2013.06.13 - Business Ethics, Part 1: A Mess

June in New Jersey. Violent crime peeks during the summer months, the heat driving people to steal, rape and murder. Gotham isn't the most pleasant place at the best of times, but now, when your clothes stick to you and your mouth is dry as a desert, it's worse.

The city stinks. Like death warmed over.

A bank of storm clouds has sat in the sky for at least two days, a warning to some and a siren call to the others. Dusk brings the first signs of rain, and by the time the sun has dipped below the horizon, the city is being drowned from above.

It's not as much of a relief as some had hoped, prayed. The water falls hard enough that each drop is a pelt against the skin, the lightning blinds and the thunder is bone-jarring.

What's worse is the smell lingers. Even the rain can't wash it away. It tastes bitter, like metal.

It tastes like blood.

That might just be from the thug who got a cheap shot in at him three blocks over, though. Robin sweeps his tongue along his teeth again, checking for the fifth or sixth time tonight. A dentist's visit is the last thing he needs.

Another bolt of lightning illuminates the flash of yellow perched atop one of Gotham's infinite silent guardians. What would the Bats do without the city's Neo-Gothic architecture and its gargoyles? It's hard to concentrate with the rain hitting him, but there's no convenient overhang to crouch beneath tonight. Robin manages, though. His gaze never strays from the scene occurring across the street.

Funny, how easily Gotham's upper crust can pretend there's nothing wrong. Tents have been constructed over the gardens, sheer curtains along the edge, keeping its occupants dry. There's probably even cool air being pumped in, somehow. Wouldn't surprise him. Socialites, stock brokers, entrepreneurs bumping elbows with mafioso and thugs dressed up as perfectly upstanding citizens.

Oblivious. Or maybe not. Willful ignorance to Gotham's dark secrets is the only way these people sleep easy at night.

They'll never change. Unless someone makes them change.

As the storm rages outside, lashing the clock windows outside her cozy little lair, Barbara Gordon looks up from the files she sorts through to see a brilliant flash of light illuminate the dark sky. A grimace pulls at the side of her lips. Fortunately, given the amount of sensitive technology she keeps in this place, her systems are extremely well shielded -- against most everything, from lighting strikes and surges to EM pulses and com grid interruptions. So, she's not particularly worried about an outage. Especially not with the extra generator down in the basement.

Regardless, the weather plays merry hell with her sat feeds. Most of them are still good, but occasionally there's a flicker of static she finds mildly irksome.

At this given moment, however, she's combing through some research given to her by Tony Start... of the sort that could damned well change her life. Again.

There were some benefits from rain pelting the ground and soaking avenues in mud and water that made it almost impossible to /get/ anywhere or /do/ anything with the short staffing Martin was accusomted to. Well, only two right now, really. The first was the gala being held at the gardens had to go for the scraps of catering companies for servicing, making it easier than normal to set things up and get his employees into position. The other was that no one was wandering around outside of the nice, cosy tent... and the ones that did were reletively easy to spot with the thermograhpic scope of the two-man team set up at one of the buildings.

Martin himself walks around the table, conspicously pointing at an enmpy plate here or the need for more champagne there, smiling at those who looked rich, and chatting with those who looked imporantant. Easy enough to do that and listen to the short, terse reports of the people working over the party... all indicating little activity, beyond some idiotic mobsters who were talking about things that were already known.

<> Martin subvocaliszes through the mic hidden under his shirt. <>

While she is use to parties like this, and she understands why they have to happen, Kate Bishop is still more comfortable doing stuff more on a 'ground leave', where she's face to face with the people she's helping. And yet as one of Manhattans rich, from a rich family she still has to attend things like this, if only to help make sure the funds for such ground work can still happen.

Thus the socialite is here in a dress that is so expensive that it could feed a couple of families for a year, wearing jewels that are worth more than most people will ever earn or even could dream of earning.

All though if certain people did need eyes at this party, eyes on the inside, they could of tapped her for this duty as well. And if that were the case, she /may/ have discreet transmitters and receivers on her as well to aide in communication.

Its the sort of event that Dragnet in his civilian identity would have been hard pressed to avoid. Nobody questions an extra set of hands holding a quiche tray or dispensing wine glasses. 'Bill', 'Ted', 'Toby'....simple forgettable names owned by that...you know, that fellow. He freshened your drink without you noticing, made sure you were taken care of before you even knew about it. Yet the face, anything beyond the vaguest of details become nigh impossible to remember. After all, its not like anybody like that really matters in the scheme of things, right? It would have been a few bucks for food, maybe even a splurge at the thrift store.

