2013.10.13 - Darklings on the Water

They say there's no honor amongst thieves. Maybe that's true, but that's sure as hell not how it's sold internally. When you're in, you're in-- the Family is what matters, the people with honor, the people who've got your back. Thing is, loyalty is a fragile thing when it's all predicated on delusion and lies. Maybe it wasn't always the way it was, and maybe they're right about the corrupt authorities, even.. but the people running vice in this day and age? Well. It's a bloody business with a bad habit of spilling over on the people who least deserve it.

Eight months ago, Frankie 'Kill the Children Too' Franchetti burned-- no, incinerated to death in his own warehouse, with his consigliere Jackie Estacado. Only, Jackie's death was apparently exaggerated. A few months later, his cousin Paulie joined him, and then the Franchettis had struck their own bargain with old school power and money throughout New York, similarly sick of how things were being run. Tonight? Well, tonight is the aftermath of a first salvo over the last several nights that saw drug and arms running for several New York and Gotham families hit-- and hit hard. Almost biblical. Gangers who stood against the tide weren't just killed, they were mauled.

The blowback was inevitable, the suspect syndicate the hated upstarts allied around the honed tatters of the Franchetti Family. Kill Jackie Estacado, presumptuous half-blood 'Don', and the rest will fall. It's a simple mandate, with a huge bounty: enough to attract all but the scariest of mercenaries amongst their allies. They even have intel on where and when. Estacado is hosting a sit-down with his top capos on a yacht outside Gotham harbor, just after midnight. The quiet hum of stealthy, specialized outboard motors belonging to craft belonging to assassins sends a soft thrum through the still night as dark craft cut across the waters towards the solitary vessel berthed on a long, private dock. Other men approach through the marina... others, set up sniping posts on nearby rooftops.

It's a big pot at stake, and the offended mafia interests? They have reserves. The only lights on the yacht in question flicker dimly from the mid-deck lounge, the shades drawn. Shadows behind them shift and smoke, laughter sometimes escaping the open windows.

Three days. Huntress has been home for three days, and NOW this happens. But, it's a lead toward Mandragora, FINALLY, so she can't just dismiss it. Perched on the rooftop closest to the water, she uses a tiny pair of binoculars to find out what's going on in that yacht out there. It's well out of range of her crossbow, and getting out there unnoticed is completely impossible... Damn, she wishes she could ask Oracle to send, like, everything.

"Hey. HEY." He all but pops out of the shadows at the corner of that rooftop ledge and the rooftop, clambering up over the side like a little, ashen gargoyle. The voice is sand-coarse and breathy, the diminutive creature smiles a smile full of pointed teeth, designed to clear purpose. He's toting a meat cleaver, and looks and sounds more than a little affronted. "Fuck ME. You ain't even on the MENU." It's around this time that the sniper's nest across from Huntress' position erupts with several choked screams, gunfire, and several hitman careening for the street below.

"Boys!! They're already in the BOATS!!!" Unless Huntress intercedes, that little interloper leaps back off the building, seemingly unconcerned with the height of the drop, and high-tails it towards the water. It's hard to count the splashes as shadows in numerous nooks and crannies dive into the bay.

Huntress is VERY much startled by the little ... THING that appears out of nowhere, and before she can even react to its words, it screeches something and turns to leap off of the building. She recovers fast enough, though, to reach out and try to snag the little thing before it leaps away. "What the hell are you?" she can't help but mutter, regardless of whether or not she manages to catch it.

It's like grabbing a flesh and blood... well, gremlin. Even if it's a little eerie, the way the shadow clinches in Huntress' glove. And comical, the way the Darkling kicks its feet, and wildly swings that little cleaver. It's little more than defensive-- if aggressively so. Still, those little claws and blades are nasty, and he doesn't want to be held. "Skudz!" Take his word for it. "Gonna make me late to eat!" the dangling shadowling objects, and how. Below Huntress, the assassin who falls screaming doesn't hit the ground, per se-- the ground surges up to meet him.

It's difficult to see in the shadows cast by the crescent moon, but it's hard not to imagine several hungry serpents, with the pieces thrown back up and about. The inky black recedes into the street just as quickly... until its dark shape is cast just below the surface of the bay, creeping in towards the yacht as several teams of hitmen grapple aboard all but silently, waving each other into position around the lounge, its inhabitants still apparently chattering away, blissfully unaware...

