2014.06.17 - Down the rabbit hole

Anyone who has any knowledge of the workings of Bludhaven would have every alarm bell go off by the recent revelation that he has been murdered; compared to Gotham, the city had been a haven for base crime, but in a way was like a makeshift prison. All the smaller time people went to it in droves, meaning places like New York were free. More importantly, it is an ocean, and unlike Gotham, the corruption goes from the top up, from the mayor and police down to the angry muggers and drug dealers. It kept to itself. It was quiet.

That might be changing.

In the evening that followed the pickled drug dealer, much of what might have been expected... never happened. There was not a single turf-related war. Dealers, manufacturers, arms heads and more all continued working as if business were as usual. It would take only a cursory investigation to confirm that Bludhaven was not lying; Angel had vanished three or four months earlier, but most had assumed he went into hiding.

The truth is another matter entirely. But where to start? BCPD? The bottom level? Some of Angel's former right hands? Is this even ominous, or just a shifting of the guard... yet if it was, it was a masterful hand, one so perfect that had that barrel not been left on the street, even the likes of Nightwing might have never noticed he was dead. Or... was it replaced?

Jean-Paul Valley was one quarter Royal Irish O'Neill, and they had inroads among Bludhaven's local mobsters. They were active in Gotham, but not nearly as much as their traditional homeland in New Jersey - Bludhaven. It's an Irish town, full of dockworkers and shop keepers and merchants. His royal Irish red on his chin, amidst the French chestnut, Jean-Paul valley cruises into Bludhaven in his Green Pontiac, wearing a green ballcap backwards. It's a Leprechauns cap, a local basketball team, famous for the legendary David Parks, a three point shooter from the 1970's that could drop any shot at the line, and was a big, tall, ugly Irish bastard with German country blood. Bludhaven needs heroes, and that's why Jean-Paul is here. If Angel Marin is dead, there should be a war. But there's not. That leaves one man. One monster. On Mother's Day, this began. Killing Angel Marin on Mother's Day. With a bottle of McGuillicuddy's, unopened, in case he needs a bribe for a local cop, Valley cruises in, with a .35 snubnose in his car along the driver's door, in case he needs it for road rage, and a fire poker in the back seat. Jean-Paul's cop training clears him for the pistol, but he expects the papers to get lost while Gotham PD pulls him out of prison. He's ready to fight, with an orange Bic in his pocket for a punch. He's not bringing his knife - he needs a gun for Bludhaven.

Nightwing has tried to keep tabs on Bludhaven over the last couple of weeks, centering his patrols around the worst sectors of the city just waiting for the backlash to finally come. When it didn't, he doubled his efforts. He went after known small time affiliates of the former Drug Dealer, using the fear tactics taught him by the Batman on an ever growing trail of bread crumbs that led in a huge circle.

All the information he's collected is scanning across his masks HUD, putting the pieces in a systematic order that's easy to view without obstructing his observation of the street. Crouched on the edge of one of the tenament buildings near the center of the maze of city streets and alleys, Bludhaven sending off the ever present night sounds of sirens and horns like some giant beast just waiting for the hunter to pull the trigger.

"Someone else has to have stepped in." It's obvious, that's the only explaination. What concerns him is that nobodies given the name up yet. Or maybe he's just going after the wrong element.

None of these people are worth beans. You don't go to Bludhaven if you are a confident criminal on the top of your game. You go there when you give up, as the de-facto capital of debase activities, where the police literally don't care unless you step way out of lines. These people don't KNOW who the man is. The ones at the bottom barely knew Angel's name, and simply say the people ahead of them on the totem pole remain in place. The best bet is to play a game of 'climb the ladder'. Find out who this thug works for. Then the one above. Then the one above. Both Azrael and Nightwing likely come to the same conclusion; a middle-man, a bridge, between a sea of chattering nothings and the truth.

Rose' Malcioni, a regional dealer who is in charge of drugs, guns, and sex for a large portion of the city. He had been on Angel Marin's inner circle; one of a half-dozen who worked with the man in person. Although he is not so simple to access, within a heavily guarded house with a suite of guards roaming the well-lit grass between iron fist and top of the line electronics in the affluent area of Bludhaven. He's old, which means he's experienced. Not a nut who will crack easily. But if either Dick or Azrael want to know what's going on, he's apparently the only one with the potential for a lead... and as a paranoid who has to repel assassins every other month, his security detail is surprisingly far from lacking.

Azrael isn't bringing the undercover shades - that would make him look like a pig, and you don't play that way in Bludhaven. You take your chances. He cruises right up to the gate, dropping the surname Valley, where it's public he's a two year degree, and instead having Brawn, Jill, and Tai forge dropout credentials for Gotham State University, economics. That'll do it. He cruises right up to the gate, wearing his cap with his glasses, and gets on the Tracphone nearby. "Hey. It's Dave. I'm here to hang out. Right outside. The Green Pontiac. Got the pack. Lemme in. Thanks." He shuts his phone off, and then sits there, idling, wearing his Misfits skull t-shirt and an especially old pair of pants that stink so he doesn't smell like a cop. He waits there, near the gate, idling, with the drive to the gate open so anyone can get by. He's in clear view of the guards. He's gripping the wheel, breaking his usual night time smoke rule, with a Newport Red hanging from his lips. Parliaments make him look like a pussy in Bludhaven.

Not as surprising as it should be. Nightwing makes his way to the affluent part of town on his jet black motorcycle built on the power of some of the worlds best technology, not all of which is public...

