1577/Wolf on Patrol

Wolf on Patrol
Date of Scene:	21 July 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	1208, Ares, Nightwing

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Scarlet Belmont (1208) has posed:
A half moon sits in the sky of a cool summer night. Occaisonal clouds provide some nice cover and are just thick enough that suggest it might rain soon, but currently, it's not and the denizens of the city are more than likely thankful for it. In recent weeks, Nightwing would have likely have gotten wind of some sort of beast, running through the lowest dredges of the underworld, cleaning up the start up gangs or low power thugs. They'd get messed up pretty bad, but nobody seemed to be dead and all would end up behind bars. The last sighting of this 'Black Beast' is in the Narrows, where someone had put up a social media tweet of something clambering over the side of a building that looked rather animal like.

Scarlet came here with a mission. Through a few lucky coincidences, she'd managed to pick up that this particular area seemed to be one of the most crime-ridden, which for her meant that there was alot of people to beat up. Certainly worth the pain that was swimming there in the middle of the night.

Currently, the werewolf is resting on top of an abandoned bank, her tail curling from side to side as she witnesses a few armed thugs break into a pawn shop. Of the three of them, two had pistols and the third, who seemed to be the largest of the group, had a sawed off shotgun. Dangerous one. After one of the pistol-men picks the lock to the place and saws through the metallic fencing on the inside, they were in.

The werewolf smiles. This was gonna be fun.

Scarlet Belmont (1208) has posed:
The trio of thugs had been at this before. And they seemed to work well on a timeline. One of the pistol-men stood watch while the other and the shotgun man bashed open the jewelry cases and the register to extract everything of value. They weren't being quiet about it but considering it was a low-grade strip mall in the middle of this part of the city, nobody is going to call the cops fast enough for them to worry about getting caught. A sack is produced and ill-gotten loot starts filling it.

Scarlet watches them for a moment longer. They were certainly doing this quickly. And none of them appeared to be newbies. No shaking guns, no trembling nerves and no unneeded vocalizations. They were not masters, but were well on their way to it. Each one wearing a ski-mask and heavy clothes to make it hard to ID them. To take these guys out without taking damage, she'd need to be quick and perhaps not pull her punches as much.

From her position on top of the bank across the street, Scarlet somersaults off of the bank, landing very softly on her padded feet. A quick check of her periphery showed that no cars were coming for awhile. Perfect. She crouches down and gets into a runner's start position, leaning down on her hands and positioning her feet for the fastest possible take off. Within a few seconds, she's off like a shot, charging on all fours like a bullet. Pistol guy uno at the lookout point is perfectly minding his own buisiness when he finally spots the charging werewolf. His eyes go wide as he starts leveling his pistol, but by the time he does, she's already on top of him. She does sense for the barest moment that someone else is rather close by, but she'd have to deal with him after the fact. She slams into the pistol guy hard, carrying them both through the open door and sending him flying into the back wall. He slams into it, going through the cheap wooden wall and into the backroom with enough force to not only render him unconscious but leave a sizable dent back there too. His gun skitters across the linoleum flooring, unused.

Scarlet Belmont (1208) has posed:
The reaction to the first guy being punched into the back room was instantaneous. Both men stop what they were doing immediatley and turn to see a six and a half foot werewolf staring straight at them. Pistolman Dos screams in a high pitch as he backs away, scared. "?Qué diablos es un hombre lobo?" The third of the the trio didn't seem as surprised, leveling his gun straight at Scarlet. "No importa. Está muerto."

At this exact time, Nightwing's shuriken come in, prompting Scarlet to flicker an ear in his direction. Friend. Oddly enough. Neat. Dos loses his pistol with the heavy projectile slamming into it, but Tres keeps his shotgun, though he does temporarily lose his aim on the werewolf. One to not look a gift in the mouth, Scarlet reacts and launches herself at Tres, leaving Dos to turn and look at Nightwing. He draws out a knife and charges at masked vigilante, intending on burying it somewhere in Dick's chest.

Scarlet Belmont (1208) has posed:
Dos barely has time to register what the hell just happened before pain started coming in from everywhere...and nothingness as he loses consciousness and goes limp, falling over onto his back. The werewolf isn't quite as lucky. She leaps towards Tres, bringing one of her clawed hands down on the gun to attempt to damage it, but the thug premptively steps back and finally gets his gun ready. He fires with an earth shattering explosion, the kind made from a barely functioning weapon with a poorly made, illegal modification to it. The pellets from the gun pepper through Scarlet's poncho and strike flesh, the blast being enough to cause her to take a step back or two. A few drops of blood hit the floor while the werewolf corrects it's posture and stares down at the slightly shorter man, her red eyes glowing with animosity. Tres hesitates for a moment as he witnesses this, but he snaps out of it quickly enough and starts reloading his gun in a state of mild panic.

