body up and scarcely think, but she can cast her rapidly swelling eye Rose Wilson's way.

In that singular, red-rimmed eye, is a statement.

I'm going to kill her.

"Do you…fuckers…" Regan's voice strains, wheezing and shivering from the frigid water she's inhaled. "…have any…idea…how much…this dress-"


Discount John Goodman is more than happy to oblige. The stream comes out like a rocket, connecting with Regan's shoulder and POPPING it into an awkward ankle. The scream of pain that bellows out of Regan's mouth is straight from the alligator brain; it's a pain response. There's nothing cute about it.

Regan flies back, spinning with the force of the water.

The last thing she sees is a painted, concrete wall rushing towards her face.

From lips hovering, the outline shadowed when lights finally flicker from red to darkness, is a long //black/ string of ichor from Ravager's lips, adding to the pulsing throb of already concussed cranium. Not even -One Fucking Night- to recover!!

She would blame Regan if it was not for the fact the fellow #meangirlbitchcake is just as much a puddle(cake) on the ground. But Rose had taken beatings and training since a child, so even if broken she would crawl through shards of glass and bleed out before she fell, fully. Physical is where Rose had it… Mental… She is fucked and Regan is the Yin.

Rose could not stop the onslought, nor intervene, not in Hell Reef (Belle Reeve), but she is a bitch, and bitches remember the score. That last look from Regan was understood, even as she crept closer to the silhouette of her form on the ground in her expensive dress now torn asunder…

..A Reach…

Lights come on, blinding at first as the men still clad in SWAT approach and gather them up, or well. Rose is still like the broken Pit Bull for a moment!
.. Kick to crotch…. cupcheck? Footcrack!!
Hand reaches… She bites!
Heel of palm to a chin, other heel of foot to the back of a knee, nails even manage to peel something like a banana…
… And an armored fist impacts where brow is already cracked.

… Laying in a puddle of vomit has been the highlight of Rose's 24 hours.

Gold Star for effort bitches!

*"Seg! 24 Hours. Hose them every 3, feed them after 12."*

…Agnostic with Atheist tendencies…

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