2013-03-02 Waterfront Mobsters

The woman of a million faces has been keeping an eye on their latest acquisition with particular interest. It isn't every day that one comes across a mutant that has both the urge to fight -and- the interest to tag along with people like Erik and Mystique. Such a treasure should be handled wisely, watched over and properly nurtured. That flame for revenge needs little fanning to grow, just a few gentle nudges in the proper direction should be all it takes for it to become a blazing inferno.

One which Mystique could control.

While Erik took over Olena for the last few days, Mystique has been keeping herself busy. Agents of the Brotherhood are everywhere, and so is she. In short order a variety of leads have turned up, one of them in particular looking both promising and entertaining. It's down at the Gotham Waterfront where the cluster of Russian mobsters can be found, shuffling cargo around from a recent oversea delivery. Anything from drugs to weapons to vehicles to people, both humans and mutants. When an organization has money and power it's of little consequence and great gain to dabble in new fields of imports.

Of course, she isn't about to handle this run by herself. Goodness, no! Little Olena still has much to prove of herself, much to show the others. It's a training run, success leading to better leads on her missing friend, failure leading to a bullet through the head, or worse.

It's here on the outskirts of a warehouse that she summons the younger mutant to, her normally blue skin blacked out so deep as to become one with the shadows, keeping her hidden as she watches. How they make this play is Olena's call. Mystique wants to see how she chooses to proceed.

Having helped Erik clean out the prison house that initially held her captive in New York (or, perhaps, had his help to do so -- depending on how you look at it), Olena finds herself actually eager to join Mystique in Gotham. Eager, yes. Foolhardy, no. She knows how close she came to death (or at least serious injury) a couple of times on her last mission. His power was a protective shield about her on several occasion, bullets flying as they were. It made her conscious of just how much about such assaults she really doesn't know.

Out here in the wilds of Gotham with Mystique, she's even more conscious of it. As fluidly as she, herself, moves, the metamorph moves even more so. It's little wonder, given Mystique's abilities and martial skill, honed over countless years of experience -- years and experience the 23-year-old erstwhile concentration camp prisoner lacks. Just yesterday she was reflecting on how perhaps learning a little hand-to-hand might be a good idea. She's made a mental note to ask Mystique about that. But, for now, lacking that training, she's more interested in finding a 'safe' way in and out.

Killing for a cause, she's fine with. Wiping all these bastards off the face of the Earth suits her just fine. But, it's not a pleasurable activity for her. It's a necessary one. And one she'd like to accomplish without a bullet through her vitals.

Olena, dressed head-to-toe in black, a bow and well-stocked quiver across her back, narrows her eyes as she watches the warehouse. Her senses stretch out, allowing her to discern subtle shadows and whispers of movement or voices.

"There are dogs," she reports presently. "And men." She points to a shadowed corner outside of the main swathe of security lights. "That is the clearest point of entry. And, I think if we can get onto that carport, I may be in better range to eliminate some of them."

Patrol routes, opposition, point of entry. All check out. Dogs are a slight annoyance, Mystique should have remembered to buy some raw hamburger on her way out here. It's an annoyance for her, but not a problem. It takes more than an acute sense of smell and a couple claws to stop her from reaching her goal.

Just ask Wolverine.

You're quick on your feet. Using a weapon made for a substantially less noisy kill. In from the side, a bit of vertical scaling, only one fence to hop. Should be fun.

"Our mutual companion no doubt taught you about the benefits of the iron fist," Mystique says in a low but silky smooth voice. "On such ventures, he is able to keep you from harm. I will offer you no such benefit. Rely upon your own skills, and do remember to leave a few of them alive for questioning. In that, I can be of service."

There's no question given, no 'are you ready for this?' Mystique simply begins the advance, little more than a shadow given life as she moves like a whisper toward the warehouse. Guns can be plenty entertaining, though tonight she's looking forward to getting her hands properly dirty. It's good for the humans to be reminded of what a proper mutant can do.

Time to play.

Somehow, Olena didn't expect much in terms of preamble. Mystique doesn't strike her as the sort to coddle. She had a coach like that, once. Not quite the shadow the metamorph is, she's still light on her feet, perceptive enough to note where the softer patches of earth are -- and thus the ones that will make less noise. Yes, she might leave more of a boot impression, but it's not wet enough for that to be a great concern.

