2013.07.11 - Gumbo to Die For

The village takes multiculturalism very seriously. To wit- Creole Celebration Day. No one can quite remember /who/ had the idea first, but there it is- a dozen small booths and stands scattered around the streets of the little bohemian downtown of Greenwich Village. The smells of pungeant spices fill the air- fresh shellfish, gumbo, jumbalaya... all the best real, home-town cooking usually only available to those born and bred in the bayou. Somehow right in the middle of it all, Remy LaBeau, Master Thief, the Ragin' Cajun, is wielding a wooden spoon with all the panache of a conductor at the opera. "Come one, come all, try de LaBeau family recipe," he half calls, half sings to passers by. "We got de bes' gumbo you don' evah had, an' don' let ol' Ray down de street fool you!" he shouts across the path, grinning and gesturing in a rude but friendly manner at a competing chef. "His gumbo nothin' but ol' shrimp shells and crawdad guts! Remy gumbo got de lil' bit of magic in it," he says, winking brilliantly at a passing pair of attractive young women. They titter at his brazen confidence as he continues, "de same magic dat make ol Remy so special." In the middle of this Bohemian little town, even his shockingly red eyes and the black sclera just make him 'unique' and not 'different', and the Cajun man seems to be blending right in with the rest of the swirling crowd.

Passing through. She's just passing through. Doing normal people things. Like shopping. And not pulling out a rocket launcher at the crowd before her. Lunair actually has a book in a small shopping bag. The title seems to read: Miss Manners: Firearms. Hmmmm. That's a bit off. Lunair's gaze seems a bit off, an emptiness akin to someone deciding just /how/ their expression should look. What in the world is this ... Creole ... Celebration ... Day? She seems to like the smell of the spices and lets herself drift over. There's a guy. With ladies. And he's selling gumbo. Lunair considers Remy and his rival, remarkably detached. Hmm. Well, she doesn't like shells in her food... And then his eyes. Headtilt.

Are his eyes that red because of the spices in the gumbo..?

Zoya's not certain, but she is curious. Curious enough, in fact, to step closer like a cautious animal approaching another creature with the uncertainty if it will be ambivalent or suddenly turn hostile. To anyone else it probably looks silly, but she's never been quite right in that regard. Either she doesn't care about the looks from others or she'll snap like a dry twig under the heel of a boot then go on another rampage. It's always tough to tell with her.

Lacking the usual social graces of people born in this century, Zoya comes to stand before the Cajun and pointedly asks "What did you do to your eyes?" Her accent is almost as thick as his, but decidedly more Russkie.

Just don't ask her to say 'Moose and Squirrel.'

This really isn't the kind of place one expects to find a Punisher. Wearing, not his trade mark skull, but instead a black button down shirt worn untucked over black cargo pants. Mostly just to hide the .45 shoved into the waist band of his pants in the small of back.

He passes through the booths and stalls, periodically stopping to look down at whatever 'authentic' piece of gawdy jewelry the shop owner is trying to peddle him, but his eyes are always gazing into some reflective surface.

Watching someone across the bazaar from him. A heavy set italian with a pair of leaner, but not smaller, goons shadowing him a few booths down.

Everyone can play happy friendly all they want, but Frank is never off duty. "No, I don't want it..." He says to the lady trying to shove a necklace into his hand, "I said no..." Flicking his eyes up to the reflective window of a store front behind the stalls to keep tabs on his target.

Pepper Potts of course heard about the Creole Celebration Day. And, knowing that truly genuine creole food is difficult to get without flying down to New Orleans, she leaves work early to sample a few things and maybe purchase enough for dinner for two. It would be a rare treat. She slips past the jewelry vendors with friendly but disinterested smiles, making her way toward the cook-off area. Gumbo hot enough remove paint would be fantastic. Hysterical, but fantastic.

There's something about food on the magical plane of Nilaa that Amethyst couldn't get used to. She was royalty there, and assuredly her chefs were the best quality in the land. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't Earth. Maybe her sense of taste wasn't up for such refined dining. There's no comfort food.

With seven hundred dollars burning a hole in her pocket courtesy of Doctor Fate, Princess Amethyst of Gemworld is taking an evening to be plain Amy Winston again. Her beat up leather jacket is her armor and her steel-toed boots are her sword. She strolls through the celebration, enjoying the amazing novelty of being around people dressed normally. With a smile and a wave, she passes by booth owner after booth owner trying to get her attention. Knickknacks and baubles aren't what she's here for. She's here for de bes' gumbo she don' evah had.

