2012-07-28 Daddy Bags and Bent Pistols

The subway system in Brooklyn is infamous for the amount of people that pour through it hourly on their way to where ever it is they go. But not all platforms are created equal, as if they were all just packed with people doing what they do. Some of them are empty. Well, mostly empty. These are the platforms where other sorts of people gather and things happen. Like tonight when it's used to pass a crate from one group of people to another. Stonewall stands at the bottom of the stairs, his back towards the exit above him his eyes on the crate. Hired muscle... He's been doing to good a job as of late and it's been moving him up the scale, which is not what he wanted. Like this deal, it's a little bit more high profile then he desired. Crates. Nothing good is ever passed around in crates.

No, nothing good is ever passed around in crates. That's why, when the Phantom caught wind of it thanks to Devil doing a bit of exploring, he decided to get involved. Unfortunately, the only way to really know what's going on is to get close, which he can't do--until he puts on a trench coat and fedora. Both are a bit ratty, but they serve their purposes. The trench coat is loosely tied around him, the fedora pulled low over his face. Only a bit of tanned chin should be seen, especially in the dull light of the subway platform. He walks up along the tracks as if he knows right where he's going--not too fast, not too slow, hands in the pockets of the coat. The men should see him almost instantly--but that's just fine.

And see him they do, but most of them are thugs, maybe one or two are actually intelligent, but for the most part there's nothing there upstairs. They see fedora, ratty coat, homeless guy wandering the tunnels as they are want to do. "Hey old man, get the fuck on." says one of the thugs, turning so that the small automatic weapon he carries can be seen. The words draw Stonewall's attention and a quirked brow.

And the Phantom just stops, there, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. "Come on, now, boys," he says, "don't be like that. Surely you roughnecks won't throw a hissy just because a friend and I decided to wander through, eh?" He'll let them worry about who his friend might be for a moment. Right now, he's trying to keep them from thinking he's anything but a homeless man who might be a little out of his gourd. He stands with feet apart, but otherwise looking casual, maybe even relaxed--even if he's keeping his head bowed, so only his chin and mouth might be seen.

Roughnecks? Like... the guys that work oil rigs? Stonewall saw that Armageddon movie before, he's pretty sure that's what they're called. He looks back up the stairs behind him, then around the platform. Nothing. "Slide." he says to the guy nearest the crate, the one carrying on a conversation with another man, this one far better dressed, with a metal mask over his face. 'Slide' glances behind him, frowns, "Deal with it." Jerry nods and heads towards the tracks motioning another man to take his place.

As the man approaches, the Phantom doesn't do anything. When Jerry gets about three yards away, there's a low growl that rumbles in the shadows behind the Phantom, and a grey wolf steps partway into the light. "Oh, I'd rethink this, if I were you, chum," says the Phantom, lifting his head--so the man can see the black mask with its pale white eyes. A beat--then the Phantom breaks into a run, shedding the coat and hat as he races to a pillar. Devil snarls and charges to leap at Jerry, trying to knock him down and grab onto the man's arm with his teeth so he'll drop the gun.

Stonewall frowns at the man, the gun he pulls from his pants is to him almost useless, but it's good for intimid... was that a growl? A mask? Shit. "Heat!" Jerry bellows, with shocking volume as the wolf leaps out of the darkness at him. He's not worried about the wolf, it is after all just a dog to him, and he's bulletproof. Still... no one else knows that and he'd like to keep it that way. He drops the useless gun and reaches out with a meaty fist to grab a handful of fur near the animal's throat. "Sorry poochie." he says, "But you don't want to bite me." cause it would be like gnawing on a car bumper, worse for the wolf then the man. Still, he falls back with the wolf atop him, careful to keep from falling on the creature. He likes animals, no need to kill one if he can avoid it.

