2012-11-11 Beneath the Jersey Shore (1/2)

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Ocean City, New Jersey.

You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy...

Though from the first impressions of this apparent black market facility several miles north of the city sprawl, you'd be hard pushed to justify that impression to anybody else. With Snooki nowhere to be seen (she's probably lounging in her desert palace eating frogs) what greets our heroes is a hundred-year old resort hotel that seems to lie twenty or thirty years abandoned. The sea-facing wall is almost entirely constructed of large, ornate windows, offering a view into a vaulted ballroom and sweeping staircases leading to the various rooms beyond.

The beachfront needs a good combing-- though closer inspection will reveal that the apparent litter hasn't so much been washed in, as carried and dumped by lazy smugglers. Broken, unmarked crates nestle alongside tangled, military-style netting and even the odd machine or weapon component should one bend down to look. Running from the centreline of the resort, an old wooden pier half-sits, half-leans along the sand, culminating in a round stone platform fifty feet out to sea - on which sits a rusty bandstand and the requisite fun-sized carousel.

At the rear of the resort sits a wide parking bay, and therein lies the first sign that something isn't quite right. It's occupied by several heavy goods and utility vehicles, including a couple of absolutely monstrous lorries with oddly bulky trailers. The building entrance sits nearby, chipped faux-marble pillars flanking the dozen or so steps leading inside. Suspiciously, the tops of these pillars are covered in thick tarpaulin.

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"I need your help."

It's not often that Betsy Braddock just comes out and says those four simple words. Independent often to a fault, she pushes herself beyond rational limits both to survive and defend others, but there's a time in one's life where the admission has to be made... this can't be done alone. The job in theory is straightforward, simple; a facility north of Ocean City, New Jersey, the ultimate destination for the shipments she's been tracking - alone - for several weeks. But her progress to this point has entangled her with several individuals, all of whom she's come to trust, and all of whom have helped her - in whatever way - as much as she's helped them...

"This is bigger than a few crates of explosives manufactured in China. Dare I say, even more troubling than a handful of black market plasma rifles. These men haven't been moving steel and cordite alone; they've been moving *other men*. Human trafficking. Human *weapons*."

There's another word for a human weapon, a word that so easily rankles on the tongue in light of society's scared, repressive attitude. Mutant. Psylocke hasn't spelled it out to any of her comrades-- her friends, but the inferration hangs in her messages. It wouldn't be the first time that such an atrocity is being committed, that human beings were forced into laboratories and bent to the thrall of warmongers for their own, egomaniac purpose.

"Whatever - and whoever - lies behind this, it has to be stopped."

Her plan is as direct as the investigation initially seemed. It may be nefarious and cruel, but all evidence indicates that the Stateside portion of this operation is run by something far short of a mastermind. Cover has been brutal and thuggish, requiring similar tactics to push aside and see through to the truth beneath. The hardest part was getting an accurate trace on the latest, crucial shipment-- the one the others have been covering for, bound on a large container leaving China in the small hours roughly a week prior. A seafaring assault isn't what the kunoichi has in mind, though; too much risk of pollution, too much chance of creating another P.R. nightmare should things go awry. No. This goes down on the infamous Jersey shore.

The 'facility' sits in the gloom of twilight now, though to undiscerning eyes it's a harmless, abandoned resort hotel that was likely once opulent indeed. Fading letters etched into the frontal stonework are hard to make out, the hotel's name lost to time and the memories of old-timers who stayed and worked here. An old pier juts out to sea, pointing eastward to the rolling crest of the oceanic horizon, where their target - the container - looms into view around 20:00.

First movement inside is glimpsed at 20:32, when six men bundled in puffy jackets slip out of the ballroom fronting onto the sea and take places along the beach. One smokes despondently to one side as the others chat among themselves, occasionally swapping a pair of binoculars to keep tabs on the incoming freighter. It's close enough to begin unloading in another half hour, when the smoker breaks off toward a large, disused sewer outlet pipe half a mile down the beach.



"You got the message?" First outbound text message.

"Meet me at Otto's Shrunken Head. 15 mins. Alley on the South end." Second outbound text message.

That's really all it took to get Domino and Kwabena connected. Otto's Shrunken Head was a bit of a special place to their young and patchy friendship, for it was where they'd first met. The destination wasn't a long journey, to be sure, but Kwabena's motorcycle has been left behind somewhere in New York City. This was a job for Domino's recently acquired Audi.

"We're getting close," says Kwabena, who is riding shotgun as they draw near to the old, abandoned hotel. His eyes are locked on the smartphone's GPS app, showing them to be less than a mile away. "Probably best if we find a quiet spot to watch from." He casts his mis-matched eyes in Domino's direction for a moment. "I have a feeling this one will be a seat-of-the-pants kind of deal..." A grin spreads across his face. "Which is what we're good at, right?" He turns back forward, then motions toward a turn off in the road, one that used to lead to an old truck stop not far from their target destination. The old building is abandoned and dilapidated, but it and the stalls covering the long-since abandoned gasoline pumps may provide fantastic cover as they move in to stake out the location. "Hey, this looks good."

Reaching behind him, Kwabena opens his duffle bag and retrieves three things. The first is a crowbar. The second, a semi-automatic pistol. The third? A pair of binoculars, which he raises to his eyes and begins to adjust as he scans the waterfront.

Another night, another job. Maybe Domino's throwing a baddie through the wall of Kwabena's apartment turned out to be a good thing after all. It's re-established lines of communication between the two mutants and, ultimately, netted her this job. It even pays! Yeah, it's worth her attention. Providing a lift is easily done, the trip out to their destination taking little time right up until they have a place to camp out.

