5270/Jokes

Jokes
Date of Scene:	30 August 2018
Location:	Gotham City
Synopsis:	Spawn and Batman run afoul of one another and talk killer clowns. Some members of the Joker Gang are brutalized.
Cast of Characters:	Spawn, Batman

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Spawn has posed:
The sound of a horn blaring was shrill and harsh, the sort of pitch scientifically designed to get a human's attention and keep it. It kept traveling up through the harsh, disgustingly hot night sky because the van it was attached to was currently wrapped around a lamp-post, smoking and completely ruined. The driver of that van was sprawled unconscious over the steering wheel, side of his head bleeding from underneath that mask somewhere, even as the other men spilled nervously out of that vehicle from all sides. Guys in cheap jeans and hoodies, at least one wearing some light kevlar underneath the baggy clothes, all of them armed. One of them screamed out into the night sky, AK firing wildly into the night sky.

"Hey, who do you think you are, crossin' us, you know who we work for?! Who are you?!"

From the top of that lamp-post a shape dropped down, descending on the top of that ruined van even as he stood up to his full height, a red leathery cape billowing and rustling all around. From this light it was easy to see the black and white symmetry of the mask covering his face, and the glowing gleam of those green eyes.

"I'm a concerned citizen, asshole."

They all whirled around, just long enough for the edge of that impossibly wild cape to snare out, wrapping around the face and skull of one goon and squeezing even as he was lifted into the air. Screams, clear pain, and he dropped his weapon. A slow start, but things were going to heat up very quickly.

Batman has posed:
    Tonight, is the night for concerned citizens, it seems. The pursuit had already drawn the Dark Knight's attention before it came to a sudden, screeching end here in the dirtiest and most dangerous slice of Gotham City. The Batmobile on the other side of the city ferrying an unconscious Crazy Quilt to the GCPD's Twenty-Fifth Precinct for holding. He crosses the rooftops at speed, his footfalls raising not a sound as he squints behind the eyepieces of his cowl. A flash of unnatural colour still sparking in the corners of his vision, the remnant of the night's earlier encounter. It doesn't slow him, and he is already descending towards the altercation even as the equally-enshadowed figure engages with the gunmen.
    The Bat does not present himself immediately, remaining concealed in the darkness gathered about the edge of the street lamps flickering, grimy light. He watches the other combatant intensely as he watches all who enter his city. Already judging. Already weighing the pros against the cons. These thoughts running through his head like some grim, passionless computer as two arms reach out of the night to grasp another of the thugs. The man makes not a sound as he is swallowed by the darkness, the Batman clasping his hand over his mouth and applying pressure to momentarily block the flow of blood to his brain.
    Even as he goes about his work, the Bat's eyes are fixated on the Newcomer. On Spawn.

Spawn has posed:
Somewhere in the darkness, a detective makes his move. For his part, The caped man atop the car doesn't seem to pay much attention, if he even notices at all. Instead, the cape 'weakly' releases the thug, to let him go flying through the air, even as Spawn himself finally hops off the top of the car to land right next to the masked lunatics. That broke them out of their trance and the weapons are aimed, automatic fire ripping through the night sky, the sounds of a wartorn hell echoing off of buildings and alleyways, reverberating through the bones of Gotham. These days it seemed such sounds were not uncommon, even as most of them seemed to hit their mark.

Bullets tore through that red cape and seemed to go right through the figure, many of the bullets having enough power to carve the van behind him. But if this was killing him, he seemed to be coping with things rather well. Instantly he reached out with long, bony claw-like fingers, snatching a rifle from one of their hands so that he could flip it around and smash the wooden buttstock into the hapless goon's clown-covered nose. The goon went down, collapsing like a boneless fish even as that cape unfurled and chains shot out, ripping through a second thugs' hands, with two more chains going through the same goons' boot covered feet. Another blood-curdling scream, followed by flashes of crimson trickling down those metal weapons to pool along the ground, and it seemed that motivated a number of them to run as far away from the tall, black-clad figure as fast as they could...toward where one of their friends had just been silently taken down.

For his part, the masked figure was just looking down at the one thug in his clutches, speaking with that powerful deep voice of his even as he studied the gun in his grasp. As if it were some toy that he'd confiscated from misbehaving children.

"I'm tired of clowns, I'm tired of their puns and their little prophecies. You have the gift of life and you waste it on this trifling shit? You disgust me."

As he spoke, there were several bullet holes in his black-clad torso, but instead of red blood, it seemed green...something was slowly dripping down, glowing just as bright as his eyes.

