GCPD and Butterflies of Doom

February 16, 2018:

Miss Moreau lures in the GCPD to leave a message and to let her beautiful pets play. The Batman and several 'heroes' arrive to help stop the madness.

Gotham, Shelby Park


NPCs: White Rose Gang Goons, Random Gotham Hobo



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The White Rose Gang has been busy as of late.

Moreso than usual, anyway. Miss Moreau and her gang of thieves, murderers, and animal lovers are aggressive in their underground dealings. They have nominal territory in East End that they fiercely protect, but their mercenary nature has them equally as often being used as muscle and specialists by others. The criminal rumblings therefore won't be too out of the ordinary at first. Guns raided from shops and a few low-grade gangbangers, a few stolen credit cards pinging then abandoned, electronics shops broken into and looted in the dead of night.

It's when things go silent from the group that vigilantes might get worried. A few reports of suit-wearing Gotham dandies near Sheldon Park, but no actual crimes.

Rrrumble rumble rumble goes the small generator powering a plasma tv and attached DVD player in the middle of an open clearing hedged by coves of trees on three sides in the park. It's dark, moon clouded overhead as the clock inches to midnight. Several feet in front of the generator is a single backpack. The trees rustle, faint shadows hiding within and even on the branches.

Light fills the park and a hundred car alarms go off as the backpack explodes. Later, forensics will show a lovely combination of C4, fireworks, and other bits that equal this loud, bright fireball that leaps into the sky. It takes the GCPD about twenty minutes to respond. This /is/ East End. But they can't just ignore what might be an actual terror attack. No SWAT team just yet, it's four squad cars of uniformed officers that race up and set out, guns at the ready. They walk into the clearing. They find the blast radius, scorched grass and dirt everywhere. The cops smartly cover each other, almost back to back as they work like a team. When the smoke clears, the tv flips on. Two large speakers jerry-rigged up to the tv amplify sound to fill most of the clearing and the trees. A smiling face greets the cops who mostly lower their guns with slack jaws.

Miss Moreau, smiling pleasantly as she sits in a darkened room at a white latticed table, folds her hands as she puts down a cup of tea. "Good evening, Gotham's Finest! Most of you do not know me. Allow me to introduce myself." She offers brightly, if a bit softly. Faux-noble airs can't hide an East Ender's rough draw, no matter how sweet.

"My name is Miss Moreau. My beautiful Roses and I are quite cross unfortunately! Yes yes yes, most upset I'm afraid! You all at the GCPD have been most /naughty/! Stealing from the poor and desperate, calling those with hearts that howl and scream to hunt the 'criminally insane' only to toss them in that horrible Asylum! Chaining beautiful beasts with your bonds of order and society and law!" She speaks, passionate, peppering her oration with giggles laced with growls. Steel, unmoving eyes burn to look, her scarr ugly in the hatred on her face.

"No more. We reject you entirely, you who have rejected us. Unbound we hunger, and so do we begin the Hunt! Roses, gorge yourselves freely as you desire!"

The tv goes silent and staticy. One of the bewildered cops turns to the other.

"Who the hell was that crazy bi…"

The officer's head explodes in gore as a high caliber round tears him to shreds, a single accurate shot from the rightwards cove of trees. The brief flash of a muzzle and glint of a scope. Shadows rustle in the trees. Things small and dark lift from branches, swirling towards the clearing. In the dark trees, bullets fire from automatics and handguns, lighting up besuited madmen and women wearing gasmasks, even as hundreds of insects circle high above.

Wings glow to reveal shimmering violet butterflies that begin acrobatic turns and sways gracefully despite the chaos below. The speakers cast more noise, a rendition of Hijo de la Luna, music and gunfire mixing. The cops fall to ground, seeking what little cover is to be found behind trashcans, benches. One reaches for his handheld radio transmitting to the police frequencies.

"Backup, Sheldon Park! Sniper! Gunmen! Send backup!" Frantically yells the officer. They won't arrive in time. But there are others who protect Gotham and the world that just might be closer.


Peter Quill arrives from The Crossroads.