What we lack in planning we more than make up for in destruction," she agrees with a sly looking grin. Gone is her trench, left in the back seat. In its place are a whole lot of pistols (five if anyone decides to try and count them all,) blades, and flashbang grenades. It's rarely said that Dom comes under-prepared.

"Pardon my reach, kid." A black and white hand reaches out for the glovebox, pulling out a pair of ear comms. One she holds up to the fellow mutant between the tips of two fingers, the other quickly finds its way into her ear. "Secure channel, we're the only two broadcasting." Once wired in she takes the moment to scout things out from afar on her own. Rather than use binoculars, she unholsters a short, suppressed single shot pistol, complete with a side-folded stock. She nests the weapon into the crook of her left elbow atop the steering wheel and scans the surrounding area through its scope.

Odds of them getting the jump on these guys: Sucker bet.

"A mutant slave ring."

Maybe Psylocke had hoped to dance around the issue, but Blink calls it what it is. Her voice as calm as the ocean before a storm. She knows this kind of thing. Slavery is simply a fact of life for her, and mutant slavery actually marginally better than the alternative sort. She knows what to expect. She knows that misery all too well. It wasn't so long ago that she herself lived underneath that lash. Her only hope is that there won't be, children involved.

Oddly enough, Blink hadn't asked any more questions.

She herself sits in a cinema. It is one of the many joys and luxuries she simply didn't HAVE back home, and the pleasure of it brings a smile to her lips. She's listening; the radio that Psylocke has gifted to her makes it so easy to stay in touch! And she's prepared. One of the many gifts that Mister Creed had given her is to take joy where she can. To be prepared to plunge headlong into chaos, savagery and pain at a moments notice. So when the question comes?

"I'm ready." She whispers.

"I'M GONNA WRECK IT!" Shouts the large, brick-shaped man on the screen.

"SSSSH!" Says the annoyed moviegoer presuming she is on her mobile phone.

On the western approach, Kwabena and Domino are treated to a beautiful sight; zero resistance. The heavy goods vehicles scattered willy-nilly about the damaged tarmac of the resort's adjoining car park all seem to be unmanned - though the two particularly hefty lorries have a thick, modular design to their trailers that could contain almost anything. They're about large enough to live in-- or send a marauding Greek army through the walls of Troy. Still, all quiet on the western front it seems, but for the atmospheric rusty creak of the gas station sign spinning lazily in the brisk sea breeze. All quiet, until a single man appears.

Packaged in a hooded sweatshirt several sizes too large, with a squat bullpup machine gun trailing from one overblown sleeve, the figure appears either drunk or disabled, moving with a lurching, hesitant gait past the tarpaulin-covered pillars into the twilit lot. His slow progress gives the mercenary pair plenty of time to lock on, as he makes his way to one of those massive lorries, awkwardly clambering up to unlock and swing into the cab.

If he's not stopped, a moment later the engine guns to life. Jarringly loud in the otherwise calm, it's soon followed by the invasive *beep-beeeeeep* of the reversing alarm, and the lorry begin to back out of the lot en route to the open road beyond the gas station.

Meanwhile, back on the beach, the disused sewer grate pops open with a metallic warble, and a dissonant hiss of hydraulics - far from a usual occurence, that - as the smoking man taps away on a keypad beside it. With the cigarette, smouldering toward the butt, clamped between his lips, he mutters a vague curse and brings a fist down on the mechanism as the hatch stalls. Machine obeys man as it always does - only when brute force is applied - and the opening continues, so very nearly neatly concurrent with the lowering of a smaller tugboat from the vast container now immobile nearby. Anyone caring to keep an eye on that side of things...

Might notice there's suddenly one more figure silhouetted upon the transport's deck. If they're really astute they might even get a brief glimpse of a slender line emerging through the back and chest of another figure, before the newcomer stands alone. The tugboat continues to lower, as this emergent shade drops smoothly over the rail to land catlike in the deeper shadow of its cargo; a dull metal crate approximately fifteen feet long, six wide and ten high.



The signal reaches Blink five minutes later, when the boat is chugging toward shore.

Glancing boredly over his shoulder, the smoker steps away from the keypad and wanders idly back up the beach, flicking his unextinguished cigarette butt out toward the lapping tide. He doesn't have a complicated job; all he has to do now is wait a few minutes for the boat, and start unloading its mysterious burden into the dark recesses of the 'sewer outlet'. Easy paycheck, right?

"Testing, testing." Kwabena's whispers draw a touch of feedback, his own voice echoing through the ear comm before the device adjusts its own gate and gain to prevent that from happening again. "Nice, high tech, I approve." Fingers twist the knobs on his binoculars again, until they help his keen eyes to spot those men as they move out from the ballroom and take up positions on the beach. "There we go," he murmurs.

Lowering the binoculars, the African mutant nestles them between his legs while reaching for the satchel at his feet. A brief check inside proves that everything is still there; a handful of spare clips for his pistol, and four bottles of cheap bourbon, wrapped in old t-shirts to keep the bottles from clinking together and causing noise. "I can make an approach from the right," he offers, while raising the binoculars again to double check in their enemies' movements. Lips curl into a grin. "Like stalking tigers."

When the telepathic message comes in from Psylocke, Kwabena lowers the binoculars once more and looks across the car at Domino, wondering if she'd registered it as well.

"It's go time." The African quietly opens the door of the car, slips the satchel over his shoulder, then twirls the crowbar up underneath his arm. Wearing a pair of black boots provides him the ability to move quietly across the sandy grass; otherwise, he's donned in nothing more than black jeans and a black t-shirt. Deftly he approaches the building with quick, hopping motions, moving as quietly as he had when stalking tigers in the jungles of Ghana.