Unfortunately, now that has been documented why the vagrant in the tech armor is drawn to these sorts of jobs, it is time to address why he isn't. It is because he is currently wearing that faceless wraithlike facade, having needed to test the most recent set of repairs and updates he had performed on it. The AIDOS was beginning to show its age after a year in the field with only cursory maintenance by an unenlightened hand, and more of his work hours were being eaten away trying to keep it in functioning form. Which in turn drained the money for what resources he needed to keep it in condition, and the funds for basic necessities...which meant he had to scrounge, or stay at a shelter. The former was dangerous, the latter posed questions. Either were highly dangerous as far as Dragnet was concerned. It was in the process of one of these attempts to insure the jury rigging was holding up that he found his way across the event. So he molds himself with the foliage, stealth armor rendering her near invisible in any case and the rain making anything beyond the little soiree of little importance and less interest. Thus Dragnet watches, and waits...in all likelyhood nothing will happen, but it does present an opportunity to assess the audio-visual sensory profiles and insure they are still working...

Out in the middle of a thunderstorm, fighting crime and keeping the city safe? Oh, right, that sounds like such a great idea. You'd have to be crazy or really, really driven (which is, in Gabby Malone's mind, more or less the same thing) to be out in THIS weather trying to clean up the streets. .oO(Better to let the rain do the cleaning tonight.) the red-haired woman thinks as she hurries down the street trying to get to her destination in a dark-grey, non-descript, plastic poncho of sorts. She has the hood up and is trying to keep it up against the wind with one hand while holding the front closed with the other. This is, strictly-speaking, not her poncho. But despite the fights she's in the habit of getting into, she has enough friends that when she needed to borrow something to get from one place to another without catching rain-ebola or whatever people get in storms this big, she found herself suddenly in possession of such.

But it doesn't do much for the fact that she feels like she's spending less time walking and more time wading. The perils of being tiny. She, of course, doesn't hesitate to keep up a running commentary of complaints and epithets along the way as she passes by a certain building where some party or something is being held. She keeps her distance because, being as experienced with street life as she is, she knows she doesn't belong there and that rich people are in the habit of being leery of gutter trash. She doesn't exactly have a problem with fighting anyone who starts something with her, but getting arrested for punching out some big wig like Maxwell Lord or Bruce Wayne is not going to be good for her at all.

Her senses are sharp -- sharper than most people's -- and so that tension of concern has her remaining very aware of what's going on around her as she stops to check if the bar she came all this way to visit is actually closed or if the lights are dimmed for some other reason.

Even the local historical figures are hard up for cash these days. Or maybe the blonde chauffeur taxiing the rich and fabulous (and horrendously corrupt) back and forth from the shindig and their fancy hotels just looks a lot like one. Or Lady Blackhawk was just really, really good at convicing certain people she shouldn't be a woman on the inside here and should instead keep herself unnoticed under the brim of a cap that really doesn't look all that much different from her usual uniform's, from the driver's seat of a sleek black limo. A sleek black limo that's dry inside and parked close enough to let her keep an eye on things, save for the occasional trip around the block to ferry drunken socialites and mobsters back and forth.

She's made $30 in tips and only had her ass grabbed twice when getting out to open doors. She's had worse assignments.

Taylor Leslie Kensington's Gala for the Performing Arts. The quartet from an inner city school is a nice touch, Robin thinks. He hopes they don't notice the increased security around where their families are sitting.

It'd be nice, having that kind of innocence still. A rare thing in Gotham.

"No suspicious activity," he says into his mic. Just checking in. Most of the Bats are doing their own thing, tonight, and that's exactly what Robin is here doing. To those in the know, it'd be pretty obvious why he's here: three of the late Jack Drake's business associates are in attendance. They're even sitting at the same table as a few Cosa Nostra lieutenants. It's almost /too/ easy.

He's still got his binoculars trained on their table when shots ring out. Perfectly timed with a clap of thunder, so he doesn't hear it, but the ensuing chaos isn't so hard to miss. "Actually, may have a situation here."

Five members of the catering crew, eight security guards, and another three randoms from the guest list stand with guns in their hands. One of them takes the stage, a balding man who was previously passing out canapes, kicks Taylor Leslie Kensington (poor old lady) off of it, and steps up to the mike. "Sorry for spoiling the festivities, but I have an announcement to make." He smiles.