Parked some few streets away, the rest of the trip is taken on foot which brings him to the outside wall about the same time Valley is coming up to the gate. Ideally, he would have a few nights of surveylance on the yard to better approach breaking into the well fortified home, but ideal doesn't always work as well as it should in Bludhaven.

More often than not, it requires far more inovation and instinct.

Crouched down in the darkness, he flips open the computer on his gauntlet and tries to find a link into the onsite security cameras. 'You're no Babs, Dick... hell, you're not even a Drake.' It beats trying to out fight an unknown amount of armed guards, though.

Nightwing's scan confirms that the camera system is hardwired. Electronic tracking routes it to a third story room in the rough middle, far from any windows. Of course. A guy isn't a twenty year veteran in this city if it was that easy. How long has it been since breaking in was even a remote challenge? Might be as much exhilerating as exasperating, really. The cameras, however, don't have any view of the direct top of the roof, beyond one atop the lone access door. How the most acrobatic man alive might manage to vault himself that far and land in the blind spot is probably impossible, of course.

Azrael gets a different response. "Dave?" comes a gruff voice from the voice. After a few moments, "We don't know any Dave. This ain't an open party, buddy." Apparently he was right in his guess that some sort of lascivious indulgence was going on within the complex. Using that thread to pull himself the rest of the way in... well. Let's see how competent this two-prong approach will be.

"The f***ing pack. Dave O'Neill. Don't kill me here, let me the Hell in. I have the f***ing pack, these pigs will f***ing eat me, the f***ing traffic is f***ing /gay/ as Hell. Dave from f***ing Gotham. C'mon, let me the Hell in, I'm wasting gas out here, I have a friggin' time table." He listens on the phone, blowing out cigarette smoke and wincing as some gets in his eye. It's clear from the voice he uses that he has a cigarette in his mouth. "Ask Tony. Jersey. Jersey pack. Just ask him."

Nightwing eyes the single spot in which he could land after somehow managing to get in a position to preform the acrobatics that would get him to it and breaths a quiet sigh of consideration. The wrist computer is snapped closed and then he reaches back to grab the grappler from off his small utility belt. He turns it over in his hand, then gets an idea. 'I really love that bike...'

The jog back to his motorcycle is a short one, the time spent formulating how he's going to get the air necessary to get on that roof is like watching sand drain through an hour glass. Pent houses are surprisingly difficult with this amount of security, but his motorcycle is equipped with some fancy things for just such occations. When a man is most dangerous in the air, he equips himself with means to get there.. like the rocket powered boosters on the ejector seat.

The bike roars down the street, cutting through alleys, then fires off the package into the air and goes on a preplanned autopilot route into another side road and snaps to a stop when all the breaks cut on at once.

Hurtling through the air, Nightwing aims his grappler at the small section of wall that will give him the best tragector in carrying him into that small blind spot in the camera network and fires. Then immediately hits the retractor when the claws crack into concrete.

It carries him right at the back edge of the surface doors onto the roof, which would prove a poor choice for landing had he not planted a foot and used the rest of his momentum to flip right over the cone view of the camera's watching it. The landing is a little brutal, but it's been a few years since he's had to do anything quite this risky... Most of the shock is absorbed across the back of his shoulders and he comes up in an arm waving stop right at the edge of the rooftop, staring down at the three story fall... 'I hope nobody saw that...'

"The fuck is Dave O'Neill?" is repeated by the doorman. But now there's some trebulation in his voice. He's SUPPOSED to know anyone able to get in these sort of parties. The idea he might have missed one is... bad for business. 'Rose' is not a stable man, and his name is because whenever he brutally murders someone, he tosses a single rose atop them. And he has been known to do that for, what anyone can guess, is 'no reason at all'. "Tony... where's Tony? What do you mean there's three... son of..." After a few moments, "Fine, shitbag. But we're watching you. And your anus better be unclenched because I'm giving you a frisk worthy of a night in BCPD's maxsec prison shower. You got some goods and nothing else, then drive your ass in. And make fucking sure you get on the list of names next time."

A few men glanced in the direction of the motorcycle flying by when Nightwing launched off, but none noticed the lack of a passenger. Noisy people in rich neighborhoods, luckily, is not unheard of in this area. Now that Nightwing has himself situated, he can see that there's only that one camera, right above the door. This place was obviously not built to keep vigilantes out. To make matters better, the camera doesn't actually /show/ the door; just every approach to it that doesn't involve a well-aimed grapnel from behind. If he can bypass the security system from going off and undo the lock, Nightwing could slip right inside without ever being seen...!!

Jean-Paul relaxes, "Good. This is f***ing stupid." He hangs the phone up, and as the gate opens, he pounds the pedal out of annoyance, before he levels out and cruises right on up. He avoids the lawn, knowing how hard it is to take card of it, and he needs to piss. But he doesn't mention that on the phone. Drinking Mountain Dew to stay sharp has it's drawbacks. He parks on the dirt lot, where the low-levels situate themselves, away from the rich cars. He decides to hold the piss so he can use the bathroom and impress the female mob monitors, not an undercover tactic just his sense of humor, and moves around to the back, opening the trunk with his keys. No electronic lock, no noise, no cop scramble, no NSA fry. He grabs a green backpack out and shoulders it, before he wiggle-walks towards the gate, having to piss like a race horse. He waves at the guard. "Gotta take a leak," he says to the man at the side kitchen entrance, not using the main one for the guests, since he's dressed like a scumbag. He'll hit a side room, not the main room for the rich and wealthy. He knows he's watched. Luckily for Jean-Paul, he's a friggin' caveman, even with the Irish blood.