Upon reaching the edge of the large building, he flattens himself up against the wall and retrieves one of the bottles of bourbon from inside his satchel. Unwrapping it, he unscrews the cheap bottle, and makes to stuff a ripped piece of t-shirt into the lid. However, before he goes, he lifts the bottle and takes a good pull from the contents. Then, in goes the piece of fabric, and out comes his zippo.

Leaning out, the dark-skinned mutant lobs the molotov cocktail through the air. It whips through the breeze, and comes down right between the two men closest to him on the beach. It makes a soft landing in the sand, and sits there for a few seconds, before...

KA-BOOM!

As the explosion lights up, Kwabena is already on the move. Running at full force along the ocean-facing side of the resort, the crowbar is coming out from behind his back, and spinning into position. His eyes are on the smoker, but he's still too far away to make an attack yet, so he goes for stealth, and keeps his breathing to quick and intentional bursts through a partly opened mouth.

"Something tells me that wherever he's planning on going with that truck is somewhere we don't want it to be," Domino mutters while tracking the lone gunman on his walk over to the cab. With the scoped pistol still hooked into her left arm she motions Kwabena to the other side, right at the time that he offers to cover their right. There's a slight pause as she glances away from the lens to look over at him, smirking a faint amount.

With the window rolled down Dom climbs out and rests along the edge of the door, hooking a leg into the steering wheel as she leans out, turns, and follows that lone figure going for the truck.

Five mile an hour cross-wind, gusts up to twelve, give or take. Range, seventy meters, plus/minus two. Mentally calculating the odds in both Imperial and Metric, check. Hey--he's carrying a nice looking gun, there. Bullpups fit so nicely in the trunk, they barely take up any room! The hammer gets locked back and the trigger gets squeezed, the abbreviated weapon giving a *Thoomp!* report as a single .30 caliber subsonic Spitzer gracefully arcs through the night air en-route to the lone man's temple.

"Try to stay low-pro long as you can, don't give them the adv--." Molotov explosion to the right. Sigh. "Nevermind."

BLINK!

"Sssh--huh?"

Blink's exit from the cinema is accompanied by a bright flash of pink that leaves the man behind her simultaneously annoyed and very confused. A few dozen miles away, the elfin girl reappears in a second burst of light, a portal that remains open only for a fraction of a second. All of a sudden, she is emerging behind the man whose job it is to load the equipment into the sewer. Her hand grasping a crystal javelin of condensced spatial energy. He's just starting to turn at the sound of the characteristic noise, when the javelin hits him.

The funny thing is, it doesn't hurt (unless she wants it to). Quite suddenly, however, he is gone, and finds himself sat sprawled in an empty seat in a movie theater. His arm knocks a large Sprite over, and his other hand jams down inside some salted popcorn. "What the--"

At which point, the man who had just been TRYING to enjoy a nice cinema experience gets up in a huff, "This is ridiculous." He spits, and storms out.

Don't let teleporters ruin YOUR cinema experience. Please remember to turn on your interdimensional phase blockers before the start of the performance.

Kwabena's initial movement past the building's antique flank goes unnoticed by anybody inside-- whoever is running the operation topside, security is monumentally lax for the apparent size and weight of the bank balance funding that vast container floating a few hundred yards hence. The first indication that anybody's seen /anything/ - aside from the body hitting the ground as Domino's perfectly-placed round finds delicious brainmeat - is the shout that goes up at the telltale flaring of the Ghanaian's improvized firebomb. The molotov streaks in true, the shout barely from one man's lips as a second hurls himself forward into the sand, hands over his head.

This leaves the centremost jacket-clad miscreant gaping for approximately point five seconds before glass shatters and raging hot liquid consumes him, puffy jacket and all, in a fervent blaze of focused fury. It all sounds so poetic; but the actual result is a bloodcurdling scream and a frantic blur of flailing limbs and scattering sand as the stricken man desperately tries to orient himself toward the ocean, and fails miserably. He's dead in moments.

The two outermost men are still standing, each looking about briefly before drawing a bead on Kwabena. Hands fumble inside jacketfronts, hauling out a pair of high-calibre handcannons - it's hard to be sure in the dim light precisely what, but they're cumbersome enough - and wildly opening fire. Eight rounds apiece, the report of at least one gun pretty recognizable to anyone who's spent time on a range; .50AE, thumping through the night on chrome-fuelled wings.

Back to the rear of the building, where Domino is given ample time to retrieve her target's fallen gun and even inspect the body if she'd have a care. But 'ample' doesn't mean 'infinite', and the explosion on the beach has drawn notice. She's got about fifteen seconds before the double doors leading into the resort slam open, and a half dozen men in army surplus gear come stamping out with a chorus of shouts and grunts. Four take up point along the steps, two raising knockoff assault rifles and another pair crouching with pistols, wasting little time in opening fire at whatever shadow they catch sight of. They're not particularly well-trained; bullets just fill the parking lot, slamming into utility vehicles and puncturing tyres.

A few even hit that heavy lorry, cab door swinging free. These bullets career off wildly.

The remaining two men use this cover to slip to either side of the other four, remaining weaponless as they seize onto the thick tarpaulin sheets covering those pillars, unhooking bungee ropes hurriedly.

Blink's irreverent, unorthodox entrance into proceedings appears to go unnoticed, the two-bit thugs on point having been entirely distracted by Kwabena's fiery greeting. The tugboat containing Psylocke's stealthy form continues to chug and thunder away toward shore - it's got about two minutes to get there at this point - and all seems quiet on the north side. Until the alarm has been properly raised on the parked container. A spotlight flashes into brilliance, sweeping the length of the shore leading over the action and onto that highly important grate.

Domino's message comes through while the molotov cocktail is midflight. This truth brings a half grin, half grimace to the African's face. "Too late," he murmurs into the comm.