Babs has a loose ear on the various hot spots in Gotham, tonight. The gala is worth keeping an eye on simply because she can't count the number of times some selfish yahoo in a mask decides to test the Bat's patience (nevermind hers or their allies) and try to collect the 'easy money' to be had from ready jewels and deep pockets. She's tunnelled in at least three ways -- not the least of which is riding Kavanagh's network, the building's surveillance, and what satfeeds she can get through the storm.

And then, of course, there's her own 'ringer', in the person of Kate Bishop -- a.k.a. Hawkeye. Their partnership is relatively new, but the Oracle sent the archer a small transceiver that can disappear in her ear. So, it's a ll good.

Her warning indicators go off as pattern rec software recognizes the guns being displayed. She looks up in time to catch a video feed of the fellow taking hold of the mic.

"Hawkeye?" The digitized voice of Oracle is soft but clear in Kate's ear. "What's going on in there?"

As the catering crew pulls out guns, there's some on the crew, just a few, including the 'manager' looking fellow in the suit. The confused looks don't even happen to be feigned, though the twitchy reactions to it, the urge to reach for steak knives and bottles to break. Martin himself doesn't have to ask why his people are standing up there; he knows enough about his people that he knows none of them are the catering staff that have stood up.

<> He starts, before the annoucement is made. <> He says, simply, before getting a report. "No clear shots into the tent, sir. No forces watching a perimiter that we can see.>>

Martin fights the urge to nod, taking a few steps back, looking nervous, like a man whose about to make a run for it. <> The other few caterers that weren't part of this slowly try to pull back, melting into the crowd at the back of the tent, trying to reach the edge, and a supply tent just a few meters away that... /should/ have been unoccupied. That is, if no one was watching.

"Trouble." is murmured into Kates tranciever as she hears Oracles question as she watches the bald guy take to the stage.

"I don't see any Borg, and this Captain Picard does have a gun." is murmured without a thought, before she clarifies, slightly. "'Employees' are pulling out weapons. Bald one just took to the stage."

And yet, as that's said, the socialite does start to drift slightly, towards one of the 'security guards'. She tries to do it slowly, and without drawing too much, if any attention to herself, but still...

Opening the communication, and closing it, has always been on Dragnet's end. Its one of his few stipulations: he initiates contact, he ends it. Fortunately the AIDOS's communication band is narrow enough (for him at least) that not much gets through other than words. He hears the gunshots, but only because his armor is rigged to the maximum amount of sonic sensitivity. "Dragnet." Is all that he says at first, to initiate contact. After all, he'd rather not get tagged himself as one of the adventurous troublemakers. "...you want me in on this?" He says, already feeding the AIDOS's sensory data up to Oracle's computers. She can be a voyeur through his sensory matrix for the time being. For now, he drifts and sneaks into position, weapons systems primed. Its been a while since he's done cooperative work. More so since he's reached out to Bird or Bat. Warring instincts....

Yep. Bar's closed. Gabby's Irish accent isn't too terrible after spending all these years in the U.S. but it shows up when she's angry. And so her loud swearing is only somewhat understandable to anyone nearby. She is in the middle of turning away to storm (get it? because there's a thunderstorm. Har har) off in search of a different bar, when she sees some kind of commotion across the street. Armed robbery? She's definitely in the mood to beat some heads. This area is outside the usual range of her 'protection', but she can make an exception tonight. Jogging across the street (which turns into sloshing through puddles that are knee-deep for her at some points), Gabby allows her hood to be blown back, exposing her fire-red hair. It gets plastered to her head rather quickly by the rain, but her eyes remain sharp, her vision clear even on a night like this.

Then, the moment she has some measure of level ground, she takes off running. And she runs FAST. For such short legs, she's practically a blur as she charges up to the event, grabs whatever piece of furniture or other object she can see that seems solid, and in one smooth motion HURLS the object at the guy on the stage. Is this the wisest course of action when dealing with people with guns? Not generally, no. But thinking while angry has never been Gabby's strong point. "Hey, ****head! Respect the elderly!" Yes, she noticed the old lady getting kicked over. That also didn't help her mood any.

"Captain Who?" Poor Zinda. Someone needs to give her a pop culture crash course. "Nevermind." The sound of her door clicking closed barely makes it over the comm link as she slips out of the cool, dry limo and into the rain. She leaves her uniform cap on the seat, not wanting the sound of the rain pitter-pattering off its plastic cover to give her away as she slinks up behind one of the support-goons gaurding a perimeter exit to drag him into a sleeper hold.

Annnnnd then Gabby's in there. "New arrival, Skipper. Tiny, quick, probably a little tipsy. Lookin' to get her fool-ass shot." Pause. "I like 'er." Of course she does.