Amy ends up near Remy's booth, far enough to avoid any actual line. His open teasing of poor Ray has her smiling.

Remy may not be the cook that some of the chefs are, but what he lacks in skill he more than makes up for in style. "My eyes, mon ami?" he asks Zoya with a swarthy grin, slopping gumbo into bowls with a fantastic and careless ease, spilling not a drop. "Didn' do a thin' to 'em, beautiful!" he informs Zoya. "My mama jes' love me so much, she gimme dese eyes so beautiful gals like you come up an' see 'em an' tell me how cute I am. Here, have some of dis gumbo an' tell me if it measures up," he says, sliding a bowl towards Zoya and another towards Lunair. As Pepper and Amy approach, he dishes up more as fast as he can, sliding bowls down the countertop. "Heah you all go, have yoahself a bite of gumbo!" he calls. "You, sir! Come an' sample of Remy's Famous Five Alarm gumbo!" he shouts over at Frank, twirling a bowl on his fingertips.

What are people normally supposed to do in a situation like this..? Oh right, that ..smile..thing... Zoya's practiced. An alarming amount, in fact. She can mimic virtually any emotion, despite how awkward it feels on the inside. What results though is a magazine cover-perfect smile. She's almost got the eye-twinkling in there, even. "Am sure have heard that story enough."

Now then, what is 'five alarm' all about? For that matter, what in the blazes is 'gumbo?' She goes for both birds with one spoon and gives it a try.

Then she knows what 'five alarm gumbo' means.

"Gah..!"

The bowl is quickly put aside as she turns away from it, looking for something cold to drink. Dishes like that need better warning labels, or better yet, to be put down!

Shooting the bowl is still an option.

Lunair doesn't seem to mind. She's listening. Her eyebrows lift at Remy and she's looking at him like he's on fire and speaking in tongues. She looks a little boggled. She stifles an amused look at Zoya. "... thank you," She peers at the bowl and Remy alternately. Something a bit more distance distracts her briefly. Lunair, unlike her mighty mentor, is awfully weak to bullets, disgruntled Frank Castles (or gruntled), clubs, spears, fire, radiation, radioactive interns and arachnids and - maybe that's a list for another day. All kidding aside, when you're not bulletproof it becomes habit to pay attention. Lunair also had no idea Italian guys even LIKED Gumbo. Isn't Mario always after pasta or that blonde chick? She forgets. Anyway. Yes. Gumbo. And a strange Russian lady. Her left eye tics a little. But she carefully takes a spoon and a bit.

A long moment and her face is still blank, neutral. Hmmm. HMMM. ACK SLOWBURN. Her eyes widen and water. She manages to at least not rocket launcher the gumbo. "... well, that is indeed, intense." She offers quietly. "Thank you." Wait, is that Pepper?

Frank's attention is starting to divide into to many directions, when all he's here to do is follow one fat italian to a place where he can put the hammer to him. Probably quite literally. The lady trying to sell him a necklace is relentless. She keeps pushing it at him until he is grinding his teeth and staring daggers at her, "Get that fu-..."

The italians are on the move. Fats heading over to the call of 'gumbo' and his guards flanking back and wide to either side. So Frank moves as well. Choking back whatever harsh words he was about to direct at the lady infavor of slipping into a group of passers by with his hands in his pockets.

He is not interested in gumbo, as is his Fat counterpart. He is interested in one of the guards standing entirely too close to a rather dark (because even the good part of town has dark) alleyways.

"Yo, Ill 'ave a bowl of tha' chili." It's gumbo you dumb shit. It's also every Mafia movie boiled into one terrible accent.

Frank sweeps wide when he comes out of the crowd, quick steps to a place where he's hidden on at least two sides by a tarp and watches.

Amy's caution serves her well as the first customer goes down to the gumbo. That gets the smile off of her face. This isn't a fun day appreciating American subcultures anymore. This is an honest challenge to Amy's status as a badass. She's got her hair dyed and everything, so she can't just pretend to be some wilting princess. It's magically dyed with honest to god fairy magic, but it still looks tough.

Setting her jaw, Amy saunters up to Remy's booth and takes one of the sample bowls he set out. She takes a bite while looking down the street, pretending that something more interesting caught her eye.

Inwardly, she cries. She cries harder than the time her mom told her that they were definitely not aliens or mutants and she wasn't being trained to be a superhero. Amy was eight at the time, so she could cry pretty hard.

"That's pretty good," she says, her face a mask. Her voice is mildly raspy.