Rusalka Stojespal arrives from The Crossroads.


If there is one thing that Peter Quill can be happy about is that all this crazyness isn't his fault. Of course that doesn't mean that he isn't a magnet for this sort of thing.

Explosions go off. Bullets start to fly. Most /sane/ people would be diving for cover right about now.

Sane is something Peter Quill has never been accused of.

But still. Diving for cover is about a natural a habit as you can get into when living with Rocket. Which is why he's under cover of a concrete bench.

"What IS IT with Gotham?!" He calls to a terrified bystander. "Every time I come here for groceries this happens!" A pause. "The bugs are new though."


The Curator has kept Robert pretty busy on this hunt for leads in to his particular desired collection of mystical artifacts, through Sara Pezzini's friend in the NYPD the albino pale Native is on location in Gotham, not here for the police, vigilantes, crooked, bent, sideways and all other things that are usual in the Village of Goats. No, he came simply for the library and a specialist in these parts in to the occult. It is just unfortunate timing thats placed him in the middle of one of this crime riddle cities more chaotic incidents.

The shout of Peter Quill coupled with gunfire and the natural instinct to take flight when cops are in motion or there is obvious danger has the man likewise, launching himself for cover, a parked car has his shoulders to it.

No vigilante attire for Robert Berresford, despite the fact he has in the past moonlighted as a night prowling hero, nope, jeans, cowboy boots, a flannel jacket with a hoodie. He looks like a civilian, if you can get over his general build, red eyes, white skin and animistic features, right down to the taped bio-metallic fingerclaws.

"Cursed city."


With the gang wars going on in scattered parts of Gotham lately, Batman can only be in so many places at once. It's been a month since his public return, and turf previously 'repossessed' has been abandoned as Batman pushes them back out.

East End though… he hasn't been seen in this section of the city all that much.

Tonight. He was in the northern sections of Gotham when the call went out, the police radio filter on his scanner playing back the recording. The explosion wasn't exactly subtle though, and Batman was already on the way at that point.

With the speed of the Batmobile, it only takes about a minute for Batman to arrive within the vicinity… and he switches the 'Stealthmobile' to blend into the many cars parked nearby, before he launches himself into the sky with a lever pull.

Soon, he's landed on a rooftop silently, his thermal vision set in red eye lenses as he works out an accurate assessment of the situation -and perpetrator count- from a kneeling position, his cape fluttering slightly in the wind from the few seconds he sits to take it all in.


Peter's comrade in 'trying to not get shot by crazies' is this poor old besotted hobo looking guy. Which are particularly a dime a dozen in Gotham. "It ain't supposed to happen on Fridays! Friday's the /safe/ day to buy groceries!" Bemoans the man. It's Gotham, 'safe' is relative. Also he's probably a bit nutty himself.

Like a good hobo he pulls out a hip flask and sucks it down, before offering it to Starlord. Burp. Ugh. That breath could kill a man. "Have a nip bud? Best thing to do in these situations." At least he's a nice homeless crazy gothamite. He does scream though as another one of those brilliant high-caliber rifle rounds tears through concrete and nearly wings him. There's more less effective small arms fire peppering Quill's way too, he might want to shoot back or stay low!

No rest for the wicked, or the civilian clothed vigilante either! Despite how they /focus/ on trying to murder cops, it seems anyone over about the age of eighteen is considered potential prey for the White Roses. Skill they have, but not always tactical acumen or any degree of thought for self preservation. Case in point: one of the newest member of the suited band wants to prove himself in the eyes of a certain dainty magess, walks out from the tree cove with several grenades in hand. Pins pulled, he manages to chuck them before one GCPD member aerates both of his legs. He goes down, twitching, but alive. Ripclaw does have three grenades hucked vaguely in his direction though.

There seems to be little overwatch today, this operation meant to be loud and messy on purpose. With Miss Moreau herself not in attendance, the Pack members that /are/ here are all the hot-headed, lesser sorts that would be considered expendable in most gangs. Which, might be true, even if Moreau would never admit it. She actually knows their names. Batman gets a good look from on high: eight goons on the leftmost cover of trees, seven on the right thanks to that downed grenade tosser. Their formation is simple: cover behind trees, stationary, proper ambush tactics. They're not advancing even though they well could, given how pinned down they've gotten the cops.