Most of the botanical gardens are covered, currently, but there's enough foreign foliage facing the wrath of Gotham's skies for Robin to swoop down from his perch and dive into. Not exactly the greatest cover if bullets start flying his way, but he's aiming to be stealthy enough to avoid that scenario. "Over a dozen hostiles. No, sixteen. Armed with automatic weaponry."

He watches as a dainty looking woman in a fantastically short dress (came as the Gotham Gazette's Editor-in-Chief's +1, presumed "escort", now Robin is regretting not doing a better background check) take down one of the security guards who was clearly not in on the fun. "Possible military or private mercenary training."

Which, no doubt, becomes obvious when the guy on stage ducks the thrown rental chair and aims his gun at Gabby. The shot he fires doesn't hit her, but it buries itself in the dirt barely inches from her feet. "No questions until after the speech, please," he says, still smiling, practically /charming/ almost, and then he actually pulls a few cards from the inside of his jacket. He clears his throat. "Will Theodore Macguire, Augusta Price, Genevieve Herring-Bonner, Christopher Dixon, and Edward Bartholomew Hancock the Third please join me on stage?"

Five more people stand from the tables, but it wasn't their names called out. Instead, they, too, produce weaponry (some from god-knows-where, considering their outfits) and escorts the five requested- all recognizable as members of Gotham's elite, through various means- up to the stage.

"Five more hostiles." Robin touches his cowl. Red outlines highlight those that are armed and highly dangerous.

Most of the baddies aren't letting their attention slip, though Zinda is lucky enough to find one that has, and no one notices his sudden disappearance. Yet.

"Copy that," Oracle says to Hawkeye. Chatter on the SHIELDnet sounds quietly out of a nearby monitor. "Be advised, back-up incoming," she tells Kate, further. "I'm picking up chatter from a SHIELD team in the vicinity and I'm calling in my ops in the vicinity." A beat. "If SHIELD isn't in the room, they're watching like I am..."

Then, Dragnet's voice breaks into the chatter. "If you're in the neighborhood," the cybervoice says to Dragnet. "Be advised, it's a powderkeg up there. Twenty-one hostiles. I've got one operative within, and one on the move outside. But there's a SHIELD team operating as well, and I don't want to break in on them until I have to." And she'll have to, she's sure of it. "Patching you, Hawkeye, and Lady Blackhawk into the same freq," she says, alerting Kate and Zinda as she does.

"I've got thermals, eyes-high, and local cams running, to see what other movement is in the garden area, but my eyes-high are blinking, thanks to this storm."

Of course, one of those thermal readings (i.e. Gabby -- whom she doesn't know) starts moving. Fast. Very fast. Just as Zinda's update comes in. "The hell? Who the hell is that? She's gonna get people killed!" And that irritates Babs something fierce. "Okay. Priorities, people: Take the gunmen down as quickly and efficiently as possible. Protecting the civilians is your top priority. If that means letting SHIELD take the mooks down, so be it. I don't want people dying for no good reason."

As Robin's cowl-feed comes online, she patches him into the loop. "Nice of you to drop in," she says lightly to him. "Be advised, Robin, I have three operatives in the conflict zone. Lady Blackhawk and Dragnet should be obvious enough; Hawkeye is incognito. SHIELD is also present. They're squawking. Seems they've been caught flatfooted on this. The nut with the flying chair? Not one of mine. Thermal tracking has her from out-of-theater." Theatre meaning theater-of-operation, of course. Look! Spy-speak. ;)

Martin winces, just slightly, as he watches from an ever shrinking vantage point. Whoever was running this show had planned this perfectly. That much was certain from the way they had most of the security guards and the /rest/ of the caterers armed... and then five sleeper agents in the crowd, moving for specific targets. That means that Martin couldn't rule out the possibility that his team had already been identified and singled out. The fact that they hadn't had guns pointed at them yet could simply mean they were being set up for something. The fall for it, blame for it, something like that. And there was fuck-all he could do about it.

And then GOd bless wild-cards. It added a bit of dispair, of course, seeing that easy duck and reflexive, accurate shot (indicated they were trained). But it did draw people's attention away from 4 people trying to be ghosts, and all 4 agents, at that moment, take the oppurtunity to slip out of the tent itself, quickly using the sound and visual depreciation of the rain to move as fast as they can toward one of the now empty supply tents used for food preperation.

<> He says quickly, and gets confirmation. <> <> <> A quick sigh, and he's back on comms. <> Another Click. <>

If they could reach the cache in the tent... they could see about changing the game here. Significantly.

