9960/Holiday in Gotham: Rats Far From a Wharf

Holiday in Gotham: Rats Far From a Wharf
Date of Scene:	08 November 2019
Location:	International Waters, Gotham City
Synopsis:	Rick Flag, Hailstorm, Roundhouse, and Ash, launch a four man strike on the General, attempting to reclaim a shipment of munitions stolen weeks earlier. Poor planning makes the mission go gonzo, and the General holds off the opposition, killing two members of the Suicide Squad but losing valuable blood.
Cast of Characters:	General (Armstrong), Rick Flag, Nikias

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General (Armstrong) has posed:
Weeks ago, a rumored Irish terror front of unknown capacity had seized an Ameritek shipment of police paramilitary ammunition bound for the Dominican Republic from Gotham City. The strike was rapid, deadly, and light, earning the mysterious leader the nickname, 'The General'.

The little bastard, of course, had planted it, with one of his advisors, to spread the name, knowing that the advisor slash traitor, a young socialite in a Sandinista cause yet undetermined by ambition, would steal the idea because it so fit the bawdy joke in the mind of Ulysses' compatriot.

After that, the diletante was immediately found in the company of a rich girl, extracting the details of the location of the shipment.

It sat in international waters on the coast from the Tristate Area, functioning as a staging area for a collection of anti-government neo-communists, devoted to a revolution against the wealthy of Gotham City. Their ilk was drawn from disaffected youth kept out of the affairs of their parents, be it the children of rich, police, or gangsters, a motley crew of golden fingers and dirty pockets.

The General's true intentions, of course, were still mysterious, aside from the revelation that it was a broadly dimunitive little teenager responsible.

Rick Flag has posed:
YESTERDAY:

"I'm aware of the cost. We can make sure it's covered--barely, I'll admit, but covered--if you can promise you'll get the job done." Rick Flag offers a weary sigh and rubs his left temple. "I'm not very good at the paperwork part of the job. It's much easier to deal with a firefight than HR. Still," he adds, "it'll be good to have you on board. I'll send you the details momentarily."


TODAY:

"Alright!" Flag calls out from the uninsulated plane cabin, his voice reaching the rest of his four-man team through his throat comm. "We're coming up on the drop zone. There's only one shot at this, but they shouldn't know we'll be making an appearance. With any luck, they'll never know it was us."

Folding his arms across his chest, Flag clears his throat. "The General's got something we want. We're gonna be repo men and get it. Or, if we can't, we're gonna make sure no one else gets it, either. Uncle Sam don't like sharing."

He points to the person to his left. "Hailstorm here can control the weather. Gonna cook us up some cover."

Flag's finger moves to the next person. "Roundhouse will be on point."

Then he points to Nikias. "And Ash here is Johnny-on-the-spot. He'll make sure the shit doesn't hit the fan--and if it does, then he makes sure that fan keeps blowing."

"Ready? Good." A light above the side exit turns from red to green. Flag waves the team to the exit. "Alright, let's go! Hailstorm, do your thing!"

"Uhhh," Hailstorm says timidly, pausing at the exit. "That's just it. I can control /precipitation/. It's not currently raining or anything."

Nikias has posed:
Nikias sits with one leg kicked up across the knee of the other, loading his pistol and checking the sights as Flag gives his rundown, "Shoot to kill permissions, sir?" He asks back over the comm to Flag as he holsters and rises. At which point Hailstorm lets the cat out of the bag about how he sucks, "....Well then, kid, ya better pray it starts before they spot us mid-drop." He sounds rather unphased by the idea of a bunch of ornery teens shooting at them with no cover as he takes his tightens his chute and readies to jump.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
Ulysses Hadrian Armstrong lounges about on a long lawnchair, legs kicked out and a blue and white towel beneath him, his body hiding the gold crest of the local Hilton Hotel from Gotham City he stole it from. He and a few of his friends are on the top deck of the container ship, a vast machine of metal and hollow hull and reinforced steel, with a few small cigarette boats moored haphazardly alongside with a ludicrous assortment of naval webbing and gangplank, ladders bolted down the lengths between the rails.

They're all watching a television run from a diesel generator in a watch house, hidden from any potential rain (which isn't coming, thankfully), with Armstrong holding a 'g-ration', the General Ration, distributed to all his 'soldiers' (it's a roll of cookie dough from a giant ice cooler of them, the source hidden below deck).

