7196/Devils Under the Sun

Devils Under the Sun
Date of Scene:	10 April 2019
Location:	New York City
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Diablo, Martian Manhunter

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Diablo has posed:
As spring promises itself to New York City, the winter coming to an end, the sun is high in the sky and the voices of New York City can be heard amid the horns and engines. The air is fair, with the rising temperatures and sea levels, and the clouds above promise no ill intent, merely passing through the sky and shading the tall buildings and criss-crossing streets below.

Chato "El Diablo" Santana sits at the wheel of an old Chevrolt Camaro, a model from the 1980's with a few chop-shopped parts on the sides that have been tastefully affixed and painted over, the car painted blue with red flame detailing along the frame. FM radio plays inside the car, the windows open and his left arm on the wheel, right hand on the shifter. A tune from the Spanish language radio plays, as the bowling jacket clad Latino taps his steering wheel and stares ahead in traffic, his tattoos marking him openly as gang-affiliated.

He's stuck in traffic, at the moment, not foolish enough to carry anything illegal on him during daylight hours with his facial markings, besides of course a pistol between the seat and the shifter, hidden from view by his leg. He's newly arrived in the city, and is on his way to meet a few Crips and Latin Kings for a sitdown meet, his reputation as an enforcer and assassin known.

Right now, El Diablo isn't worrying about the cops, he's worrying about the notorious Mafiaso in New York City and their affiliates. The Italians aren't fond of the Latinos and those African-American gangs that affiliate with them, particularly when a preternatural like Chato is involved.

Martian Manhunter has posed:
J'onn has spent the last hour or so in the monitor room of the watchtower, supervising the monitoring process or, in other words, doing nothing in the sweet company of a few oreos, of course. Right now, in the human shape of a dark skinned man dressed in a fine tailored suit, he is calmly strolling on the sidewalk on one of New York's streets, the destination, probably, a gang meeting not too far away.

Diablo has posed:
Chato, after sufficient time edging through traffic in a furtive manner to avoid the attention of both police and syndicateers, he rolls into the parking lot of a bowling alley next to a classic 1950's drive-in diner. Putting an old-fashioned club on his steering wheel, he pulls his pistol from between his seat and the shift, and tucks it into his belt, before throwing his wife beater over the butt as he climbs out.

The parking lot is full of cars like his, nothing of the polite society sort that you would see in the suburbs, or even in a more urbane part of the city. Hoodrats and homeboys hang about, watching Chato warily until they see the skullface and the scythe on his forehead. That is enough for them to go back about their business, as he slinks over to the counter of the burger joint with his hands in the pockets of his bowler jacket.

He leans over the counter, chatting up the girl there in a deferential manner, his elbows on the rim as he gestures behind the girl at the menu, idly flashing a Crip sign with his right hand that indicates he's friendly to the Kings, despite wearing blue. Those inside cheer up, and go about making his food as he pays from a roll of bills held together with a rubber band. He rolls around to lean against the counter with his elbows up behind him, nodding upwards at a man that steps up to him.

"Hey, hermano," comes Chato, at the man, before he pushes off the wall and offers a palm slap and a snap.

"Sup, Diablo. Looks like the Marine Corps just came to the hood."

Martian Manhunter has posed:
J'onn approaches the bowling alley by foot, projecting a telepathic impulse to fade from view for the split second needed to shift his clothes into a simple pair of faded jeans, dark boots and a leather jacket with the logo of a pair of crossed flaming swords on the back over a black shirt, a bit more appropriate for the place he finds himself in.
Walking up to the burger establishment he strolls inside with his footsteps bringing him in front of the counter, where he offers a respectful nod as greeting to the present people. His posture is relaxed, doesn't seem alert at all, maybe helped by the fact he has been continuously projecting the mental image of someone that wouldn't really be a good target for street gangs or even lone individuals seeking trouble, his senses however are as alert as possible under the collected appearance.

Diablo has posed:
"Cavalry's here, homes," Chato says with a lazy brogue, a serious look on his face, despite his relaxed posture.

"Yo, Leon, Oates, Snapper, get over here!" the man talking to Chato says, looking behind him and waving.

A man in blue and black clothes, wearing a Carolina Panthers jersey, a skinny kid from Cape Verde with unlaced workboots and black prison tattoos visible on his bare arms, and a Puerto Rican with a black hoodie and black hat, with a ring on his left middle finger, all approach Chato.

As Chato's burger is served, along with a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, Chato gestures to a table and pulls his tray onto it as he slides onto a chair, with room for his belted pistol to be comfortable.

The three follow suit, not eating out of respect for the notorious Coast City hitter.

"So, I hear you fiends got some problems in New York, si?" Chato asks as he lifts his burger, rare with a butter toasted bun and ketchup, mustard, and cheese.

"Yeah, Diablo, we got some problems out here," Leon says, as Oates and Snapper nod, along with the man who greeted him, B-Rod.

B-Rod explains, "The cops are all working for the big boys, and we can't get no help. They bust everyone's butts like they criminals, and we get pulled of the street whenever the Mob pulls a hit on someone close to us."

Martian Manhunter has posed:
J'onn modifies his appearance a littlebit more, telepathically projecting again the illusion that he has always been that way and that the tattoos now visible on his neck have always been there, testament to probably a few years spent behind metal bars. Leaning on the counter he gestures at the menu, pointing at one of the most simple burgers present, a quite standard thing with ketchup and cheese. With his ears focused on the people currently moving to a table discussing about gang things, he waits for his order to be ready, pulling out a simple leather wallet from a pocket of his jacket, from where comes out the bill to pay the burger and a small bottle of water. Meanwile, he studies the sitting people, maybe trying to find the right candidate for some impersonation?