Halfway through his approach to the smoker, there's a flash of light, and a purple person appears between him and his target. Kwabena stops cold, boots skidding in the sand. Well, it's not something you see every day, but purple skin and a crystal javelin of condensed spatial energy /probably/ means she's on his side. Biting back a laugh, Kwabena spins about and prepares to find new targets.

Instead, his upper body is riddled with bullets.

Pieces of the Ghanaian's shirt are torn apart as the bullets pass through, but his mutation does not fail him. The pieces of shredded fabric are joined by little tufts of black smoke as pieces of his body shift into gas, then are drawn back in. This doesn't phase the Ghanaian in the slightest; he's used to it, and the whole experience is always so remarkably painless. He doesn't spare his enemies any reaction time, instead charging upon them with his crowbar wielded. He's no ninja; he has no combat training aside from 'swing where it counts'. One of the bullets ricochets off the crowbar and through Kwabena's neck, passing through in similar harmless form as he comes upon his adversaries with a quiet, subdued snarl.

WHAM!

The crowbar finds its way into one man's face, smashing his nose and knocking out a few teeth in the process. It's a rough hit, and the man goes down hard. Spinning about as he follows the motion through, Kwabena charges upon the second, this time aiming for the man's gun-wielding hand. A stray bullet severs the strap of his satchel, sending it flailing into the sand nearby as he swings.

CRACK!

The gun falls, and Kwabena's enemy is left cradling a shattered and blood-stricken wrist.

Superheroing isn't just about flying around and fighting giant gorillas. Not even /mostly/ about flying around and fighting giant gorillas. You have to play, as she's been told it 's called, 'the long game'. Research and think and investigate!

Nightwing's really good at that. Robin's really good at that. Miss Martian is...not so good at that. They didn't have investigators on Mars, not in the same way they do on Earth. The manhunters don't really count. Unlike some of her earstwhile teachers, the Martian has powers she can call on. Reading minds, taking on other shapes. She's called on both heavily the past couple weeks. The Titans had information on weapons shipments coming out of Asia, combining a need for Megan's particular talents with a chance to get her some field experience.

For the past two weeks she hasn't been giving those abilities a rest. The hardest part is to not change back when sleeping.

Men - goons, really - pour out of the warehouse. This being the enlightened twentieth century, some of them seem to be lady-goons, although it's not obvious given the puffy jackets. One can assume based only on the hair nad the occasional appearance of painted fingernails. One of them fires away, distinctly over the head of Domino. A voice comes into Domino's head, a slightly testy undernerrid amid a wave of perkiness. ~Who are you? What're you doing here? You'll wreck everything!~

Plonk! One down, fire burning, one rifle (and any other goodies?) swiped from fallen target. Very definitely go-time, here. Domino snaps the pistol's action open, dropping a new cartridge in then wrist-snapping it closed before throwing it around a shoulder by its sling. She's got a rifle now, and a lot more baddies to deal with.

Twenty seconds. Odds of reaching the truck before getting seen by the opposition: 1 in 547.

With the door open she leaps inside, jamming the stolen rifle into the footwell as she cranks the massive diesel engine over with a throaty grunt. Five seconds. She nabs the heavy door and slams it shut while shifting into reverse, stomping on the accelerator.

Odds of a bullet smacking the top edge of the doorframe right as she closes it: 1 in 12,611.

In another instant she's got the wheel in one hand and a semi-automatic .44 filling the other. IMI seems to be a popular brand in tonight's battle!Beep! Beep! *CRASH*

"UPS delivery, comin' through!"

That big, heavy trailer makes for a great battering ram for whatever's lurking behind it. "We have ourselves a formal entrance," Dom tells Kwa over the commset as the back end slams up against something a bit less yielding than a door.

Odds of interrupting an alien superhero's stake-out: 1 in 1,014,298.

"I thought we talked about you never poking around inside of my head!" Domino yells back to the unseen force. "I'm doing my damned job!" She hasn't really figured out that it -isn't Psylocke- doing the talking yet, though the next guy she sees does figure out that she's packing a gas-operated magnum before he loses his head over it.

It actually takes Blink a moment to realize that, in complete contradiction to her usual priorities, she is actually supposed to be making a lot of noise and excitement here. Not being quiet and stealthy. That realization hits her at about the same time that the spotlight does, and that brings a slight smirk to her lips. There's a tradition with these things, in this town, isn't there?

BLINK!

The portal takes her directly in front of the spotlight. Both arms stretched out wide, she holds it for a good few seconds, so that the goons below get a nice amount of time to realize that she is, in fact, standing directly in front of the spotlight. Making her own impromptu BlinkSignal, even if it isn't projected up into the night sky as much as she would like; it still sends the message to the people whose attention she needs to get to make this all blow up.

She lets it linger /just long enough/, and then she plants a hand behind her, and springs herself up and behind the signal she's just used to broadcast her presence to the people below. She's fairly confident this makes a decent place to grab cover, and she can use a few seconds to consider where she should take it from here. So far, she hasn't really been at risk of getting shot. It'd be just dandy by her if she can keep doing her job AND continue to meet that criteria.

There will come a day when the lowbrow criminal world is adequately prepared for a man against whom ballistic weaponry is utterly useless. But that day is not today. Bullets powerful enough to stop a man quite literally dead, to kill through a grazing shot by trauma alone, simply thunder through Kwabena Odame as he pushes beyond the searing hailstorm like some avenging demon. One man has stopped firing by the time he's advanced within striking range, and is moving across the sand in a reasonably graceful spin, eyes wide and bearded face horrified as it comes around to bear witness to the savagery that follows. And he's next.