Pepper Potts is of course drawn to the table with the showy chef, and when he offers her a bowl she realizes exactly what she's just gotten herself into. Can't be rude now. Ohhh, this is so gonna hurt. She takes up the bowl and despite both Zoya and Lunair's reactions she also takes a taste and is in short order tearing up just as much as the twitchy girl. "Oh. Oh my. That's, um, really spicy." She barely manages to get the words out, even coughing a bit. Okay, this may be a bit TOO much to take home for dinner. Holy hannah.

"Chos certaine, gros homme," Remy sing-songs to Fats, slinging a bowl of the gumbo at the mafioso. "Ah'm still tinkin' it be a bit on de water side." The Cajun bumps a control knob with his hip and slings another ladelful of gumbo into a bowl, every motion fluid and effortless. "Gotta turn de heat down a little moah an' let it simmer, you know?" His eyes /do/ twinkle, and a debonair grin and wink seem directed at each of the women around his little booth individually. "It be de Cajun way, you know. Gotta be hot, cooked low, warmed up easy, den you gotta stir it up jes' 'nought to get de good bits rollin' roun' de pot. Den, once you got everytin' cookin' up just the way it should, you add in de special spices- dat's what take it from bein' hot to de full five-alarm, oui?" he asks, rhetorically. "It a bit much for you ladies, ah unnerstan'," he tells them consolingly. "It ok, Remy be a bit too much for some ladies too." He grins, flicking his ladle clean, and slings another set of bowls down the line. "Heah, try dis. It be on de two-alarm side of the house."

The definition of insanity: Doing the same thing while expecting different results. Anyone familiar with Russian would be assaulted with a string of very colorful curses hissed under Zoya's breath, having a little trouble with punctuation due to feeling like her tongue is on fire.

Yet, once it passes she eyes that discarded bowl and tries it once more. One could almost offer narration for her inner thoughts. 'I will not be bested by this!'

With the inevitable secondary assault to her senses well underway, complete with the verbal onslaught same as before, it's something out of that chubby Italian fellow that catches her interest. While she's standing slightly less than upright, waging a continuing war against authentic Southern cooking, she notices something beneath his suit jackets.

That man's carrying a gun.

Pawing the tears away from her reddened face she starts to approach once again. When the man in question gets a bowl of 'chili' for himself she nonchalantly reaches forward, grabs his gun, then pulls it out into the open where the sunlight and all of this side of New York City can see it.

"Is true," she observes with a completely vacant expression (and a sniffle.) "Everyone in dis country carries gun."

The now disarmed man is, quite naturally, getting pretty outraged. Whether his face is beet red from the gumbo or from anger is well beyond her. It's not the man that held her interest, she's turned her back on him already. "Is bit heavy. I like that."

Then she catches notice of the smaller girl with green/hazel eyes. Without any warning she holds out her hand, offering the man's stainless .45 to Lunair.

Because she looked like she could use a gun of her own.

Lunair is still trying to eat it. She smiles weakly, eyes watering. She's trying. Trying. This is what normal people do. It involves being social. Right? It's almost comical to witness someone who clearly lacked a good chunk of socialization in lieu of - other things - to eat gumbo and socialize. On hearing the woman next to her speak Lunair turns her head. She blinks owlishly. "..." Wait. Did she just make a friend? Because giving someone a gun means they're friends right? Lunair looks surprised. "Um. Thank you," She nods. She is being careful not to out her own abilities, after all. She is in Bronte-xploded outfit today, after all. "It is nice." She hesitates. "I'm Lunair, by the way." Well, she'll keep an eye on the fellow next to Zoya but- hey, she just made a friend.

Fats was grabbing up his bowl and having at the firey food when Zoya grabs his weapon and yanks it right out of the holster without so much as a second thought... At first, he's just sort of stunned. Then, he's just sort of wishing he had a glass of water so that he could tell her 'don't do anything hasty' which comes out as "Frad urghing ughugh..." With a swollen tongue. Both hands up, until she hands his weapon off to Lunair.

Frank is watching and getting a glare in his eyes so intense it may be 'felt' over at the gumbo station. The guard see it too... and he's reaching for his own weapon. This has the potential to get out of hand if someone doesn't do something quickly.

Across the way, his other guard is also coming forward, but he's in the middle of the crowd and cannot be so cavalier about whipping out his hand canon. "Wha's the prol'em boss?" Shouting.

