2204/Wombat To The Slaughter

Wombat To The Slaughter
Date of Scene:	28 August 2017
Location:	Josie's Bar - Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Crossbones, Typhoid Mary

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Crossbones has posed:
The Wonderful Wombat was not a very good superhero. His powers weren't much for one: enhanced agility, fangs, a minor healing factor. He wasn't particularly good at acrobatics or martial arts. His costume looked like something you'd buy at a low-rent costume shop come Halloween. Which is, coincidentally, where he got it.

But he'd been surprisingly successful. He'd broken up a major underground gambling ring last week, costing the Syndicate nearly half a million in revenue when the polie came and busted the racket. He'd put mob lietenant Harvey "The Hole" Salmontino in the hospital with a broken jaw from one of his "Wombat Bombs".

Which is why the Syndicate put a 100K price on the Wombat's head.

While the Wombat crouches on a nearby rooftop, letting the weak wind blow his cape in a way he think is majestic, Crossbones watches from a nearby rooftop through a pair of binoculars. His skull mask is pulled in place, the leather cinched tight, and he's covered head to toe in weapons. He's ready to put an end to this particular superheroic career. Except he's not alone. He barely detected her and most people wouldn't. But she smells awful good for this part of town.

"I hope you ain't here to save his worthless life," he says aloud. "Cause that ain't gonna happen," he says to whoever she is.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary kicks out of her slouch against the wall as Crossbones calls attention to the fact that he's noticed her presence. She saunters over, all slinky heat and bloodlust, and cops a squat next to the big, skull-masked man with the binoculars. "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" she scoffs. "Am I here t' save his life? Naw. Doin' that'd be against my best interests, slick," she mutters, squinting across the distance, since she didn't have the foresight to bring binoculars of her own. S'fine. She knew where he'd be, anyway. She'd been following him for a while, keeping her distance but not letting her attention wander. Then, along comes a brawny dude with murder in his mask, and he's gonna make a thing outta this mark thing, she just knows it.

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow smirks under his mask, "Which means you're here for the same reason I am. Figured 100K was too good to be true," he says. He looks the strange woman up and down, taking in her outrageous outfit and the "I'm gonna kill the shit out of everything" look in her eye. She does smell awfully good, though.

"Tell ya what - I ain't hurtin' for money anyways. You and me split it, huh? I mean, I don't think it's gonna be heavy liftin' anyway - fuckin' mongoloid looks about ten fries short of a happy meal as it is in that outfit," he says.

"How 'bout I knock him down and you finish him off," he says, reaching around and drawing an automatic rifle off of his back, complete with scope.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    She can't see the smirk beneath the skull mask, but Typhoid Mary can hear it in his voice as he speaks. "Hell yeah, that's why I'm here. The offer ain't too good to be true, it's just easy money doin' what I love t'do," she says, stretching languorously. It's probably some kind of modern miracle, how those black tape Xes stay in place with such movements, but they do. Maybe to Brock's disappointment. Whatever the case, Typhoid seems oblivious to such thoughts as she finally releases the stretch. "Yeah, that sounds good to me," she says, exhaling noisily as she squints in the Wombat's direction, again. "After all, you got the gun and I tend to work up close 'n personal. Sad to say, I'm not faster than a speedin' bullet. But, if it's all th' same, I'd rather not wrassle ya for this bounty," she grins crookedly after a moment, adding, "Well, maybe I /would/ like it." Then, she pauses, her brows furrowing lightly as a thought suddenly occurs to her, "Say, uh, what's a mongoloid?"

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow watches the stretching with the kind of eyes that probably belong more properly on some sort of predatory animals. Is he disappointed? Only with the advances in modern adhesive technology.

He turns and leans over the ledge, flicking out a bisected stand for his rifle as he lines his eye up with the scope, finding the Wombat in his sights as the hero stands for some sort of pose, apparently considering his options as he surveys his vigilante domain.

"A mongoloid is an inferior type of human. Like this piece of shit," he says.

He pulls the trigger and a rapid burst of automatic fire erupts, pitched and aimed low enough to catch the Wombat in the knees and shins, the caped figure collapsing backwards onto the neighboring rootop with a scream of pain.