Batman has posed:
    For a moment, the Dark Knight tenses up. He releases his grip on the now-unconscious thug, letting him fall bodily to the pavement. He almost moves as the bullets tear through the air, thinking to tackle the Newcomer out of the way when he seems to make no move to avoid them. But he relents, the ugly calculus in his head determining that he would never reach the man in time. All in that same split second he curses himself, another life lost. Another fool in a cape and mask misjudging Gotham's desire to tear at the throat and go for the jugular. To eviscerate all who would seek to tame it.
    But as he views the scene a moment longer, realization dawns. His eyes narrow behind his cowl as he sees where the bullets have torn through something ... inhuman. Not so shocking that it gives him pause, more that it raises the ire in his blood. As the remaining gunmen flee into the dark, their cries are cut short with a pair of strangled gasps. A second later they collapse back into the pool of light cast by the street lamp, unconscious and bloodied about the face. A vicious shadow follows them, seeming to render what little warmth the light might have given colder and inhospitable.
    Batman is little more than a shadow, save one with two baleful white eyes glaring through the dark at Spawn. When he speaks, his tone is stern and his voice deep: "People live here. These are their homes. Any one of these bullets could have hit a civilian. If you value life so much, you should work harder to preserve it."

Spawn has posed:
The chains curl and flex for a moment, the ones in the gunman's hands and feet tightening enough to cause him to cry out, before they relaxed. They seemed to do this at regular intervals, even as the cloaked figure dismantled the gun in his hands. Magazine removed, bullets ejected from the barrel, until it became a pile of wood, steel and various screws on the ground. He saw the others fell, and knew from that moment on that he wasn't the only lurker out here this night. As the holes in his torso began to slowly close and the green goop began to trail back upward, he turned his head at the most likely direction that voice came from. Instantly the chains retreated from the very unhappy would-be criminal, the man hitting the ground with a 'thud' even as Spawn turned his attention completely on the shadow...and the eyes that stared out from within that shadow.

"Yeah, people live here, and it seems every day freaks like these try to disrupt as many as possible. You seem to be doing a great job, keeping them in line."

Every so often, a crumpled, ruined bullet casing emerged from the slowly shrinking bullet holes, pushing out of his midsection to 'clink' along the floor. Finally, when it seemed his injuries were mostly healed, the tall man began walking toward the shape. The closer he got, the more his cape seemed to move, to morph and shift. Just like the chains, it seemed to move almost independently of its owner.

"I've met some of your entourage. The redhead, a few of your birds. You're not exactly the loner everyone reports you to be."

Batman has posed:
    "If you think I'll need their help, you're mistaken."
    Whatever he means, the Bat does not elaborate. As Spawn approaches him, the Dark Knight steps forward as though to meet him face to face. Instead, however, he simply brushes past him bodily. He crouches by the now-unconscious thug that Spawn dropped, planting two gloved fingers beneath his jaw - evidently checking for a pulse. He makes a show of it, a measured distraction to draw the eye. His other hand, with the stealth of a grandmaster, palms one of the discarded bullet casings and deposits it in his utility belt with a single, fluid motion.
    "Alive."
    The criminal stirs briefly from his daze, lifting a hand towards the Batman only to let out a yelp of shock as he drives a fist down into his face and renders him unconscious once more. He binds his hands with a non-descript black zip-tie, rolling him over onto his side. That done, he proceeds to bind up the remaining thugs.
    "Where did you track them from?" he asks, pairing it with the projected route provided by the Batcomputer on his HUD.

Spawn has posed:
...Did he just get shoulder checked? By Batman? Spawn is bigger and heavier, but the Dark Knight wins that contest, even as Spawn just turns his upper torso to watch the more famous vigilante at work. In time Al's incredulousness fades, and with a shrug of his shoulders and a shake of his head, the man is back to standing with his cape surrounding him, the sound of leathery rustling mixing with the rattling of chains every so often. This time when he speaks, however, there is...something extra added to the effect. Something about it seems a bit colder.

"Some of the overachievers in this group originally came from my turf, up near Bludhaven. They were pouring gasoline on some of the locals. You can guess what step two of their master plan was going to be, before I showed up and voiced some of my concerns. They ran, met up with their buddies in the van, and I've been tailing them for a while. I finally made my move, in a place that seemed quiet enough to have reduced chances of crossfire."

Batman has posed:
    In a show of immense magnanimity for the Dark Knight, Batman simply grunts: "Hnh. Quiet enough. Tenements are mostly abandoned. Ran a ballistics analysis. Didn't do more than shatter some windows." Was that a possible compliment at the choice of locale? Couldn't be.
    "They're the Joker's men," he continues, moving to check the main unconscious behind the wheel of the van. Satisfied, he leaves him where he is but not before binding him to the wheel with another zip-tie. That done, he reaches across to open the glove compartment and rustle through the contents. As he speaks, he pulls out papers and looks at them before tucking them away somewhere within his cape: "Made a big show of threatening to attack anyone not wearing one of these masks. Just a smokescreen to cover up arms deals across the city. Explains these."
    A booted foot kicks the components of the high-powered rifle that Spawn's chains previously disassembled. He then moves to the back of the van, climbing into the rear compartment without another word.

