Owner	Pose
Rorschach	Autumn it may be, but the heat has come back into New York with a steaming intensity. Nine o'clock at night at the neighborhood rattles with the sound of window air conditioners. Kids hang out on street corners and dangle from fire escapes. This isn't the best neighborhood but it's not the worst either. Not on the surface. Some places, you have to dig. The house in question isn't notable on the outside, looking like just another apartment complex, nestled in close to some of the others. Only a discerning customer might know that you can go here for a relatively modest fee and, for a few hours, relieve your tensions in the company of a young woman (or man) with few morals and no consequencs. Discretion guaranteed. Typhoid used to work in a place like this. Still knows some of the girls. One of them called her tonight, called for help. The call ended wet and sudden. Spawn, meanwhile, had a card handed to him by a trembling lad of twelve, a scruffy little ragamuffin. The card itself is white cardstock, spattered with dark ink in a seemingly random pattern. On the back, the address of the building.
Spawn	Brooklyn was a bit of a ways' away from Bludhaven, but for someone with the abilities of Al, the distance wasn't much of an issue. The kid was probably going to have nightmares for a long time, his hand touching the towering wraith who haunted the back alleys, the malevolent scarecrow of the kingdom of homeless and burnouts. It was only for a moment before Al took the sign, but that was all it would take for the youth's mind to go into panic mode, at least for a short while.     For his part, Spawn wasn't too concerned about that. After gearing up for a night away from his home(which meant his abilities would drain quicker and wouldn't come back as quickly), he took to the sky, gliding and leaping and climbing and swinging across buildings and rooftops. The cape rustled like dead leaves across a gravestone, and chains rattled with a dead metallic clanking, as finally, the form dropped form a particularly tall building, hitting the pavement with a hard, sickly sounding 'splat'. He rose a moment later, face covered by that mask of his, but they didn't hide the glowing green violence in his eyes. His cape covered most the rest of him, but the buttstock of a black rifle could still be seen, slung across his back, and sticking out the side of that wide Dracula collar. He was still taking in the sight, not acting hastily.     Not yet.
Typhoid Mary	Twenty-two minutes ago...     When her phone buzzed in her back pocket, Mary was kicked back and binge-watching a season of American Horror Story. She had a smorgasbord of Chinese food containers all opened and half-eaten, crammed into whatever space she could find on her messy, beat up coffee table that she'd "found" on the street. Perfectly good coffee table, with just a hint of blood-stain seeped into the wood-grain. Some fuckin' furniture snob tossed it out, so she took it to a home where it wouldn't be loved nor cared for, but would at least see use, as opposed to being buried under heaps of used diapers, gritty coffee filters, and rotting leftovers at the dump.     Lifting her hips up just enough to prise the phone free of her back pocket, she flicked the ash of her nearly-spent cigarette and gripped the filter with the corner of her mouth, her white-orbed eyes squinting as she unlocked her phone. Before she could even say hello, the other voice cut in. "Mary, please, ya gotta help me!" came the voice over the end of the call, desperate and terrified. "I'm in some real bad trouble at the place. You know where. Please, fuck. I'mma die. Hurr---" it ended in a squelching sort of sound, and a clattering sound as the phone fell out of the caller's hand... And, then it was over. "Fuck. Janey, you better not be dead when I get there," she muttered to the ended call screen on her phone. Now. Ish.     It was a quick trip. Typhoid tends to hole up in the center of nexus of depravity, wherever she finds herself, and that means that trouble is never far away. She pauses at the front of the house--'the place' Janey had called it--and rolls her shoulders a bit. She's not sure what she'll find, but it hadn't sounded pleasant, whatever cut her words short. Mary has a soft spot for all the harlots she knows, and that means her already feverish temperature is rising. Someone's probably hurt Janey, and they'll be paying for it. She hasn't taken notice of the man who landed with gory sound effect, because sickening, wet splatting sounds are part and parcel of places like this. One becomes inured, after a while. No, her focus is entirely on the front door, which she aims to kick in, if it doesn't open with a twist of the knob. She stalks up the front steps, the soft soles of her boots not making a sound as she moves with practiced grace.