Nightwing rights himself on the edge of the building and turns to regard the potential approach to the door and in which direction those cameras are pointed. Once he has a fairly good idea that a back approach will give them best option of going in undetected it's a fairly simple matter to gain speed at a dead run, vault up one side of the access wall surrounding the stairwell, and sideflip down in the gap between doorway and camera. It's like hitting a swinging bar in midflip, really. He was doing this when he was six.

He drops down in another crouch and grabs a small device from his belt which sticks right to the side of the door. Glowing keys are pressed in and the signal running through the wires are temporarily routed through the devices, rather than the door. The lock is a simple matter and the door is closed behind him just as the signal returns to the sensors on the frame.

'Thank Tim.' Said mentally as he creeps down the stairs with his back against the wall.

"Hey, fuckhead." says one of the two huge guards in front of the door that Jean-Paul tried to get through before the monolith interposed himself. "What part of 'get frisked' did you miss?" The second moves to snatch the backpack and attempt to yank it away. "We can't confirm you know anybody. And we're not going to bother] anyone important to check. So if you are clean, and you got some good shit, you get in. That's the deal." Six foot five, and six foot six. Well built. Muscles formed from proper use. The hard eyes of people with training. And a hint of more intelligence than idiocy. These aren't casual thugs you flip over a shoulder and call it a day; they'd put up a fucking hell of a fight, enough to ruin the whole operation. Expensive tastes in minions, indeed.

Nightwing breaks into a simple roof access. Down a small flight of stairs is another door, but footsteps are heard beyond it. A massive open area right above the main party, surrounded by railings. And no small amount of guards or cameras, most likely. Although attention on the upper levels is going to be a lot less than where people are having fun... the question is whether 'Rose' is even IN a location that he can be accessed. What if he's on the first floor, drowning in blow and hookers? No way Nightwing can get to him them. Schematics show his penthouse is on the third floor, not far from where he presently is... although how to get view of such and whether it has any guards is the real question here.

Jean-Paul sucks his breath in through his gritted teeth, nodding and moving over to the wall submissively. "Fine, just make it fast, I have fucking Dew in my system and I'm going to die. Careful with the back pouch, that's the sample bag. It's Lebanese, right of the boat from the Arabs. Don't worry abotu the quap, it's vacuumed." It's too smart to bring Triad grass in, hydro, to Bludhaven. Angel Marin sold it. Now he's dead. The Tong is probably in terror, with the psychos taking over. So he's selling Arab grass. He puts his head down, his foot bouncing, as it's clear he really does have to take a piss. He's not armed, just a wallet covered in duct tape along the outer edge, a driver's license he uses for these missions, battered and old with the proper forge from Jill and the computer access from Tai. He waits there, ass clenched, since he has to use the bathroom like the devil. He's not carrying any weapons, and a Geiger scanner will reveal no odd electronics. Just a Tracphone, a lighter or two (always keep a spare, one orange in the pocket, in black in his jacket pocket), and his car keys. No personal bag in case he gets searched. He's a professional. Oddly enough, the backpack has a copy of 'Psychology Applied to Law' by Mark A. Costanzo inside.

Nightwing leans into the corner that will lead him out onto the third floor landing and works a small wired camera around the edge with a feed right into his masks HUD. The hand controls work on a squeeze and release wire twist inside the compact black cord that lets him get a wide sweep of the landing and if no guards are there to see him creep into their midst (he doesn't bank on there being no guards at all, that would be too much, just turned in the wrong direction), he slips around and creeps along the wall.

His profile lowers a bit, but honestly he's out in the open if anyone does brave a glance back. Here's hoping that well paid guards are expecting their backs are covered by equally well paid security and would never expect someone to creep against the wall only a few feet behind them towards the bosses office.

"I don't know what Dew is, and I don't care." the cronie offers, obviously not associating it with the delicious sugary sin of a caffienated beverage. Every package is taken off Azrael and turned inside-out, dumped into a big plastic bin to sort through. These guys know what they are doing. Looking for things that might be more than they seem. Prying at the edge of the ducttape just to make sure there's no blade inside. The papers all seem to go through, but they purposefully take far longer than needed. "Almost done." One man moves to give Jean-Paul the patdown from hell, not missing a single crevice, while the other inspects his clothing, running up and down it, checking sleeves, along the hem, even the soles of his feet. "Take some of the grass." is the last demand. "Once you got a hint and prove it ain't poison, then you're in." They would pick what portion to use themselves, of course. Both smirking. Apparently, Bludhaven people are sadists.

Nightwing sees two problems. One, the penthouse door has two large thugs in front of it. Two, there's a camera that will see him the moment he opens the door. Two other thugs with assault rifles are circling the third floor, looking down at the noise of the party on the first, where Azrael is despairingly close to entering. Hopefully he has some kind of bat-magic to get out of this ordeal... but would a penthouse be guarded if there was nobody important inside?

"I'll use the sample bag," Jean-Paul says after the search, starting to whine from having to piss so hard. Perfect, this way he'll do the shivers once he's inside. Movie theater shivers, a men's restroom secret that women find fascinating. He's fine with it, given that he was raised in a Catholic household, due to their various 'predilections'. Bludhaven sadists? He'll fit right in, he's a Jersey kid. He grabs the bag of weed out of the bin, unrolls the Lebanese grass with orange hairs, and plucks a bit off, chewing it. "See?" He doesn't slice open the vacuum sealed. That's for the deal with his contact inside. "Now lemme in," he says, swallowing the pungent tasting weed. It stinks faintly of lemons. Odd.

