2012-09-27 - The Good Mark - Huntress

Late evening, long after any sensible person would be prowling the streets of Gotham, at least without a good reason--and a form of "back-up". Of course, for those who eschew the streets in favor of the rooftop, they usually already know this, and travel so high above the streets for a reason. Four people wait on a certain rooftop over Lyntown. The statisticians said this would be the most likely place to find the woman they seek, so they wait patiently. Three of them, two men and a woman, are in nicely pressed business suits, the woman holding a briefcase. The fourth man--couldn't be more out of place if he tried. Slicked back hair, a flannel shirt open to reveal a wife-beater with a small, gold medallion, jeans and high-top tennis shoes. He's nervous, where the others are calm. He looks around carefully while the others barely seem to breathe.

One does not become a rooftop hopper without learning to look for stuff out of the ordinary. And a GROUP of people standing on a rooftop, especially wearing suits ... that's most definitely out of the ordinary. Thus, she stops one rooftop away from them and watches from the cover of a heavily shadowed water tank. She squints at them, then pulls a tiny set of binoculars out of her belt to watch them. Damn. She really needs to learn how to read lips.

It will be a while before anyone moves--at least, anyone but the nervous man, out of place amongst business suits. In a bit, the woman will check a silver watch on her left wrist, a small but expensive thing, matching the austere feel of the suit and blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She looks at the others--well, more to her suited companions--then opens her briefcase. As she reaches in, she pauses and looks around. One of the places she looks is across at that water tower, but there's no recognition; she also looks to a few other places--potential hiding spots. Two photographs are brought out, the top one of the Huntress. They're handed to her suited companions, one each, and the men lift the photos over their heads, turning them this way and that so they can be seen from the various potential hiding spots. The other photo--is of Helena Bertinelli. The woman calmly snaps her briefcase closed again and takes another glance at her watch.

Huntress's eyes go wide as she sees what the suits are all now brandishing, and breathes out a near silent, "SHIT." She watches for a moment longer, prepping her crossbow. She's doing some mental math -- can she take out every person on that rooftop before even one of them gets away? Can she then conceal from Oracle the fact that it was her that killed them? Damnit, what the HELL is with these people?

Still nothing. The woman arches a brow in annoyance, checking her watch again. Well, fine. Looks around, from potential hiding spot to potential hiding spot, as she raises her voice to call out, "Bertinelli Domina, momento temporis sis? Non vis esse magna, sed nihil integri relinquere."  It's decent Latin, though it's not as fluent as the Huntress' own grasp of the language. Translated, she's asking for a moment of Madam Bertinelli's time, and apologizing for being so loud though she feels left with no choice. There's a bit of strain in her voice, coming from having to wait so long. The costumed crowd can never do things the easy way; paranoia takes up so much time.

Huntress is surprised by the woman speaking Latin, even if her accent is ... less than stellar. How the HELL do they know this much about her? She's REALLY not happy about this, and just to be on the safe side touches the tiny comm in her ear that Oracle insisted she always wear. "Oracle, don't know if you're bothering to listen to this, but if you are and if you can, record everything from my side. There's shit and a fan here, and I officially don't like it." She then studies the building across the way for the most ... surprise-inducing way to get on that rooftop. They've pissed her off, she's not gonna play nice.

The blonde purses her lips in annoyance, checking her watch for what feels like the umpteenth time. She turns to the men to retrieve the photos, having one of them hold her briefcase while she opens it to slip the photos back into the pocket on the interior of the lid. She's about to close the lid when the nervous one all but jumps out of his skin, seeing the Huntress seem to just appear. The suited men start to reach into their coats as their eyes widen, but the woman holds her hand up to stop them as she turns around. Behind her in her briefcase, atop papers and folders and such things, a decently-sized mechanical device can be seen. Perhaps responsible for the soft static that would come from that communications unit--and for any cell phones in the immediate vicinity not getting any reception, so on and so on. They've prepared. "Thank you for coming," says the woman, focusing her pale blue eyes on the woman. The smile on her lips doesn't really reach up that far, though; she's here on business, not to be social.

"Cut the bullshit. What do you want?" Huntress keeps her crossbow in hand and glares at the woman with enough ferocity that Cyclops would have burned a hole to the planet's core if he did the same. She's tense and on the alert, and ready for ANY of these people to give her even the tiniest reason open up the can of whup-ass she is holding JUST FOR THEM.