Pulling his extended hand sharply back, fast enough he inadvertently fumbles his Desert Eagle to the darkness of the sands below, the man grits his teeth and brings the other around for the striking crowbar. He's not trying anything fancy-- just twisting into the grapple, using the terrifying Ghanaian's momentum against him to drag him forward by the weapon. Into the sand.

Which if it works, is the perfect setup for one of his buddies to uselessly open fire at their vapourous foe, and the other to make a lunge for that ditched satchel. He hits it shoulderfirst, attempting a passing grab that *works* but results in severe pain as the bottles within shatter. Grinning ferally, the thug - also, as it happens, a smoker - gets himself aright and reaches for a lighter. What he's planning isn't exactly rocket science. The question is, can his literal partners-in-crime keep Kwabena busy for the time it takes to spark up his burden of hellfire?

To the rear of the resort, nobody's smart enough to make the connection that there's a *girl* in their midst, or that she's a particularly peculiar sort of girl. It's a wonder what the magic of applying shapeshifting in a group of two-bit gangbangers can do. Less wonderful for everyone involved when Domino explodes into her own improbable breed of chaos. The two men pulling frantically at tarpaulin grow more panicked as the truck rumbles toward them-- but bless them, they're intent upon their work. One gets it free and dives aside, while the other simply gets his foot run over in the name of completing the same task.

With the tarpaulin gone, the deafening collapse of the resort hotel's rear wall might just suffice to cover for the revelation that are two shining, chrome-plated gun turrets now revealed perky-as-you-like on top of those pillars. Now flanking the rear end of that massive, bulky trailer of modular design. The one demonstrated as capable of deflecting bullets.

There's a dual high-pitched *whine* as the guns start up, their myriad barrels whipping into a fierce rotation within three point five seconds. These ain't your mother's miniguns. Unless you're Domino; then she probably had a pair of these strapped to her chest. Suffice to say, what's capable of deflecting bullets isn't capable of deflecting *these* bullets. Compacted metal chunks skim away from the trailer's rearend as the miniguns begin to eat their way in.

Meanwhile, the two remaining men not turned into bloody, visceral chunks by the impact between Domino and the hotel entrance have brought their weapons to bear once more. For those counting, that makes three still standing and one facedown cradling a shattered leg. Two machineguns and one pistol scatter bullets wildly about the lorry cab and the revealed interior of the hotel beyond-- which apparently contains nothing more than a diplapidated lobby and some dead plants.

On the container ship, Blink's arrival doesn't go unnoticed-- unexplosive as it is. A trio of men stamp across the metal deck, communicating on milspec headsets and levelling similarly pricey rifles on the spotlight as they head toward it on a triple approach. One of them takes point, shouting out a challenge to the shadowy figure projected across the skies moments before.

And then immediately opening fire anyway, because warnings are for pussies.

With an audible thud, Kwabena's crowbar is caught, and the enemy's trick works. The Ghanaian staggers forward and loses his balance, spinning about and landing on his back with a thud that kicks up a cloud of sand around him. Then there are more bullets coming his way, shredding his clothes and turning his upper body, sans head and arms, into a veritable cloud of black smoke and shredded fabric.

It's the shattering of glass that draws the mutant's attention. He is, for all intents and purposes, temporarily disabled, for even though those heavy calibre bullets pass right through him and pelt into the sand beneath his torso-turned-smoke, it renders him unable to move parts of his body. Mastery over his mutation is far from a reality!

He can, however, move his arm. Bending his will against his own body, with lips reared back to show gnashing teeth, his arm moves and grasps hold of the semi-automatic pistol still holstered to his belt. It comes free, and aims right for that satchel. "Not so fast," he warns, and pulls the trigger. Bullets shoot forth, peppering that satchel with heated metal... and sure to ignite the copious amounts of bourbon that have soaked t-shirts, canvas, and spare clips filled with live rounds of ammunition.

Disappeared? Not quite. In reality, gone invisible and phasing straight through the truck. "You need to be more careful!" says the green girl who's popped into the cab with Domino. She's trying to look serious, despite having a naturally cute face and an outfit that doesn't project warrior in the way Domino's does. "I spent two weeks sneaking into that gang!" she declares, waving her hands. "And I....oh! Hi, by the way. I'm Miss Martian. Sorry about the telepathy thing earlier but there was no way to talk to you otehrwise. So what're you doing?" she asks. Her eyes go wide. "Are you another gang!?"

Miniguns, while unexpected, aren't impossible odds. Until they're loaded with some serious armor-penetrating slugs. That throws the spread off just a hair. "Watch it, we got two mini's lighting up the place!" People are shooting at the front. Big, scary, multi-barreled cannons of doom are unloading behind her. What's a girl to do?

Be faster.

Up comes Dom's matte black .44, shots thundering through the cabin as large, carbon-burnt chunks of brass eject with enough force to ping off of the metal roof overhead. And likely off of the top of Miss Martian's head, since she's suddenly -right there- and all. One after another finger-sized holes get punched through the windshield as she simply unloads five of the remaining eight shots.

Odds of a triple ricochet coming back to clip the spine of a man shooting at Kwabena: 2 in 746,951.

"The hell! Where did you come from?!" Jeebus, this is not happening right now... What are the odds?

You know what, don't ask.

"Get out of here, I'm about to slag these trucks!" Domino warns the green-skinned femme, grabbing her new rifle then diving out of the truck, hitting the floor, then rolling -under- the very truck she had driven into this place. "Just like the old days," she hisses while sliding back across the floor. Her prize is the undercarriage of the other truck. The one with the twin cannons on the back. Great place to slap a couple of shaped charges, really.