Adversity without complication is just playing at recess.

Thankfully, Batman was always very particular about being prepared for every situation. Run up against superior firepower and security that seemed designed to keep out just this sort of approach, Nightwing reaches to his belt for another of his gadgets and turns it slowly in his palm.

It attaches to the back end of the mini wire cam and fires off a tazor dart that hits the side of the camera fixed atop the door frying the internal circuitry with a hizz and a small whisp of smoke.

Camera down, Dick rolls around the edge of wall where he took up temporary residence and comes up with both escrima sticks snapping down on either carotid artery on one of the armed guards. The weapons lock the man to the vigilante's chest to ease him back around the corner... at least temporarily out of sight.

One down.

Three to go.

"I don't know what Dew is, and I don't care." the cronie offers, obviously not associating it with the delicious sugary sin of a caffienated beverage. Every package is taken off Azrael and turned inside-out, dumped into a big plastic bin to sort through. These guys know what they are doing. Looking for things that might be more than they seem. Prying at the edge of the ducttape just to make sure there's no blade inside. The papers all seem to go through, but they purposefully take far longer than needed. "Almost done." One man moves to give Jean-Paul the patdown from hell, not missing a single crevice, while the other inspects his clothing, running up and down it, checking sleeves, along the hem, even the soles of his feet. "Take some of the grass." is the last demand. "Once you got a hint and prove it ain't poison, then you're in." They would pick what portion to use themselves, of course. Both smirking. Apparently, Bludhaven people are sadists.

Nightwing sees two problems. One, the penthouse door has two large thugs in front of it. Two, there's a camera that will see him the moment he opens the door. Two other thugs with assault rifles are circling the third floor, looking down at the noise of the party on the first, where Azrael is despairingly close to entering. Hopefully he has some kind of bat-magic to get out of this ordeal... but would a penthouse be guarded if there was nobody important inside? With the camera disabled, Nightwing slips out and finds one of the men, and he's down. His weapon is intercepted before clattering. Luckily, the two men at the door are talking to themselves, one smoking a cigarette, lax and imperceptive. Obviously they don't expect any sort of trouble here. The third wanders around a bit more, before stretching and turning to walk down a hallway, apparently off for some kind of break. A batarang to the back of the head will probably remove him from the equation.

The thugs make sure that Jean-Paul eats the pinch that they pick. As for the one that's vaccuum sealed, he's not allowed to bring that in. "Like hell we are letting you do a deal in a Rose Mansion party. Fuck that. Do it afterwards somewhere else; we'll keep an eye on it." This sounds genuinely professional, and there's indeed a large safe nearby that probably houses a lot of people's contraband, who came here to mingle before slipping off in pairs to do their evils. Unless otherwise adamant, Jean Paul would be hurled inside the party, sans his vaccuum bag of pot. Good music, good beer, drugs slithering around, and best of all, the bathroom can be found within a couple minutes. Too bad it's locked and there's the sound of people making out inside.

With the camera disabled, Nightwing slips out and finds one of the men, and he's down. His weapon is intercepted before clattering. Luckily, the two men at the door are talking to themselves, one smoking a cigarette, lax and imperceptive. Obviously they don't expect any sort of trouble here. The third wanders around a bit more, before stretching and turning to walk down a hallway, apparently off for some kind of break. A batarang to the back of the head will probably remove him from the equation.

Jean-Paul scowls at the larger guard, now not showing a trace of fear as his eyes water, the psychopathic diagnosis showing itself again. It's the angry, hateful tears of the devil. "Gotcha. Sir." He shoves the bag back in the backpack, and pockets the sample bag, right pocket, since it's not his personal stash. "Lock it up." He grabs his Newports and lighters, depositing the orange one in the left pocket with his keys, then moving inside. He slams the door and then realizes people are making out. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, angry enough to commit a venial sin, as if a Blasphemed Catholic cares about the petty rules meant for a child. He stalks through the mansion, leaving the poor area and heading towards the main party. He's moving fast, feeling the movie theater rush, like he's just seen Batman and now he needs to get out before some redneck pushes him to see a reshowing of Crazy/Beautiful. It happens in Jersey, it's called indie theater. Normally a good scene, unless you go to the wrong joint.

Nightwing casts his fingers over the row of wing-dings and hurls one in a sidearm toss down that hallway just as the retreating guard clears the corner. The connect with the base of his skull is precise, right near the soft spot near the back left ear, but it's the small shock charge that does most of the concussive damage. Just enough to give someone a little sleepy time, without doing permanent mental damage.

Then he's on the move. There's no trick up his sleeve that's going to make the next part anything short of one man verse two people. So he uses the very real fact that they're not expecting to get attacked to full advantage. Within seconds he's on them, disambling any attempt to scream with a snap of his left escrima stick right across the throat of the first and his palm slamming into the center of the second's chest with a zap of shock gaunlet to send a happy two thousand volts right into his sternum.

Best to just go for the jugular in these situations. They has assault rifles... giving them a chance is secondary to dying of gunshot wounds.

