2012-09-21 The Wardens - Pt. 3

Under a low, grey sky in the hours before dawn at the Gotham City Docks, an African freighter is being unloaded under the massive cranes that rumble through the night and into the day. A soft, white mist rolls over the black waters of the bay, seeping up over the docks and creeping through the the maze of shipping containers until everything is obscured and muffled in the damp blanket.

Longshoremen and dock workers are nothing but dense shadows in the mist, the lights of haulers, forklifts, and other machinery glow like Christmas light. Before the sun clears the vague line of the horizon, off-license bars and speakeasies all along the waterfront are pitching out the last of their patrons--sometimes literally. Once in a while, the perceptive can hear a certain hollow splash that marks nothing less than a body being discreetly rolled into the bay.

Deep in the container maze, awaiting clearance through customs, are a series of containers from a small island--though what exactly is being exported is unclear. Whatever it is, perhaps making it wait so long was sub-optimal. The sides of the containers are beginning to glow. At first, it's simply a spot of red light the size of a palm on every container. Each spot grows, darkening as the metal melts away to leave a gaping hole rimmed with hot, molten steel.

The first night back in Gotham from the Big Apple and she's out at the harbor, Catwoman too restless to stay home despite only really just having arrived back in the city she loves as much as she sometimes hates. Still faintly sore from her run-in with the mystery kid and his batarangs, the manner in which she arrives is unconventional for her. It's her motorcycle that she uses to get to the docks, the engine rumbling as she hits the edge of where the waterfront is, it then powered off, parked in a shadowy alley, leaving her have to finish her trek on foot. Anything interesting that's happening is missed so far but with how swift she's moving it's probably safe to assume that it won't take long before she does.

Once more: Pete's feeling the grip of existential angst, and since he steadfastly refuses to become involved with mutant paramilitary organizations, he's gone once more into Gotham to drink his problems away. He really should've learned by now that that's just a big damn mistake, every time.

Right now, the practically self-parodying mutant spook has just gotten himself thrown out of an off-license and is nursing a black eye with a half-bottle of chillier-than-the-air vodka. It's pure aimless wandering that sends him into the labyrinth of huge shipping containers.

Drinking so much always seems like a good idea at the time. Right after, as three of the Wardens are being pitched out onto their faces in an alley, it still seems like a good idea. An awesome idea, even. Even ending up under Bullhead can't sway Wiz Whirl and Stockpile's approval of the iconic Boys' Night Out they've just enjoyed. Together, Wiz and 'Pile manage to heave Bullhead off so that he flops on his back and begins to belt out "Danny Boy" at the top of his lungs.

All three of them are in their spiffy Warden uniforms still, though rather the worse for wear. Wiz zips to his feet and straightens his mask. It's kind of disappointing that no thugs have tried to roll them down here. Are they too obvious? Is the Big Bat just that scary?

"Come on, chumps." 'Pile kicks Blockhead until the lump scrambles to his feet, pulling a dumpster over in the process. "Less... less go." Together, they lurch away into the fog, bouncing off of this and that until they're hopelessly lost in the containers.

As the glow dies on the containers that have melted open--filling the air with the distinctive smell of hot steel--bright eyes peer through the openings. A rat darts out of one container, then another. Perspective, once attained, reveals something alarming. These rats are the size of ponies. They have clever paws, red eyes alight with fire and intelligence, deadly-looking ruddy spikes jutting along their backs, and... as one opens its mouth and yawns, then belches, fiery breath.

With a determination that's simply uncanny, they begin to scale other containers and work their way through the maze--they are rats, after all. They were made for this. They're headed straight for the docks. The first longshoreman to intercept one stands there for a long minute, then he pulls something from his pocket, a whistle, and lets out a blast. Behind the rats, their now-weakened containers slowly collapse in on themselves, bringing down an entire wall of shipping containers. From above, the shipyard begins to take on the disturbing aspect of a domino display.

It is like Selina's life is just destined to fall into the realm of that old Chinese curse, the one that wishes that a person may live in interesting times and not in a good sense of the word. She realizes this as she catches sight of something that draws her attention towards where the equine-sized rodents start to make their appearance, the details of which she can not make out. Something tugtugs at her, making her curious. Too curious.