Rorschach	The door opens easily enough and, if Typhoid glances, she'll see that the lock has been unscrewed, the knob itself barely attached so that it was closed only out of simple momentum. Just as it's steam inside, the interior of the building is hot. Whatever air conditioning might normally make this place tolerable either hadn't been turned on or didn't seem to be working. On the first landing of the stairs, a girl lays bleeding out. She's not that old, barely sixteen. Someone punched a hole in her throat, a star-shaped wound that gapes to show the dried, stiffening interior of her windpipe. Her bare feet lay still on the steps, her flimsy dressed soaked in her blood. Upstairs, there's a sound of crashing and conflict. Not on this floor. Third or fourth. Outside, Spawn will see one of the upstairs window break through as a body flies out and off of it, tumbling to the cement below and landing with a broken crack.
Spawn	From afar, the ghost in the red cape watched the bondage girl at the front of the house. He made no move to intercept, but he studied her form, the way she moved...the weapons at her back. If he were to wager a guess, probably a mercenary. Was the guy in the coat the sort to hire outside muscle? Doubtful. Then was she here on someone else's behalf?     The movement, and the plummeting body snapped Spawn out of his train of thought. In blistering, sweltering heat that he hardly felt, the wraith became a blur of black and white and red movement. It was frightening how high the man could leap when he got a running jump. When in mid run three of his chains instinctually dug into the concrete in front of him, to 'lift' and throw the man in something similar to a pole-vaulting technique? He could get even more airtime.     A pair of long, winding blackclad fingers gripped the wooden frame, breaking even more glass as the big, tall man smashed himself through what little window there was left. His left, reasonably sized boot hit the floorboards first, followed by the massive, oversized right one, stabilizing him even as that cape was open and snaking around him. Whoever was up here would be able to see the winding, snaking chains, as well as the small arsenal of guns, pouches and spare magazines that were wrapped around that black and white leather costume. Spawn ready to react, was looking down at...
Typhoid Mary	The heat doesn't bother Typhoid. She lives with it, every second of every minute of every day. The intolerable, suffocating heat. That said, she does make a note of it--johns tend to complain when there aren't "basic necessities," like running water, underaged girls, and a/c. She leaves the doorway wide open as she makes her way inside, silently coming to the side of the poor girl bleeding out. Mary doesn't recognize her face, aside from that look you tend to get from doing things you probably shouldn't from too young an age, whether it was by choice or not. Smiling softly at the girl, she tsks silently and closes her eyes with her foreknuckles. No time to spare for a kind word for this gone-too-soon kid, because there are crashing sounds and floorboards being thudded into, and whatnot...and that's all going on upstairs.     So, she steps over the girl and onto the first floor's staircase, beginning to climb it quietly, keeping to the shadows. Being a mercenary and an assassin, all the training she has gone through, it's second nature to her to be as stealthy as possible, especially in situations where she doesn't know the score. She checks her three, six, and nine on the regular as she makes her way ever upward, toward the sounds of chains and more. Where the fuck is Janey?
Rorschach	The last two doors at the end of the hall where Typhoid is open and, simultaneously, a figure walks out of each room, facing one another and then slowly turning to face her. They are clad in black, wrapped in a method much like the ninja she knows well. Only they have strange masks on their face, chalk-white and marked, the hollow eyes underneath too dim to show the truth of what's underneath. Each of them have long knives, smeared crimson. They turn and run at the scantily clad woman in silent agreement, as if of one mind. Spawn, meanwhile, will dive in the window and find Rorschach. A cowering woman, older than the others, sits on the bed, hugging her legs. It's impossible to read the vigilante, of course, his face covered with his mask, the images swimming across his blank features. "Took longer than I thought," he said. "The Inquisition is here. Bleeding the whores. Save the ones you can, if you want. I'll find the priest." He doesn't bother to explain, stepping out of the door of the room and into the narrow hallway outside.