Frank moves when the mafioso closest to him gets within arms reach of his hidey hole. The flat of his right hand pushes his pistol back into its holster, wrapping around the man's fingers and crushing them against the hardened grip of the weapon. Left stabs up into his throat with the curve of his thumb and index finger bashing his windpipe until the best he'll be getting through that is some gurgling.

Everyone's looking at the gun being waved in the air. So they don't see the Punisher flicking open a butterfly knife and pin cushioning this guard through the bottom of his jaw and pushing him into the alley and, ultimately, into a dumpster. "Don't you shoot him... not until I've had a turn of the screws..." He growls from where he's leaning against the inside wall of the alley where he's just deposited a goon.

Pepper Potts is too busy suffering from fried taste buds to notice what Frank is doing sneaky-like, but her reach for the two-alarm gumbo is stopped by Zoya's rather frank assessment the weapon she just pulled from Fats there. Her eyes flit from person to person and she puts the picture together. Not good. Not good at all. She pulls her teal shoulder bag a little closer and appears to be trying to sidle away from what is about to become a very unpleasant altercation. Or maybe she's giving herself a bit of room to do something else completely. Difficult to say.

"Hey, no need for de iron," Gambit says, waving his hands in reassuring gestures. He glances warily about, once, mixing up another batch of the less incendiary gumbo for the women. He reaches across the bar and grabs Fats by the front of his shirt, staring into his face with those black and scarlet eyes. "I think it time for you to leave, oui?" Remy makes a pass with his free hand, and a knife appears, tip pressing into Fats' fleshy neck. "You jes' walk on off an' leave us to de cookoff." There's something as compelling in his voice in a threat as it is in a flirt, carrying a dangerous note. "I don' like your face, an' I don' wan' you ruin dese fine lady's day heah."

He releases Fats and shoves the man back with a casual strength, then turns back to the women and smiles broadly at them all. "So de gumbo, too hot? You tink it better wit a bit less of de cayenne or a lot less of de salted pepper?"

Amy forces down the last spoonfull of gumbo and calmly drops the bowl into the courtesy trash can. Her movements are slow and purposeful, all the better to better hide the gruesome power of Remy LaBeau's Five Alarm Gumbo. Exercising her will to this extent means that she's paid very little attention to Remy's patois, though it does give her a moment to see how the other victims around the booth are doing. She's satisfied to see that the others fared worse, including--"Hey, are you Pepper Potts?"

"I'm sorry. This is probably really annoying," Amy says, smiling apologetically. She already happened to be standing next to Pepper, so there's no talking around other people. "It's just that I--gun."

The last word comes out flat and quick as the affability disappears from the teenager's face. She steps away from the booth, pushing past anyone she has to to get some space. Amy's hand comes up, her fingers tracing some arcane symbol in the air. The sword in her hand hums dangerously, glittering and transparent and shockingly purple. The teen looks down, almost shocked at her own actions. "Ugh!"

The air fills with purple light, so bright it's blinding. When it fades, a second later, the woman holding the sword is familiar but much more blonde.

"Put it down!" Princess Amethyst says, unable to think of anything more suiting or specific. She doesn't want to be involved in this right now.

Well now, this is exciting. Some people are nervous. Some people are angry. Zoya's merely curious. It's a fascinating study of human emotion, really. There's one other guy that's quick to earn her interest, watching Frank now as his skills are brought forth and he goes to town on a couple of other men. Nice... Very nice. She's always been a devout supporter of inflicting pain and violence upon other men.

Gambit's show is worth her appreciation, as well. Check out her luck, she's found half of the city's most interesting people in one go!

Lunair's comment is met with a bland shrug, "Is okay." With the introduction she offers the name "Zoya" in return, once again rubbing at her ever-watering eyes.

It's only then that she seems to realize that her little case study on human emotions has left a lot of people looking nervous.

Then there's a blinding light, and a sword, and some girl with pretty, colorful hair making demands. The fact that Zoya actually holds her now empty hands up looks so bizarre as to be laughable, she doesn't look caught so much as 'is this right? Is this what I'm supposed to be doing right now?'

Her arms don't stay there for long. She played the game, she got bored with it. She got some free food (if it can be classified as something edible in the first place,) she got to see some people beating up and threatening other people, she made a whole heap of people nervous, and she has a new ..friend. Not a bad day, all in all.

Hey, what's over that way?