Unfortunately she can't sate it just yet as the crashing cargo crates gets her attention, causing her to have to run to make sure she's out of the way of anything falling. JOBS: Comments added to Job 40 by Power Girl. And from within-- where the man with the shiner has started aiming his lessness toward the sting of molten steel in the scent of the air-- it looks kind of like the Very Inconvenient Doom That Skirted Sarnath. "--/shit/--" he sputters, backpedalling at the sight of the first large moving shadow, then yelling it louder when the thing breathes fire. "SHIT."

And then the enormous containers start to buckle and fold, and Wisdom drops the vodka and bolts dock-wards, survival instinct kicking in. Survival instinct, in fact, trumping any and all urges to bitch about Gabriel's trumpet and the walls that came tumbling down. Because the hell with that. It's like when people in movies run across collapsing bridges inches ahead of the fall, except no handy-dandy whip to whk-CH onto something high up and use as a swingline like Indiana Jones. Also, smoker's lungs.

At the same time as Wisdom and Catwoman are racing away from the disaster, the Wardens are shaking off the booze-haze and springing into action. Bullhead throws himself into the path of the main wave of containers--it's not a very far toss and observation will reveal that he was pushed into the path just as Wisdom booked it past the Wardens where they were wandering aimlessly down a cross-alley. Bullhead braces himself, slamming his hands into each container that comes his way. As he deflects them, they form something of a wall that slows the collapse in this area.

After shoving Bullhead into the way of the avalanche, Wiz Whirl is off at top speed. He looks like a cartoon tornado but there's nothing funny about his speed as he whips off to snatch Catwoman from under the toppling mass of containers piled five-high. On the way, he crosses paths with one of the rat-creatures and--quite unintentionally--sends it flying like a rat-pedo into the upper workings of one of the cranes.

ZOOM. Wiz literally sweeps Catwoman off her feet, only to set her down seconds later, in safety. He's a lean guy who's probably handsome under the mask. The shiny red, gold, and white uniform is a bit much but you have to give him props for timing.

Stockpile, on the other hand, is making for the nearest powerloader. It's not really heroic, the way he grabs the worker inside by the shirt and spikes him like a Super Bowl touchdown, but he's got a job to do.

The rats, perturbed, are turning on anything fleshy they can find. Workers are scattering, some of them with their clothing aflame. Chaos reigns as the sun begins to light the eastern sky.

Whoo! Catwoman has been swept off of her feet before but never this literally. She fights it at first until she realizes just what happened and Wiz gets a quick smile of appreciation. She doesn't allow him to carry her for too long however. Not when one of those beasts crosses their path, just barely missing being hit by the human tornado. "Think that's my cue," she says playfully before slipping out of his grasp.

Once she is sure of her footing she gets her whip in hand and uses it to leash the erstwhile rat around the neck, it enough to slow the damn thing down. Someone else will have to finish it off for her, however. Where's the kaboom? There was supposed to be an earth-shattering kaboom-- once he's out of the radius of Ohgod Falling Wall of Containers, Pete wheels around, gasping for breath (okay okay, and coughing too) and wondering why the hell the falling wall didn't actually hit. It's not like where he is he can actually see what's going on, but you know-- blatant defiance of physics is, in his world, /always someone's fault/. /Specifically/. So running on the assumption that there are Superheroes Present Somewhere, the beshinered bastard leans up against an unharmed container for a second to catch his wind.

Then and only then, it's with a sour-faced and resigned determination that the Englishman staggers back into the rat race, eyes and hands glowing bright, casting giant moving shadows on everything behind whatever happens to be in the way of the light pouring off him. "TO ME, MY SOON-TO-BE EX-RATS!" he yells into the fracas. Ruckus. Whatever. Stalk, stalk, stalk, once he's got his footing, and it's not long at /all/ before the ROUSes are making directly for the fleshy-sounding noisemaker.

It's also not long before the distinct smell of burning ratflesh starts wafting over the rest of the unsavoury aromas present on-site.