Huntress watches the assassin ... not hit the ground and is honestly shocked by the shadows themselves eating the man. That's clearly what's going on, and it's horrific. And from the way the gremlin she caught is acting, he'd be right there with the others if she'd let him. Yeah, no. Not gonna happen. She gives the vile little being a short, rough shake. "What the hell are you, and what's going on here?"

"Aghglllggghhhll!!!" The little creature cries and splatters spittle as he's shaken, and gestures out towards the yacht, intoning hoarsely, and as if it should be damned obvious, "/Darkness/." Six men take the deck, surround the lounge, level assault shotguns and automatic rifles at just the right angles to create a brutal killzone. They open fire, woodwork erupting in splinters as bullets shred upholstery, rip through the occupants of those seats, the party at that table, a hundred and seven ways in a few seconds.

Thing is, no bodies hit the floor. The last of the lamps go out amidship, and the vessel is plunged into shadow, lit only by the dull silver glow of slivered moon and stalwart star. Those bullet-ridden walls around each bank of windows erupt in twin serpent heads, scaled in shimmering black and slithering through the night out port and starboard. Each claims a victim as they erupt, one man chewed in half and dropped into the bay. The others open fire on the demons, and one calls back to the night, across the bay: "Now, now!! Light the damn thing up!!!!!"

Darkness? /Darkness/? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Huntress stares at the flailing little gremlin for a few seconds before looking out again toward the yacht. She watches the yacht's lights go out and what's going on there with only moonlight to let her see almost incredulously for a moment before giving the gremlin in her grasp another shake. "Don't fuck with me. What IS that out there?"

"Fucking Darkness, you crazy bitch!!" The charming little gremlin reiterates, loudly, screaming right at Huntress, "Come see for yourself!!" Skudz straight up vanishes, dissipating into smoke as if he was never there to begin with. Someone in another line of work would likely be questioning their sanity a few steps ago-- of course, it's not like this is another day at the office for Huntress, either... now is it? The toothy serpent-maws that the bullet-riddled yacht seems to have sprouted claims another victim, leaving three hitmen regrouping at the aft of the ship as a larger vessel out on the bay broadsides the ship with several powerful spotlights.

Hissing, the serpents retreat from the direct beams... and coil in the cast shadows, as if stalking prey. From the cover of the flying bridge above, automatic weapons fire suddenly pins down that team... and sprays the enemy ship. Huntress would have an easy time seeing through her binoculars the short span down that private dock across the lot of a long-abandoned shipping yard: more creatures like the one she had in her grip firing on mobsters with assault rifles. One of them chews a burning cigar.

Seriously. What the ever-loving FUCK is going on here? Huntress knows that Gotham is darker and supposedly more full of shadows than overly lit places like NYC, but this. This is a whole new level of fucked up. Those floodlights actually seem to have an effect on those things. It CAN'T just be her imagination. "HAL. God I hope you can hear me. Are you seeing what's going on here?" She mentally gauges the distance from herself to where a small horde of little gremlins are actually using rifles. She loads her only flashbomb bolt, hopes to hell she's not wasting it, then fires it in an arc to hopefully land near those things.

The fun part: the Franchettis have long been Five Families turf, across the water. Times change, though, and sometimes faster than others. The Bat-Family has come face to cowl with the Darklings and their ilk once before, even fought Jackie himself, in his costumed guise, briefly. At the least, they'll be able to confirm that Huntress isn't crazy.. at least, in that sense. The bolt casts the bridge in abrupt illumination brilliant enough to straight up convert several Darklings to so much shadowy dust, disappearing as the wave of light passes.

For a moment after the flashbang clears, there's silence. The hitmen shine taclights upwards, the spotlights sweep the boat. Then, abruptly, a figure clad in black steps to the edge and fires a heavy revolver down at his assailants without hesitation... or apparent concern for return fire Several precise shots take another life, and before one has time to wonder why he hasn't just shot out the spotlights casting his yacht's long shadow off the far side... screams erupt from that spotlighting vessel as serpentine arms erupt from the deep in shadowy waterspouts, swifting and violently climbing the hull of the ship from the dark waters below.

"Roger that," Green Arrow exhales into a bluetooth headset as he sprints towards the edge of a warehouse roof, "just finishing up a little evening workout--gotta make the time whenever you can, y'know! Ohp, just a second--"

Dark green boots push off firmly from the edge of the roof, and the CEO/vigilante is flying through the air--at least, for a moment; he rolls through the landing, springs back to his feet, then exhales, "--sorry; figured I'd--hah--kick it up for a second," as he resumes his run. "Anyway! For the umpteenth time--I'll be there, bright and early tomorrow, ready to get back to work. No worries; you tell the rest of the board I'm fine."

