Owner	Pose
Jason Todd	Can you hear it? The steady fall of rain on the streets of Gotham? Ordinary civilians seeking cover, their footfalls splashing through grimy puddles? A car screeching in the night, as it hydroplanes around a sharp corner? Jason can, once he slips on a glistening helmet of red, with white, staring eyes rimmed with black. He can hear it with crystal-clear clarity, as though the cacophonous racket were right next to him, or in front. Adjusting the sensitivity of the microphone, the young man leans forward over the edge of the dilapidated structure he had used for temporary refuge and substandard stake-out lodgings. Somewhere below, a trailer has been ransacked and its contents continue to spill out in the arms of at least fifteen mooks. "Right, because that's the best way to rip-off the Penguin. Bring the transport and keep that, too. Morons." He collapses a set of seemingly regular, albeit small, binoculars, depositing them in one of his leather jacket's many inner pockets. This gang, which Jason has decided to call the, 'See You Next Tuesdays', has been trying to gain a foothold in Gotham for months. Unfortunately, heavily mismanaged, their achievements thus far are along the lines of roughing up drunks in the bar and knocking over the elderly in crosswalks. Until now. Despite the utter lack of organization or any discernible leader amongst them, the sheer number of cannon fodder managed to overwhelm hired muscle in a shipment yard, allowing the troupe to make off with some very valuable loot that could potentially make them a force to be reckoned with. That and earned the lot an enemy that they don't wish to have. Jason got here first, whether by careful planning or by chance, and all he can see is a brilliant, shining window of opportunity. Stealing from thieves and returning the goods to the Penguin? Could put him in the position of working out a mutually beneficial deal. Guns need ammo, Roy needs arrows, and lifting the remains of a weapons cache from small time isn't all that lucrative. He, as the Red Hood, needs more connections to stay afloat and in the anti-hero business. Digging the hook of the grappling gun into the cement flooring of his perch, it is secured to the harness of his belt. Jason pivots with his back to the action, before rappelling down the side of the building to the street. Rain pelts his helmet, lightly drumming, but slips off the smooth surface as though it were Teflon. Whipping the cord back, it dislodges the hook, and the whole length of high-intensity rope winds back once more into the cable chamber, just at the pull of the trigger. He strolls leisurely through an alleyway, sneaking past fences and a yard filled with dissected cars, many of their parts lifted for their usefulness, leaving behind steel skeletal remains. His approach from a distance is sadly missed; the thug who appears to be on watch is barely watching anything at all, except maybe his phone. Chuckling away at a video on ---Tube, he receives a text bearing the ominous message from an unknown sender: Look behind you. The man twists on the spot, finding himself disarmed before he can bark his first words, eyes wide at the silver muzzle hovering at his solar plexus. "Tell me," Red's faintly distorted tenor reverberates eerily in the air around them, "Many have heard me, but no one has seen me, and I will not speak back until spoken to. What am I?" "Fu--" Just like that, the butt of the M16 assault rifle smashes into the crook's temple, knocking him out cold.
Jason Todd	Standing over the crumpled form on the ground, idly kicking at him with a steel toed boot, Red Hood makes a gentle noise of consideration, "Yeah, I have no damn idea what it is, either, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't the answer." The former Robin walks off, entering the poorly lit compound, the voices of lowlifes bickering over moving crates growing louder and louder. To his friend and partner, who hopefully received the message of intention, there's a crackle over a shared comlink, "If you're in the area, man, /now/ would be a good time or else I'll start the party without you." Can you hear it? The steady fall of rain on the streets of Gotham? He does, stopping for just a moment to appreciate the beautiful soundtrack that will accompany his own brand of justice tonight.