"Your turn, Red."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary sighs blissfully as the Wonderful Wombat's screams pierce the night, adding a new, vibrant strain to Hell's Kitchen's symphony of suffering. Such things make Mary /excited/. They get her blood pumping. And, releasing the clutching of herself she had unconsciously been doing, she gives Brock a lingering, lusty sort of look, her eyes hooded, her lips parted, and her chest beginning to rise and fall more quickly.

    She doesn't need to be told twice. She tears her gaze away from the masked man and, with perhaps surprising grace and beauty, she flings herself across the gap between the two buildings, somersaulting in the air and landing in a roll-to-a-stop crouch. Her long locs are tossed out of her face with a backwards snap of her neck as she locks eyes with her target. Not hard to spot him. He's still screaming and writhing on the floor of the roof, clutching helplessly at his shattered, bloody knees.

Crossbones has posed:
The Wombat hadn't imagined this. He envisioned an evening leaping from fire escapes onto muggers. Perhaps a lonely damsel, buxom and a bit mature, maybe blonde-haired like his long-lost mother, would gratefully take him in her arms. At the very least, he'd show the bad guys a thing or two!

Instead, his knees and thighs get riddled with bullets and, while he's bleeding, he sees the incoming approach of what can only be described as an incarnation of sin hurtling towards him with blood in her eyes.

The Wombat tries to find his resolve, his mediocre healing factor at least letting him try to stumble up to his feet, wobbling, "You'll never win, harlot!" he cries, flinging a wombat-insignia'd flying disc in her direction.

Crossbones watches it all through his scope, bemused but not interfering. He did his bit, now he'll let Typhoid have her fun.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    At the outcry from the Wombat, accompanied by his flung Wondisc, Typhoid Mary smiles darkly and, lifting her hand in a flicking position, she redirects the disc with telekinesis. 'Course, she doesn't /need/ to do the flicking motion -- it's just for flavor, a few style points on her overall performance. She laughs as the disc hits its intended target -- the Wonderful Wombat's prized jewels -- and the man howls in pain, clutching at his new source of misery.

    "Ohhhh, but, I will, you pathetic, middle-aged virgin," she says in an amused voice. "The only question isssssssss," she draws the word out like the hiss of a voiled snake, prepared to strike, as she nears the man in a measured, predator stalk. "Do you want it to be fast, or slow?" she murmurs, looking down at the man. "I don't usually give this option, but... I just learned about mongoloids, an' I'm feelin' generous. It's kinda like pickin' on a kid with Downs syndrome, isn't it? Least I can do is give ya the option of dyin' now or later. Right?" she smiles, thinking herself quite benevolent, indeed! Behind her back, she casts a thumbs up to Crossbones, watching her through the scope.

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow returns the thumbs-up, a directional mic attached to his rifle letting him pick up the dialogue with ease. He likes hearing people suffer, after all.

The Wombat whimpers, his crushed testicles clutched in his gloved hands, tears streaming down his masked face, "N-no...you can't...I'm not...you're going to lose..." he says. He looks around as if expecting some better known hero, Spider-Man or Green Lantern or some other titan of heroism, to swing in from the sky and come to his rescue.

But there is no rescue and he's just left a broken, cowering mess as Typhoid prepares to do her bloody work.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary looks down at the blubbering wreck of a super wannabe with a neutral expression. She takes in the tears streaking down from under his mask, the snot starting to leak out of his nose and drip down over his upper lip, which is curled back with a weeping grimace. She thinks about all of the times she, too, was left a sobbing wreck, her body battered into submission and used in ways no human being should ever have to endure... She frowns a little, shaking her head.

    "And, this is why I don't tend t' give options. Very rarely does anyone ever make the choice. They just babble on and on. Like you just did. And, that makes me irritated," she shares in a rather conversational tone, as though Wombat were her friend or something. "On the one hand, that makes me wanna make you suffer. Y'know, 'cause you didn't follow directions. But, maybe y' can't follow directions, 'cause you're retarded. Oh, wait, what's the word? I just learned it... Mong... Mongoloid!" She snaps her fingers in recollection, proud of herself for remembering.

    "So, if I were you, as hard as it is to imagine myself bein' a pathetic sadsack of a poseur fuckup... I'd want it to be /fast/. Quick. Just put me outta my misery, yeah?" she says, ticking the points off on her fingers. "Okay. I'll give you one more chance, retard," she says kindly, smiling down at the man. "Ya caught me on a good day, it seems. SO! Which one do you hate more? Papercuts, or burning your tongue on too-hot food?" she asks. "And, ya /better/ pick one, or you'll *really* regret it." She grins menacingly, planting her hands on her hips.