"..." Lunair pauses, eyes widening as knives come out. She carefully tucks the gun away into a pocket. She usually doesn't keep guns not of her own creation, but hey. A friend. Why not? She blinks, noticing a very purple lady. And Pepper! Wait. Uh oh, light. "Don't worry! No one likes a kill stealer!" Lunair seems to have reasonable ethics not hitting people she didn't get to first with lots of bullets. She nods to Zoya. "Pleased to meet you." She seems to be decently passable. She pauses at Zoya and shrugs. She hasn't a clue, either. But now she is watching the conflict.

Fats isn't exactly sure what the hell just happened, but he's pretty sure he should be angry. If his tongue weren't on fire and a Cajun hadn't just put a knife to his throat, he probably would be cursing and threatening people with everything he's got. As it is:

His body guard comes up to do it for him. He doesn't pull his piece, because this is a crowded gathering, but he does make cross eyes at a few people who get to close to 'the boss'. a rather large man who is backing away from the crazy women who take pistols off mafiosos while eating gumbo.

Frank, however, moves back into the crowd of onlookers. Turning and sliding between people with his hand periodically coming up to lightly push his way closer to where the two goons are half surrounded and trying to get away. Every bit as intent on them as he was on the one now not answering his radio in a dumpster with a knife in his face.

And there's boiling hot gumbo sitting on a flaming propane stove. These are important details. Especially when the Punisher comes out of the crowd behind the pair, stomps into the back of the guards knee and smoothly snaps his kneck with the twist of his head. One hand on his jaw, the other on his temple. Reaching into the back of his waist band to yank his pistol out from beneath his shirt.

Talk about catching Fats off guard? He did. Then he twisted the mafioso' ear and drug him back over to Remy's table and pushed his face down into the flame of that propane powered stove. Lighting his Fat head on fire. Leaning in on him while he struggles with one elbow, pistol pointed out at the crowd with the other. Fat italian screaming his bloody head off as his face boils.

THIS is punishment.

Pepper Potts glances sidelong at Amy as she is recognized and nods to the younger lady, though is promptly startled by the abrupt ... was that kind of like something Sailor Moon would do? Ack, where did her brain dredge THAT from? Blinking several times, Pepper has her teal bag almost all the way in front of her chest as if trying to protect it, her hand pressed to the shiny finish just above the round 'Coach / Stark' emblem stitched to the front. And then Frank happens. Pepper is sufficiently startled by the abruptness of his attack on Fats and his goonss that she presses a hand over the emblem. Almost silently, and as fast the blonde girl brandished that purple sword, Pepper is covered in shiny teal and bronze metal, with yellowy glowing eyeslits and a medallion-like chest-mounted arc reactor.

Elsewhere, JARVIS speaks up. "Sir, the Rescue armor has been activated. Current location: Greenwich Village."

Cut to, elsewhere:

Tony is working in the office, actually. For once. Working on closing some stuff before the expo when JARVIS alerts him to Rescue being activated, and where.

Within five minutes, he's in the Mark IX, streaking towards the location as the AI feeds him real time telemetry and a feed of what the optics are taking in, in a window on th elower portion of the screen. He doesn't communicate with Pepper quite yet.

Amethyst's eyes move between Lunair and the mobsters, which she has identified with her knowledge of movie mobsters. In a decision she might regret, the princess decides to focus on the mafiosos.

The only thing her brave stand against the retreating criminals accomplishes is giving the Punisher an easy target to attack from the flank. "Hey!" Amethyst shouts, lowering the point of her blade and uselessly reaching out. The mobsters' attacker is too fast for her to react. He's almost better than what she's seen in Gemworld, but that couldn't be. He's just some guy, isn't he?

Fats' face becomes acquainted with the burner while Amethyst considers this. "I said HEY!" she snarls. The princess makes a strange gesture with her still-raised free hand. The gun Frank is pointing toward the crowd seems to vibrate for a moment, then it's gone, leaving the hand holding it covered in rust residue.

Amethyst lowers her sword properly now, favoring the hand now glowing with obnoxiously purple light. "I don't know what that guy did, but there's other people here, you ass!"

What the heck? Lunair looks up from her conversation with Zoya and the gumbo. Frank is fighting. And then there's some guy screaming. There's a long moment of silence as she looks up. Then a peaceful smile. "I'm more normal than I thought." She pauses. People and fire arms. Hmmm. How to scatter people. How to ... she rubs her chin. She pauses. That Frank fellow is gunless. "Oh hey! Rifle or pistol, mister?" She waves a hand. Though, in a moment, she changes her mind. "I think I'm supposed to scare the people off..." She considers. But then ...