There are of course other food stocks, but the team has done well today, having acquired contacts in Metropolis at a car dealership. They've acquired this television from the son of the car dealer, in exchange for a stack of dirty magazines stolen from a vintage collectible dealer, at gunpoint, on the General's last excursion. Foraging.

The General's jaw grows slack, as he hears the distant thrum of an engine. He sits up, lurching, as the others notice and follow suit, searching the skies. Too high up to see, but they can tell someone's coming.

Rick Flag has posed:
"What?!" Roundhouse sputters, her face a mix of sneering and shocked.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Hailstorm?!" Flag screams into Hailstorm's face. "You get your sorry ass out there and make it at /least/ foggy out there or we're already dead."

Then, he grabs his weather specialist by the harness and shoves him out the window.

Roundhouse nods approvingly before diving out afterwards.

"Alright, Ash," Flag says. "Let's do this. I don't know about you, but I prefer not to be shot at. Even more than I prefer to be surrounded by competent individuals."

"I heard that," Hailstorm says over his comm.

"Then get the fog going already," Flag says as he launches himself out of the plane.

Above, the plane breaks off, veering away from the container ship in the distance.

There's no fog in the sky.

Roundhouse rattles off a continuous string of curses that most people would require at least one interrupting breath to complete.

Nikias has posed:
Nikias chuckles at Flag's dismay, "Dont worry, kid, the hard part's makin' to the ground. Last through that, and yer halfway home." He says as Flag makes his jump, waiting barely a full second before leaping out after him, "....Hey, if Hailstorm fucks this up and dies, I got dibs on his share!" He calls across the comms with an amused chuckle, even as he plummets back towards the Earth, pulling the chute just barely before the point of doom.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"Man your stations, man your stations!" General calls out, kicking out of his chair with his shitkicker commando boots and coming to his feet with a jerky lurch. His fellows near him get up, dropping their food and idle toys, scrambling for the guns nearby. Meanwhile, the neo-communist on the ship's bridge spots the incoming plane, with his binoculars, and pulls the chain on the ship's horn. There's a fog bellow, signalling an attack, sending partisans below deck scrambling.

The General points at the containers located on the top deck as he locks a fast-loader into his ivory-handled six shooter's chamber. "Into the alleys, you men are on flank. That's your go-to-engage."

As they file past, into the breaches between the long containers, the General marches back towards the the galleyway, where the gangmembers are sallying forth at a point arranged to rally, each of them with an AK-47. There are ten in total, plus the five General sent into the container maze, and two on the bridge on the watch, plus the General.

"Men, prepare for an assault. We've got a paradrop incoming, likely insertion by air, sea can't make it, no naval elements adjunct. Elite if they can hit a skateboard with a snot rocket. I want you to let them land, then prepare for a push at us, from this flank. We pick the starboard flank, otherwise, they wheel around for us aft, then we withdraw towards the bow."

The teenagers with him, all poor soldiers but enthusiastic witht his freedom and purpose, away from their parents but highly armed and so far victorious, grin widely. They snap their assault rifles into position, and move into two man teams, five total, in a line, the General alone with his pistol, turning to face the imminent danger.

Rick Flag has posed:
Sweat beads on Hailstorm's brow as, eyes squeezed tightly shut, he tries to concentrate on changing the opacity of the ambient moisture in the air. "Almost got it...almost..." he hisses.

Nothing happens.

"Son of a..." Flag growls, pulling his chute cord. "Alright, team. Get ready. We'll be coming in hot--there's no way they can miss us." He readies the rifle strapped across his chest and guides his parachute toward the container ship.

Hailstorm and Roundhouse follow suit, with Hailstorm checking a pair of sidearms at his hips and Roundhouse doing the same with various blades on a bandolier.

Flag's route takes him about a dozen feet over the deck of the ship. As he approaches, he slams a palm into the quick-release button, his chute flying off without him while the soldier drops to the deck, tucking and rolling on impact toward something that might offer even a hint of cover.

Roundhouse does the same, unsheathing two machetes once she's on deck.