Eventually, Azrael finds the second bathroom and kicks a junkie out for the best moment of the night thus far. Only afterwards does he get a chance to start mingling. It's easy to tell. There's about four big dogs at the party. The rest are ass-kissing floaters, security, henchmen, and right hands. The others are just posers, trying to draw attention, usually with a pair of breasts. Given Azrael's not particularly familiar with the town, he might not recognize them. But three are subordiantes of the Rose. Mad Dog, who once beat an up and coming wannabe vigilante to death with his bare hands. It was a good ten years ago, and although someone from Gotham jailed him, he got out in 6 months and has been enjoying his top spot ever since. Jesus Garcia. The King of Flesh, who can find a person any physical delight in an hour. ANY. He's wading in females right now. And Jimmy Garcia. Jesus' wife, head of the arms and weapon trade. He is smart. Sharp. No-nonsense. Sitting alone and smoking a cigarette. Not a good one to mess with. He's too wily. And then... there's a blonde man dancing with a girl, laughing heavily, wearing a trenchcoat. Why, he'd look just like a BCPD detective, only his badge is missing. And he's wearing a white powder moustache.

Nightwing's sudden assault catches the first man off-guard. His token resistance is knocked out of him and he is on the ground, head spinning. The second slipped forward, and he had good form. It would have been a good punch, if the electricity roaring through him didn't send him smoking to the ground atop his friend, who only needs another kick to make sure he's well and truly KOd.

And the double doors to Rose Malcioni are now before Nightwing. But... oh no! They are locked. Manually. From the /inside/. Better pack up and go home.

Jean-Paul sidles into the bathroom, nodding to the junkie. "Try vicodins next time, man. Don't snort 'em. Level off." He then steps into the bathroom, locking the door, and takes care of business. "Not often we meet like this," he says as he relieves himself, looking at the vanity and grinning. "Name's Dave. Just a grass man. And an ass man." He raises his eyebrows and makes a kissy face, before he finishes off, after a good forty-five seconds. He pulls in, zips up, and moves to wash his hands. "I'll leave my number. Right near the towel drawer. Only if you're single. And I'm broke, sorry my Latina honeys. If you're Brazilian, though, I'm not quite broke yet." He towels off with a white towel, choosing the clean one, hangs it back on straight, and leaves a blank white card with a Tracfone number on it, pre-written in black ink. He slides it right beneath the towel stack. "I'm a Zen Buddhist, don't worry." He winks right at the vanity camera, leaving the older women who have seen martial arts in 'action' to explain it to the younger ladies.

Jean-Paul wades out into the party, looking for the nearest grunge hippie, probably a biker type. There's an enforcer, Mad Dog, check. He gives him a glare. Then, there's the pimp. He avoids eye contact with him and his women. Jesus Garcia gets a soft nod, then a flit of the eyes. He sees the dirty cop, staring right at him, aware that computer science two years aren't officially on the rosters, so they don't get snitched and their dynamics skills don't fall into the wrong hands. He moves towards the back, where the biker runners hang out. He's looking for an older one, probably drunk, in a smokey side room. That's where you show them the goods.

The kick is decisively delivered, gift wrapped in armored boot right to the chest. Then the door is given a diagnotic scan with some pretty sophisticated optical equipment built into the domino mask. The lock is traced out, the mechanics of it referenced against any number of intrusion devices on his person, and the best of those is pulled out from a pouch on the back of his belt.

His instincts tell him that as soon as those doors open, hell is going to break loose... because that's how these things go... so even once the lock is crack he's not going to pound in there like a bafoon. Rather, he's going to toss in a small handful of flashbang pellets in and follows the 'pop' with both sticks held up along the inside of his arms.

Jean-Paul manages to find a man in a side room, on a cellphone. He's complaining about one of his friends not coming that he was planning to buy something from afterwards. He's all alone, a densely built biker who has none of the look of true experience beyond street grittiness. His back is to Azrael, and he cares more about getting his meth than anything else.

Of course, Nightwing is the subtle one. The inside explodes in a flash of light, causing a loud curse of surprise. A man of easily 350 pounds bursts up from his chair, naked girl falling off. He begins to immediately search for the emergency button underneath the edge of his desk, shielding his eyes with a rose-tattooed forearm. "WH-WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Jean-Paul Valley hears the signs on the phone. Meth, low grade, probably cooked from wellbutrin instead of bonsai or sudafed. Shit meth. The real stuff is bonsai and the right chemical process, shabu, what the Japanese call 'ice'. That's all you can get in Gotham or Bludhaven, unless you have an entire zaibatsu running the numbers. He pulls out his baggie and waits, idly reaching down and pulling something out of his combat boot. It's right in the lining, a slit hole with a knife with a plastic baggie rolled up. He pulls out 'Maui Wowie', a joint made from ground Bugler, his Lebanese bud, and just a little bit of opium. Perfect cruising bud for a biker. That's his opener. It's a special technique he invented. This weed isn't the lemon-scented with the candy, that's in the baggie.

One of the escrima sticks is hurled end over end at the hand trying to errupt their little meeting, Nightwing already running with the door thrown closed behind him. He's up on the table after a drawn out front flip that lands him with his foot in a position to kick the big man right in the upper part of his chest... hope that chair is stress tested for his weight.

Just incase the man has intensions of using his superior weight to superior insident, the other stick is slapped out across his temple with a metalic ping. "There's a new boss in Bludhaven. You were in Angel's inner circle and you're not dead, so you know who it is." The escrima stick snaps down across the man's knee... was that bone breaking? "Tell me his name."