Frank was using the gun as a deterrent to keep the crowd at bay. For now, his fight isn't with them, it's with the fat bastard his holding down against the flame. When his gun melts into so much rust residue, he fixes Amethyst in a hard stare, but her words don't seem to be enough to move him. Not until it is entirely too late. His fist curls into the struggling man's jacket, holding there against that flame. No matter how hard he flails, even kicking the man in the knees until the bone snaps out and bulges against the side of his slacks. No matter how much he screams and believe me... he's screaming. Crying.. he was begging until his vocal cords were burned.

The Punisher is not a good man. Whatever he does, he's certainly not deluding himself into think people will appreciate him for it. He's an executioner of filth. Sometimes, when doing what he does, you get dirty.

Both hands come up and Fats falls down off the flame, but he's in a bad way. Even with an EMS on scene and a hospital around the corner, it's seriously unlikely he'd make it through the night. If he even made it TO the hospital in the first place. "You're right, you 'don't' know what he did. I do. And he wont ever do it again..." Eying the woman who 'offered' him a weapon, then looking to Pepper in her armor, and finally back to Amethyst, "You want to get in this with me over a piece of shit gangster keeping kids chained up in his basement... okay." A very big knife whips out from... somewhere. One of those military affairs. "Or we can say he deserved it... your call princess. But I don't have time to debate it with, so let's make a quick decision."

Completely unaware that JARVIS has told Tony of her whereabouts, Pepper studies the displays on the inside of the Rescue helmet for a moment before stepping around Amethyst and toward Frank. "Scum or not," her voice has that same faintly metallic quality that Iron Man's does, "that's not for us to be judge, jury, and executioner." Moving around Frank now, she reaches for the fallen Fats, hoping to get him to the EMTs just that little bit faster. After all, if he really does keep kids chained up in a basement somewhere, how the hell are they gonna locate those children if this slime dies before he can say?

Amethyst's expression becomes dispassionate as the beating continues. Her stance lightens, no longer quite so coiled to strike. She makes no move to stop the Punisher as bones snap and flesh sears. It wasn't any different from what she's done, graduating from breaking noses for attempted rape to disemboweling for attempted castle siege in under a year. Though she eventually turns her head as Pepper moves past her--this is the first the princess really notices that she's in armor--there's nothing like disgust on her face.

The sword disappears into fading twinkles. Pepper has control of the scene and Amethyst remains where she is. Her gaze find Frank's as he delivers his ultimatum.

Amethyst doesn't respond. Her eyes flick toward the alley. Run, she tries to silently convey. The cops are coming.

"We're within 12 seconds of Rescue's location, sir."

"I see from her feed that there's some pretty nasty street justice going down there. How are we sitting?"

"The mark nine comes standard with ballistics resistant armor plating, capable of withstanding fire up to fifty millimeter rounds at a range of less than one hundred yards, improvised explosive devices, most explosives, and rocket propelled munitions. It also comes with power windows, air conditioning, and bucket seats"

"Very funny. Rescue is simarily outfitted?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent. This certain beats the armory for a live fire scenario."

Maneuvering, Iron Man finds Rescue on the HUD and when he lands, it's with the trademark *THUD!* and three point stance, covering Pepper's back as he stands. When he speaks, it's with a digitized version of Stark's own voice, "Okay! Who wants an autograph?!" he says, hoping to draw attention to himself from the one doing the shooting. Lunair pauses. She looks thoughtful. She reaches to her bag and fishes out an M-16. "Catch, mister." She's handing HIM a weapon. Or tossing it over that way, anyway. She tilts her head. Her expression is blank, detached. It seems she was one of the three more assassiny types here. "..." Somehow, her brain has just quietly shut off emotionally registering what just happened. It's the mark of someone who is very, very far off. She should feel sick. But where is it? It's gone. There's a faint twinge. There's a pause. "Hey! An Iron Lady? Huh." Lunair looks surprised. "That's pretty cool." She considers. If Frank doesn't take the gun, it will quietly disappear. As Lunair is going to do now. As best as someone dressed as dorkily as she can manage. She just sort of stares at Iron Man blankly. And resumes quietly doing her best to drift away into wherever the crowd went.

"Do you know who he is?" Frank asks Pepper without looking directly at her. Trying to keep as many of them in his field of view is difficult, but he's doing the best he can. "He'll walk on the charges... He /has/ walked on the charges..." He shakes his head slowly, "He doesn't get a second chance. He's already been tried and found 'inocent' on technicalities.."