She makes no verbal response to Mystique, merely following in her wake. Her own athletic skills are such, reawakened by all those chases through the city before that little matter was taken care of, that the obstacles in the way are no great impediment. No, she's no acrobat, but she can nevertheless hop a fence and scale a brick wall with the grace and speed of mountain goat on an easy slope. It doesn't take her too long to reach that carport she wanted.

Truthfully, she chose it quite purposely. It provides enough cover that, should they start shooting, she has a better chance of not getting shot. It also gives her enough play that she can snipe with silent missiles from above. Settling in the crux where the port meets the side of the building, she positions herself behind the security light. It will help conceal her, having the light shining away from her and into the eyes of her targets. She spares a glance to the rooftop above, pausing a moment to listen for the feet of sentries above or scent them on the wind, but no immediate sign of them comes to her. Thus, she is free, for now at least, to concentrate on the bastards in the yard.

She starts with a pair on the far edge, within range of her bow, but away from the main group. No sense alerting them all at once.

One shot. Two. A whisper of a buzz, a squishy *thokk*, and bodies crumple.

It's nice being able to guide others without them whining or constantly questioning her leadership, or what passes for it. Mystique prefers to work alone. With the new girl taking up position as a sniper, it keeps her free to do just that. Initially the same ground is covered between the two, almost step for step. The metamorph keeps up with ease, then simply disappears once more as she picks her own route.

One of the guards out on patrol cups a hand around a lighter and the front of a fresh cigarette, willing it to catch in the chilly evening wind. His attention isn't focused where it should be, his feet carrying him on the same circuit without the need for outside control. As he starts to round a corner his face gets introduced to a third foot, snapping beneath his chin briskly enough to make him bite the smoke in two, down and out before he knows what hits him.

Within the same motion Mystique flips back through the air and drops onto all fours, suddenly in the shape of a timber wolf with fangs bared and a growl rolling from its throat.

Dealing with canines can be easy. One simply need learn how to speak in their language. Territory is reclaimed by way of becoming the larger, nastier creature between the two.

As though nothing were amiss she steps around the corner and neatly plucks the fallen guard's slung rifle from his shoulder, tucking it across her own. Might come in handy. Now then, let's see about this warehouse.

Getting in past the dogs is one thing. Remembering to not be downwind of them, making sure not to put the scent of blood into the air... Different matters. Those arrows are shot cleanly, with purpose. Mystique gives the patrolling animals another fifteen seconds before they catch their first whiff of death. Maybe the dogs can't reach Olena's position up there but the guards won't have nearly as much trouble reaching it with automatic fire.

Olena can see the dogs, but the men and their guns are a greater threat. She tracks Mystique's movement with one part of her attention, to be sure she doesn't accidentally skewer her, but focuses her attention on the other outlying guards. There are more men inside the building. They can be kept for questioning. The ones outside need to be eliminated before they can get off any shots. And, to be fair, there aren't that many of them on this side of the building.

By the time she's loosed her fourth arrow from this spot, however, the men are beginning to clue in to what's happening... and the likely direction of the projectiles. They shout to one another in Russian, drawing guns and running for cover. Olena drops a 5th while he's half-way into his crouch, but loses the 6th behind a pile of crates. She pulls back from the edge and retreats to the rear of the carport roof, to make a run along the wall. Using her momentum, she manages to slide up onto the roof and roll behind an A/C unit as the first shots ring out.

It was only a matter of time. Isn't it always the case? Another guard drops as nothing more than a dead weight as his head gets twisted with a vicious roll of Mystique's arms. No sooner than when his face hits the ground, she's become him.

Now's when she plays the part of interference.

"Vy idioty, kto-to slomal v! Smotret' zapadnyy vkhod!" //You idiots, someone's broken in! Watch the west entrance!//

The dogs want to go one way. The guards, thanks to the resident shapechanger, want to go another way. Silly them, they're still willing to believe one of their comrades in arms than a furry beast on a leash. There's some confusion amongst their numbers, those that have seen the arrows and are narrowing down Olena's position and those that are accepting a complete and utter lie. It makes things that much more interesting. Happy hunting, Olena.

A moment later and one of the warehouse doors flies open with enough force to throw another guard back to the floor, a grizzled Russian man stepping in and grinning down to the floored sentry with a flash of yellow eyes. "Pereryv." //Break time.// In a literal sense, as a size twelve combat boot drops onto his head.

The warehouse itself contains some fascinating offerings from across the globe, including Russian and German ordnance, Italian exotic cars, Cuban cigars, and an entire pharmacy full of assorted narcotics. Quite a nice haul, though vastly short on manpower. Everyone wants to save a buck these days.