There's a soft bark of confusion as Devil's jaws close around what might as well be a steel tube--and then he's suddenly grabbed by the throat. He struggles as any wolf would, trying to snarl and buck and kick. The Phantom unfastens his holsters and withdraws his two semi-automatic pistols as he presses his back to a wall. A brow arches and he grits his teeth as he sees what Devil is dealing with. Oh, crud. Not on his watch, dang it. He takes careful aim, then shoots a single bullet at the man's knee, trying maim him--or hopefully at least distract him. Come after the guy in the purple costume, not the wolf, dang it.

Stonewall is 'wrestling' with the wolf, which mostly involves him rolling around and trying hard not to hurt the animal. He's not that great an actor, but luckily the wolf, the gun shot, and the guy in purple have set other things in motion. Like thugs with automatic weapons. Meanwhile Stonewall barely feels the bullet smacking into his knee and ripping his jeans, but he feels it enough to know what's about to happen. Crap. He grips the wolf's throat in his hand and pulls its face in close to his own, his lips pulling back to show barred teeth. His turn to growl. Then he thumps the wolf on the nose soundly with a finger, "Stay out of it poochie." he growls as with a surge he tries to toss the wolf aside as lightly as he can to buy himself some space. Just as he clears the wolves the thugs get their heads in the games and the sharp crack of gunfire echoes in the concrete train platform.

When Devil goes flying, that makes the Phantom let loose a snarl of his own. No one hurts Devil and gets away with it. He breaks cover, thrusting his arm out to fire at the other men's feet and buy him some time to get across. His left hand holsters the weapon, snapping the case shut as he awkwardly crouches to grab the stunned Devil. He'll slide behind the other wall, releasing the gun's empty clip with one hand while he sets Devil against the wall. Okay, he was ready to play nice before, but now--these jerks are going to pay. "You made the wrong choice, chums!" he calls out as he fishes a clip from the inside of his belt at the small of his back. Slamming the clip in, he retrieves the other weapon and takes a breath to center himself, ignoring the aches of his body where their bullets had torn through the Kevlar weave and dug into his body. Those can be tended to later.

The bullets are fired with reckless abandon now, not a concern for Stonewall really, but it's still annoying. It's a concrete room and the bullets ricochet, they shatter and shrapnel sprays around, filling the air with tiny bits of lead. The bullets specking off the ground in front of Jerry force him back, making him pick a column to stand behind, "GO GO GO!" he bellows at the other men, who are ushering their respective bosses out through whatever exit is nearest. Two of the men are trying to move the crate with little success.

A bullet hits the corner of the wall just inches from the Phantom's head--and that's when he moves. Dashing out like lightning, he grits his teeth and runs right at the men, firing all the while. But not firing blindly, oh no. Each shot is taken and executed carefully--aimed at kneecaps, feet--and a few aimed at those boxes, specifically their lids. Nothing good can be in them, and so he's going to make them hopefully think twice about trying to go anywhere near them. Unfortunately, this means that enough bullets find /him/, too, even the wild ones. One splits his side, and just before he thinks he'll get off Scot-free (relatively speaking) another homes in right on his thigh. Only the costume prevents it from burying in too deeply. Still hurts like heck, and there's going to be more than a little internal bleeding. And then there's the bullet that hits him in the chest, making him stagger and lose his breath. That one slipped through where the costume is thinnest for mobility--he'll have to have it dug out later, but that's not something he can worry about right now.

Stonewall's teeth grind as he watches men go down, grabbing knees and ankles, a couple of shoulders, the bullets driving them back from the crates. This is not going like it was supposed to. He steps out from behind the pillar he was using as cover, just in time to see the man in purple stagger. That's his opening. "Get the crates!" he says to the few men still standing, "He's mine!" his hand snapping out in an attempt to get a fistful of the other man's uniform so he can hurl the hero down towards the tracks and away from the platform where the few thugs remain.