All Ollie knows is that shots were fired in Gotham Harbor, while he, as luck would have it, was busy packing up a few things at the flower shop; a quick change of clothes and an illegally nimble motorcycle ride later, and he was close enough to hoof it to the scene of the crime.

It wouldn't do for Green Arrow to be seen driving up to a crime scene astride Oliver Queen's brand new Ducati; his street cred would be gone in moments.

"And make sure--"

When he hits the edge of this roof, he gets his first glimpse of the chaos below: blood, pitch-black monsters, Huntress. Hitmen. The Emerald Archer's eyes are as wide as saucers beneath his domino mask, and several moments go by before he clears his throat and mutters, "--anyway, gotta go. Tomorrow. Lookin' forward to it. Ciao," as he reaches back to unfold his recurve and pick out the right tool for the occasion--a flash arrow, from the looks of the black things and their seeming aversion to floodlights. His associate is still nattering in his ear when he nocks his chosen arrow to the bowstring, and only after loosing it towards a pack of Darklings does he reach to his belt and flip his phone off.

Helena Bertinelli makes sure to not let the flashbang ruin her night vision, but as soon as it's faded she's looking out toward the water again. And, since she wasn't expecting someone else to show up to the party, the second flash arrow catches her completely by surprise and she hisses out a curse as she throws up a hand to try and shield her eyes from the worst of it. Too late, though. Her night vision is ruined for at least a couple of minutes.

See, for those just tuning in at home: there was no one on the yacht that the assassins hit. No one except Jackie Estacado, at least; Jackie, and the Darkness. It was a trap, and a good one. Efficient, sudden, as brutal as the teams sent in to rub Estacado out. One thing Jackie didn't count on, though: hostile vigilantes. The Darklings may have been born ugly, they may be munching on a team that tried to slip in through the docks, rather than the seaside approach by the boat-borne team now (what's left of them) on Estacado's yacht, but do they really deserve what happens to them?

By all appearances, Ollie's arrow does exactly what Huntress' bolt did before it: scatters the group of Darklings, and outright -obliterates- them where the light fully touches, seemingly disintegrating the little demons into so much shadowy ether. It's some solace for the pair of men crouched in the aft of that yacht, but little for those in the ship bearing those searchlights. They can't turn them close enough to shine at the shadowy tendrils that wind from the deep as if belonging to some ancient monster, and they are ill prepared for when those spine-laden tentacles drop about the vessel, crushing deck structure and bridge into so much rent material.

There's a long, low creak, and for a moment the ship bobs lower in the water. Then it cracks amidships, and is all but sucked below in two pieces, extinguishing the lights and releasing force enough to send a waterspray high into the air, issuing a momentary rainshower to the docks and the surrounding buildings. In the moments after that shocking crack, that sudden sinking, there's near silence.

The hitmen on the boat have no target, at least for a moment-- and they're surrounded by more viscera than even they're used to, and most of it is their friends. But for the moment, they're not under fire-- that dark figure at the yacht's flying bridge? He seems to just vanish into shadow, a swirl of dark consuming him shortly after those flaring blasts banish his lovable Darklings. Then, in a turn that's likely worth a hearty curse with her eyes inhibited, Huntress is no longer alone on her rooftop. The opposite edge, behind the vantage held by Huntress and Green Arrow, is suddenly occupied by a tall, dark man in a longcoat, his features all but obscured by the shadows that seem to hang about him, shifting and swirling in ever-changing form.

"Hm." There's a flick of a lighter, and a cigarette ignited from lightless black flame, its cherry's orange-red glow a decided contrast. "Wouldn't figure you the sort to object to scumbags gettin' dragged to Hell." Beat. "Don't tell me I've got a problem with you and your blonde buddy, now. Got enough on my fuckin' plate." Like the Darkling told Helena-- she's not on the menu!

Helena Bertinelli still can't see too well, but she's been practicing working blind for a little while now, and at the flick of the lighter her crossbow snaps up and aims pretty close to directly at the man with the blatantly Jersey accent. "How the fuck am I supposed to know who is who's side where there are nasty little gremlins eating everyone?" The crossbow doesn't waver, and she's just waiting for her vision to improve enough so she doesn't risk a kill shot on Soprano over there.