Spawn	Spawn looks down across the room, seeing the scared girl, and the chaos all around. He didn't look directly at the man's swirling mask, hating what he saw when he peered too closely. Fires, regrets, a life he could never return to. Without knowing it, his fist clenched tightly, and he walked with the little trenchcoat wearing terror. Spawn felt like doing some damage, and quickly barged out into the hallway. Rorschach would be able to see the door frame splinter when he rushes past, his cape getting caught in an old rusty nail...and ripping it right out, along with some old plywall. Instantly he grabbed the wrist of a knife-wielding bruiser, pulling the man's arm back until snapping and popping could be heard, and the man had a lame, limp appendage instead. Spawn glared down at the mask, and with growing distust(especially seeing the pregnant woman who had just been rescued from a stabbing), pulled his desert eagle out of its holster, and LOUDLY freed the goon from the burden of having brains. Instantly he spun around, his voice gaining volume and echoing with the fury of a Hellspawn.     "And what church do these assholes belong to?!"
Typhoid Mary	Typhoid pauses in place as she catches sight of the two masked ninja coming out of the doors at opposite sides of the stairwell. She arches a brow as they look at each other and have a silent hollow-eye-holed discussion about killing her. "Oh, HELL, NO, you American Horror Story rejects!" she says, reaching over her shoulders with both hands and pulling her katanas free. "No, you don't. You think you can just come up in here and cut the throats of these poor kids? They're just trying to make it by in this shit-hole world, you zealotfucks!" she says, lashing out at both of them when they get close enough.     "C'MERE," she demands, advancing on one with her katanas outstretched, one behind her and one before her. She uses her TK to shove the one she's walking toward...in her direction. "Lemme tell you a thing, fucko. The only religion you should have is when you see stars after a nice, hard fuck. That's the only thing that you can count on. You might only be lucky enough to see it a few times in your life, but it's more'n you'll see the face of some distant god who gives NO SHITS for you," she says heatedly, her bodyheat rising and giving off an even hotter aura around her body. "WHAT'D YOU DO TO JANEY? Did you kill that little girl down there? HUH??" she whips her head to look at the other one, keeping tabs on both with her fiery white eyes.
Rorschach	One thug is dragged forward, his toes trailing on the boards as he's pulled into Typhoid's grasp for a very vicous end. His friend charges in and tries to save him, letting out a strangled howl in his own right as he tries to stab the serial trollop with his curved dagger. There's no technique there, no training, just simple vicious ferocity. Typhoid is out of their league. As is Spawn. The mask falls off of the gun he shoots and he can see that the guy underneath is young, probably in his early twenties, scruffy looking. His eyes have been sewn shut. His mouth is open to reveal the gooey, torn remnant of a tongue severed at the root, twitching as the last gasps of breath escape him. Rorschach pauses with one of them himself, twisting the knife out of the boy's grasp (and it is a boy, slight in build, probably barely a teenager). Rorschach casually turns him around into a hammerlock and shoves his head forward, cracking the mask in two at the edge of the banister and leaving him to drop and crumple as his skull spills gore down onto the boards beneath. "This way, Hellspawn." he says in his rough voice, casually stepping over the body and starting to descend.
Spawn	Al had no anger toward the slain form beneath him, but nor did he have any sympathy or pity. Ultimately, cult or no, it was his decision to wield the knife. Just as it was Spawn's decision to end him. He did, however, see that his firepower would probably not be necessary here, and Spawn casually followed behind the shorter, shabby form of terror. His chains and cape would almost act on their own accord, though really it was Al's subconscious aiming them toward goals. Tearing through cultist flesh, throwing them across rooms violently, and there was one particularly fat one being dragged behind, smothered by red leathery cloth, that refused to let him go. Here he was less concerned with killing them, but any injuries they received were their own problems. And if any of them died in the hospital? Al wouldn't lose any sleep.     "I hear noise down below. I saw a woman entering the building earlier. Black leather, trashy looking. Might be working with them. Running around with katanas, like every other anime reject in this town. I've never understood who brings a sword to a gunfight."