The reason for the gasmasks soon becomes clear as those beautiful butterflies swarm above where the cops have holed themselves up. Glittering dust begins to fall from the wings of the insects, serpentine tattoos on tiny heads glowing in the darkness of the night. Whatever is in that falling mass of shimmering beauty surely can't be good. It will take some time to spread to the cops and heroes on the scene, but it's an ever present danger. And there's just so many of the flying creatures!


The perps get Batmans attention for a moment, but then those butterflies start to spread their dust… and Batman gets an alert on his HUD; pulse rates skyrocketing.

Luxckily, Batman keeps repellant for all kinds of animals in the storage compartments of the Batmobile… but the thugs need to be dealt with first.

Jumping down to the street, Batman darts from cover to cover silently as he nears the gunners… and batarangs are silently thrown at weapons as the Dark Knight proceeds to disarm the thugs one at a time from the shadows.


The others starting to come out of the woodworks as it were are acknowledged… but cutting off the main source of chaos is the priority. (Bats continued)


"Fridays?" Peter just shakes his head. "Fridays. Thanks man. You might be the first sensible person I've met out of Gotham!" He tells the hobo before he reaches out to accept the flask. Though he does make a face and lean back at the breath. Oh man. He could give Drax a run for his money…

…but then the rifle round comes punching though his meger cover and the hobo is gone. "Dude you forgot your flask!"

A pause.

"Well mine now." He says with a shrug as he glanes out at the fireing line of crazy near-cultists and bugs.

"I WAS JUST TRYING TO GET SOME COOKIE DOUGH! Do you all hate cookies?" He shouts at the figures in ambush there as he holds up his grocery back for evidence…

…only to realize that somewhere in the shootout. Most of it got. Well. Shot. And he's holding not much more than a handle.

"…great where…" And as he grumbles he casts his eyes around this mess. Fiinnding the discarded bag quickly enough. "Great I…"

…and the bag starts moving.

…and Peter stares a moment then pats down the battered backpack down that he carries and…its empty. Great.

"Oh my god /seriously/. Groot! Stay down!"

The bag sits up. There may be munching sounds coming from said bag now.

"That is the opposite of down Groot!" Peter shouts as he starts making a dash towards said back, his armored suit snapping into place to try to keep the weapon fire /away/ from him and keep whatever the butterflies are spreading out out of his lungs.


The grenades. Grenades? Ripclaw turns around behind that old Ford he is behind, claws find the underside of it and he lets out a grunt that turns in to a long growl, muscles strain and veins stand out in his neck as the car, is flipped over on it's side. A blastshield against those explosives.
Shoulders shoved to the underside of the vehicle as they go off and surround Robert's world in fire, debris, metal and everything else that comes with lobbed explosives.

The man's nose curls up, the only thing in his senses right now is the blast, no the butterfly fallout not yet realized. He is looking for a target, one that isn't a GCPD officer, one of those gasmask wearing terrorists. /Groot?? Robert knows that name. It is the tree being, the great spirit and Dani Moonstar's companion. Where? Maybe he is just hearing things. The blast might be toying with his senses, maybe they said Gary or Greg… that is more likely.


The bag-and-tree-baring Peter makes a dash, and his armor snaps into place. Good thinking! These crazies have slightly better than average aim, and so he'd find small caliber rounds plinking off of him with annoying efficiency. If they had, say, laser weapons it might be an actual problem.

What might be a slightly more worrisome prospect is how another big ol' sniper round is zipping for one of Peter's legs. Not the /best/ marksman of the White Roses, but this goon is clearly gunning quite literally for the affectionately named 'Snipe's spot. The dust continues to fall of course, and at least Peter has that armor to keep it out of his lungs.

Groot will be fine. Probably!?