And, finally, a female voice, coming in with more static. <>

Martin sighs. Some intelligence was better than nothing, but he would have preferred to have known about this /before/ hand. Made this a lot less exciting reading.

As all of that extra news comes to Kate over her earpiece, she frowns. Especially as she catches those extra names. Not that having the backup is a bad thing. Hell, she's insanely happy to have it. But still...

As Gabby throws that chair, and 'Captain Picard' calls out those names, and more gunmen come out. Yeah... She knows this is not good. Even as she inches closer, and closer to that 'guard'. The very instant she gets an opening, preferably in the form of another distraction, or she gets in a position where she and the guard can't as easily be seen (maybe some giant plant that's inside the tent for some reason provides cover?), so she can lash out with a rapid series of moves. The first is a combination sweep kick as she tries to knock the guard off of his feet, while she also tries to punch him in the face with an open faced punch. Provided both hit, the out of costume archer tries to kick him in the gut. Hopefully that takes the fight out of him, and /maybe/ lets her recover his gun.

"Any idea how many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were talking about?"

He doesn't come up on heat, ultraviolet, quite frankly its a crapshoot trying to find the AIDOS even on a perfect sunny summer day with no wind, low grass...you get the idea. Where the nano-kevlar is no Stark-tech, it does perform its original function remarkably well. Being reasonably perfective while granting total sensory obfuscation. Really, only his quiet communications give any sense that he is there at all until he starts firing. Apparently, being faceless and largely formless does something for his confidence, and perhaps his competence. The gauntlet weapon systems prime, providing charges, ammunition totals, all that fancy stuff. "Drawing firing solutions now. If you can corral them a bit, I can put several down at once. Can also knock out the civilians if you like. Sometimes its just better if they don't see..." And panic, make a mess of things, you know. Speaking of messes, one of these days Dragnet is really going to have to figure out this Birds thing. Trajectories are plotted as he goes moves forward in a crouch, taking cover behind one of the tables. Angles, for a grenadier its all about angles. Oh he has the lightshow and the tasers built in, all right, but....'Best bet is to try to neutralize as many as quickly as possible. Gas or lightshow, shock if I come under fire.' Right. He's done it enough times. Why does he never feel any better at it then?

The gun going off has Gabby skipping back several feet very quickly, reacting remarkably fast to the gun being directed towards her so that she's away from the point the bullet would have hit before the gun even goes off. But she isn't ENOUGH away from that point that she is safe. The shot would have hit the ground near her instead of Gabby herself, if she hadn't bounced back like a rabbit on crack, but the guy is aware of her now, and there are others with guns, and based on his skill level and calm she doesn't think she can do anything else right now. Gabby is -- while intensely pissed off at not only the guy up there but also herself for rushing into a situation like this -- not suicidal enough to throw anything else, to make a run for it, or similar. However, it's everything she can do to keep from loudly cussing the guy out from a distance.

Like, even knowing he has a gun and probably could have shot her instead of the dirt if he wanted to, she REALLY wants to yell at him. All these rich people getting shot isn't something she'd necessarily LIKE, but it's not like she's going to sacrifice her own life for theirs if she can avoid it. But still... She doesn't think she'd get far if she ran, and it would almost certainly get bystanders caught up in it. There's a difference between choosing self-preservation over heroics and getting uninvolved people shot because you started **** and then bugged out when it went south on you. So she resolves to stay where she is and seethe for now, while looking for an opportunity to extract herself or maybe hurt cueball really bad.

But when the guy starts rattling off names, Gabby's infamous mouth operates almost on auto-pilot. "What sort o' pretentious, ****-addled, stick-up-the-*** names are those supposed t' be, Mister Clean!?" she demands. Dammit. She didn't even MEAN to say anything! It was simply out of habit! Really! ...But she meant every word of it even if it was unintentional. Names she thinks are ridiculous are one of a great many pet peeves that have gotten her into trouble from commenting upon, alongside inconsiderate drivers, people who dye their hair multiple colors at once, circuses and zoos, and also people eating lobsters in front of her.

Seriously, they're like giant, ocean-going bugs.

At least she doesn't do anything else beyond that, even using willpower to keep her mouth shut. But oh man does shortstacked redhead want to hurt someone. Some of her irritation is dismissed when her her hearing picks up movement around the area. It's not super-hearing, but it's pretty darn good -- peak human. And she gets the general feeling there's something going on around her, even if she doesn't see it. And she has at least cooled down enough that she doesn't turn her head to look for what she's missing, just incase she'd wind up drawing any more attention than she already is.