Frank glances down at the crispy man, jaw tight beneath the skin of his face, but reacts to the thrown weapon by stanching out of the air in one hand while the other slides his knife back into the sheath on his leg. The gun remains down at his side, but he does offer a nod of quiet thanks to Lunair and amethyst while taking a step back towards the alleyway. Especially when Iron Man lands in the mix.

"The courts tried and failed. I didn't come here to make the same mistake by being a judge... I came here to punish him.." Backing away, with the weapon creeping up into his shoulder while he starts backwards towards the alley, double timing it when he hears the sirens.

Rescue flinches in surprise when Iron Man abruptly arrives, but then just looks at Frank. "I know someone else who thinks it's his job to punish," thankfully said person is in Gotham, "and you know? At the end of the day it doesn't make you feel any closer to human. Quite the opposite." And with that she carefully hefts the injured Fats and carries him toward the approaching EMTs. Her HUD says the attempt is probably futile, but she has to try anyway. It would feel wrong to do otherwise.

Iron Man looks in the direction that Rescue's looking, and behind the faceplate, frowns. He takes a few steps in franks direction, one hand up and the repulsor beginning to glow. "Just. Stop." he says, voice flat. "Drop the gun and stop."

By the time Iron Man dynamically arrives on the scene, there's not much of a crowd to handle. Amethyst stands alone. Her silken ribbon flutters lonely in the breeze, snaking back and forth as the princess waves with the hand it's attached to. "Hi," she says.

It's Iron Man standing right in front of her. She doesn't fully recognize the armor, but it's Iron Man. The surrealness of standing so close to a person whose poster had once graced her bedroom wall is hollow. Bone snaps. Flesh burns. Punisher stares.

Amethyst's eyes narrow as she looks toward the ground. Killing people on Gemworld was different, for whatever stupid reason.

Granted, Frank is probably faster than she is. But Lunair's noticing the conflict hasn't quite died down. With a faint sigh, she quietly makes a note to figure out if this is good or bad in the great scheme of things. A part of her debates just lobbing a grenade into the middle of it all. It would be /so efficient/ as her training dictated. Collateral damage was just an unfortunate side effect. But then, a part of her remembers one of her favorite History channels. Fire works were a weapon once. They were once decently ranged. And most of all, they're terribly unlikely to hurt Lady RenFair (Amy - though, she quite likes RenFaires) or the armored figures. With a sigh, she holds her hand out as if accepting a pair of weapons. Nope. Lunair is launching a couple of Roman candles (Read: Firework rockets) into the fray and bolting. It's probably one of the nicer things she's ever done. And one paying attention might notice she's deliberately not aiming at anyone. Just enough to make a bang and a lot of light and sparkles.

"No." Punisher brings the gun up, but doesn't start shooting. Instead he keeps creeping backwards with the weapon ready with stock snug in the corner of his shoulder. He's moving at a steady, but tactically appropriate, pace. It wouldn't be at all effective to try and get into a gunfight with Iron Man while his aim was all wobbly because he was running. Frank spares a glance in the direction of the sirens, then back at the glowing repulsor pointed at him.

Provided there's a chance, he definitely takes advantage of Lunair's fire-works display to displace himself from this situation. Dropping back into the alleyway and beating feet. The rifle, after he's taken the clip and disassembled the firing mechanism, (he doesn't know it's going to vanish) is deposited them in different storm drains along his path.

From a dumpster further down, he retrieves a jacket and a ballcap out of a trash bag and looks in the direction of the sirens. Slinking off further down the street with his hands going deep into his pockets beneath the hood to further hide his identity.

Iron Man is standing in just such a place that when the fire works go off, they overload the suit's optic sensors. Even with filtration and using the myriad of adjustments JARVIS can make, it's still enough to overpower Iron Man's eyes. He gives a choked off sound of surprise and sinks to a knee. "Your optics have been overexposed. Normal vision will be returned in four point eight seconds." -- the faceplate is up in three, and Tony can see again. Sort of. Like someone who took a bright light too close to the eyes and is still seeing spots among his normal vsion, he blinks and gets his bearings. The shooter's gone, the one who gave the shooter his gun is gone. All that's left is a bunch of mafia goons and their boss all shot up and burnt that Pepper is doing humanitarian aid, and a girl who looks out of a Fairy Tale who looks seemingly crestfallen. It doesn't stop Tony from looking at her, and asking, "Hey -- you ok?" as he starts to walk in her direction.