"Oh, crumbs..." mutters the Phantom as he's grabbed and hoisted up. Being skin-tight, there really isn't a "fistful of costume" to grab, as much as a "fistful of man beneath the costume"--and that /hurts/. A /lot/. All he can do as he's chucked around like a rag doll is cover his head with his arms--and when he crashes into a wall, he groans loudly as he slides to a heap. He hacks out a not-insignificant amount of blood--if the bullet didn't really hurt something, that slam sure as heck did. He's dazed, sitting in a heap as blood trickles down his uniform--and can only weakly utter a "No..." as Devil shakes himself and starts charging right at one of the men with a crate--mainly just because he's the closest one. He's not going to pull any punches. The plan, such as it is, is that since the man's legs are spread enough to lift the crate, hopefully the wolf can latch right onto the dangly part of the man's anatomy and bring him down. No more mister nice wolf.

That's okay, because a trained dog is a loyal dog in Stonewall's experience. He leaps down into the tunnel after the Phantom, landing on either side of the man with a thud that shakes the ground beneath him. "Call the dog off." he says firmly, staring down at the purple man, "Call the dog off and go." he says as he leans down into the Phantom's face. "Quickly."

Unfortunately, even with all the training the Phantom has had in his life, quitting hasn't ever been a part of it. "'Fraid not, pal," he says, grinning up at the rather large and, admittedly, scary man. "You think he listens to me?" Of course, asking that question was just misdirection, so he could aim his arms between the man's legs and flicks both of his wrists back, making panels on the outer sides of the gauntlets pop open and shoot out small grappling hooks. They latch onto the far wall, and another flick of both wrists starts to pull him quickly through the man's legs.

Stonewall blinks when the purple guy zips out from beneath his legs and he frowns, turns. "Fine." he takes one step and leaps, the jump carrying him through the air until he lands back where they started, right next to the crate where the poor man is mauled and grabbing his junk. He eyes the crate, "I'll take it myself then."

The slide across the tracks is not exactly pleasant; it jars the already-throbbing wounds that the Phantom has to deal with. When he he stops, next to the actual platform, he hauls himself to his feet as the grappling hooks and lines retract into the gauntlet. This evening really need to end, he thinks to himself as he holsters his left-hand weapon. At least he didn't drop his guns; /that/ would have been just perfect. Devil jumps as the large man lands, skittering back and growling lowly, hackles raised. The Phantom aims his other gun at the crate, gritting his teeth and trying to not let the pain show. "You leave the crates, you can go," he says lowly. "I don't know what's in them, and I don't much care, but you make a move toward them or me, and I'll fill all of them with lead."

Stonewall pauses and turns to face the Phantom, "Go ahead." he says as he bends over and tosses one up on his shoulder lightly, "I'm pretty sure I can survive what happens when you do. You and the poochie?" he eyes the wolf and shakes his head, "Not so much." he looks around the room, "You stopped the deal, took some guys off the street." he look back to Kit, "Call this one a win. Walk away. Nurse your wounds. Save someone tomorrow."

"Can't do that, chum," says the Phantom, brows knitting together. "Can't let you walk away with whatever's in these rates, but what I /can/ do is stand here. See, I don't mind the stalemate--because it really isn't a stalemate.  Devil, here, will be going to get the police." And at that, he turns his head a little to look at the wolf--but not so much as to remove his attention from the large man. Devil huffs softly, but turns to start racing up the steps, keeping low so he can avoid being grabbed if anyone is actually going to try and grab an angered wolf.

Stonewall sighs heavily, "Yeah, that's because you see this as a stalemate. It's not." he turns to start walking towards the stairs, "The difference between us is that you can be hurt mister, me?" he shrugs, "I'm a stone wall. Besides, I'm betting you don't want to destroy art just to get back at a few thugs. Art can't be replaced."

And the Phantom really isn't going to just take this guy's word for it. Unfortunately, nowhere in the Phantom's arsenal is anything like a rocket launcher. That'd be nice, though. So, he does the nest best thing--he starts shooting. He doesn't shoot blindly, nor does he shoot right in the center. He shoots along the bottom edge, so even if this brute doesn't drop it, he should make the bottom splinter open enough to make its contents drop right out.