Ah, there's the bullets that are sent /her/ way. The sparking burst of lead against steel tells her that she's attracted the attention she wanted, and now Blink has to keep her head. The gunfire is unfocused, and somehow it hasn't broken the spotlight immediately. So... what should she do? Okay. Blink doesn't like warzones. She just happens to be really good in them. She's also not a big fan on the whole 'killing' thing, even if she's had to do it more than she would like...

But if they are bringing lethal force to the party, surely it isn't morally reprehensible to give it back to them?

There's actually a snap of her fingers before she takes a deep breath, and stands up. She's been pushing herself pretty hard, and she doesn't like doing this sort of thing at the best of times, but... hey, they're the ones shooting at her, here!

~I hope your directions are accurate, Psylocke...~

BLINK!

The noise is somehow louder this time, and when the bullets veer in on her, they meet a portal about Blink-sized, a rent in reality which stays stubbornly open, and swallows up all of the gunfire sent towards her. She had considered sending it back at the men doing the shooting but... that would cause a relatively minimal amount of chaos; and with gunfire that focused, it'd be quite difficult to avoid a killing shot. At least, instinctively. She doesn't quite trust herself.

So instead, she slams the portal open over the main entrance in the control room that Psylock has directed her towards. And that entire area is suddenly full of automatic gunfire. Which should create a quite astounding amount of chaos and confusion. And demonstrate to the crew that the scariest noise they can possibly hear, is...

BLINK!



Blink's portal works a wonderful, brutal kind of magic: she's simply *faster* than even the relatively well-trained criminal soldiers she's facing. Shimmering energy folds into being over the high silhouette of the command deck, sending mauve reflections skimming off the glass portholes surrounding it. It's a gorgeous show-- the enchanting effect ruined by the ensuing spatter of mankibble against those selfsame windows. Inside, it's chaos indeed, body parts flying as a couple of men manage agonized screams. Nobody living would want to set foot in there afterwards; all that's left is gore, and the forlorn sparking of destroyed equipment.

Behind the pink-skinned mutant, the bright spotlight flickers and dies.

There's a standoff then, as the three men holding her in their pattern are suddenly faced with the full realization of what's facing them. Two of them slowly, slowly lower their guns, dropping them carefully to the deck and beginning to back away. The third, their apparent leader, is shaking from head to toe. "Wh-What are you?" He manages to stammer out... "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!?" Then he charges in a headlong dash, scream still on his lips, swinging his cumbersome assault rifle as if to decapitate this eldritch horror.

Meanwhile...

"Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

There's really no other way of describing the horrified scream that the would-be pyromaniac emits on suddenly having his burden ignited through no volition of his own. He almost keeps his composure through the initial spark - expecting the quick howl of liquor catching fire, with just enough time to fling the makeshift napalm toward the downed Ghanaian. The gunshot is a surprising shift in gears, but it's the thumping ignition of ammo clips that sets him off. Partly because his left leg is caught in the blast, and bounces off down the beach as a blackened, smoking stump. And then he's a pillar of screaming flame.

His remaining comrade, though, actually starts to *laugh*, fully earning the wild hundred-yard ricochet of an improbable bullet that finds his spine a second later. His body arches backward, laughter dying into a high-pitched gasp as he becomes a human croquet hoop. It's almost graceful really; the effect ruined slightly by the spray of blood and the hideous snap of breaking bone as he buckles backward into the sand. Slowly, he flops onto his side, with one more wet gurgle.


 * thudadadadadadadadadadadadadadadaduh*

Back in the land of terrible odds and imminent explosions, Domino's efforts to get out of the cab are tracked by the men still firing with increasing desperation upon she and the apparent MUTANT GHOST that's infiltrated their midst. None of the three are exactly sure what that's all about; or being paid enough to question, so they keep their trigger fingers working and pray tomorrow night ends up being quieter. What they should be praying for...


 * thudadadaDUNK*

Is that those miniguns stop focusing on the thick metal of the trailer. But there's no god now; and as the first screaming bullet finds purchase on the densely-packed contents, that thick impact noise is literally the only warning anybody receives. In the next instant, a spreading blossom of skin-melting, bone-charring heat emanates outward from the lorry's rear. The explosion spreads rapidly to the other vehicles, setting off a chain reaction of increasingly dull detonations within the searing blaze. Metal framework buckles and twists as axles and engine blocks tumbled end over end, scattering to the nearby gas station on one side, and the end of the beach on the other; though the former is most worrying by far.

What happens when you introduce smouldering wreckage to petroleum residue?

-~*FOOOOOOOOOOOM*~-

That's what happens. Any questions?

Kwabena's torso reforms into flesh and bone again, and he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the fireball that engulfed his unsuspecting adversary. He rolls over and leaps to his feet again, only to find that his shirt has been torn into literal shreds. "Jesus Christ," he curses, the oath sounding rather funny with his Ghanaian accent. He takes a quick look around only to see that there are no more bad guys on the beach head. His eyes scan toward the ocean, noticing a few odd flashes of light in the distance, which seem strikingly familiar.

So, the purple girl and Psylocke clearly have that on lock down. He spins back toward the hotel, and begins making his way toward the back entrance. "Rear is secure," he reports over the comm.

And then, there is fire, everywhere.

Kwabena pauses for a moment, eyes wide with momentary terror. "Dom!" he cries out, then goes charging for those back doors as fast as he can. The crowbar has been discarded, his satchel exploded, and now, he's left only with a semi-automatic pistol, a half-filled clip, and his mutation.

Should be enough.

Not wanting to find out if the back doors are open, he gathers up what rage he can muster, and turns a shoulder toward the door. His flesh hardens as expected, and the door gets bashed right off its hinges, providing an easy entrance. Following through with his battering-ram style leap, Kwabena lands on the floor inside and begins scanning the area while making his way toward the front of the hotel. "Report, what's going on?" he asks over the comm.