He doesn't have Batman's growl, but when you're smashing a big man with a stick with enough force to leave hairline fractures, do you really need it?

Jean-Paul eventually gets the attention of the man on the phone after he angrily hands up, looking the man up and down. "The hell do you want?" Although the offered joint does cause a flicker of interest, he tries to suppress it immediately after. Still, the agitated well-beareded man looks as liable to punch as to do anything else.

As for Nightwing, Rose lets out a yowl, shaking his hand in the air as if it was just burnt. Kicked in the upper chest, th chair crashes on his back, and the overweight man doesn't seem to know up from down anymore, still trying to see. Blood splatters down, Rose coughing heavily. "F-Fuck if I know... Nobody does... W,We like it that way, damnit!! We get our orders from--" He seems to no longer be shocked horribly and gets some fatty sass back. "Who do you think you are?! Once I can see, I'm gonna... gonna make sure you are DEAD!" He struggles in seismic rolls. But Nightwing might find, to his chagrin, that the naked companion is now staggering, aiming to press the red button under the desk herself, having regained some hazy amount of vision...!!

Jean-Paul's eyes half-lid. "Wanna...Blaaaze?" He grins widely, and offers the biker the joint. "Got some tunes? I like Marilyn Manson. Good band. Grew up on it. I'm a Catholic kid." He holds it out between his thumb and forefinger. "We all grow up Antichrists, man." He hears the party around them, staring at the bearded biker. "Numbers aren't running in from Gotham? I'm from Jersey. Name's Dave. Just Dave. The dealer. I run weed. This shit is Lebanese bud, not that hash that you're supposed to cook and not smoke. It's mixed with fine red opium. I have a method to make it, we both know. A little baking powder, right? And plenty of poppy? Boiled?" He grins and nods. "We're cool. Just try it. This is the favor. I've got the actual clean bud in here." He shakes the baggy, showing him the Lebanese kind bud. "From the A-rab. I need to blaze, I drove out here from Gotham, and I'm getting ready to run back. Once I make a deal. Tony told me there'd be a hookup here. Tony C. He's a low-level, but I know him. He's my man. Wanna try it?"

"Seriously?" Nightwing dares the woman, tilting his head as he jumps down between her and the desk with the escrima stick pressing business in first right into the center of her breast, right beneath her throat with a hard shove back away from the button. "I just crashed in her like the koolaid man and you think a couple armed guards are going to get my armored panties in a twist?"

Down comes his boot onto one of the hands being used to struggle Rose around in all of his jelly donut gerth. "I'm going to give you an anatomy lesson. There are two hundred and six bones in the human body, you've got your pants down, and I've got a taser. You sure you want to not tell me who gives you your orders or would you like to see what electricity does to testicles?"

"I'm no scientist, but I bet it hurts."

"The hell is wrong with you... you must be a Gotham idiot, if you think you can just walk in here and start trying to deal." The joint is snatched either way and puffed to life. It's good though, obvious after a few heavy draws. Cough, cough. "The days of doing this halfass are gone. This isn't makeshod crime anymore with a dozen fighting jackal packs paying tribute to Angel so the city isn't torn apart. It's a business. You follow rules. You don't, you die. That's what Marin was." He shifts his eyes to the left and right. "Nobody was supposed to know Marin was iced, man. But the new guy... he did it on purpose. He let the city... nah. He let the WORLD know. The city's not being taken over, boy..." A slow draw inwards followed. "Marin was letting everyone know... he was done. And he was done hiding in the shadows."

The girl is run off easily enough, huddling into a ball in away that she's probably done to survive a few attacks on people she was payed to like. The fact she was cheeky must have implied she was close to Rose. Aw, criminal love. Once attention returns to the tub of lard, he just coughs. "...You're that Nightwing fellow. Hahah. We're not like Gotham, here. You know how many people the Bat killed?" He spits, heavily, at Nightwing's face. "ZERO. So let me tell you this. You'll harmlessly dangle me, or break me enough I recover fully. Or instead, I risk my fucking life saying something to people who will skin me alive, and make me watch dogs rip out my intestines. Tell me which scares me more..."

Jean-Paul's voice drops. "I saw the head twist on the news. That's a guy in a bucket. I know who we're dealing with. I don't want to know how he's so jacked. And I know how he's smart. It's the pharmaceuticals. It's called the Algernon drug. Riguzin. It's a Yardie secret. Jamaicans use it. It makes you f***ing evil. And jacked. Roids make you insane and stupid. But Riguzin?" He shrugs a shoulder, shaking his head. "That stuff should be banned. You give it to anyone, it's evil." He stares directly in the biker's eyes, letting him puff the joint. "You cut off his supply, you have him. He's down. But do it careful. Real careful." He makes sure he talks while the biker is hacking up a lung.

"You clearly don't know Batman very well." Nightwing encourages Rose, "There are acceptable levels of 'fully recovered' we're willing to accept when it comes to gathering information. As a matter of principle..." Down comes his boot, right between his big fat thighs, inches from his aforemention gonads. "You don't need half the organs in your body to survive. Several of them are, in fact, quite useless to survival... It's something of an anatomical anomoly, really. Evolution making once useful things like the appendix and gall bladder unncessary, but exceptionally dangerous when they don't function correctly."