One of those cars, though... "Can I get one in red?" Mystique rhetorically asks, an amused grin edging across her True Blue face.

Tracking Mystique now becomes more a matter of seeing which Russian is killing his comrades, than anything else. Olena shifts her position and starts loosing more arrows. Her priority is taking out the more intelligent of the group -- i.e. those that have figured out where she's firing from. True, the angle of her projectiles has changed, now, what with the extra 8' of height and slightly different flight path, but there's no mistaking which corner of the building the arrows are coming from.

The brightest among them have even figured out that anyone stupid enough to put themselves within the archer's vision is ending up pin cushioned. One goes so far as to pull his buddy down, when the fellow rises half up out of his crouch to raise his gun. His buddy screams, nonetheless, when the long black shaft of an arrow pierces his hand, his gun clattering uselessly onto the ground.

Aside from those two, Olena drops the last of the external guards with another pair of well-placed shots and then spares a couple of shafts for the dogs. By now, she's gone through close to half her amunition -- the one draw back of a bow. So, it's a good thing the fight has started to move inside.

And that she learned to fire a gun in the back woods of Ukraine.

She swings down from the roof, back to the carport, moving fast and low, keeping her eye on the last remaining outside gunman. Thus far, he's concentrating on wrapping his buddy's hand, but that won't last. She nocks an arrow on her string and finds the best vantage she can to take him out.

How's our little mystery archer doing? Quite splendidly, as it turns out. Mystique's got a good eye on the skirmish, witnessing the exchange between two under-paid men and one woman with a personal vendetta. Sure, she could intervene. Bring out the rifle, take two shots (or four, their accuracy tends to leave a little something to be desired,) and it would all be over.

No need, though. Olena's got this. Besides, Mystique is the one that found this place. She tracked down the intel, this is the other mutant's fight! Free entertainment is free entertainment.

With the occasional snap of gunfire slamming through the thin metal warehouse walls she glides the tips of her fingers across the carbon fiber shell of a lovely looking Ferrari, not particularly concerned about the fighting as she looks into the interior with a frown of disgust. "Tan. Why do they still insist on doing such a thing?"

"Chto, chert voz'mi?!" another yells out. //What the hell are you?!//

It's answered by a shard of what looks like bone being flung through the air, sinking into the man's forehead with a meaty crunch. The blue woman's response is simple, but filled with malice. "Evolved."

Thus far the bodycount has reached an impressive number within minutes. She's been taking notes along the way. Olena's desire to kill is strong, at least within this situation. All for a friend? Then the Brotherhood must become such a friend. Loyalty such as this cannot be bought nor bartered for, it must be grown naturally. The downside, of course, is that she's on a complete warpath. Dead men give less information. This time it's of little consequence, Mystique made sure that there would be some left breathing.

Speaking of, she should probably go round up a few of them. The other woman's doing just fine out there.

Olena fires. The last hale man goes down, arrow through his eye. His buddy yelps in surprise and scrambles with his good hand for a gun. His throat is quilled seconds later and Olena lands with a soft thump and a roll on the ground to follow Mystique toward the building's side entrance. Her bow is at the ready, but, having heard Mystique's earlier warning, she doesn't really want to kill all of them. Someone needs to tell her where Tetyana is, after all.

Thus, she moves between the cars, watching for any surprises, but expecting few -- given the couple bodies already in evidence.

In the end, three sentries are rounded together inside of the warehouse. They're still out, though not for much longer. Mystique, in her red-haired, blue-skinned, yellow-eyed glory, stands beside the other mutant with a look of idle amusement about her. She pulls a folding blade off of a belt (gods know where any of it came from) and flicks the blade open with an affirmative mechanical click.

"Watch closely and learn, child. This is how we extract information from those who stand in our way."

There are times when she might happen to enjoy her work just a little too much.

Olena's dark gaze flicks to Mystique and then to the men, and finally to the blade. Oh. Oh, this is not going to go well for them. The younger mutant can tell that already. She'd likely have more sympathy if men like this hadn't stuffed her in a sense-dep chamber everytime they got cranky just for the amusement value. So, while she's no where near as callously bloodthirsty as her companion, she's not nearly as squeamish as she probably should be. Cold revenge does that.

So, needless to say, these men are in for a very, very bad night. Ah, well. Such are the vagaries of life, sometimes. You win some; you lose some. Tonight, Olena wins. They lose.

Sucks to be them.