Typhoid Mary	From the lack of response, Typhoid Mary glares at them both, "Really?? You've got nothin' to say? FINE. I got nothin' left for ya, except an express trip to meet your makers, you shitstains." Then, it's a simple matter, quickly done. She runs the one through and rips him open, whirling and slicing upward as she brings both katanas together, then swings them down in a swishing diagonal arc that severs the other's head from his neck, the empty shell falling down the stairs behind her. There is some arterial spray that peppers her face, and it sizzles a bit as it splatters on her skin.     Then, she's moving upward. She still hasn't found Janey, but she holds out little hope for her erstwhile friend, considering the way the two she encountered were blade-happy, and their tools were wet. She comes to a stop at the top of the third floor's stairwell and finds herself facing one Hellspawn, and one Rorschach. "Oh, goodie. I've reached a boss level, is that it?" she says, brushing at her mouth with the back of one hand...that's still holding a bloody katana. "S'fine. I'm mad enough to spit fire, boys. Shall we?" she says invitingly, lowering her stance and simultaneously bringing her katanas up into a ready position.
Rorschach	Rorschach gives a shudder as he faces down Typhoid, as if something crawled down the length of his spine, "Hurrrrrrrrrrrm," he mutters, but his hand flexes and he points down the third-floor hallway. "Priest," Rorschach manages to say. And there is, indeed, a man there in an obscene parody of priest's garb. His mask is different, almost human, but somehow wrong. The eyeholes are a bit too big and it can be seen that the flesh underneath is blackened, charred. Burned. One of his hand holds a long, silver blade, much like a machete. The other grasps the tongue of young Janey, her legs bloodied and blouse soaked in red from the struggles she's already had. The priest is muttering as six more of his beloved burst from behind him in their blank-faced mass and charge the motley crew of...well, we can't exactly call them heroes, can we?
Spawn	When he saw Mary, the tall shape of leather and malevolence stepped forward, a struggling and not-quite-screaming goon being dragged down each step as he thrashed and slowly started to black out. For his part, Spawn's eyes glowed even brighter as his chains started to uncoil from around his arms and torso, swaying and starting to snake toward her in the air, like cobras about to strike.     The sight down the hall snapped his attention away from the girl, however. He counted the approaching masses, and his words, aimed at the bondage-woman, were short and to the point.     "Whatever these clowns are paying you, walk away. They're not worth dying for."     And that was all he said before the Hellspawn calmly walked toward the charging men. Immediately three of them dogpiled him...and got flung around violently, as Al exploded in strength, speed and anger.     "HRAAAAAGH!"
Typhoid Mary	Typhoid Mary's seen some fucked up shit in her time, so Spawn's unsettling, underworld-y visage isn't quite as shocking to her as it would be to someone less damaged than she. Rorschach's mask is intriguing and his voice is gravelly in a way she can wholly appreciate, but there's something about him that makes her squint. She is, however, caught slightly off-guard when Spawn addresses her with his absurd comment. "Wait a minute," she blinks and shakes her head, laughing incredulously. "You think I'm with these losers? Fuck, no! I'm here for Janey," she clarifies...     And, her words die off as she turns her head to catch sight of the person she just mentioned, bleeding profusely... "JANEY," she bellows and a gout of flame--not huge, nothing like a dragon breathing fire or anything, but still, it's a fucking gout of flame--accompanies her yell, flickering into nothing as Typhoid Mary leaps /toward/ the oncoming droogs, her katanas already slashing. "You better not go anywhere, you sick fuck," she screams at the priest figure. "I got a bone to pick with you!" The blood is copious, and it sizzles as it hits her skin, leaving steaming trails coming off of her.