Rescue leaves Fats to the EMTs and rushes back just in time to get blinded by the roman candles. Thus, Frank gets away scott free and she's stuck standing in place until she can see again. Of course, she doesn't think to lift her helmet's faceplate. She's still a newbie at this stuff despite Tony's instruction, all right? She picks up on Tony's voice nearby and THEN thinks to lift the faceplate. Wait. Bad idea. She looks down at the Rescue armor and is pretty much instantly queasy. The armor should have no problems going through a carwash... right?

"UGH!" Amethyst shouts as her reverie is pierced by fireworks. One bursts immediately near her, causing the girl to reel backward from the unknown threat. Her hands glow as she raises them over her head.

When the princess opens her eyes a second later, the only thing pinging off of the hazy bubble shield around her is "Fireworks?"

More finger wiggling turns the transparent purple shield into a physically impossible shadow, cast by nothing and falling over Amethyst alone. The remaining explosions don't bother her, allowing the princess time to cross her arms and brood.

And then, through the lingering smoke, comes a knight. Amethyst looks up, still shadowed until she makes a flat line in the air with her pinky. She's properly sparkly without the eldritch shadow.

"I'm fine," she says, honestly. "I didn't get, um, punished."

It seems whomever fired them off decided to take off like a badger in a maze with bacon at the middle. Just gone.

Iron Man nods, looking to the young girl, "Are you--" then he hears..something. He looks over his shoulder and sees Pepper having problems. "Pepper.." he says, carefully, "..just breathe. Take deep, slow breaths. It'll pass."

Closing her eyes to block out the sight of blood on the Rescue armor, Pepper does her best to follow Tony's instructions. She swallows a few times, and then finally risks asking, "Someone have a g...garden hose, or a water bottle or..." Breathe. "something?"

"Uh," Amethyst begins, squinting. "Stand still for a moment."

With a flourish of her hands, a tiny raincloud forms over the Rescue armor. The rain is preternaturally effective at removing the blood. Then again, it is a tiny magical raincloud. Amethyst presses her lips together to keep from smiling at the absurdity of the situation. Men did die here.

Iron Man has seen men dead before, and been among the dead before, and figured out the way to get around them is to ignore them. It's unpleasant and cruel, but there it is. Though in spite of all this, the raincloud makes him smile as well, "Hey, you a friend of Thor's?" he asks, curious. Weirder things have happened. Really, they have."

Pepper Potts gasps in susprise as the tiny raincloud ever so helpfully washes the Rescue armor clean. One little oops: the faceplate was still open. So now her face is all wet. "Uh...thanks?" She's still not fully over the queasiness, though, so she takes the chance to make the Rescue armor return to teal shoulder bag mode. Yeah, still kinda green around the gills.

It's spring rain scented. Magically considerate.

Amethyst is briefly distracted by the increasing number of emergency workers and police arriving on the scene. She tenses as the new crowd seems to reach a critical mass, but no one ever approaches her. It must be something about Iron Man, she considers. In retrospect, the heroes almost always get space apart from everyone else when they were on the news. And now she's on the other side of the invisible line.

"--Thor?" the princess replies, half absent. She did get confirmation on Zeus being real, earlier.

Amethyst opens her mouth to introduce herself, but stops. She gives Iron Man a canny look.

Might as well do this right.

"I'm Princess Amaya Amethyst of Nilaa," Amethyst answers in her most fateful voice. "I've traveled to Earth to hunt down a great evil."

It was technically true.

Iron Man hmms. The faceplate clanks down, "well, I am Tony Stark, otherwise known as Iron Man at your service. Though I won't do windows, and I don't vacuum, and I don't do dishes either..so you have to ask yourself what services are yours, that I'd preform." he stands up and pops the faceplate again, "Princess Amaya Amethyst..what evil are you hunting?" he asks, curious.

Amethyst's mind races for a properly archaic way to frame her sentences. She didn't think this deception through very well.

"Most know him by the name Eclipso," the princess says. She rubs her neck, looking immensely embarrassed that her arch enemy so far is named Eclipso. "Pointed ears. Blue skin. Circle over his right eye. Possesses people to do his bidding. I'm pretty sure I know a guy that can track him down, though, so it's cool."

Pepper Potts steps gingerly around the puddle at her feet and approaches Tony and Princess Amaya. She's still a little green, but getting better. They've just done introductions and Tony asked a very valid question, so she doesn't speak up right away. Besides... Eclipso? The description makes him sound like a cross between Spock and the dog from the Little Rascals. God, she IS losing it. Talk about random train of thought.