The box splinters and chips under the quick barrage of bullets, the bottom of it coming apart. Stonewall reaches out as he feels the weight of the box shift but he only grabs handfuls of straw as a pair of perfect ceramic vases spill out of the crate and shatter on the floor of the subway platform. Jerry sighs and dusts his hands off, flicking the straw away, "Good one. I'll be sure the word gets out that you're not an art lover." he turns eyes on the Phantom that are oddly disappointed, "You're supposed to be a hero man, have more faith in people." he looks at the ruined bits and and once more turns for the stairs, "Fuck it. Not a fan of flowers anyway."

...well, crud. Brows lift over the mask, and the Phantom is actually surprised. It just figures that this yahoo would be the first thug to be actually telling the truth. At least that's one less thing this guy is getting, and there are the other crates, besides. "Do it," he calls after the man. "And tell them that the Man who Cannot Die doesn't give up. Even for flowers." Now, if only Devil would hurry the heck back with the police. Too much longer, and the Phantom is going to prove that that little nickname isn't completely accurate. And yet he manages to hold his gun steady, pointed at the departing Stonewall. Not so much because he actually thinks a bullet will work--but it's the visual effect. Standing there, dripping blood, yet perfectly calm and without shaking even in the slightest. Though--hopefully this guy actually does take his leave. The Phantom can't hold this forever.

Stonewall shakes his head as he walks up the stairs calmly, "Never said you should give up, just escape. There's a difference." the man walks up the stairs with towards the surface of the street with a slow and steady pace. He's not worried about being shot after all, and Phantom's in no condition to chase him down and make a fight of it.

Meanwhile, on the street above, a handful of thugs have spilled out from the inoften-used stairs to the equally-inoften-used subway platform. One of which is holding his quite bloody gentleman's area and grimacing quite painfully. They're trying to hurry away from the scene, though the one holding himself is grumbling about a damned purple-suited asshole and his stupid dog. At that moment, down below, the Phantom--blooding from more than a few spots, including the corners of his mouth, his holding his semi-automatic handgun in his right hand, aiming it steadily at Stonewall. He's in a world of pain thanks to this yahoo, but he's not going to show it. He waits until the man is out of sight, on the street--then collapses, kneeling next to another crate. He really wishes he could just pass out--but he can't, not here.

Her rather high priced car skidding to a halt, Heather shakes her head as she steps out of the driver's door, "Um, I gotta go." she remarks into her phone absently as people start running away from the scene... except for those crazy (or stupid) enough to want to get a good look at what's going on. "I'll call you back." says Heather as she hangs up her phone and tossing her phone into the car's front seat and shutting the door. "Well, someone's gotta do -something-." she mutters, as if to nobody else as she starts stalking forward. "Alright you losers! Everyone stop right now! I don't know who the hell you all think you are, but this is -not- how you win friends and influence people!" Yes, she's making herself the spotlight, and likely a target. "Drop your weapons before I smack you around and make you scream like girls!" she adds.

=
==============================================================

Heather

A young woman in the prime of youth and beauty. She is, at five feet nine inches tall, the picture of Nordic Beauty itself. Her flawless skin holds to its satin smoothness a touch of gold, enough to indicate that she spends time out in the sun, and the dust of rose at her cheeks is an evident sign of good health. Obviously in her late teens, her beauty has recently come into full swing. Her limbs are long and toned, looking as though they must lean more to grace than strength, but that she nonetheless takes care of herself. Honey blonde hair, clearly natural, falls in a silken mass halfway to her waist, kept mildly long. Her face is that of an angel, with huge cobalt blue eyes that seem to reflect an innocent, trusting nature and a big heart. Gilded lashes frame those eyes, beneath slender, arching brows of honey-gold, the same shade as her lustrous hair. Her lips, full and soft, are almost always curved up into a welcoming smile, one that at times seems as though it could charm the birds from the very air. Working upwards from the feet, we find a pair of what appear to be black leather boots with just a low heel. The tops of these boots may go up the calf, but they vanish into the legs of a pair of bluejeans that appear to be almost the acid-washed coloration. Some of the jeans are dark blue, but most of them are faded. At spots it appears that they're almost worn through such as on the left knee, and just below the backside on the right hand side. There are just threads of the fabric left at both places and some flesh tones can be seen through this. At the top they are low-riding hip huggers of course, showing off the black straps of a thong on the hips with little red bows on either side. Her top shows a little of her muscular abs with a tapered point that ends right above the little silver buckle of the belt she wears. The top is basically a tanktop/halter top combo that rides loose over the stomach but tight on the chest. In the back it is just straps connecting across the midback like a bikini top, and straps that goes from beneath the arms up and over the same side shoulder. The top is a matte black in color with the dark color setting off her otherwise bright hair and golden flesh. No text is written on this shirt, just a solid black piece in the front. Last but not least, her nails are done in red that matches the gloss on her lips.