As he reaches for the next bullet, Scar's hand shoots out and grabs his gun arm and yanks him close. At the same time, she drives her free hand as a fist, directly into his chest, the impact alone likely being heard from outside of the store. Anyone within earshot could tell that several ribs had been busted by that one strike alone and Tres, for all of his toughness, slowly sinks down to his knees, his gun forgotten and finally collapses, wheezing and shaking in pain.

Ares has posed:
    She'll see that back room as a hopping place with bookies taking bet slips and giving back pay outs as they finish wrapping up the remains of the most recently passed fight. She's probably seen rough places like this before, seen the commercialization of primal conflict between beings, creatures. Right now two men in black coats are pulling the losers out of the ring as the two winners are congratulating each other. Some of the audience are booing, others are cheering. It's a cacophony of sound and to most it would be overwhelming.
    Yet when Mercy Thompson makes her entrance, she does draw eyes. Second glances. Nudged shoulders and shared smiles. All such things that cause a faint ripple in their world. There are women already there, harder women, pretty women... there are even a few who would be considered possessing a casual beauty. But she is another being. Somehow, perhaps on some level, these examples of humanity can at least sense some aspect of the other to her. To some it's a draw. But the patrons here have glimpsed things that others do not often see.
    As to the why, that will be revealed the moment she steps past that aisle of booths and let her gaze drift over John Aaron.
    In a sea of the mundane, to the trained, he stands out like a beacon. Bright, gleaming, subtly muted in a way as if someone were trying to hold a plate in front of the sun yet is bathed in light. To the gifted he is a whorl of energy, to the mundane he is just man in a booth, albeit one of some stature. Currently no one else shares his seat, though she can sense faint ways that some might pretend at some kind of connection to him. Stolen glances, furrowed brows, faint signals.

Ares has posed:
    As she moves she still draws those looks. One of the fighters steps past her and leans over to try and get a little closer as he passes, nostrils flaring as he grins, but then he's dragged off by his trainer, bare feet shuffling on the hard wood and sawdust covered floor. She'll reach that bookie and voice her question even as a few of the other men nearby start to take bets for the next match. The room's a little quieter now, but soon it'll rise once again when the fight's back on.
    "Vanya? Yeah she comes here, now and again. Not tonight though. All over the place. Tell 'er Frankie said hey if you see her." The short guy with the bald spot gives Mercy a nod and then goes back, "I got two, two fer the next on the Gremlin, who wantsit?"
    But other than that she doesn't have much luck. None of the trainers handle her, none of the corner men. Though she might get the inclination one has at least met her as he looks aghast and scowls at the mention of the name. But that's it. Not exactly a success. Not entirely a failure.
    Though from across the way she'll see that man with the last booth seat in that row, the seats around him empty even in such a packed place. He'll meet her eyes for a moment when she looks, but does not keep his gaze on her long, a slight meeting of gazes, but then a turn away as if offering her some aspect of the world to herself.

Ares has posed:
    That growl carries somehow even in this small space off to the side of things. But of the fangs bared at her now, it's not the ones from the male of the species she should worry about. Instead a severe yet handsome woman leans out of her booth to further block her way, her leather jacket worn with an emblem of an eagle. "No tourists, Pocahontas." She gestures around absently with a finger as she murmurs, "Turn back around and make your way."
    For most that's usually enough, and in the current atmosphere would anyone really take exception to another scuffle taking place outside the ring? With what's been going on chances are they'd start taking bets and throwing odds about the two women.
    But none of that is to be as the tall man lifts his voice loud enough to be heard to say two words, simply. "Fuck's sake." As if what passed annoyed him on several levels.
    But it's enough as the woman shoots one measuring glance at her, and then the tall hairy man steps back to his place leaning against the wall near one of the further on booths. It's as if nothing happened, no shared words, no harsh manner. She couldn't have become more invisible unless she had an enchanted cloak hidden on her person somewhere.
    But, whatever that all may have meant, she at the least has an open path to the last booth and its lone occupant.