Crossbones has posed:
The Wombat seems confused by her diatribe, barely able to process what she's saying. He's snotty, yes, his nose dribbling, his tears streaming, eyes burning. He feels like he can taste blood, even though he hasn't even been stricken in the face yet. His healing factor is slowly knitting together the damage to his legs and balls, but he's not exactly Wolverine - he'd be recovered by morning, but morning is a long, long time away with Typhoid Mary in your face.

"I...I...papercuts...I...I hate papercuts," he says. He tries to scoot backwards, not exactly stealthy as he does so, his cape crumpled up behind and impeding his progress, until he's kneeling right on the edge of the rooftop.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary watches as the Wonderful Wombat tragically drags himself backwards, letting him get right to the edge of the rooftop, walking along slowly to keep pace with him. She steps on his hand, to encourage him to stick around while she gives him the results of his choice! "Ahhh, see, now...me? I'd have said I hate burnin' my tongue on food. A papercut? That only really hurts if you're gonna go, like, cuttin' up some lemons or some shit. The initial sting is bad, but it gets better quicker than a burned tongue. No?" she lifts her shoulders in a shrug.

    "But! I'm a woman of her word, an' I promised ya the option. You made your choice. The die is cast, as they say. It's you. You're the one what's gonna die, if ya hadn't guessed," she laughs, totally mistaking the meaning of that colloquialism. Being an assassin, to her mind, the die being cast meant casting the person slated to die, or something. It makes sense to her! Casting a glance over her shoulder, back at Brock, Mary smiles flirtily at him as she remarks, "Didja remember to bring the marshmallows, slick?"

    And, with that, Wombat bursts into flames. Super-heated flames, like those fueled by accelerant, suddenly engulf the poor, ravaged hero. Mary keeps her foot planted on the man's hand, even as the flames lick up at her. She seems to be wholly unaffected. Even her clothing remains unscathed, thanks to her very finely-honed control over her pyrokinesis. "Ew. I tell ya, it doesn't matter how many times I smell it, the scent of burning hair is just fuckin' sick. Makes me wanna gag," she says, fanning at the air in front of her face. Never mind the burning, flailing, screaming man whose hand she's pinning to the rooftop with her heavily booted foot.

Crossbones has posed:
The Wombat wails, screaming desperately for mercy, even after his tongue and vocal chords have begun to melt under the heat, his sizzling screams echoing off the nearby alleyways. Even in this neighborhood, it's a gruesome sound, the kind likely to make people have a hard time sleeping tonight, as the man is turned into little more than a burned out kebab under Typhoid's impressive heel.

Crossbones has made his way across the alleyway himself now, to join her on the rooftop, moving to stand beside her. His mask hides any expression, but his eyes don't seem disturbed. If anything, he's eager and impressed at the murderous methods of the split-personality assassin.

"I ain't much for marshmallows. THink he brought his own weenie, but I don't think it's anything you'd wanna eat, dollface,' he says. He pulls out a cigar, peeling his mask enough to reveal a stubbled chin as he clamps it in his teeth, lighting it, "They call me Crossbones. You can call me Brock. Or anything you damn well please, really," he grins.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid removes her foot from the crispy, charred remains of the hand as it finishes burning down to cinders, leaving nothing more behind but a charcoal-like skeletal figure in the midst of a blackened halo on the rooftop. She looks up as Brock makes his way over to her, looming up behind her all tall and skull-masked. She smiles saucily to him as she does, listening to what he has to say. She laughs, tossing her locs out of her face and over her shoulders. "Well, Crossbones. Brock. Slick. It's nice t' meetcha," she says. "They call me Typhoid Mary. But, dollface works for me, too. Just...don't call me 'Mare.' I may be a lotta things, but I ain't no female horse," she winks.

    She leans in to get a good whiff of the vanilla-tobacco scent of the cigar, finding it a palate cleanser to the stench left behind the late Wombat's burned carcass. "I don't much like marshmallows, unless they accompany chocolate and sometimes graham crackers. S'mores, basically. Or, hot chocolate. ... Fuck. I'm hungry, now. Let's go get some grub," she says, fingering the strap of his gun harness and tugging at it.