Arsenal	"... and in the prettiest dress that anyone in the land had ever laid their eyes on, she came down the winding staircase to the musical sounds of gasping in awe. There she was, Princess Arrow, standing tall and proud in front of the peasants and royals that had all come to see her perform. She raised her hands, bow gripped tightly and the arrow that proved her namesake nocked even tighter. She smiled. She winked. And she let the arrow fly!" Roy Harper's in the middle of one seriously bad neighborhood, in the rain, decked out in his anti-heroic vigilante attire, holding up his phone so that his face can be seen in the lighting that he's ducked under since he's clearly doing some random act of FaceTime. Because while his face is on his own phone, he can also see the face of his daughter, Lian, smiling back at him. She's beaming like there's nothing else that matters in the world to her right now and it even looks like she's got her 'Green Arrow' pajamas on. It's probably too cute for the words too cute. "Who did she shoot?! WHO DID SHE SHOOT?!" Lian's excited inquiries come screaming from the speaker of Roy's phone at about the same time that he gets a message over his comlink. Which makes him frown because he has to look into that camera at his daughter's excited face and have to make her wait. "Hang on one second for me, Baby Bow." Roy sits up and leans over the ledge of the rooftop that he's chosen to wait on. He looks down below and can see that there are things afoot that certainly need his attention. He also has enough time in that quick surveillance to roll his eyes, suck his teeth and duck back down to the story side of the ledge. He takes one moment to hesitate and then brings the phone back up to his face. "Hey Baby Bow..." Before he can even finish, though, there's Lian's pouting face on the screen. She's sitting there with her arms crossed and the look of a child that already knows what's coming. "... you have to go, don't you?" Roy bites his lip but ends up nodding softly. "Yeah." Even his tone of voice has changed because he's not exactly happy about this either. "I'm sorry, Baby Bow. Uncle Jaybird's going to get hurt if I don't jump off this roof and save his scrawny butt. Lian tries not to smile but she can't help it. It just happens. Daddy's funny. "Coming home tonight?" "And Every night." "Being safe and sound?" "While puttin' bad guys down." Both Roy and Lian hold their pinkies up to their cameras before Roy blows a kiss to his daughter with a, "Love you, Monkey. Bed soon. Mwah." With that done, he swipes the phone back to black screen and stands up nice and tall. The cinematic sequence of this happening consists of Roy standing up to his full on anti-hero height. The red and black outfit looking as stunning as it did during the design stages... maybe even moreso. His red hair is a sexified combination of messy and wet, thanks to all that rain. And before he can even draw one of his many weapons, Roy pulls one of his esteemed trucker hats onto his head. This one, a striking blue in color with the words: 'Girls > Boys' emblazoned on the front in stylized pink and purple. It gets adjusted and straightened out on his head and he cracks a smile. Arsenal Lives.
Arsenal	It takes another glance over the side before Arsenal really sees what's going on and he remarks into his own comlink of anti-justice, "Eh, you sure? I mean, you took out that /one/ guy pretty smoothly, Red. Do you /really/ want me to upstage you so early on? Because I'm more than capable..." All these words and Arsenal's loading up an arrow and taking aim at the compound that looks like its in dire need of anti-heroing. "For example?" And with that, he lets the arrow go and boy does it fly. It sails right into the compound and right towards a large beam of steel... like its about to smack right into it. But, because it's fucking /Roy/ the arrow disintegrates and splits into a pair of smaller arrows that swerve around the beam and sink, tranq style, into the back of a couple of Tuesdays' necks. It takes a moment, but a crate falls when the two men carrying it are no longer conscious enough to carry it. Arsenal grins and leaps off the rooftop. "... and Arsenal with the swift two-pointer. Can the Red Hood tie it up or is Arsenal going to run away with this one? Stay tuned, folks! It's gonna' be a doozy!" And yes, he's saying all this while sliding down the grapple line he's just shot into the compound as well. Sweet Entrance Time!
Jason Todd	There's a delay. A long delay. Minutes go by without a word. Jason sighs audibly, his breath briefly fogging the staring eyes of his helmet. He knows why the response isn't instant. He has this horrible wrenching feeling that Lian was probably on the phone with her father and is hardly over the moon at this turn of events. The time it takes before Roy's voice presses through the crackling static directly into his right ear was undoubtedly spent pacifying a disappointed little girl. Uncle Jackass-- I mean, Jaybird, is such a dink. But let's get down to business. (To defeat... THE HUUUUUUUUUUNS~) The lean young man snorts in response, his pride prickling around the edges. "This isn't a contest," he says flatly, and in the same moment, reminding himself of Bruce. Ugh. Shit! Jason clicks his tongue off the backs of his teeth, but admirably endeavours to stick with the declaration, smushing the childish desire to compete, even though he's ALWAYS been the competitive sort. Red fiddles with the ammunition cart of his rifle, checking that it's loaded. With idiots like this, you never know. He's nearly upon the group of Tuesdays before a sudden RUDE interruption causes him to halt dead in his tracks, AGAIN. Thunk, thunk, WHUD. Ah. Okay. In a heartbeat, Jason knows just how close his smart alec, sassypants friend happens to be. He's also quite certain WHAT that noise was, despite being unable to inspect either man as they both collapse in a heap. Following them is the crate, crashing unceremoniously upon concrete with little preamble. Over the comlink, he can be heard muttering, "Show-off." Adjusting his leather jacket almost fiercely, droplets of rain spring from the material as though deathly afraid to touch him. Game on, Roy! So much for maturity! Red Hood doesn't bother affecting cheap airs of subterfuge, not with this lot of goddamn green horns, so he finally arrives right in thick of things while the lifting muscle are gathered around their fallen See Yous. Even with the combined might of eight heads thinking all at once, they only manage to slowly piece together just WHAT is going on. One shrieks into the long night, his tears indistinguishable from the rain on his face. "AHHHH, IT'S BATMAN! BATMAN!" Waving his arms like a lunatic, the coward that stinks of piss and foul flees from the scene. "Christ, you morons are in pretty deep, aren't you?" While he mocks them, Red doesn't waste a second. In unison, their faces snap up at the distorted tenor to see that the largest and stupidest of their number somehow, at some point, was pulled from the gang and now stands with both hands raised. Jammed into his lower back, the barrel of the rifle glistens ominously. "Sorry, not Batman. By the end of this, I'd imagine you're gonna wish it was him, though." "Bullshit!" They shout, but only because they can't see him. His hostage has such an advantage on him in regards to height and circumference that he literally eclipses the former Robin in his somewhat ridiculous-looking red helmet. Red Hood finds himself almost at a loss. They... don't believe he's not Batman? "..." Well, whatever. Faced with their buddy, the human meat shield, the Tuesdays behave in a show of hostage solidarity. None of them move in order to guarantee Big Bro's safety. Touching, Hood thinks sarcastically. Moving on. "Let me tell you a little about the gun you have pointed at your lumbar vertebrae," he addresses his captive, chosing a topic of comfort and familiarity over debates of his identity with the audience, "This assault rifle is the fourth generation of the M16 series. Did you know that? The US military really never used them much after the late nineties, so did you get these from a museum?" He can't exactly cock it, but its presence is threatening enough, the man practically bowing backwards in front of him.