=
==============================================================

Stonewall is the last one out of the tunnel, mostly because he's in no great hurry to get to where he's going. He pauses there in the opening, eyeing the area. The bosses got out first, they're already gone, he knows because he can't see the cars... huh. He can see a screamy mean hot chick though. He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns to walk in the direction she's not. Pay no attention to him. He's only a seven foot tall mound of muscle in a torn shirt and jeans. Pay noooo attention.

Down below, the Phantom can just barely hear the woman. Okay... Hopefully this is another actual heroic-type-person, since so many seem to live in these three cities, but if not...  With a low groan, he grabs the edge of the crate and pulls himself to his feet, grimacing as his chest explodes in fire. Just wonderful. He holsters his right weapon and snaps it shut, then limps to the stairs and begins the arduous climb. He's really, /really/ hoping it's someone who knows what the heck they're doing; he's pretty sure he won't be easily able to rescue anyone in the near future--including himself.

The thugs pause upon exiting, the few that were injured enough to be slowed, but not slow enough to still be unconscious beneath the street, eye the woman yelling at them. Then they look past her. Ooo. Car. "Bitch please." one of them says as he helps one of his friends to his feet. A small hand held automatic weapon is pointed at Heather. Meanwhile more then a few of the thugs are scattering in different directions. There was gun play, which means the cops will be here shortly, they're not sticking around.

Leaning her head a bit, Heather snorts, "You get to be the bitch." she offers as she simply raises a hand and plants it palm first upon the weapon's muzzle. She's pulling a Crow here... and she fully expects the guy to fire which will blast right through her hand. When that happens, she has a different reaction than most might find normal. Sure, it hurts like hell, but she's learned to deal with pain. She just brings up her knee and goes for -this- guy's Daddy Bags. Not full strength, after all.. she is superhumanly strong and doesn't want walnuts coming out of the guy's mouth. She just does that and calls out, "Hey losers! Running away from a girl huh? Yeah, that's gonna help your street rep!" Even as the wound right through her hand mostly closes up.

At the top of the steps, the Phantom emerges just in time to see the gun fire right through the woman's hand. Eyes widen, marked by the way his eyebrows lift above the mask, and his jaw actually drops. "Holy crud..." he mutters, leaning against the wall of the entrance. He has to hug his left arm to his body, to keep the pain closer to merely excruciating, as he's come to realize that his collar bone is at least chipped, if not fractured. It doesn't feel shattered, and he does know what /that/ feels like. At least he doesn't have to rescue her--though he does realize that, in a very real sense, she's the one rescuing /him/. Right now--he's not going to complain.

The gun does fire. Quickly and repeatedly, blasting the majority of her hand away in a spray of blood and bone. Of course that stops when the gun falls from his limp hand as pain explodes across his face. The gunfire draws Stonewall's gaze just in time for him to see the kick and his face crunch up in sympathy. "ouch." he says quietly under his breath. Holy shit that must of hurt. Then she bandies about her insults and he turns to go again. Insults don't bother him... of course that's when Purple Guy makes an appearance at the tunnel. "Fantastic." he mutters. A few of the thugs though, they stop and turn to eye Heather, guns coming up. At least these guys are wise enough to keep their distance.