"Fair enough," replies the woman, eyes narrowing a touch in amusement. "You might actually be surprised what it took to finally decide on you." That's said as she turns around and reaches into the briefcase--slowly enough to make it obvious that she isn't suddenly going for a weapon--and retrieves a manila envelope. That's slid out from under the electronic device, then she goes to take the few steps toward the Huntress to hand the envelope to her. "Let me put it plainly--we want someone killed, and you give us deniability. We've no tie to you or your checkered past, save what information we've dug up in order to convince you to lend your--skill--to the matter at hand." Inside the envelope is all kinds of interesting information, starting with a "glossy" of a man in a top hat and old-fashioned tuxedo--complete with a red satin-lined cape. He's standing on a stage, beaming a smile as he spreads his hands to presumably the audience, a near-flock of doves in flight between his hands. "Mandrake the Magician", according to the caption at the bottom. It's even been signed. The rest of the information is mostly about him--biological statistics, known addresses of his hang-outs in in Manhattan, surreptitious photos of him taken here and there. Almost everything one could need to track the man down.

Huntress refuses to take the folder. "Screw you. I. Don't. Kill. People. Get that through your blonde head. And then fuck off." She briefly considers telling them to find that stupid Bat with the green outfit and the katana, but squelches that thought quickly enough. She won't have ANY part of a hit. Ever.

The woman's lips purse again, and she taps her chin with the corner of the envelope. After a moment, she says, "Helena Bertinelli, daughter of Guido and Carmella, witnessed your parents death at age eight, after which time you were raised in Sicily, training in martial arts until you returned here, where you continuously seek out one Steven Mandragora." A beat's pause, one corner of her mouth lifting by just a hair's breadth. "You do realize that we know as much as we need to destroy your life, yes? But, not just your life--we will pay a visit to everyone you've ever known, everyone you've ever met, and every enemy you've ever made.  Guess who we'll help, and guess who we'll hurt?  You can kill us, here, if you really like, and all you'll do is force a--change of plans.  Or you can accept your role and get us out of your life when it's all over."

DAMN. IT. Why doesn't shit like this happen to someone else? Huntress fumes visibly for several seconds, then holsters her crossbow and reaches for the folder ... and at the same time snaps a punch straight at the blonde's face. "This does NOT mean you own me. This means I want you to get the fuck away from me or I return the favor."

And the woman goes backward, straight into the arms of the non-briefcase-carrying man. Blood flows freely from her lip, and she waves the man off as she reaches into her coat for a handkerchief, which she presses against her mouth. "For what it's worth, I understand you needed to do that," she says--but at least her tone has shifted to something suitably--less obnoxious. "I hope you feel better. It would serve everyone's best interests if you were at the top of your game." She keeps the handkerchief pressed to her mouth, thus muffling her just a tad. And she has to, anyway; that was a damned good pop, as only someone well-training in martial arts and the rage to release can make it. Either she hasn't lost a tooth due to sheer luck or she's too proud to spit it out onto the rooftop.

"I'll say this only once more. I DON'T KILL PEOPLE. I'll send this person a strongly worded suggestion, but that's it. Capice?" Huntress levels one last glare at the woman, then turns a similar warning look to every other suit as she starts toward one edge of the rooftop. She'll look at the contents of the folder later, when she's in a location she knows to be secure. And maybe also with Oracle's assistance. These assholes don't realize the shitstorm they've brought upon themselves.

"Then you'll make an exception this one time," murmurs the woman lowly, narrowing her eyes at the Huntress. "We didn't come to you because we want his wrist slapped. We came to you because we want a man dead, and not only do you have the perfect skill-set for it, but you are also the one we have absolutely no ties to, in any way, shape, or form.  Right now, only Mandrake has a bullseye on his back--defy us in this, and your friends and loved ones will wear the next ones." Yes, she's risking--if not all but begging--for another smack in the face, or worse. Still, it does seem important to make sure everyone's on the same page.

Huntress freezes, her eyes going wide. MANDRAKE? Kit's friend the street magician Mandrake? Her eyes narrow again and she abruptly turns and catches the woman around the neck with her free hand and starts to squeeze. She holds the woman that way for a moment, then abruptly turns, using the momentum and her grip on the woman's neck to slam her bodily to the rooftop. Then she snap-fires off a zipline and flees to the next roof over. She need to talk with Kit. And she needs to do so where these jerks can't listen in. "Oracle, did you get any of that? Oracle? SONofabitch."

Well, shit. This is not how the projections suggested this would go. The woman gurgles in the Huntress' grip, the men behind her reaching into their coats as the briefcase is dropped to the rooftop. She claws at the gloved hand--then stops doing much of anything but breathing when she's slammed down with such force. Fleeing is a good idea; as the one nervous man dives for cover, the two other men open fire with semi-automatic handguns. The surprise means they can't get a true bead on her, but that's about the main reason. The Huntress will almost feel a bullet or two whiz past. As for the signal blocker, that only covers about half a block, so a few rooftops more and the static from the communications unit will fade, to be replaced by whatever it does to tell its owner it's on-line.