In the time it takes for Jackie to light his cigarette, Ollie has a broadhead nocked and pointed between the shadowy gangster's eyes.

It isn't as if he just drowned a bunch of guys by--doing--something to them, or anything.

"Some of us, we get a little touchy when gore-splattered gremlins get heaped on top of our nice, simple late-night shoot-outs," he snaps. After a beat - during which he glances back over his shoulder rather than releasing any of the tension on his bowstring - he scoffs, "I guess the people of Gotham can rest easy with you on the prowl, eh?"

There's a long haul off that cigarette, and if Jackie's concerned with the arrows-- or the fact that these two are equipped fairly well to have a shot at taking him out-- he doesn't show it. Maybe the dude has a death wish; tonight's odds on his own, even with his rather remarkable 'backup', well it's not a game of chicken most would play, is it? "I'd have had programs printed. Y'know. If I'd known there'd be an audience." Estacado professes with decided flippancy. "These guys work for Thorne. Mandragora. Maroni. The fuckin' Armenians." It's no secret to these two the kind of men he's talking about, or at least... that's what Jackie seems to bank on.

Estacado pauses to hit the cig once more, the burning orange one of three points of light, the other two the unearthly yellow glow that passes for 'eyes' with the Darkness unleashed. Back on Jackie's yacht, gunfire erupts again-- alongside screams-- as several Darklings return, clambering up from the water, and down from the bridge. It won't take them long to take the ship back from the pair of hitmen, no. There are several backup teams around the perimeter, but in terms of contingency planning for -this-? They've got little. Not to mention no visual on their target. "Let's get one thing straight. These godless fucks came to kill me. Thought they'd wipe out everyone backin' me in one swoop. And that ain't even touchin' on what they've down to the good people of Gotham." He half-mockingly echoes Ollie.

"So yea, if you're not resting easier with every mook they lose, every dollar they hemorrhage, you're fuckin' stupid."

Helena Bertinelli freezes at the name Mandragora. That was probably the single WORST thing this jerk could have said. She starts walking toward Jackie, her crossbow still aimed unerringly at point between the two glows that are his eyes. "Tell me everything you know about Mandragora and I /might/ be persuaded to not put a bolt through your face."

Ollie twists around at the sound of gunfire, then eases the tension on the bowstring so that he can trade the broadhead for something a bit more cylindrical, and full of potassium nitrate. He doesn't get much further than that, though, because Huntress is about a second away from shoving her crossbow into the mystery mafioso's face, at this rate. Exhaling, he walks briskly to try and cut the other vigilante off before she can get too close to Jackie. He's got a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, but he still holds them up to urge her to stop as he hisses, "Woah, there, hey--nobody else is dyin', if I've got anything to say about it." After looking over his shoulder to level a glare on Jackie, he returns his attention to Huntress and adds, "you wanna go down that route, you may as well get down there and join the goblin squad."

To punctuate his statement, he quickly nocks and releases his second flash arrow, sending it flying through the narrow gap between one of Huntress' arms and her body; it's a superficially pretty shot if only for that reason, but he barely has any view at all of the firefight. It might, if he - and the hitmen - are lucky, land near enough to the fight to eliminate a few Darklings and give the men a bit of breathing room, but that's about all he can hope for.

"You wanna defend yourself, that's one thing," he hisses, glancing back at JAckie again, "you wanna murder these men, though, that's somethin' else entirely."

"What? You hate him? Think he's shit stuffed into a nice suit?" It's not exactly hard to read Helena's attitude, just this moment. "Think him an' everyone like him leaks puss into the streets every time they make a move?" There's a pause, and Jackie studies Huntress from over that cigarette. His yellow eyes fade to a far more natural amber as the shadows around him dissipate, as if flowing back into his coat. Leaving him exposed as just a man. "Yea, well, so do I. Why do you think they want me dead -that- bad?" He gestures out towards the grotesquely mismanaged charnel house that the lot below and private dock have been converted to. It was a big strike.

"You want to kill me for -that-, baby, you take your best damn shot." He taps himself, right between the eyes, and takes a step forward. The cigarette is flung to the side, half-smoked, flipping end over end in a shower of sparks. "But you'll never know what has them so scared, an' you'll be doing their dirty work fuckin' /for/ them." How's them for apples? "Maybe you're missin' the part where they're hitmen. Here tryin' to kill me. Ain't my fault they're out of their depth, and way short of the mark." Jackie notes, turning his gaze to Ollie for a moment-- perhaps at great personal hazard.