Ripclaw flips a car. An entire car. No gunfire menaces the man who can toss a freaking car, they're goons, nuts but not stupid. Mostly. One of the actual stupid ones with an uzi steps out from cover and tries to spray down Ripclaw. It's an /uzi/, so this is pretty inaccurate, but he might get lucky.

Also there's that dust starting to waft towards Ripclaw. It's inhalable speed essentially, Moreau having a particular appreciation for mind-bending substances turned to natural weaponized form. Proven as one cop stands up to try to cap the uzi-artist, only to inhale and subsequently go glassy-eyed. Sweating like a pig, he falls to his knees. No more gunshots from this cop, he's having the worst and only trip of his life. Likely to be his last if no one helps.

Ripclaw might have to worry about a similar fate if he doesn't do something!

The more full cove of trees takes the brunt of Batman's assault. Batarangs fall, guns similarly go silent, leaving quite a few bewildered thugs where they aren't outright knocked out. But one of said disarmed thugs is a bit more enterprising, or just wanting to put himself in the good graces of a vicious boss. The short, slightly rotund little suited White Rose pulls out a pair of combat knives that he holds like he actually knows how to use. The rolly-polly goon gives a cackle.

"C'mon out, scareday-cat! Big Bob is gonna show you how we White Roses hunt!" Then he starts to make howling noises that he thinks is intimidating. He mostly sounds like a crazy idiot. Moreau would give his howling a three out of ten if she were here to hear it.

The fat little man /does/ know how to use his knives, and is actively scouring the shadows to try to find the bat that's been ruining their little party, occasionally swiping at air!


Peter scoops the bag up in one arm.

"I am Groot!" A high pitched call of suprise comes from said bag.

"Yeah I know you got the cookie dough! You just are going to get us shot trying to get it—wait are you eating that out of the tube?!"

"I…am Groot?" says the bag.

"No its not a push pop!"

The sniper round slams into the ground just behind him, close enough that he felt the pressure of its passing against the skin of his force-shield like armor. Now /that/ could actually have hurt him.

"Hey jackass!" He shouts towards the sniper. "You could have hurt someone with that!" He shouts back as he slews his body around and raises his arm up, revealing an odd pistol in his hand. I mean it looks like a toy really. A reject from a sci-fi flick. In fact he could be some cosplayer, or method actor.

…but…its Gotham. When are things ever that simple.

The gun spits lightning, streaking across the tops of the trees towards the sniper nest to try to keep the guys head down while he goes for cover. …and incidently giving the police some cover. Which totally isn't his plan. I mean he just came here for groceries. Totally.


Oh look, one of the thugs thinks he can try to find the Batman.

Normally, Batman would just steer clear. Instead, he waits for the unlucky man to get within range… before he ducks, comes up underneath, and disables the knife wielding arm from stealth (though the man will almost certainly scream from the pain), before tossing him to the ground.

Then, Batman pulls the gas filter attachment from his utility belt, and snaps it into place on his cowl, giving him immunity to the speed dust as he dashes out of cover and directly into the thugs.

People get to see a black and red suited Batman come out of cover as he goes to town on each thug in turn, disabling them with hands, unless one goes to grab a firearm again… in which case his forearm grapnel is used as a Batclaw to pull them over to melee range of Batman. Batman can be brutal when he wants to be… and he is, tonight.

His voice scrambled voice can be heard, "Get everyone out of the dust, it can cause heart attacks!"


The car took some effort for Ripclaw, he's strong 'like bear' but not an actual bear or persistantly superstrong individual, it's intent was to save him from those grenades and now someone is raining uzi fire down on him, the biometallic blades are drawn out before him as he crouches, draws them out as wide as he can, metamorphic mutation in action so 'splay them' they'll deflect a slug, another but one wings him in the hip and another buries in his shoulder.

A low hiss of pain followed by cursing that bleeds in to growls and hes rushing the Uzi slinger, the 'drug-like' substance raining down upon them inhaled, taking hold but battling with his natural mutations and the cybernetic augmentations to his body, it'll take effect, slower, weaker, more of it is required. Not that he wants more but, more is defniitely needed. The immediate effect is him missing a swipe at the man, miscaluclating his slash for the fellows arm only to try again, aiming at hand and gun.