Diablo has posed:
"Cops are a dirty thing, ese," Chato says softly, after swallowing. He sets his burger down, and picks up his bottle of soda, pondering, looking at the bubbles before tilting it back for a sip.

"But you know, a dirty thing, isn't a bad thing," he continues, after swallowing the sip with a brief tongue of his lips, lounging his gaze towards J'onn, noticing the studying of the five men at the table, four sitting and one (B-Rod) standing to the side.

"Otherwise, you wouldn't have us, would you."

There are murmurs of affirmation from the others, as Chato gestures with two fingers from the bottle-holding hand, off the neck.

"I think I can help. Just to let you know, we aren't busting up mobsters, we aren't going to war. But I can help. We just need some ground rules. Once my ground rules are in place, that I can see, I go to the knives."

"Okay, Chato, what you need?" Snapper asks, the first to be aware that this is a lucrative proposal.

Chato takes a long draught of his bottle, with a theatrical 'ahhh' that brings a group chuckle while he sets the bottle down.

Martian Manhunter has posed:
His food finally ready, J'onn slides the bill on the counter, retrieving his plate as well as the plastic bottle of sparkly water because who wouldn't drink water in such a place, with a burger? Bringing everything to an empty table, not too far away to the one currently occupied by Chato and his friends, he sets everything down, taking a seat and considering the burger for a few seconds as if to try deciding where to start eating it, and maybe figuring out how to take it without it blowing up all over his hands. In spite of that, he is still careful, trying to get as many details from the nearby group as possible.

Diablo has posed:
"First rule is, all drugs that you boys sell, go through the same place, where I sleep. That way, if, and when, the pigs come, we can hit them. Security, I come up with, but the place needs to have two floors, second story with a trap through a wall door that we knock out from the inside and put a trap on. Wall on the outside, door on the inside, that you can bust down with a shoulder charge, so everyone bugs out when the police show and they dump down into the alley on some trash cans. I keep them busy, I choose which cops I like, which I don't."

There are nods, quiet nods, a show of fear, at how psychotic Chato is.

"Second, we get a street rule out, among your three groups, that nobody kills kids, or wives, or family, pigs, cops, or mob. No retaliation against loved ones, unless I say so. And if I say so, I've left town, ignore me. I don't want blood out here like a Spanish priest running a pig farm for gringos. Doing to us is bad, doing it to them is bad. Satan's rules, we don't listen to Gee oh double Dee on this one."

Chato lifts his burger, raising his eyebrows and a finger at how important that one is.

"Last rule, all our pieces, are hooked in, so the only fully automatic weapons are in a hitter's hands, to deal with the Mob, and strictly the Mob. No other gangsters, no wannabes, no punks, no retaliations. Clean neighborhoods, are our neighborhoods. Everyone is one shot or semi-auto, except trained snipers."

He bites his burger, as the others nod and talk among themselves, El Diablo lowering his eyes out of respect for the commune.

Martian Manhunter has posed:
J'onn eats his burger efficently, that means in a way to make so that he is the only one eating and his shirt doesn't get pieces of burger all over it, and keeps listening to the now clearer plan, committing the details to memory as much as possible for eventual future use. The burger is almost finished now, and that means that it will be soon time to either get another one or leave, and that prompts a slowing of the eating pace, so that the entire thing won't seem too rushed, it is already strange enough as it is.

Diablo has posed:
"Yeah, we can do it, Chato," Leon says in a deep, quiet voice, from across the table, apparently the leader. "One question."

Chato sets his burger down, and lifts his chin, swallowing with a deep convulsion of his gaunt neck and tipping his head to the side. There's a silence between them, Chato not saying anything or signalling.

"What's in it for you, devil?"

Chato's mouth slowly curls into a smile, the tattoos around it warping in a twisted fashion.

"Just for fun, bird." There's a quiet, dull silence, that spreads from the corner table throughout the gangtown burger place.

"Alright, bro, you chill," finally comes a response from Leon, pushing away from the table and standing. "You psycho, but you chill."

Chato grins widely. "Just as advertised, ese." He lifts his finger to his brow, and places it squarely on the scythe between his eyebrows.

The gangbangers meander away from the table, as Chato looks up and nods at B-Rod, his grin fading into a knowing smile, B-Rod giving a thug fistpound to Chato, before they all exit out the door, and go outside to the parking lot.

As the restaurant slowly murmurs back to life, Chato goes about finishing his burger, looking down at his paper plate and eating somberly.

Martian Manhunter has posed:
J'onn finishes his burger, getting the bottle of water to take a couple of sips out of it and then standing up, bottle in his right hand and empty paper plate in the left, aiming his steps to the nearby trashcan where the paper plate will probably end in a minute. His mind, meanwile, is travelling with the jleaving thugs, getting their signature so to find them more easily in the future. The one called Leon, especially, seems to be subject to further examination, so that it can maybe be used in future by j'onn as a way to personally infiltrate, or as someone to get informations from. The current aspect of Chato has been studied as well, his appearance already triggering several recognition responses in J'onn's mind.

Diablo has posed:
Chato's eyes follow J'onn's back as he walks out, with a bad feeling on the back of his neck.

Glaring from his lowered head, he scratches the back of his neck with his left hand in paranoia, before shaking off the feeling.

He takes a long draught of Coca-Cola, tipping his head back. He loves America, but he knows very well that everything available here is made somewhere else.

Fake.