No Wilson Left Behind

May 28, 2017:

Lady Mastermind and Taskmaster collect Ravager from Africa. LANGUAGE WARNING



Mentions: Deathstroke, Amanda Waller, Nate Grey


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Almost 4:00 AM the 28th of May
Mombasa, Kenya

The sun is not even rising yet over the Republic of Kenya, the streets of Mombasa are largely empty, cluttered and downtrodden. Why Slade or Nate Grey brought Rose to a place like this is beyond Taskmaster and he is hesitant to show up but they got the call, well Regan got the call.

It's not like Taskmaster doesn't know Africa is one of Deathstroke's hotspots, he's a legend here. People worship him almost as much as that white-haired African Goddess of an X-Men.

The rocky ride in the back of the beat up jeep has Taskmaster grumbling, hes fully geared up and ready to take on the psionist again but Rose assured them they wouldn't have to. At least they were able to work through old Stormwatch connections to keep weapons secured and out of the way of customs.

Regan Wyngarde is learning, albeit slowly. So attached to her purple leathers and thirty miles of cleavage, something about Africa, a place with varying degrees of freedoms, one potentially stolen Ravager, and Josh Hartnett in 'Blackhawk Down' fresh in mind (despite being explained two or three times that Blackhawk Down was in Somalia, not Kenya), Regan has dressed for the nation itself. Coyote brown pants, tan boots, linen tan shirt and honest body armor for a change, it is. She's kept a nondescript hat over her head and dark shades over her eyes, using a faded, tan shemagh as a neckscarf for what may soon be a hot day.

"You know…" Regan murmurs to the driver with a glance his way. She pats the D&K M416 assault rifle she's brought with her. "…if you're grumbling now, wait till you see the coin toss as to who we get to fuck around with tonight, chief." Regan smirks darkly, though not as dark. Mascara in Kenya is a bad idea. "The mutant, the dad, or the pissed off girl? Our…" Regan airquotes with one hand. "…active lifestyle is currently less hazardous than sex without a condom at three A.M. in a Florida Waffle House."

Rose was whisked away. One moment in New York, near friends, near family, near people like her - that get her…

Rose knows how to keep her breathing deep, shallow…

Rose heard the conversation, the end of it. The neutrality in Slade's, the plea in Nate's as well as the anger…

The threats exchanged, even if in innuendo. A lot of risk, a lot of life. A lot of LIES.

A moment is gained, a simple second to grip the onyx promethium blade that was in the arm of the couch she 'slept' upon, the bag, and make a few leaps of faith…

Out the window.
Into the bag for contents.
A cell phone that on ID brings up 1 I (One Eye, HA!).
… and a phone call…

Taskmaster isn't here to take down anything huge. Just perhaps a psychic which means most conventional weapons work just fine, its the distractions to get in close enough to do it that matter most. Not wearing a cloak he is actually wearing a tattered hooded poncho ontop of that 'UDON' gear. It obscures several weapons of choice. Walking beside Regan he doesn't have much to say about her attire or her Barbie death gun. Thats already been said on the flight. He got his jokes out of the way.

"I'm least worried about the boytoy. The father and I, well, I'm feeling good today. We'll see if that geezer can keep up if it comes down to it. I find that unlikely we'll end up fighting though. Dudes probably already said his piece and has moved on." Hands off parenting? Works for sociopaths. "And really, we go back. I also have to question it, is Rosie worth that risk? Shes not in immediate danger and nobody is paying me for this."

The hotel in question is before them soon about two blocks away, they're not going to go near it. Rose can come out to them and they can head out of town in the jeep to the hideaway hut they have set up. If anything that isn't Ravager comes out of the structure, well, they're ready for that too. "We're on orders. Satan helped us with customs, shes invested so there is no options here. She comes with us or we go empty handed. So realistically we got a possibility of four bulls to face down. Which one you afraid of the least?"

"Call her. Tell her we're here if you would." Unless of course there she is already scaling down? That may be Rose's shadow just clambering out of a window. "Are we seriously doing this? How fucking old are we?"