"Girl's /really/ quick- reckon she's bringing a little more to the party here," Zinda whispers, remarking on Gabby as she begins to very quietly attempts to shuffle some of the less survival-minded civilians behind cover, under tables and the like. She keeps her guns holstered at first, not wanting to be mistaken for one of the bad guys by, say, SHIELD. "Hawkeye, you'll have an easier time kickin' that gun away than grabbin' it- I'll toss you my spare side-arm once you get it clear."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Oracle," Robin deadpans. His cowl-feed shows him sweeping the grounds, doing his best to pick out hostiles from non-hostiles. There are a lot of people here. A lot of innocent people. A few non-innocent, too, but for now, Robin has to think of them as people he has to protect.

It worries at him, like an itch he can't scratch. An annoyance.

Movement catches his eye through the rain, and then his cowl is pinging four additional targets. Unknowns. "Might be our SHIELD agents," he mutters, mostly to himself, and then in answer to Hawkeye's question, "Looks like four, and there's probably more nearby."

Oh, looks like she's busy. His thermals pick her up standing over an unmoving figure.

Nice. Oracle always has good people on her payroll.

"Do we have enough for a coordinated attack? I don't want to trust SHIELD as our backup, and-"

Someone- our wild card, it seems- starts giving out some sass, and Robin grimaces faintly. Luckily, Mr. Presenter is more tolerant than most bad guys, because he only gives her a flat look, and then a small motion of his head has two armed men approaching her from either side.

"We need to move."

The man on stage clears his throat, rifling through his index cards, as the five named guests are brought up to him and then forced down onto their knees. It brings Robin's attention back there, because Mr. Dixon is someone very important- to him, at least. He was one of the men that opened a resort in the Caribbean with Jack Drake.

If only he could get closer.

"You don't know who we are, but we've been watching you. All of you. You think this is your city, but you're just pests in need of extermination. Allow me to demonstrate. Mr. MacGuire, you engaged in several back door dealings that earned you nearly a billion dollars and put your company into bankruptcy. You cost over a hundred people their jobs and their retirement funds. Ms. Price, you achieved fame solely by being the daughter of someone important, and last year you killed someone while driving drunk. Your father covered it up for you. Mrs. Herring-Bonner, well, everyone here knows what you've done, and yet you still show up to all these things. That takes balls. I'm almost impressed. Mr. Dixon, you conspired to have one of your business partners killed so you could have his share,"

Everyone cued into Oracle's feed can hear noise from Robin's end, garbled and unintelligible, but he doesn't move.

"and, finally, Mr. Hancock. The /Third/. The rumors about what you've done are true. How many young men and women have you drugged and violated? Actually, no, don't answer that, it's hardly an appropriate conversation to have in polite company. We know your sins. All of you. You're not welcome in Gotham any longer. The city wants you /out/."

Out.

The speech is ended, pointedly, with the sound of five simultaneous gunshots. Five bodies slump to the ground.

Robin launches himself out from the bushes. Three shuriken imbed themselves in three of those still standing on stage, delivering an electro-shock that puts them down. Another is taken out as Robin collides with him head-on, and the last two are taken out with a sweep of his bo as he rolls back onto his feet. "No no no no," he says, back down on his knees in front of Christopher Dixon. "No! Wake up, dammit!"

He shakes Dixon, but there's no response beyond more blood gushing from the massive hole in his head.

Meanwhile, chaos erupts. People are screaming, running, knocking things over. The armed men and women attempt to regain control, but they're outnumbered six-to-one, now, and this is no longer a gala. It's a panicked mob.

"Four enroute to a weapons cache," Oracle tells Kate. "A fourth acting as look out. So, we'll call it five." She glances over to the speaker the SHIELD chatter's on, catching the CP alert.

She flips frequencies to break into Martin's conversation. "SHIELD, be advise, this is Oracle." He might have heard of her. Coulson probably submitted a memo about his last encounter with her, retrieving a downed satellite out in Sandy Hook. That, and if SHIELD keeps tabs on the JLA, the cyber-entity their latest addition. "I have four operatives on site. We will assist."

She then switches back to BoP frequency. "Let's just keep civilian casualties down to a minimum, Dragnet," Oracle tells the armour-suited fellow. "No gassing or tazing the civvies unless we have to. And remember, people. Non-lethal force, unless you're left with no other choice." She saw enough bloodshed in the Suicide Squad.

"I suspect you're right," she adds to Zinda.