It is not gentle. It is claws capable of rending steel powered by a cyborg-mutant thats feral, much like Sabretooth or Wolverine… just better looking and much less famous, or like Star Lord opposed to Flash Gordon or… /any/ other more popular spacer.


"Cookie dough is so push pop materia…AHHHH!" The second round that would have came at one Peter Quill is delayed by the man denying the deliciousness that is cookie dough. Lower-Mid-Tier Gotham scum have different priorities, you see. And apparently this sniper thinks that said confection is worth yelling very loudly about.

Nevermind the dude had the hearing to actually pick out Peter's words to Groot from that far away. It doesn't matter though, as the Starlord's shot…misses him by two inches. Two inches of treebranch that he was using as a solid perch, suddenly vaporized by cosplay laser-lightning-gun. The man is still alive as he falls on his rifle, which goes off, taking out another White Rose by removing the entirety of their foot. Also that beautiful dragunov sniper is bent at an odd angle thanks to the fall. With the gun running crackdown in Gotham thanks to a certain bat?

Miss Moreau is could to have /words/.

By now the goons are actually starting to retreat. There's a minor bevy of stolen cars to pile into, no doubt the vague escape route that was planned.

Mostly the rightmost bit of trees. The Batman is amongst the left, and he quickly takes his due. The self-styled Big Bob is taken down, blades expertly wrenched from hands and then he finds himself on the ground with a fleshy thud of grass, dirt, and body meat. He most definitely screams. Which melts into a burbling little laugh.

The terrified Big Bob drools as he smiles. "Heh! Ahhhh, hurts! You him!? You that bat!? The Boss is gonna eat you!" He writhes, not even sure if the Batman is still around to hear his mad ravings.

Mostly the Batman takes out the group of thugs with adeptness, but one final thug pulls up a backup midnight special. At the last flash he saw? He starts firing. Blam blam blam blam blam blam click! That's when a grapnel hits him, and he's face to face with the terror of the night.

"Uh. Can we talk about…"

He's probably on the ground in a mere second by the Bat.

Ripclaw gets a second, as the clip runs dry. This particular Rose doesn't step away from the onrushing man, instead reloading and getting another vague sense of aim. One cop fires, one that isn't yet about to have a heart attack. A knee is shot out, and wild fire is made more wild. A few goons are speeding off in those stolen cars, the smarter of them. This attack seems to be petering out.

The butterflies spread their dust, still.

That slice combined with a gunshot has gun and hand flying off, the man screaming. His gas mask falls. Soon, he too is starting to convulse and cry.

There's only a few more crazed gunmen left here. Four in total, that have given themselves over to bloodshed before common sense. SWAT is going to be here pretty soon to quell the chaos.

Guns are reloaded and fired again. All for the sake of sending a message, bloody though it may be.


"No." Batman tosses the Midnight Special thus to the ground, and in mere seconds dismantles the gun himself.

With a moment to collect himself, Batman keys the Batmobile to come over to his position, sending it on autopilot over to his position. Batman grapnels his way over to meet it halfway, and is in the cockpit as quickly as possible. A few seconds later, and pellets are thrown into the air.

Butterfly repellant.

His forearm grapnel is launched at the trees in the park as he stands… though the line just barely reaches from this distance with his built-in one. As he is pulled over, butterfly repellant is tossed here and there into the air… then those in serious condition are given spare gas masks from the Batmobile even as he grabs them and takes them out of the field, until the dust stops.

The others seem competent, though that Ripclaw fellow is a concern.


The cop is acknowledged in the fact Ripclaw is steering wide, intent on just taking out the Uzi wielder, the hand gone he snares the man's gasmask and rushes it to the GCPD officer, clamping it on to his face before shredding his own shirt, sliding back to that henchman and roughly binding that stump. A sigh escaping him at having to do this for the gunman.

Life. It matters. Even the worst of it.