"I'm not going to answer that question, but if I were, I'd say I'd rather not tangle with her dad. Remember Bolivia? He stopped off for a little head that day?" Regan sarcasms, shimmying back into the jeep's seat to reach to her vest and unclip her cell phone from it. Black painted fingernails (because really, who removes nail polish when being sent on a plane to Africa for Ops work? Not Regan) flip on the screen and the homepage with a fat kitten shooting lasers out of its eyes shows on the screen. "My special sauce is quiet. Not swords. Not backflips. Not curving bullets or whatever hot-ass McAvoy was doing in that W-"

The phone rings.
'They see me rooooolin'
they haaatin'

Regan accepts the call to kill the intro to the rap song she has as her ringtone. "We're seriously doing this. Like high school all over again." Regan holds up a finger and whips her hair out of the way to press her ear to the receiver. "Hey bitchface. We'll kill the headlights and roll up the side." Regan smirks, getting her jabs in. "This party is gonna be a-maze-balls."

Dropping to the ground, Rose is bare-footed, but bearing the weight of a duffel over her shoulder, the hone shoved into her bra as she digs in like it is Christmas in an African alley!

No snow here, asife from the fall of white hair over a shoulder that bears the slip of a strap down over the flex of contour. There is one glance up and out as another prosthetic eye is withdrawn from the bag, the iris color a perfect match. "…I still hate you for this…" An exhale and when she hunches over a couple fingers thrust into socket, burrowing to rip cords free with the 'ball,
but what those tendons of wire connect to?
Digits dig deep and blood trickles where a tear should while mechanics and cybernetics are ripped from the ocular interior.

There, she crushes it beneath the stab of the massive black blade's tip, no reflection in the shadows as she massacres a part of her.

Exhale. "No trace."

But with every step attire is changing, the duffel becoming less heavy and the streets bearing scraps of cloth that was shorts and a cami, a zipper grinding upward while scale maille glistens and a difference of hues from red back to Wilson-Orange is limned as an accent, but that bandanna of orange and black to go over her face?
Held like an eyepatch over the bleeding eye.

"Don't stop, keep rollin'.' Duffel zips and she surfaces, white hair bunned up in preparation, a wig gathered in opposing hand.

"Amaze-balls… huh… " Taskmaster utters after Regan's words as Rose closes in on them both managing to run and dress en route. The sun still not rising up shes rather flashy in the darkness. As soon as shes inside the jeep with them he cants his head, "Where is Slade and your friend?" Good to know these just in case. He really doubts Deathstroke cares she is hauling ass on out of here but the other might. The man seemed rather convinced he is rescuing young Miss Wilson from a very horrible crowd of people.

Like all the others Taskmaster does have some twisted amusement in the fact Waller took the brunt of that. She deserves it. "We're off, lets go."

"You never heard that before, Tee?" Regan turns her phone off and clips it back to her tactical vest. Tone a whisper, far off and away, she watches the ocular smash-and-stab in Rose's appearance. Expressionless, Regan stares and lets out a slow breath of her own. "…you're definitely older than me, then." Regan nods slowly to Rose in her approach and lifts one gloved hand to the bar beside her head to hang on when the jeep inevitably starts up again.

"Hey." Regan twists her shoulders to watch Rose. "Yeah, where are they. We running out of town or driving casually?"

"I think I have but I decided to forget it." Selective ignore as well as forced? It is possible with the Skull-faced mercenary. He's never really talked about his memory condition but he has mentioned forgetting or not remembering a lot of things. The more time they spend with him the more they will begin to see such things first hand.

"I am older than you. Probably all of you but I am not… old." Sort of.

Silently awaiting a response from Rose in regards to the location of Deathstroke and X-Man.

Rose leaps into the Jeep as it pauses only for a rev-enough to keep going.