Thugs... well they're not attacking anyone. Heather's concern was that bystanders would be getting hurt. The only guy she struck pointed a gun at her, so that was justified. But just because someone dresses like a thug doesn't mean she has the right to just go beat'em to a pulp. Her eyes traverse the area and then flicker back down the stairs and they widen there. Stonewall might be big, but he blends into the area. Captain Purple Spandex stands out like an out of sync Rockette. She whirls and heads towards the wounded guy, eyeing the skull motif and the weapons even though they're holstered. "Okay look." she says, trying to reason with the guy as the pain fades from her hand. It's mostly healed by now... "Seriously, I don't care who had a problem with what. Give me the weapon, and we'll get you some medical attention." She holds out... well, her uninjured hand here.

As for the Phantom, he realizes that he's getting out of his depth--but that knowledge doesn't make him want to give up. After spitting out a not-insignificant wad of blood, he pushes off from the wall and summons his inner strength--only to find he doesn't have a whole lot left. Great. Still, he takes a breath, grimacing a bit from the intense pain the action causes to radiate through his chest, and removes the weapon on his right hip. The gun drawn, it gets aimed at Stonewall, and he calls to the woman, "This one's the one to focus on!" And to prove his point, he shoots--at the back of Stonewall's knee. On the very unlikely chance that he was lying /this/ time, and he's not invulnerable, he'll prove to the heroine that this guy's the one for her to focus her rather considerable physical talents on.

Whump. The bullet hits Jerry's knee and disappears. Of course no one else can see that it flattened out and fell down the inside of his pant leg to end up in his shoe. Jerry doesn't even stop walking. Nope. All these guns, spandex, cops are /bound/ to show up, and he knows his gig, it's 'don't get arrested'. The thugs were already moving away, but when the shooting starts once more, they give up trying to blend in even a little and break for full out runs. Stonewall... just keeps walking. Pay noooo attention to him. Nope. He's just a guy. On a stroll. He would attempt an innocent whistle but he's never seen that work so he keeps his trap shut.

"That's enough of that mister!" exclaims Heather as she reaches out to try to take the gun away from the purple guy. She uses her mostly healed hand for it, in hopes that the blood and gore of it all might make the guy recoil and let go of the gun. She doesn't grab it in time to stop the shot, but she will do so right afterwards, placing herself in the line of fire as well. "Why don't you try telling me what happened?" she asks. "And if he's bulletproof, you're just endangering civilians with ricochets, if he's not, then you're shooting a man who may or may not be a bad guy."

No grabbing the gun from the Phantom. Were he whole, he'd have jerked his hand away before she could touch it. As it is, he has to engage in a tug-of-war for his own gun. He narrows his eyes at the woman, saying, "Let. Go. Of. The gun." At least he's not going to shoot her with it, though he's not letting go, either, so either she has to break his hand to get it, or she's going to let go. And a few blocks over, two police cars screech around the corner, chasing a grey wolf who runs along the sidewalk, full-speed back to the scene of the little debacle.

Stonewall glances over his shoulder at the tug of war breaking out between the two people, and he can't help a little smirk. Bright purple spandex with a skull motif... and how is anyone supposed to not think he's the bad guy? Stonewall's hands dig a little deeper into his pockets as he rounds a corner himself, the sound of sirens causing him to pick his step up a bit. Man.... Ettson's going to be /pissed/ he didn't get his silly pottery. PISSED.

Inclining her head as she's told what to do by a skull motiff man in a mask with... a... gun. Heather shrugs, squeezes her hand down tight and bends the front of the pistol's barrel about thirty degrees upward. Then she lets go. "There." she remarks. "Now, are you ready to -talk-? In your wounded state, I think you'd be rather hard pressed to right anyone, especially me." She folds her arms over her chest, the left hand fully healed, just with some blood still on it. She eyes the big guy and then looks back to The Phantom. "Cops'll be here any moment. They're.." she looks over that way and raises a brow, "Following Rin Tin Tin apparently."