It's all rather more exhilerating to him than it should be right now, he is aware his focus is incredibly sharp, his senses fine tuned and frustratingly, its just SLOW, the Butterfly's effects? His accelerated healing process is battling it but its unique experience right now, its making his thoughts work like a screen play, one visual bounce to the next.
"Feel fortunate it was only your hand I severed, scumbag and.. that I am feeling merciful tonight." The red-eyed man warns the man he has made a makeshift tourniquet for watching the squeeling away cars, did he glimpse the Batman? He might have. He won't linger for more law officials or anyone, no, long enough to have this man tied off real good then he is going to escape himself.


"Don't you lecture me on groceries! I'm trying to help take care of a twig here and he needs no encouragement!" Shouts Peter as he fires a few more energy rounds after the sniper and his friends that flee the scene. He glances down at the bag and frowns. "Groot! Get that out of you—spit it out!"

"…I am Groot." Says the bag sadly. There may be some huff with those words.

Peter just rolls his eyes. "No you can't kill them all. You can't even reach above their ankles!"

Vines suddenly flail up out the top of the bag.

"Stop that!"

The vines go back as the pilot who is TOTALLY JUST AS POPULAR AND WELL KNOWN AS FLASH GORDAN looks back over the police and the rest of the mess.

And frowns.

"Uh…" A longer pause. "…so…not gonna tell anyone how to do anything on Terra, cause Terra is just strange man, but…shouldn't someone help the people that are I don't know. Butterfly poisoned or something…I mean I'm not a doctor or anything…" A pause. "…oh man we should call a doctor."


Poor, poor dear thug. He doesn't even warrant a name, but as that terrible gun is tossed by the Batman? He manages a dramatic sigh. The Roses, if nothing else, have a flare for it. Trigger, the actual bullet-holding mechanism are mere pieces as it falls. The Batman is gone, and the goon face-first in dirt.

"Rude!" He squeaks out before falling to blackness. Moreau's goons are annoyingly persistant in having the last word. Even a terrible last word.

The butterfly repellant is very, very effective. Moreau didn't consider someone who would actively try to counter her beautiful insects. No doubt she will next time, but message sent, and violet drug-carrying insects begin to disperse to many cages all along the city. Some might be lost, but many are recovered. The woman loves her pets, willing to sacrifice them, but never without sorrow.

The officer huffs into that gasmask. There's a wild look, a sob, and he passes out. But Officer Jake McCabe will live tonight. After a rough stint in the hospital, he'll go home to his family of three and a wife, and Ripclaw will be a hero to this family.

Nor will Ripclaw's mercy go unnoticed. The uzi wielding goon's eyes go wide. He cries out. He shrieks, in terror. And with tear-stained eyes?

"…Who are you?" He offers, that tourniquet tied. Shivering, shuddering, and only alive thanks to the predator Ripclaw, he's a good dog looking for /information/.

Said sniper pulls out a proper handcannon of the desert eagle variety, even on one good arm and praying that his boss won't feed him to pigs or something. And fires. There's about a three percent chance to hit here. It's Peter Quill though, who knows.

Peter says to call the docs. It seems Mister Nope'ing Out Hobo has called the cops by one of two payphones in Gotham right now. Butterflies dispersed by the Batman, there's only the fallout to deal with.

Mostly writhing and chemically mad GCPD who had the unfortunate fate to deal with this insanity.


Miss Moreau ends the playing of Bach, putting her violin to the end table her minions arranged. The Library she claimed for her hideout is decrepid yet glamorous due to stolen chandeliers and full of beautiful deadly animals and people. She sips her tea, and takes a cellphone call.

"Is our message sent?" A pause.

She frowns, almost scowling. Her free hand knocks over a table, and her voice is a shrill hiss like a serpent.

"I want anything you can gather about who interrupted our night of revelry! What?"

Teeth grind. Then Miss Moreau relaxes. "…Was it the Chiroptera? Let us be cautious." Flick. The phone is snapped shut. And Miss Moreau finishes her tea, tears streaking her face as she thinks upon those of her Pack that have died tonight. What few remaining goons are gone. SWAT arrives with little to shoot at. Such is life, in Gotham.


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