Claiming a seat behind Taskmaster and Regan, Rose stares at them with the one genetic eye while the other has a multi-hued bandanna held over it. "Roll slow. Slade left, Nate's….indisposed." What happened there? Rose is leaving with a Capital Period! "You should know driving slow and out of you lane… Pops." Rose quips to Taskmaster with a smirk half-hidden beneath fabric as she wedges the blade beneath thigh for a hold and ruffles through the bag.

"Just get us all the fuck out of this territory. Piss is a smell I prefer not breathe in." A pause though as one eye stares deapan between 'T' and Regan…

"Amaze-bawls…." A small smile, waning…
Get it now?? Hint. HINT!.

"Well, at least you don't have dad-bod, Tee." Regan confides in the skull-faced man as Rose hops in. Regan's eyes return to the hotel, watching it like a hawk as her thin arm flexes against the jeep's 'weenie bar' to lift herself up and back down again, getting comfortable. "Never be afraid to make fun of us for our tweet-speak. Seriously." Regan intones. Nervous energy? Maybe.

Regan twists at the hip to look to the backseat. Her eyes bounce over Rose to the hotel being placed behind the car in the drive away. Her lips flatten and she takes a moment to stare at the white-haired girl and the bandanna covering where her fake eye should be.

"This place sucks, you know." Regan comments openly. "Germania's better. Less cows in the road and, yeah, I wasn't gonna comment on the piss smell just yet." A beat. You okay? Regan doesn't ask.

"We cannot leave until morning so we have options. We can go kill some local warlord for fun or just head back, drink and watch the sunrise as you unload and fill us in. I mean really our whole mission here was to back your ass up. If you even want to call it a mission." Taskmaster informs Rose. The jeep in motion as they depart Mombassa leaving the slum looking layout behind. "A dad bod? Shit I hope not. I work hard to stay as peak condition as I can… even with all the beer." He would grin but he can't. It's assumed as hes always 'fixed' in a grin.

"Do you feel like murdering someone or just murdering a bottle of whiskey? Good friends can supply these things." DId the man just call them friends? He could just be speaking hyperbole for the moment. Maybe he'll forget soon. Dust blows up around them and they dodge a pack of wild dogs.

"There's shit going on here, even if it smells of it." The black side of the bandanna is pushed into socket, a rotation of fingers and with a rip something is shved deep, then a box that looks like 'Zen Balls' is drawn open, one pushed in place to match the other.

A normal life is boring,
..but super stardom is close to post mortem!

The black wig is placed over her head, shoving platinum up and under as the suit is withdrawn to splay over floorboard while boots are placed before feet, braced between as they bounce along. "Slade has enemies here. I am sure one is awake and drinking whiskey in a piss-smelling hole."

A pause and she is shedding layers to take on new skin in the backseat staring at the rearview between Task and Regan. There's always cows in the road. Get a Hum Vee. Two for one…" Answer to it all as she is slipping suit over feet, a yank ((She ain't that -little- anymore SLADE-ASSHOLE-!))…

After watching Rose and the hotel in the distance for long enough, Regan tucks a stray lock of hair from her ponytail behind her ear and bounces face-about to the front, thanks to doing a one-armed pull-up with the weenie bar. She digs the toe of her boot against the passenger side's floor and looks down, double-checking her tactical gear. "No, you don't had dad-bod, but since you're the oldest and you're the guy, I'm totally putting you on getting us a place with a pool after we let her grudge-kill this dude." Regan reaches across the center console to -poke- Taskmaster with her finger.

"Asshole purge it is." Regan proclaims with a dryness to her voice. "But I totes don't know any warlord assholes in Kenya aside from that dude that Capheus was working for in Sense8? So, Rose, babe, give us a name, a hotel, and you're totally capping the guy because we were just talking 'bout how we don't want your old man on our asses."

Somewhere in Kenya around 0700 (that same day)

The sun rises and a bird looks up a strip of meat hanging from its beak. A hillside overlooking a scrub-laden landscape, almost something a person would see in Eastern California, a wealthy mansion. Less than an hour ago it was assaulted by two American women and a Skullfaced man.