Jason Todd	A smile graces the young man's handsome visage, and some of that amusement carries over in the audio projection of his measured cadence, "It comes equipped with a removable carrying handle and Picatinny rail for mounting optics and other ancillary devices." A beat. "Sorry, maybe I shouldn't use such complicated vocabulary. Wouldn't want you to have to use your brain, since you've proven to be quite bad at that." Zing for the Red Hood. As the sound of Roy ziplining to the compound transmits louder and louder over the helmet's speakers, to steal ALL of Arsenal's thunder just when his arrival is imminent, he asks, "Should we keep it simple?" There's a note of malice that creeps into his artificial-sounding voice, sending chills through the soaked group. "If I just lift the muzzle about an inch, right here would be the end of your thoracic spinal cord. Couple bullets, probably 5.56x45mm, at high speed with fragmentation? You'll be lucky if you don't spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair." Two break away from the crowd of seven, with intentions to lay the smack down on the not-Batman intruder. Assuming chances of success are like finding a needle in a haystack, Red chuckles softly. Don't think you've beaten him yet, Harper.
Arsenal	There are way too many entrance lines that Arsenal has time to think up while he's sliding down that epic grapple line with his bow hanging across the cable. He's looking almost bored. He's almost wishing he had the power to fly or something. This would've been so much cooler or faster. Definitely faster. There's even a moment where Arsenal is whistling a jaunty tune while he's sliding down the grapple line. Finally. The ground. Arsenal leaps off the grapple line and performs a somersault before hitting the ground and rolling to a stop in the classic superhero landing pose. He is, of course, not far from Red Hood and he's got the biggest smile on his face. At the same time, though, he's already brought his bow up and got two arrows lined up and pulled back by the time he's got his superhero landing out of the way. He may or may not also be chewing gum. It's hard to tell. "Psst. Hey losers. I'm not sure if you know why I'm here but let me just say that I'm almost out of bubble gum." He's hoping they'll enjoy his twist on an American Ass Kicking classic because he lets go of those arrows he has nocked up and the two of them take off through the air and in the direction of the See Yous that may be headed in his direction. Or some direction. It's never really or truly clear where they are headed but Arsenal's aim is pretty spot on. It usually is. The two arrows practically scream in the direction of their targets. What little bit of an arc that each of them had is cut in half when they each explode halfway to their targets. As the pieces of the arrow fall to the ground, the sudden arrival of a pair of twin bolas spinning through the air, side by side but gradually spreading apart, becomes the sight to keep an eye on. Each of those bolas seem to be headed straight for the moving legs of the Tuesdays that are daring to move around when there's kick ass anti-heroes in the mix. Arsenal doesn't stay still, though, while those Bola Arrows are off to do their job. No. He has snark to let loose with and that's why he's already pushing up into a straight up stance and grabbing an arrow from his quiver, nocking it and just walking in the direction of the Red Hood and those that he is giving such a long speech to. He actually rolls his eyes behind the shade-goggles that he chooses to wear instead of a mask. Somehow they manage to hide his identity. Some of those crazy comic physics, probably. "Ugh. Is he /seriously/ giving you guys an anatomy lesson, right now? Is that what I'm hearing?" Arsenal is daring to appeal to the stupidity of the Tuesdays that are still in danger. "Maybe you should just ask him to shoot you and put you out of my misery. I mean, who wants to learn before they get shot to paralytic oblivion? Anyone?" Arsenal raises his bow, arrow ready to fly, as he gets closer to the gathered collective. "Anyone?" And by now he's holding them at arrow-point the same way that Red Hood is holding them at gunpoint. It's really quite dichotomous. "Bueller?"