Stockpile is secured in the powerloader and has rumbled his way over to one of the smaller crane structures. He's moving fast, and it looks like... he's using the powerloader as an exoskeleton frame, dismantling the crane, and somehow piecing the two together. His skills are something else--he's putting together a genuine mecha on the fly, a mecha with a flail-arm made of a massive magnet on the end of a chain. The other arm holds a shield made of crane treads. Crude, but effective. He hauls off with the flail and makes rat-paste out of a rat about to roast a terrifying customs worker.

Bullhead has stopped the worst of the container avalanche and now has a rat in each hand, held by the tails. That's not how you handle rats, Bullhead! Before PETA can get on his case, though, he doubles down and whips both of them out into the bay. "I hate rats," he bellows.

Wiz Whirl has revved up again and two of his shurikens take down the rat Catwoman has contained. The spinning speedster whips along, dispensing his projectiles of righteous decapitation as he goes.

At least some of the rats have regained their focus and have scaled the chains fastening the African ship to the nearest dock. As for what they could be after, that's answered soon enough as a young woman disembarks at full speed with a rat hot on her heels. She's got something in her arms wrapped in a blanket.

"One down," she says as a joke said to herself, her brow arching as she watches the thing fall over once Wiz does his little trick. Another of the massive rats would be sought out but the sight of someone running is what she manages to notice next, the bundle in the lady's arm getting a knot of worry to tighten Catwoman's gut. "Not on my watch," she yells out, trying not to gag as the perfume of ruined flesn wafts towards her, the stench too potent to miss as she can taste it. Gagging, she heads over to try to intercept, wanting to save the woman and what she's assuming is a baby. And /finally/ yeah because it's totally hard to miss a GIANT MECHA being constructed ON THE FLY, Wisdom looks up from his first-ever shot at Iron Chef (ingredients: GIANT RAT, go!!) and makes a face, then brushes singed fur off his ratty (ha ha) and tattered black trenchcoat of antiheroism. And finally /finally/ finally, he spots the now-yelling Catwoman and her target-- and starts for the docks himself, but not to save the woman and her presumed sproglet. No. Catsuit's got that covered, over there. Pete? He's taking out rats that dart from the maze toward the docks, picking them off one by one as they appear from between shipping containers.

(The most efficient, though least viscerally satisfying method, has proven to be 'hotknife between the eyes'. For the record.)

"OI! EMMA PEEL! JUST GET THEM OUT UNLESS YOU CAN BLOODY SHOOT LASERS FROM YOUR EYES!" Wisdom bellows Selina-wards, unable to keep himself from making fingerguns to shoot rats with. Because seriously what the hell is this. What the young woman carries is more important to her than a child, though only someone with magical abilities would understand what it is--Catwoman might well grasp the sheer physical value of it. The woman recognizes the body language of one willing to help her and she heads for Catwoman. She looks terrified, her dark skin ashy with fear and exhaustion, too out of breath to even beg for help. The rats are hot on her heels, literally, belching flames and swiping her with their foreclaws.

Stockpile, Bullhead, and Wiz Whirl are doing a bang-up job--emphasis on the bang--of taking on a number of the big rats. With the focus of their task off the ship, the rats are pouring out from behind containers and converging in the open space around their target. Bullhead is punching rats like he’s playing whack-a-mole, Wiz Whirl is knocking them off as they come from the ship, and Stockpile is providing safe haven behind his mecha for the fleeing workers. It's easier to see now as the sun is a half-circle of white at the far edge of the water, hot enough to burn off most of the mist.

Oh, Pete. The finger guns. The accent. It's all awesome. Awesome enough that the rat sorting itself out up in the crane workings has finally found its purpose in life. With a belching roar of flame, it performs a perfect Death From Above move, all claws out. Flaming giant rat the size of a Shetland Pony, incoming.