Taskmaster didn't need Deathstroke's contacts to find this mark, the Unternet works wonders for operations like this. The Warlord who named himself the Cursed Jal is now the headless Jal, his body having rolled somewhere down the slope on the western side of the mansion.

Gunshots stopped only minutes ago. There are still servants and Forsaken Warriors of the Cursed Jal hiding inside the mansion, it was a bloodbath. A Kill Bill meets Robert Rodriguez level display of absolute gory carnage. They got to unleash on a drug runner, slaver, black marketeer and occasional terrorist. What isn't to enjoy in that scenario?

The man lives like he was straight out of Hollywood Gangster movies. Even his teeth were a shiny grill of gold. His plaza hosting a pool, an outdoor bar, three stories and well over a two dozen rooms within. It would look like they were in Cali if it wasn't for all the Mad Max style cars parked everywhere.

A scream sounds out from somewhere below in the shrubbery, Taskmaster had earlier chased a man off with one of those pink flamingos. The ones with the spike stand. He had already killed another guy with one. His body lays beside the pool cradled around it like it was a teddybear. A very dead man. Very. Like so many others. Red was the color of the morning sun.

A large stereo system on wheels is actually blaring loudly through large speakers some Daddy Yankee. Taskmaster tried to kill it earlier but one of the girls stopped him. Its not that hes on a leash but… when in Rome and this isn't therapy for him. This was therapy for Rose Wilson. It is her day.

Oh, and what a workout it's been for Regan Wyngarde. She's been running through the ringer on the side with weight training and weapons training, and in a rare show of good faith, she's driven into storming the castle with a few new skills and less show-and-tell with her mutant powers.

Bulletholes. Everywhere. Regan Wyngarde, rich as she is, has littered the walls with dozens of missed rounds fired on the 'unlimited ammunition' plan of mercenary work. Four spent mags later and her H&K 416 is laying on the bar, replaced by a sawed off shotgun that she'd stolen from the skull-ventilated bartender.

Really, Regan's been having fun practicing diving behind cover and using bullets to flush bad guys (well, worse bad guys) into the path of her predator friends.

And slide she does. Literally. Every chance she gets she's slid from cover to cover, the ass of her pants smeared with blood and Daft Punk's 'Robot Rock' pumping into her tactical earpiece.

"DO. NOT. GET. BLOOD. IN. THE. POOL." Regan commands over their tactical line, picking up an AK-74. "Oooh, this is a new one." A few voices speaking in one of the EVERY African languages Regan doesn't understand has her running around the pool area, dropping to one hip, and sliding behind a table. She comes up, sloshing pool water, and takes aim.
The trigger pulls.
The gun bucks in her hands.
Regan falls back, onto her ass, thrown back by the kick of the weapon.

When they stepped within the p(a)lace of the 'Jal', there is little left to the imagination.

Boots buckle upward, but disappear beneath dtraps she had slapped on in the ride within the Jeep.
"Here!.." The smartphne is slide to the front heat after a search of propsed 'Unternet', her employ on the side…

Jal Gua. A lord here vying for territory.
Vying for territory here means against the Wilson Legacy, as Slade has already laid claim, and with the pittance of whores, servitude in flesh-trade, and drugs as well as pieced trade of illegal mechanisms overseas….

White rhino 30DS's are holstered, the tac belts are criss crossed over her mail covered abdomen with clips and reload of ammunition, but Ravager has something new to learn…. Coming in behind Taskmaster and Regan the heel-fire falls like flaming raindrops of barking gunfire and falling clatters of shell casings.

A strap of orange is angled over her faux eye, held fast with a darkened slit and fold of knotted fabric that also keeps the black wig in place upon cranium.

Somersaults, pivots, a stance upon a mini-bar and the serving woman is cow-towed in fetal upon the floor with fingers clutched through zulu-esque knots of trade upon skull. Dark eyes peer up and a massive dark blade drips blood upon her bare shoulder then casts towards the door in the universal signal of!:
Get the fuck out!
That she does!