And then Mr. Presenter executes his prisoners. Which, of course, was exactly what Oracle was afraid of. "Shit!" the normally well-composed digivoice loses her cool for a moment. "Take. Them. Down," she tells her operatives now. Gritted teeth. "Don't kill them, but take them down."

The four agents quickly move into the supply tent, after sneaking around, and finding the place, predictably deserted. "Let's go." Martin says, simply, as a cloth bag in the back is ripped open. Clothes are shedded, replaced by jackets and over-pants, changing how the team looked, and making sure that someone smart with a video camera wouldn't notice that the clothing the strike team that was about to hit them hard was wearing the same clothing as the four caterers who mysteriously disappeared. They're quickly zipping up tactical armor when Kavanuagh's finger goes to his ear. And he grimaces. He had read the brief, of course. And knew that he had precious little information on a information broker in his bailiwick who was obviously well tuned into /there/ frequencies. All and all, this night had been an embarassment.

<>

Oracle would, at that point, notice that what tap she had in SHIELD freqencies was being hunted for as fast as the techs back at wherever SHIELD's facility in this area was. They were attempting to find a leak and plug it, as SHIELD's frequncies start to change their rotations, moving in a different directions.

There's a brief pause, as armor is zipped up, balaclavas pulled over their heads, and weapons checked. "Sir. If they got this, we could pull out of here. Protocol in these situations is to disappear-"

She's cut off at the loud report of three gunshots. And then, after a second, Martin speaks up. "This has been a disgrace from minute one. We didn't see it start, we didn't see the other group, and we didn't know we've been hacked. We're professionals, and we're going to act like them." The charging handle on his M4 is pulled with a punctuating 'ka-KLACK'. "Focus on the caterers. I don't want any of them acting as puzzle pieces for whoever's in charge of this operation."

And with that, Martin is the first out of the tent, followed by the other three, moving in a tactical formation. The tent flap on one side is ripped open, the team moving fluidly through it, covering their corners, and huting for targets. When they spot them, there's perhaps one, or two silenced bursts of gunfire aimed for center mass. As per orders, they were hunting for the caterers. The people that they worked with. The people that had hired them. The people that knew things.

And unlike the people Oracle was directing, they had no such orders restricting the use of lethal force.

Okay. Gun. To be honest, Kate /hates/ guns. Sure she knows how to use them, buuuut...

But as Hawkeye ends up with one of the guns, she slips a pair of 'sunglasses' from her purse and slips them on.

"It's all right." is said towards Zinda as she shows that she has the 'guards' gun, before she also reaches down and rips her dress so that she can move a bit more easily.

Of course then those 'guests' are shot. As the out of costume archer's head snaps at the sound of those shots, and as she watches the bodies fall, her eyes go wide. That is before she leaps out, firing a trio of shots. There's a slight pause between each shot, but well...

They're aimed at the three closest armed goons that Kate can spot. On top of that, the shots are aimed at their knees, feet, or shoulders, so that /hopefully/ they're wounded and disarmed. but which spot that is aimed for depends on just where they are, and who's nearby, and where those others are located. After all, the last thing she wants to do is hit an innocent bystander.

"Viable alternative to letting them run around in a panic." Which they do. Yet still, the issue of the hostages being executed and the subsequent order forces a cold, cool exhale from Dragnet. "...Right." Shaking in his boots really, the armors biorythms registering his rather thorough level of shock. It really doesn't matter how many times he sees it, he's not completely hard. The armor allows him to do the job, it doesn't insulate him from the perils of it, the emotional fallout. The armor shimmers and fades out of camouflage as a burst of three gas canisters are fired eye, designed to arc over any intervening terrain and civilians. One goes high, merely coating the ground with a fine mist. Its one of the tradeoffs for potency and decreased lethality: If not caught in the initial rapid dispersal, the gas becomes inert. For the other two however, they catch the goons closest grouped together. Seven perhaps, at the most, followed by him rising and deploying the underslung dazzler. Blinding and disorienting as many as possible as he hisses. Apparently a few of the bullets that ensue catch him in the shoulder as he rose to fire off the 'lasers'. The nano-kevlar stops more than a bit of it, but he's going to feel it in the morning. Its going to be a long night....