Spawn has posed:
"You're not the only one with a clown problem. Though I remember yours being a major problem for a while, now. Long before I was...doing this."

He didn't want to give too much away...but really he didn't want to open up old wounds. It seemed his life was one largely defined by misery these days, he didn't need to pile on even more. Instead to distract himself, he stalked toward the wreck of that van, reaching one horrible left clawed hand in through the window to pull that mask off of the driver's face. He muttered as he studied the man's features, "Doing anything the Joker says. That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard of. Maybe there's something else we can learn from them...though I doubt it."

He reached his hand in again, this time his middle finger against the man's temple, his thumb right underneath the eyebrow, his fingers all pressed in strategic points along the man's face and skull. Moments later his hand flashed green, and the unconscious driver opened his eyes, glowing green along with his mouth that was now slack and open. Deep into the man's mind Spawn went, sifting through useless piles of phobias and fantasies, trying to find any memory relating to the Joker. Likely all he'd get would be the acceptance of a job, but it was still worth a try.

Batman has posed:
    Batman lurks in the shadows at the back of the van, only the whites of his eyepieces visible as he watches Spawn critically. In the back of his mind, another grim algorithm is run. This man has done no excessive harm before now. Has not killed when he had the opportunity. Appears to have an interest in helping. The likelihood is that he means no harm. To that end, the Bat does not intervene when the Hellspawn proceeds to read the man's mind.
    There is little within. The typical fare that is the case for so many of Gotham's thugs. Backed into a corner. Seeing no way out. An axe to grind with the world. Why not join up with the Joker, make some cash and hopefully get out before you get dead? These are not the thought processes of a sane man. Even as Spawn peruses the man's memories, Batman has run the driver through facial recognition software and pulled his record on his heads-up display.
    "Daniel Christensen," Batman reads aloud, eerily confirming images which may dance before Spawn's eyes, "Thirty-five years old. Wanted for felony assault, grand theft auto, arson ... " He trails off, a laundry list not worth reciting in full, "One of the Joker's bagmen."

Spawn has posed:
"He definitely ain't a poet.", the masked man speaks before his hand abruptly pulls away from the man's face, letting him slump into unconsciousness once more. Though he didn't know it yet, Mr. Christensen would have nightmares for the rest of his life, the feeling of a Demon from Hell rifling through his head something that a normal mind could not reconcile. Spawn, for his part, just looks at the man with little sympathy, if there is any to be had. Indeed, he sounds disgusted with what he's found, dramatically flicking his wrist in a rejection of what he's seen.

"Arms deals, you said? Is the clown buying, or selling? And from who?"

Even as he speaks, he hears the distant wailing of sirens. Immediately he steps out of the light, staying in the darkness. When they got closer, that's when he'd slip away. But he figured he had some time until then.

Batman has posed:
    "Still working that out," Batman answers, turning his attention back to the contents of the van once the impromptu mind probe is done. Even if he knew about the nightmares, he would have little sympathy. Most of his own foes suffer a similar fate, although as a result of good old-fashioned psychosis rather than the machinations of Hell.
    Batman pulls the top from a sealed crate sitting in the back of the van. It is almost alarmingly how easy it comes loose, suggesting a great degree of strength (or something augmenting it beneath his suit). Inside, he finds a single high-powered rifle which he examines. He looks at it for a moment, his eyepieces silently photographing and scanning it.
    "This is military grade. A catch even for him." The sirens get the Bat's attention too, although he makes no show of hearing them. He takes one last hi-res photo of the filed down place where the serial number would be, logging it to be analyzed for whatever digits he can recover later. But regardless, the sirens are their cue to depart and he knows it.
    "Ground rules," he says flatly, emerging from the van and turning to Spawn. It is only now that he is properly visible, the shadows seeming to peel away of their own accord to reveal the man. "No guns. No killing. No endangering civilians. Keep to them."
    Even as he speaks, the Bat is stepping back out of the light to let the shadows swallow him once again.

Spawn has posed:
In the end, Spawn is left with rules as the rulemaker vanishes into the night. For his part he stays there for a while longer, only truly departing when the first squad car finally arrives on the scene. They'd see the very ends of that red cape flicker out of sight of the overhead light, vanishing into shadow and making his own way back home. There he could recharge, and when he was ready, he could tackle this problem again.