"Every one of 'em here to kill me in the name of their raping, child-killing, drug-peddling son of a bitch bosses. Save me the pity party, I know who I'm up against. -You- don't." There's a clear dawn of afterthought as Jackie glances to Huntress. "-She- might."

Huntress keeps her crossbow aimed at Jackie, even when fucking Loxley gets in between them. The arrow the archer shoots past her earns him the briefest flick of her eyes toward him, and that look promises pain if he interferes. "Look, Guido or whoever you are. I don't give a rat's ass about any of the rest of that. Tell me what you know about Mandragora. Everything."

Ollie spins around to address Jackie face to face, firing back, "And you must've missed the part where--"

Thank God and the Lone Ranger for the domino mask: it helps hide his features when it occurs to him that not even he seriously believes in the odds of the GCPD handling a case with an army of mob hitmen without letting some of them go free due to mishandling and/or bribery.

"Yeah," he mutters, sliding out from in between the two to jog up to the roof's edge and survey the battle below. "You do that; I got a slaughter--to--" His fingers dance across the coded nocks jutting from his quiver, and he makes a face upon confirming that he's out of flash arrows. Two, he'd rationalized while he was prepping his quiver, was enough of a luxury as it was; how much hardware did he really need for a gangland shoot-out?

"Hell," he exhales, drawing a broadhead and sending it into a random Darkling's back; it's likely not much more than wishful thinking at this point, but it's better than just watching.

Not to mention the risks to letting first-hand observers who knew exactly went down and how report back. Estacado isn't finished yet, not by a long shot. Assuming, of course, that he doesn't die out here tonight. Some broad offs him with a /crossbow/, the Darkness might just be fed up enough to leave him dusted; but probably not. Even so, Jackie makes no outward sign of aggression, or defense. At least, if those Darklings that still prowl the boat, pursuing the last, terrified hitman with their dwindled numbers, not yet replenished since the conversation began, don't count. The broadhead impacts much like Ollie -were- shooting a gremlin, dropping it in its tracks-- and swiftly, into a rising, wispy smoke that vanishes into the dark night. Estacado doesn't seem immediately concerned.

"Look. We don't got time to go into everything I know about Mandragora. How he runs his operation, which businesses in this city are nothin' but his fronts, which warehouses his top gear is hid at." He has some rather capable scouts, you see. The accent is Italian by way of New York-- Guido isn't really a stretch. "Can call me Jackie." But he'd prefer a more accurate moniker. "And if you want Mandragora, I'm sure we can work somethin' out that suits us both real good. If you get that thing out of my damn face." A fingertip points right down the sightline of that crossbow.

The shrieks from the boat aren't so much from the terrified hitman, now, who circles the deck trying to avoid the trio of gremlins hunting him, and taking cover from Ollie's bowstring. It's distant, but carried well across the water. "'Ey, Boss!!! Tell Robin Hood to stop ganking us and making this harder!! We ain't never gonna reach the checkpoint at this rate!"

So that's how he wants to play it. "Tell those little shits to STOP killing people. Now." She drops her crossbow and walks over to where Loxley is still picking off Darklings. She deliberately -- and where Green Arrow can see it -- removes the pack of bolts from her crossbow and replaces it with a single quarrel that appears to be carrying some kind of payload. "I mean it. Make them back off or I start a nice, pretty fire that won't sink that boat."

Ollie, for his part, is sticking with broadheads, partly because picking the Darklings off one by one is cleaner than blowing the boat up, and partly because he isn't actually packing any explosives.

It would have been awfully hypocritical for the guy who's making a fuss over dead hitmen to bombard a bunch of unsuspecting gangsters with grenade arrows, after all.

Still, he holds off on taking out any further Darklings when Huntress makes her threat, and looks back towards Jackie to see how he'll respond. "She ain't bluffin', Jacks," he offers, jerking his head towards Huntress, "she's nuts. I'm thinkin' you've made your point, tonight; maybe we let the cops handle it from here, eh?"

"So. Save that guy, or you set the whole shebang on fire." Jackie tosses out both arms in an explosive motion that synchronizes with his voice's crescendo. Of course, about the time that Estacado snaps his fingers and dismisses the trio of Darklings into the night there's the loud splash of that hitman abandoning ship. Estacado doesn't seem particularly concerned about him getting far... for some reason. "So what. We're going to ask Mandragora's other boys nicely if they'll turn themselves in? Maybe serve him a subpoena?" This brings a wide, wolfish grin to Jackie's face, toothy and unconvinced. Maybe even a little entertained.