Two people with guns start closing on her, and Gabby is starting to think about how much she screwed up this time. She knew somewhere deep down that her anger issues would be the end of her someday. But she never really felt it was worth dealing with them. If it happened, it happened. Besides, it was easier to blame others than to be introspective and work on self-improvement. But now, as she feels like something really bad is about to happen in the immediate future, she regrets a little bit at least not learning how to keep her mouth turned off when surrounded by people with automatic weapons. Then gun shots go off, and someone comes barreling out of the undergrowth (do garden plants count as undergrowth?) and starts kicking ass. Gabby's reaction time is pretty great, but going from regretting her own mistakes to gaining the motivation to act in a way other than getting out of dodge like she'd been planning to is more than just reaction time. It's also a feat of emotional change that isn't typical for her.

Seeing people executed in front of her is the catalyst she needed. Based on what the guy said, they weren't good people. But even if she cared about the fact she had only his word to go on, and no other evidence, she is angry enough about a variety of things that she puts that out of mind and puts it into her motivation to act. The two guards coming towards her previously? She could have attempted to do something towards them but instead she just takes off running, headed for the stage. Her typical fastest running speed exceeds Olympic records for sprinting. 50 mph. She doesn't get THAT high since there's lots of people in the way, but she gets enough momentum that she uses people, tables, and whatever else gets in her way as ramps and stairs for a highly acrobatic 'parkour'ish charge towards the stage, where she attempts to simply tackle the bald bleephead off the platform like a 4'8" human missile and -- if successful -- immediately start striking him in a number of sensitive places that show she is no stranger to advanced combat training herself, even before they hit the ground. Pressure points, throat, solar plexus, she even gets up just long enough to attempt to perform an elbow drop onto his crotch!

She doesn't know what's going on, she doesn't know who the jerk is, but she tries to lay down as much hurt on him as possible in as short a time as possible, and she doesn't even spare the breath or effort to swear. Why is she so enraged? She didn't know those people. They might have even been very bad people who could have avoided justice with their wealth. It's for selfish reasons that she's doing this. She has seen a lot of people die in front of her. People close to her, people she barely knew, complete strangers... She often couldn't do anything about it. Now she has the means and the opportunity. So she's taking it all out on this guy.

Lady Blackhawk winces, drawing her weapon just short of being able to stop any triggers from being pulled on-stage. She's seen enough people die ugly like that, that her attention is quickly drawn to Robin. "Oracle," she says, right before taking out a kneecap with one of her pistols. "I think Robin's in shock. I got four in between me an' him. If I can get to him, I'll pull him out, but-" she's cut off by the sound of crunching bones and grunting as she takes one of them on. "Make that three," she corrects, leaving a crumpled mess of unconscious goon on the ground.

"Robin!" she shouts. "You cannot do anything for that man. You got three choices right now. Fight, retreat, or die. Pick one of the first two." She's not sugar-coating it for him. She grabs another gunman by his coat and tosses him right into a SHIELD agent's view, fully expecting that authorized lethal force to take care of him for her. "Skipper, if I have to kill someone to keep that boy alive, I will." Equal parts warning and promise.

Check his pulse, check his pulse, check his- dammit, dammit, /nothing/. Robin gives Mr. Dixon another shake, but it's pointless. "Dammit," he mutters again, eyes squeezing shut briefly, but he's in the middle of an uncontrolled situation.

Robin looks up just in time to be kicked in the face by the speech-giver. He goes down, mouth bloody, but it gets adrenaline pumping through his system, wakes him /up/, and he's on his feet and on the move.

Mysterious Redhead has him covered, at least. No more than a second or two pass between Robin rolling away and her laying into his attacker.

Martin and his crew drop several of the gun-totting caterers as they make their way back through the tent. Kate takes out three more. Her shots are significantly less lethal.

Meanwhile, civilians start to drop left and right, caught in the mist of sleeping gas that rapidly covers half the garden before going inert. Lucky that none of the present vigilantes (or SHIELD agents) got caught in it. It leaves the area much easier to navigate so long as you're capable of stepping over unconscious bodies quickly, and it means Robin meets Lady Blackhawk halfway, delivering a strike to the throat that leaves a man in a SECURITY shirt gasping for air on the ground. "I'm fine," he says, only to throw her to the ground and dive down on top of her when Dragnet deploys his dazzler.

The lenses in his domino mask react to the sudden burst of light, momentarily dimming, and it means he's up on his feet and capable of seeing far more quickly than most others. He surveys the damage.

"Oracle, this is Robin. All hostile targets are neutralized. We need police and EMT on the scene."

The gardens are in ruins. Thousands upon thousands of dollars of rare, imported flowers and foliage have been ripped to shreds, thanks to bullets and human panic. People are dead. Others, seriously wounded. There are nearly two dozen men and women that need to be arrested and interrogated. Robin holds a hand up to his face to catch some of the blood. "What a mess," he says, quietly.