Hailstorm frantically bats at his quick-release button, which isn't releasing. "No no no nononono," he cries, his eyes widening. "Someone help me, I can't get it!" Hailstorm's parachute takes him over and beyond the ship, floating off into the water some distance away.

Nikias has posed:
Nikias follows suit with the other competent pair and hits the deck, pulling his rifle free and ready as he comes up, "Did you not pack a knife? Cut the damn chute off." He says dismissively over the comm as he moves to cover, "Ready to cover the berserker, on your mark." He says as he peers past his cover, leading with the modded rifle's barrel.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
The General whips around as Hailstorm goes swooping overhead, and takes a clear shot, before firing from his Colt Revolver, a bang going off as he discharges a round at the paratrooper's back with a cruel discharge. There's a sick grin that slips onto his lips, as he turns around, noting that the team has chosen to land directly, simplifying his operational plan.

"Hold!" he shouts, and the five teams of two drop into pair position, the front dropping to knees, the five in back of each team of two aiming standing, rifles at shoulders. The General steps aside, moving to a knee behind a short crate meant to hold technical tools, and three-round bursts begin stinging out, pumping at Roundhouse and Rick Flag.

Rick Flag has posed:
Roundhouse looks to Flag, who nods and motions with a finger for her to advance.

Weathering the bursts from behind his cover, Flag pops up for a moment to try and return fire to cover his melee specialist before he's forced back down.

Launching forward, Roundhouse performs a series of cartwheels that transition into a sweeping roundhouse kick before she extends her arms in preparation for close-quarters combat.

Unfortunately, one of the General's men catches her center-mass with a burst of semiautomatic fire, and Roundhouse is stopped dead in her tracks from the force of the impact, crumpling onto the ship's deck.

"Well," Flag mutters. "Shit."

Nikias has posed:
Nikias holds his rifle out on it's own, firing controlled bursts in the direction of the resistance, "Where'd you get these amateurs, kid? A flea market?" He fires a few more bursts, "Yeah, they're too entrenched here....Hey, think ya can hold em for a minute or two without me? I got an idea."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
Rick Flag and Nikias fire into the openly exposed kid soldiers, two of the teenagers flipping off their feet with shots to the torso and another to the shoulder, the first flipping onto his back and the second spinning around with his rifle swinging up and then whipping down on the shoulder strap. The second, bleeding and groaning, limp-crawls backwards, dragging blood on the deck.

"Pull, pull, pull, adopt ridge!" General calls out from his flank, as another gets hit, right in the thigh, screaming in agony as he drops to the wounded knee, the standard but counterproductive response from the body, his femorrhal artery torn to shreds and his femur shattered.

Blood and bone everywhere, the General crawls out with a long tourniquet drawn from his pocket, impromptu and insufficient but at least life-saving until he can cauterize the wound. That's a lost leg.

As the seven remaining teenagers pull back, one dead on the ground, one dragging back, and one mortally wounded, the General is in the open, tying the wound shut above it, his hands covered in spraying blood, as the friend screams and thrashes, General holding him down with all the force possible.

As the seven men, three remaining squads and one man in addition, pull against the galleyway and behind the long container crates, the five men with machine pistols wait in the container shells, to side-flank or rear-ambush Flag and Nikias.

The five loom in the dark, watching the fight and hearing the rounds and screams.

Rick Flag has posed:
Groaning, Flag clenches his jaw. "With short notice, you work with what you've got. I'm much more used to a ... different kind of crew and compensation package. But I've been trying a different tack. Clearly," he adds, firing off another quick burst to keep the General's men at a distance, "it only attracts D-listers."

As if on cue, Hailstorm's lifeless body floats by, touching down on the water, the corpse immediately blanketed by the parachute silk.

"Anyway, if you've got a plan, let's do it. I've got one more trick up my sleeve, but it's a last resort. So make your move count." Flag pulls a smoke grenade from his belt and lobs it down one of the deck's lanes, where it begins to belch a thick cloud.

Nikias has posed:
Nikias pulls back behind cover and reslings his rifle as Flag pops the smoke, "Try not to die!" He comms over cheerfully, apparently unperturbed by the multiple minors now dead at his hands. He then hops over the railing of the ship, disappearing over the lip, and quickly pulling himself along the side of the hull, towards the opposite end of the vessel, preparing to flank The General and his men while they're distracted by the smoke.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
The General finishes tying off the wounded, as his mate goes bleary from shock. He drags him back to the cover with his arms underneath his shoulders, not caring about the excruciating pain of the shattered leg sending the friend into shock and possible traumatic death from blood loss and arterial asphyxiation while unconscious.