"Yea, the police'll clean it right up. I'm sure all the protection these people got in place in this town won't bite you in the ass on that play. You want to burn my shit, you go right ahead. Like you said, my job's done for the moment. But come /on/." Jackie shakes his head, and mutters a curse in Italian. "These fuckers got to go. May not be any gettin' rid of vice; but honorless, soulless assholes who don't believe in -shit- have been running it too long. You know it, I know it."

Huntress sees the three Darklings disappear, and the remaining hitman jump overboard. "SHIT." She hastily swaps out the quarrel on her crossbow again and fires it at the yacht, hoping like HELL that the zipline is long enough to get out that far and not fail on her. The moment the quarrel digs into the side of the yacht (too low, too low) it yanks her off of the rooftop and she narrowly avoids slamming into some crates along the edge of the waterfront but at least her crazy stunt gets her close enough to the mook who jumped off of the yacht before she hits the water herself. Now the hitman has her chasing after him. Better hope he's a better swimmer than she is. And she's been practicing. (What? Oracle insisted.)

"Damnit," Ollie hisses when the last goon decides to swim for it. Gloved fingers move like lightning to set another broadhead to his bow, but Huntress is already ziplining down by the time he gets a bead on the guy. He very nearly lets that be the end of it, but something - maybe it's Jackie's needling, or maybe it's just a lack of faith in Huntress' swimming abilities - pushes him to continue tracking the swimmer instead--until he's got a clear enough angle to direct an arrow towards one of the man's legs.

"Any questions I throw 'em, you can bet your ass they won't be nice," he quietly replies, turning narrowed eyes upon Jackie, "There's a helluva lotta ground between slicing these men to bits and letting 'em do the same to the city; walking it's my job. You wanna help clean up the streets, fine--bit fillin' 'em with blood ain't gonna cut it."

There's a surprised arch to one, dark brow as Huntress bails out, going after that last hitman. "And people call -me- reckless." Jackie muses, as much to himself as Ollie. A rather wry smirk crosses his face for a moment at the man's words, even as he resigns himself to leaving /that/ one to this pair. "Yea, yea. You're the hardass posterboy." Estacado's tone could scorch a swamp to desert. "Look around you, ciuccio. It's blood for blood, and by the gallon. Ain't a fight I started, but it's sure as shit one I'm willing to finish." One way, or the other.

"My hands are dirty enough these fucks are practically marks in my soul's favor. Guarantee you can't say the same about whoever any one of 'em is going to whack next, Longbow. I didn't make this mess..." in the flash of an eye, wings of shimmering black, pure and solid shadow flow effortlessly from the man's back, lifting him off the roof in a single, powerful motion. "... I'm relegated to goddamn janitor." It's the punctuating claim that hangs in the air as that winged form takes off into the night sky-- assuming no one tries to shoot him down, at least.

Huntress catches up with the hitman after a well-placed arrow from Loxley back there makes him yell and swallow nasty water. She hooks an arm around the jerk's neck and starts to tow him back toward the docks. "Look, pissant," she snarls into the man's ear, "You want me to let you drown out here, or let those little monsters come back and chew on you some, that is FINE by me. Otherwise, your ass is mine. Capice?"

Ollie doesn't bother with trying to shoot Jackie down, instead, he mutters, "Smug, arrogant piece of..." while stalking away from the abattoir below and reaching for a grapnel arrow. Huntress, he assumes, can figure out what to do with a wounded hitman; he has a meeting to go to.

At least he won't be showing up to the board room with bruises or, God forbid, fang or claw marks; given a choice, he'd like to be able to give it a couple of weeks before having to kick meetings off with a half-assed explanation for that day's injuries.

Far overhead, Jackie Estacado circles, just for a few moments amongst the clouds. In the shadows of the docks, serpentine forms slither through the dark, skirting the edges of the spartan streetlamps and devouring the vast majority of the remnants of the slaughtered gangsters... those not reduced to so much chum in the bay, at least. They make quick, efficient work of the cleanup, further muddying the crime scene as a Darkling dressed in full captain's regalia, including a stylish white hat, pilots the yacht out towards open water, whistling a jaunty tune. Two other shadowy gremlins slip from opposite corners of a darkened rooftop, flitting from shadow to shadow as they pursue their targets: The Green Arrow, and the Huntress. Curious, and curiouser.