Those who oppose, on the other hand, down to the rolling figure of Jal Gua are left behind in a relentless bath that clings black strands to her neck and paints pale skin pink in the recession towards slightly parted top over clavicles.

"Anyone wonder why they listen to Mexican Cartel Records in Kenya???" A sudden hip-switch and she is sliding behind the bar, an arm sweeping the bottles (partially) safe to below as reciprocal hail of fire takes out the mini-wall…

"I just want to drive one of those Apoc-buggies into the pool before this is over!" … Maybe…

Taskmaster is walking back up to the edge of the patio-outdoor-pool, "We safe? No bloody water, eh?" This is for Regan's benefit. "I don't know but that music is shit, Sugar listens to it constantly." The Forsaken Warriors are done. Their will is broken and those that remain won't come out of hiding, why would they? These lunatics just slaughtered and entire compound of the dread Lord Jal the Cursed.

Pausing long enough to kick one of the bodies away from the tiles around the pool he walks over to the bar. Seeing if Rose is alive and kept all the bottles safe, "Tell me they have Jack or at least something I'll drink… I ain't choking down any Vodka or Tequila. If they have Tequila we're not leaving this place standing when we leave. This is just… " An empty Glock is set down on top of the bar, Taskmaster lifts a hand to shade his eyes against the rising sun. "Wasn't it just dark?"

"Oh my god this Russian shit. Strong as bear. In Russian rifle, rifle kicks you." Regan pushes her tired ass off of the deck and fires a few parting shots at a few stooge-guards who hid until everyone was dead, and then tried to make a run for it. The rifle bucks heavily in Regan's hands, straining her thin wrists, but the two guards go down in the distance, piling in front of a doorway. "Fuck. This. Gun." Regan turns the rifle over and slams it into the potting soil of a planter.

"Mexican music sounds like polka." Regan calls out over her shoulder, hissing as she rubs at a sore wrist and turns around to face them. Scowling, she uses her shemagh to wipe at her neck and cheeks, strolling carefully over the wet deck towards the bar. Before there, she gives a twirl, looks around at the bullethole-dusted manse, and grins. "This place belongs to us now. God, I love working in countries that don't give as much of a fuck."

Regan dips and pulls up a barstool. Her ponytail bobs in a look to the each of them, then to the pool behind her. "All I ask is that I get to swim before you drive one of those Mad Max cars into it. I totally need to cool off and I don't know if I should get rid of the body armor yet."

A boot planted, another body rolls down 'turfed' hill to form a pile at the bae where the dry terrain becomes reality off the grounds.

A return to that bar, Ravager is bent, bottle-necks hooked between fingers and knuckles in a hoist to place them upon the bar-top, one bears a worm floating, swiring in the lightly golden cyclone to sink to the base. A furrow of brow and she is trying to translate what she can, sliding Taskmaster his bottle that is far more akin to his desires, red finger paints along the glass where the liquid beneath is honey'd in hue, but deep.

"Depends, In Mexico, Cartel owns Label." A fick of finger to just beneath the ridge of cheek-bone that is wrapped in orange. A response to that Russian pun, but the H&K is eye'd.

"If it is not taking out your face or ass, it isn't good enough." A bottle placed, the wormed one, front and center while that massive blackened blade is set before her upon the servery level of the bar, ichor painting it from tip to pommel.

Bladed corner of lips flicked with tongue and she looks to the pool. "Shot for shot, then we stain it pink and I get to drive a buggy into the bitch…"


"Please?" Like a fucking kid on graduation.

Sans the wig instead of Cap.

"Not sure why you don't just… " Taskmaster wriggles his fingers in the air, "Melt their brains or make them see their own parents eating them alive or something. Feeling messy tonight?" He asks Regan, the mansion is a hovel compared to ones Lady Mastermind is used to but it's nice for this neck of the 'woods'.

"I figure we leave here and this place will be full of wild animals, hungry scavengers. Easy mess clean up not that anyone will miss these sad sacks."

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