"I told you!" The green skinned woman says, "I was undercover! I'm Miss Martian, I'm a Titan!" she impresses upon the strangely pale-and-dark woman. "Superhero? Fight crime? I thought call humans knew about them!" she flails her hands. "You're gonna hurt a lot of people wi...." and then Domino's diving out of the truck. "Slag?" she asks with al ook. The truck's still moving, leaving Megan confused. The first thud makes Miss Martian startle, and then with the next thump she flies out of the other door, whipping away from the exploding truck as fast she possibly can. "Stop, you'll make it...." she protests. A beam lances from her eyes, smashing into the gun and sending it flying apart in a concussive explosion. The flying Martian curls up into a ball and holds her head as the truck explodes behind her.

Imagine Domino's surprise, beneath those massive, armored semis, scooting along and getting ready to plant the two halves of a block charge when suddenly the vehicles spontaneously detonate -right above her.- That's enough of a shock to pull a stifled yelp from her lungs, swiftly shielding her face with a C4 charge still clasped within either hand. Being beneath it all does give her some serious cover from the worst of it, but there's still the matter of searing heat and flamey bits to contend with. And that Martian femme... Did she say she's with the -Titans?- Crap! That's so not what this group needs on their plate tonight!

One thing's certain, at least. Her timing is damned spot-on.

"So..yeah..guns are out!" she gasps into the tiny mic hanging off of her ear. "Be advised, we have a third party in play. Apparently there's a Titans representative present, don't shoot the green chick!" The charges get pressed back together and find their former place back upon her combat webbing, now only concerned in scurrying out from beneath the wreckage of those two rigs before she either gets ignited fuel all over herself or someone spots her crawling for cover and opens fire.

Out rolls the gun-laiden albino, now favoring the stolen bullpup rifle as she sprints for the Titan. "C'mon kiddo, on your feet! It's time to go!"

Hell, they're here for a reason. They're causing all of this mayhem -for a reason.- "Where we at with the cargo, Kwa?" Dom comms back, suddenly almost desperate to hear some news about those people they came down here to save. Are they still on track?

Taking a life is, well, it is horrible. Blink has never once done it lightly. Even coming from the world she comes from, she's not so far gone that she sees the taking of life as a deed to be done simply at a whim. So when the man comes tearing at her with a scream on his lips, she actually has an answer ready for him. One that is spoken with a cold fury that those who know her would be hard pressed to believe comes from her lips.

"You enslave my people."

His rifle passes through the air where her head was a moment before. She is ducking down, athletic to a fault, she's twisting around as she goes, feet planting again to spring herself up behind him. "You turn us into weapons. You USE us."

Her eyes narrow at the other two men, practically daring them to make a move.

"And you have to ask why I'd do this. Because you /don't understand/."

That's the reason. And that is why when the girl stabs backwards with the shard she'd pulled out in the chaotic melee, the terrified leader will find himself teleported directly over the water. The motion happening to coincide with a massive fireball on shore which illuminates her from behind in a brilliant, burning orange glow.

Blink doesn't even turn around.

She does, however, subvocalize into her mic. "Can we try to give me some warning before everything explodes next time? And what the hell is a Titan anyway?"

Now... probably isn't the time, but from her perspective, it doesn't /sound/ like a good thing. Someone really needs to give her a crash course in modern supers.

The sight greeting Kwabena Odame is... odd, to say the least. Though the ballroom of the old resort is vast, empty and indicative of how impressive it must once have been, the door through to the hotel proper - the one flying off its hinges with a shriek of protest - leads into a cavernous chamber that can't have been part of the original blueprints. There's no real floor to speak of-- the ground drops away beneath the Ghanaian's very feet to reveal the foundations of the building, hard concrete with a few useless floorboards not cleaned away by the new tenant.

There's no second, third, or fourth floor as there should be, either; the midportion of the building has been entirely gutted from foundation to ceiling. Set up around the far fringe are a series of odd encampments, bunks and cots for around two dozen men interspersed with cooking equipment and other signs of life. With nobody left to occupy them, these little camps seem like a shanty ghost town now; it's quite eerie by itself, made all the more jarring by what lies in the very centre of the gutted hotel. Ugly, oblong and approximately ten feet high.

A bunker. Squat, hard concrete, with blast doors facing Kwabena and no other form of adornment.

There's no human resistance outside now, the few men remaining combat-ready having alternately fried or been crushed by flying, burning vehicle chunks. With one minigun very ably explodinated by the martian Titan, that just leaves the other to whir haphazardly around, battered and spewing sparks as the drum rotates, to almost drunkenly settle upon the pair. It's stopped firing, which gives them a couple of seconds warning once that nasal whir begins anew.

Blink's target is more feisty, but barely less brainless. Hired for his brawn and confidence under pressure, he's ill-placed either to argue with the pink-skinned mutate's politics - or react with adequate timing to her acrobatic evasion. Spinning through the over-wrought momentum of his strike, he comes to a staggering standstill, eyes narrowing in curious tandem with hers-- but on nothing. Because she's already behind him. "I don't--"

No. He doesn't understand. He's not a good man, merely a stupid and desperate one, facts exacerbated once he finds himself dangling above the rolling pitch of the ocean. He gapes his mouth closed, then once more open, but can find no adequate scream to account for what's just happened. When the shocking impact finally comes, it knocks him unconscious.

To either side of his limply bobbing form, there's a dual splash as his subordinates fling themselves into the same water - albeit with better, less fatal control - rather than face off against this mutated menace themselves.