"...crap," mutters the Phantom, which is closer to cursing than he's ever gotten before. He looks at his gun--his custom-made, in-no-way-replaceable gun--then looks back to her, jaw wide open He can't just call up Guran and have him ship a new one. Custom-made! There really is nothing he can think to say to this--woman--that wouldn't be very disrespectful in every possible way, so he chooses to say nothing. Though she doesn't have to be telepathic, or even empathic, to sense the vibes of disbelief mixed with, yes, anger radiating from him. He doesn't even look at the approaching grey wolf, racing ahead of the police just fast enough to not be stopped by them, but slowly enough to make sure they follow him. Nope, the Phantom doesn't even look in that direction. For that brief moment, he's even forgotten about his wounds. All he can think about is how his custom-made gun got trashed by what amounts to a glorified civilian.

A half block away Stonewall gathers himself and leaps up, gripping the roof of a building and hauling himself over the edge. Then he starts to run. Cut across a few roofs, hop over some fences, then back to street level. Dog can't track him if he does that... at least, that's what he thinks he remembers from MacGuyver reruns. Either way, this day was a bust. "Shit." Jerry just then realizes... he didn't get paid up front. It was an on delivery job. Figures.

Seeing that reaction, and feeling the waves of seething anger coming from The Phantom, Heather shrugs, "Okay, don't talk to me. I bet you'll enjoy talking to them less." and as she says 'them', she blows a kiss towards Phantom and steps back, gesturing to the big purple people eater as she reaches slowly into a pocket for her ID. "Don't worry officers, that handgun is disabled. He's got another one holstered, but don't freak out if the broken thing points your way." She's remarkably calm, and holds her ID up. It's not a badge or anything, but she -is- a licensed bodyguard, and one who was just in the Daily Bugle for testifying against her former employers. She might have a wee bit of street credit with the cops at the moment. But she does catch sight of the movement of that jump and raises a brow... at that, she quotes Christian Slater in Robin Hood, "F*** me, he cleared it."

Something tells the Phantom that using his now-destroyed--and custom-made!--handgun as a club on the woman would be too disrespectful. It is /mighty/ tempting, however. Mighty tempting indeed. His left eye even twitches twice, noted by the very slight way his left eyebrow twitches. Just--no. She's not worth it. More importantly, the fact that she'd probably just break his--custom-made!--gun even more with her head just means it wouldn't even be /satisfying/. Emitting as soft snort, he turns to the police as they get out of their vehicles. "There was a large man, approximately six-foot-ten or -eleven, well over three hundred and forty pounds, bald, with tanned skin. He and his compatriots--some of which are these gentlemen here--were attempting to steal artwork, amongst other things.  Those items are down on the subway platform." And with that, he--blatantly ignoring the blonde--turns to start running. Let the police chase him. Unless they can Parkour their way up a wall or run faster than a wolf going at full speed, both will lose them. That aside, the police deal with other costumed sorts often enough, he figures.

"Well, he moves pretty good for a f***ed up guy." mutters Heather. If the police actually take direction from him, she raises a brow. "Great... why didn't you just say that the first three times I asked you to explain?!" she calls out after the guy. She's not a Parkour sort, but that could be fun to learn someday. Instead, she just shrugs to the police and gestures at the thug on the ground with the TEC-9 lying a few feet from him. "Might wanna see if that one needs medical attention. Nuts and Knees are a bad combination I'm told."

The police watch the pair disappear, the human dodge into an alley and kick-jump his way to a fire escape, the wolf booking it down the street to turn down another alley in the opposite direction. They don't get paid enough to try and keep up with a guy in a bright costume and a /wolf/. These costumed sorts always--/always/--make writing their reports hell. It must be insane in a place like Gotham, so there's that. Two of the officers go to the thugs on the ground, checking pulses after kicking weapons away. The other pair look to each other, then at the blonde. This is going to be a long night. One gets out a notepad and approaches with a little caution, the other hanging back just in case. She's acting like she's not going to give a fight, but one can never be too careful.

Shaking her head, Heather gives her statement, giving detailed accounting of whatever she saw. Then when they ask about the purple guy's gun, she pauses and remarks, "Well, I don't know what kind of weapon it was. IT -had- to have been a Custom made job. I bet he's really pissed about that." And then she turns and heads back to her car after the interviews are finished.

((Fade Out))