One of Catwoman's bolas is slipped from her belt and thrown at leg-level of one of the fire-burping bastards, getting it to fall right on its muzzle when the weighted weapon snares it, getting another two of his little buddies to trip over him, resulting in a pile up seldom seen outside of Los Angeles. Should buy the lady some time to get out of there with her precious cargo. The cargo that Selina will ponder over once her mind is not stuck on an endless loop of 'holy shit, where did these things come from'. "Hey Whirly! Got a couple presents for you," she screams, not sure if the man who saved her earlier will be able to hear her. Hopefully it'll dawn on him and the rest of the crew will have it dawn on them that there's a spill in aisle six and they need to do cleanup.

Pete's yelling at her gets her to skid to a halt, her eyes narrowing. His joke? Seeing as how she has no idea what he's on about she merely nods and gestures towards the very same woman he just told her to help. See? She's on it. Sometimes even experienced agents make rookie mistakes. Like not looking up enough in the middle of a ridiculous firefight with giant mutant rats in a container maze on the Gotham docks. On the one hand, why in hell would Pete look up when everyone knows Gothamites can't fly except for like, Killer Moth or whatever, and-- seriously? Killer Moth?

Also he's busy frying rats on the ground with hotknife fingerguns. So it's only the shadows changing around him and the flame-belchy sound from above that give Pete Wisdom any warning he's about to be divebombed by something everyone knows doesn't exist (on FIRE!). "Ffffuuuuuuu--"

WHOMPH. The rat lands on the rat bastard and they both disappear in a tremendous gout of flame and horrible burning smells and rat-shrieking and British yelling and what would be a Calvin-and-Hobbes dustcloud of fight except that the dust is on fire too. The tide is finally turning--not in the bay, that's not for hours. The disaster has been diminshed. Stockpile is rescuing boat workers who went overboard when they were invaded by the rats, Wiz Whirl is knocking off the last few that Catwoman tangled up, and Bullhead is chasing off a couple rats that had lagged behind.

The young woman accepts Catwoman's help gratefully. "They're trying to take the artifact," she explains, hugging the heavy thing to her. "I must get it to the museum." An artifact... that someone would send an army of flaming rats after. Probably very, very expensive, whatever she's got.

Pete finally gets the better of the terrible Beast from Above with a shot of finger gun fire that blows it clear. The flaming dust settles around him and he's... still burning. His shredded clothes are burning, at least.

Sirens sound, getting closer and closer, and the distinctive shape of a press van screeches to a halt nearby. The air is humming with the beating of helicopter blades... more press. They're as bad as the rats, but at least they're not on fire. The Wardens double check their masks and uniforms, getting ready for their interviews.

Either very expensive /or/ very important. Or maybe it's a little bit of A and a bit of B? It doesn't matter. Selina escorts the hurried woman off but not before casting a worried look behind her, the man who called her Emma Peel looked for. This occurs just before the sirens can be heard and the other vehicles start to arrive. "I think you better hurry if you don't want to have to answer questions." Selina is already running off towards where her bike's been hidden, not particularly wanting to be questioned by police or reporters.

Mental note: Ask Batman where he gets his suits dry cleaned. Her catsuit reeks and there's no way in hell she can drop it off at the mom-and-pop place down the road from her place. Still on fire. Wisdom at least doesn't appear to be dancing in pain, when Selina looks back-- he's cursing a whole lot while repeatedly kicking the rat corpse, apparently not actually having noticed yet that his clothes are burning away. It's not until they start /falling off/ that he does the stop-drop-and-roll thing, and by then there are god-damned helicopters. For reasons only half-related to Selina's, the agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. also legs it, tying what's left of his coat around his waist in case his pants fall off. The bleeding he can pour plastic-bottle Canadian whisky on later; now is the time for regretting fingerguns and trying not to get in the news like Jon Hamm. Zoom. (Cough cough. HACK COUGH zoom.)

As Wisdom and Catwoman fade into the scenery, the Wardens--remarkably sobered up and looking battle-weary-but-spiffy--step into the limelight again. Bullhead, Stockpile, and Wiz Whirl are just some humble guys, working class guys like all these workers they fought to save, using their gifts the best way they know how. Their team mates, the fantastic Lady Daze and Tarragon, are off doing the work of justice elsewhere. Now, if the press will excuse them, they've got autographs to sign!