Back on shore, beside that opened sewer grate, the tugboat has finally arrived. That stealthy figure slips over the side, dark-clad feminine form drawing upright in a gentle, tension-relieving stretch. Violet eyes scan along the beach, troubled as they take in the aftermath of the nearby explosion. Psylocke is telepathically aware of much that has gone on-- but she can't read so many minds at once, so clearly. Pulling free the blade sheathed across her back, she starts toward the hotel at a brisk pace, signalling as she goes.



Kwabena comes to an abrupt halt upon busting into the hotel, so as not to fall down into the foundation proper. He gasps slightly, then places a hand against his ear. "Hold on, I'm checking out the inside." He looks about in wonder, until his eyes settle upon the bunker.

A bunker? Here?

"Stand by." He lowers his hand from the comm, and hops down onto the exposed foundation. Making an approach toward the bunker, he finally hears Psylocke's voice in his mind. His answer is but an after thought.

 His thoughts are confused, for he doesn't even know who the Titans are, but at the end of the day, it's irrelevant. 

Upon reaching the bunker, Kwabena frowns at it. He steps to the side, weapon ready in his right hand, and begins banging on the blast doors with his left. "Hey! Get out here, we got trouble! Need your help!"

Hopefully his accent isn't a /complete/ give-away. He bangs on the door three more times, then steps back and readies his weapon.

The green girl get scooped up by Domino from where she crashed on the floor. She gets half to her feet, her legs struggling to keep up with the pace Domino's keeping. "You're mutants!" she hisses, suddenly realizing it as it clicks all together. "So it /is/ all true!" she adds. She'd heard rumours, of course, that's what got her here in the first place. Evidence? Well that's why she was here in the first place. "Are you guys superheroes?" Miss MArtian hisses at Domino, smiling eagerly to see if she's right.

"We totally are," Domino's quick to admit while helping Little Greenie back to her feet. "Not sure what 'it' all is, but we're ..yeah." Superheroes. Sure. Let's run with that.

One of the miniguns is still operating..? -Frack!- There's all of -two- targets left standing out there, and Domino's too busy trying to get Miss Martian to cover, her back turned to the remaining gun as it spins back to life. What doesn't get seen cannot be directly influenced. AP rounds, fortunately, don't do as much tissue damage when they pass through a body. In a flash her armor gets neat little chunks ripped out of it, replaced by pasty white skin and streaks of cherry red contrast.

This is going to suck less for Martian than it is for Dom. Where she helped pick up the other woman before, now she's pushing Martian back to the floor! In that same moment the albino mercenary leaps clear over the green woman, twisting about and unloading automatic fire from her rifle toward the remaining turret.

Odds of a random shot breaking the minigun's bullet feed and jamming the next round with explosive force: 1 in 86,512.

With a forced grunt Dom hits the ground in a clumsy roll, head instinctively ducking as the turret blasts itself to pieces. She's hurt, but she's still mobile. "Sorry, kid," comes the breathless apology as she once more helps Miss Martian. "Missed one."

Over coms, she sends the all clear. "Good on this end, pulling out now. We've got ourselves a temp ally."

Blink listens, and hears that things have gone, well, about as well as could be expected. The thing is, after watching two people throw themselves into the sea rather than deal with her... for the first time in her life, she actually feels like a monster. In her world, mutants were the norm, not the exception, and she certainly wasn't one of the ones who inspired gut-wrenching terror at the mere sight of. She exhales, long and slow. Really, by her own standards, the amount of teleporting she'd done wasn't... that exhausting. So why does she suddenly feel overwhelmingly tired?

"I'm going to stop here." She says, sitting down on the boat, and looking out at the sea. "If you guys need an emergency evac, let me know. Otherwise, I'm going to take some time to... get my head straight."



There's a ring of dark humour in the otherwise clipped words, though the kunoichi outwardly remains stern and businesslike, picking her way through the charred rubble at the beach's edge to reach the rear of the building. Her heart stays true to the one of her words - she's not carrying these deaths heavily, aware of the cost if they approached this any other way. Though far from aware of the full extent of that truth, she suspects well enough who they're dealing with; and she has seen - been - the brutality they can bring to bear.

A glance up the ruined collapse of the pier, toward the floating container ship, forms the stage for her final contact with Blink-- for now. This thought goes to the pink-skinned mutant alone, coupled with a gentle wave of empathy and understanding.



She doesn't finish the 'order'; in a brief time she's gained awareness that the girl is experienced beyond her youth, forged by a bleak future into a warrior at least her equal. She tails off because she suddenly reminds herself... she doesn't need to say it at all. A small smile touches her lips, and then she turns away, following Kwabena's progress through the dilapidated ballroom into the gutted hulk of the hotel beyond. On seeing the bunker, and the Ghanaian approaching it, her grip tightens upon the katana held loose at her side.

"Wait--"

She's too late, even if she spoke telepathically the result would be the same. With a faint cringe she breaks into a short, stealthy dash, coming up behind the vapourous African in a manner that would be shocking if she hadn't just announced herself. Breathing slow and calm, she draws alongside him as the blast doors emit a low, grunting whine and start to shift apart with a hefty *clunk*. Beyond there lies only the eerie glow of long-lived strip lighting, flickering faintly into the gloom. A scent emerges that suggests this entrance may not have been used for some time; musty, dry, and ever so slightly sickly-sweet. Not quite the smell of rot, but close.

"So we're here alongside Domino, and a Titan?" Murmurs Betsy, sparing a quick look askance, "You pick odd allies, Kwabena." A brow curves almost in reprimand, quickly tempered with a soft, amused snort. "Though I don't suppose I'm one to point fingers in that regard."

By the time she's done speaking, they're facing an empty corridor, culminating in another set of blast doors. These stand firmly closed as the first were-- but alongside them, there's an access panel with a two-way speaker mounted beside it.

Looks like it's time to speak with this operation's dubious mastermind.