The zap of the mentioned taser replaces his voice temporarily, "How do you feel about a science experiment? I'm curious whether a fat man can survive without a functioning reproductive organ. Your lady friend probably won't be happy about it... but at least you'll be alive right?" Zap, zap. "Truth be told, you're pretty much between a rock and a hard place anyways.. On the one hand, you're right.. I wont kill you. Then again, the kind of guy who shoves a dead man into a barrel and leaves him on the front steps of the police department likely isn't going to believe a guy who was found unconscious with his pants down covered in his own shit didn't talk.. or maybe he won't even care? Turns out, at this junction, I'm kind of your only hope.. because if you tell me, all you're nursing a broken hand... your choice."

"Even GCPD was denied investigating Angel's death. BCPD played hardball covering it up." the biker states, continuing to puff heavily on the joint. After a short coughing fit, the bearded biker looks to be absolutely confused and little more. "The fuck you talking about?"

"People only go to Gotham to make a statement, lunatic. People come to Bludhaven to do business. That's why we don't have caped lunatics either doing crime or stopping it. Kinda funny, ain't it? We're a worse cesspool than that city ever could hope to be, and we get along juuuuuust fine." And then he's shut up by the blow, doubling over with a wheeze. "F,fuck you. I've... done worse... to people'll then you ever will... for fucking FUN..." This guy's a monster. Nightwing can see it. It's like a single drop of the Joker in a barrel of clear water. That might seem like very little... but compared to the crimelords of Bruce's hometown, there's a sick, broken depravity that's not insanity. It's the norm.

Only when the next part comes does Rose tense a bit. He shivers, coughing heavily. "I don't believe you." he mumbles out. Sweat gathers in rolls upon his forehead. "You do that... I'm a dead man. You got me." His eyes try to harden. "But that means you kill me. Even if it ain't your own hands. You kill me. You think I'm going to believe you are the sort who does that, when even the fucking Batman lets a lunatic like the Joker survive, time and time again...?!"

"Everyone has a weakness. Bludhaven thought they could control this guy. They're shipping in from somewhere. It's the Yards. And not the Haitians. The Yards control it. He's got it stashed somewhere." He takes the joint, once the opium hits the biker and he calms down. "He's running for the Jamaicans. They're pushing people. Jamaicans are people pushers. They want kids. Then they sell them. This guy? And we know who he is. Is using Yard techniques. And once you do the Yard magic drug?" Jean-Paul inhales. "You don't give a sh**. They're going to Jamaica. Then South America. Mexico. China. They take people. And steal them. And send them somewhere. That's what these guys do. Slavery. Anyone." He exhales, his Newports given him tougher lungs. He lets him finish the joint, handing it back, before setting the bag down. Inside is a business card with a landline. "You talk to me sometime, man. I'll get you the Lebanese bud. What you do with it...Is up to you." He nods solemnly, then turns about, flicking his jacket and preparing to leave, but he gives the biker a look if he wants to ask him something.

Nightwing watches all this and cannot help the sick feeling welling up in his stomach. How has a city like Bludhaven been right under their noses this whole time and how have they none seen this coming? All it would take is someone with enough creativity to put it all together and the hive of vile scum would be completely under their thumb so tightly that nobody could wrench it free.

And that's just the logistics of an organization like this, nevermind the monster he's staring at. He is no Joker. Not even Dick would be so foolish as to classify this fat man in the league with the Clown, but a drop of the Harlequin in any pool of water is dangerous beyond any sense of reason. "You willing to test that theory?"

Asked with a bit more ice in his voice. Gone is the playful jingle that was there previously to be replaced with a stone cold seriousiness. "Tell me who you get your orders from or you'll have to hope I get to them before they get to you..." He's getting the very real indication that the kind of group he's after is going to be the sort that are pretty thorough when it comes to taking out the trash.

In for a penny, in for a pound. "Last chance."

"Hah. Hahahaha." The biker starts to laugh, probably as much the joint as anything else. "You a fucking liar." is said, with absolute belief. "Seven months ago, the Russians tried to move in. They moved in hard. Things were weak at the time. Bit chaotic. Between the fall and the rise." Another slow puff follows. "They say that the war last three days. And there was thirty-seven men with their heads rotated 180 degrees afterwards. All of them thrown in a shipping container and sent right back to Moscow." The last of the joint is flicked away. "I told you. This city is a fucking business now. If you are trying to peddle some new wares, you tell your dealers they better follow the rules. I'm telling you this because it's fucking good. I'm just a street pusher, but I know who moves around here now. Above me is Isador Sinagra. He's on par with the Garcia Twins out there. Regional drugs. And you also want to talk to Marco. Just Marco. Ignore what his badge says." Badge? "The detective dancing it up. You need both of them to sign off on new deals." He then turns away. "Otherwise, you are a dead man. You think otherwise, then you know shit about Bludhaven now. Everything's changed. And it's not going back."

As for Rose, he's sweating his ass off, turning pasty white. After awhile, he deflates. "Fine. You wanna know? The new boss works with BCPD. And only BCPD. They are the intermediaries. As far as I know, only the moles in the police are aware who he is or where he is. Downstairs is Detective Julius. 'Jewels', if you want cement shoes. Marco Julius. He's the man who makes sure everything illegal we do don't ever get noticed. And tells us what the rules are. BCPD was always a gang... but they were their own gang. Now... they are judge, jury, and executioner for the big man. That's all I can tell you. They call him the 'Big Man',"