"Keep this man alive!" he shouts to his team, as he gets him back behind cover.

He pulls his revolver back about, peering down the lane of the ship where the smoke is blocking them.

There's a long, eerie silence, as the bridge gets a spotlight out, shining it out across the night-cloaked ship, the twilight glaring with the beacon of the bulb. The light casts long shadows between the containers and over the prow, and across the smoke, unable to penetrate but keeping a blind on whomever is left.

Rick Flag has posed:
Flag creeps toward the starboard side of the ship, hunched low and trying to hew close to the smoke cloud.

"Ash," he mutters, "you better do your thing quickly. We got a window closing, and I have no idea how many orphanages' worth of soldiers the General has stuffed below deck." On his belt, a pager-like device vibrates softly. "Yeah, yeah," he says to himself.

With a deep breath, Flag peeks around the corner of a container to glance down another lane, looking for any wary enemies keeping watch this way, even as an unexpected light is cast down the lane.

Nikias has posed:
Nikias reaches near the other end of the ship and pulls himself back over the railing, rifle slipping back to a ready position as he slides into a clear line of sight cover from The General and his men, "Alright, in position, got one, two...Looks like about half a dozen of em set to vent you...Think I got a bead on The General...Reminds me of Napoleon...On your mark, I'll start the crossfire." He quietly comms back over as he sights down the farthest child-soldier.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
As Flag's looks into the shadow, his face illuminated, there's a belt of machine pistol fire, from a partisan hiding in the lane. It's a quite rattle, a rat-tat-tat, from a slow squeeze on the trigger, the gunfire alerted his four friends. While the man shooting stays down and in cover, his friends rapidly advance from their positions, emerging from the alleys around Rick Flag, on either side, swinging around to hold their weapons on him, aimed.

A major consideration in warfare, is that it's almost impossible to initiate fire, for fear of return fire, without the corps body's leadership signalhand watching.

Rick Flag has posed:
"Change of plans," Flag says quietly in a resigned voice, lowering his weapon as he's surrounded. Then, louder, he slowly raises his hands. "Alright. Fuck it ... you win."

A pair of hands emerges quickly from the shadows behind Flag, and he's enveloped in them, disappearing into the darkness.

From another shadow next to Nikias, a woman's voice softly speaks. "Your ride's here. I recommend keeping your eyes closed for it." The same pair of hands reaches out toward Ash.


The darkness is a space best left to nightmares. On the other side is a poorly lit debriefing room.

"I told you not to do this," a different woman says, scolding Flag. "Next time it's my way. Every time it'll be my way. Unless you want to end up paste all over the deck of some other warlord's ship."

Flag only stares at the floor, shaking his head. "It was a good plan," he replies after a long silence. "And Ash was a key part of that. But yeah, I'm to blame for the rest of it. Money doesn't have the same kind of leverage that you bring to the table."

"No kidding," the woman replies. "Now take what's left of your team and get him paid. We've got a lot to talk about regarding your future with the squad."

Nikias has posed:
Nikias glances away, "What do you mean 'change of plans'?" He growls into the comm right before the hands grab him. The darkness of the trip draws looks of confusion rather than horror or terror from the age old Spartan, somehow even moreso when he's dumped off, "....What the hell just happened?....I hate working with amatuer metas...."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
As the smoke clears, General looms weakly over his burbling, mumbling, shaking friend.

As the wounded soldier nearby continues to drag himself, rifle clattering off the strap beside him across the ground, there's another long blowhorn, signalling an all clear. Then, a snap, as the watchlight flashes off.

"Knife!" Ulysses says, extending his hand as a Kabar is placed in his open palm. He pulls up over the leg-wounded soldier, and pulls a lighter and a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. He slips the Marlboro into his mouth with a bloody hand, paper stained, and lights the cigarette, before holding the Bic under the flat of the blade.

Flames puffing around him as he leans back over, he shoves the flat of the blade on the red, weeping wound, the mumbling teenager screaming in the moonlight.