There's a sad softness in Jean-Paul's eyes, as he lowers his eyelids, lashes soft in the dim smokey light of the room. "You've never met the devil, have you? Visit Jamaica sometime. The devil lives there. You see the pretty beaches. But it's a Hell. And soon you'll be in Hell too. Keep that line. There's another option, you know." He raises his left hand, tucking his pinky in and showing three fingers. He then closes them. "Take him down now, or your kids will be in a sweat shop, and it'll be you in that barrel." His voice hardens, as he prepares to go back out in public. "The rest is in that vacuum sealed bag. That's a gift. It's in the green backpack. There's also a book. It's psych ward rules. Keep it." He moves out, the opposite direction he came from, heading to the porch. He licks his lips, mouth dry, eager for the Mountain Dew in his car. He's got a whole case in the back. But he saw that motorcycle cruise by without a driver. He knows he needs to bail before the fireworks come. He grabs his cigarettes and puts one in his mouth, stepping out onto the porch and lighting up, hand shielding his lighter, eyes down, then up. He inhales, before he plucks his cigarette away with his left hand. He waits for any responses, showing a little Irish flair.

Nightwing lets the words tumble out of Rose's mouth and records them for later reevaluation once he's gotten out of this hive of villains and monsters. Behind the whites of his mask his eyes have taken a hard cant, but there's a crooked grin on his face that might belay any notion that what he's seen or heard has bothered him.

It's the second time in a day that he's glad to have had Bruce's acting lessons.

"Don't go telling anyone you met me. Doubt they'll take kindly to your loose lips." Grayson genuinely hopes that the fat man has better sense than to go blabbing off at the gums about having run into Nightwing... For his own sake.

In a flash, the former boy wonder is up on the table after a backflip carries him up in an easy jaunt. Several pellets fall out of his palm and quickly fill the room in a noxious smoke that masks his quick escape through the double doors.. when it clears, he's gone, without so much as the clicking of the doors closed behind him to warn it.

Already making his way back to the roof before someone comes to investigate the downed camera.

"Only an outsider could talk like you." coughs up the biker, too out of it to really understand the innuendo in Jean-Paul's words properly. "You will see soon enough if you stick around the city." Left behind, Azrael manages to get back out once more, and upon leaving his larger stash of weed is yanked out of the safe and thrown at him, before he's told in no short words not to come back again without his name on a list. Nothing else seems to happen as a result... but the lay of the land seems to be a lot different than what was apparent from the outside.

"Fuck me." sighs Rose, slowly rolling over and getting back to his feet. He digs around in a drawer for a few moments, before coming out with a 9mm Glock. Silencer attached into an integrated frame. "Sorry, doll. One whisper leaves that I got shaken by a vigilante, and I'm dead either way."

"NO!!" states the girl, who gets two steps before three shots whisper in the air, like the deep shrill thrum of a string instrument. She collapses. Rose then staggers his way out through the double doors. Both stirring men get a bullet in the head near it. And both the others, one in the hallway and one thumped beside the bannister.

Wheezing, Rose pulls out a cell and calls downstairs. "Mad Dog. Get up here. Got a mess to clean up." Nightwing's a death sentence right now. Even if he doesn't know it. But Rose has always been a survivor. Fat, chubby Rose, mocked and lauded his whole life. Who cares what he said if nobody ever finds out he did...? That's survival in Bludhaven. That's survival... against the massive monster who replaced Angel Marin.

He'll never forget that mountain of muscle talking to the lot of them through a hazy gloss window and speaker. How Arnaldo Benitez rejected him. How his seismic footsteps resounded in the warehouse, something inhuman in an impeccable suit. Grasping Arnaldo, and casually twisting his neck around like a child playing with a newborn bird.

No... no way in fucking hell is Nightwing ever going to be more terrifying than /that./

"Keep it. It's for Sinagra's boy," comes Jean-Paul's reply as he catches the backpack, grunting a little as he represses his urge to lash out. He grits his teeth to the right, but otherwise ignores the slight. He tosses it onto the ground. "I gave him a promise, I keep it. O'Neill's keep their word." He turns around and stalks back out to his car, feeling his mouth dry and a quiver in his stomach. He gets out to his car and, hand shaking, unlocks the door. He sits down, puffing the Red, and chugs Mountain Dew. He then emits a pained wail, having seen the desolation Desmond is bringing. He sits there, in his car, silent for at least a minute, before he starts the engine. He reaches up to his bandolier of disks, and selects custom disc. He slips it in. T-Rex starts playing, and he emits a soft sigh. He backs into the parking lot, his pallette satisfied and the nicotine hitting him, and begins driving away, through the parking lot and down towards the gate. He's calm, no tears without rage, but no heart either. He's just made contact. That biker is now his alley. Everyone has kids. Especially bikers.

Nightwing is on the roof before the shots ring out, but if he'd had an ounce of knowledge that all those men would be dead he would have taken his chances leaving that fat bastard covered in his own fecal matter in a heap of naked body. Once he's back out in the night air, he whips his grapple gun off his back and takes a running start towards the edge of the roof. The leap out is almost a swan dive save for the snap hiss of his grapple finding purchase in one of the adjacent buildings. The line grows tight and sends him flying over the yard masked by the over head clouds until he's again falling in a drawn out summersault towards a fire escape.

"Track to my location." Spoken into his wrists mounted controls to his motorcycle. The decent is easy for him, flips, rolls, hand rail twists and he lands beside his bike and starts feeding information to his own 'Bat' computer at one of the safe houses he's got set up in Bludhaven. He whirls the bike around and roars out of the alleyway back onto the street and towards the hide away to go over the evidence before making his plan of attack on Marco Julius. 'It's going to be a long night.'