Rorschach	As Spawn and Typhoid charge, Rorschach holds back. He watches. He observes. To them, this is chaos. Blood spatters everywhere. Spawn's chains tear through flesh, rending limbs. Typhoid's blades do that hot butter thing, splitting ribs to the marrow and sending one head flying. But Rorschach sees the pattern. He takes five measured steps that carry him through the bloody labyrinth of combat, leading him to the other side untouched just in time to grasp the wrist with the silver blade before the priest can sever Janey's tongue. "Hell has come," he says, squeezing hard enough to grind the little bones in the priest's wrist. The burned man hisses, shoving Janey aside and starts to struggle directly with Rorschach, the tatterdemalion crimefighter and the black-clad blasphemy slamming back and forth against the walls as the priest screams.
Typhoid Mary	Typhoid Mary is breath-taking to behold, it's undeniable. But, it takes a special kind of person to be able to truly appreciate /all/ facets of her beauty--the fecund violence of which she is capable, the exquisite cruelty, the sheer malice that bleeds from her like the life-force from an artery-pricked creature. Time slows down for her, during moments like this. John Woo would release a flock of doves for her on the reg. She is all rage and fury, hatred and contempt, mayhem and death. These poor fools had no chance, once they set their courses in her direction, instead of fleeing from her. She carves them up and spits on their wounds, yelling obscenities as she kicks them off of her blades to free them for the next body.     Seeing Janey released, time exits its slow-motion roll as Typhoid goes to her side, to check for a pulse. "Janey," she says softly, gripping the girl's face with a bloodied hand--not her blood. "Janey, are you okay?" she asks her, patting her cheek firmly. "Look at me. Are you hurt? What did they do? What's going on here?" she says, turning her body in her crouch to look back at Rorschach with the priest and the unspeakable things Spawn's doing.
Spawn	Funny thing, when Mary turned around she'd likely be able to see the blackclad man leaping through the air, dagger held in both hands with an overhead stab no doubt aimed for either her, or Janey, or perhaps the man was just covering distance to stick the masked man wrestling with their leader. In real time, the redheaded inked up bombshell would be able to see a chain intricately coiling around the man's throat, and pulling taut at the flying form at the last minute. This meant all that momentum and weight was stopped suddenly, a horrific 'pop' sounding from the man's neck as he landed hard on the ground with a gasp, fingers violently twitching and the sound of rasping gasps heard from behind that mask. It was doubtful he felt anything below the neck, and he wasn't able to see the tall form standing over him. He also wouldn't see or feel a seven round burst opening up his chest and stomach, though he'd likely not have to worry about it for much longer.     For Spawn's part, he lifted the Lexcorp SMG up to his eyesight, inspecting it for a moment before nodding and shrugging. This was his only form of appraisal before he continued down the hall, the compact plastic and steel weapon in his hand sounding like a mini-jackhammer every time the trigger was squeezed. The man got close enough to Mary and her friend that she might feel his presence. True she was made of tougher stuff, but madmen and fools, sometimes they were sensitive to things that were not supposed to be here. And Al was not supposed to be here, not anymore.     "Will she live?"     The question was innocent enough, but somehow it was made ominous just having come from that voice. Meanwhile, in his left hand was a .357 magnum, hammer pulled back, and aimed at the violently wrestling duo. If he had a clear bead on the priest, and if it looked like Rorschach was in trouble, he'd fire with the sound of fury in this small cramped hallway. Otherwise, he'd stay his hand...no reason to tag the freakshow as well as the priest. They were all on the same side, weren't they?
Rorschach	The priest's blade comes narrowly close to Rorschach's mask, the tip of it poking at his cheek and almost piercing the latex there. Rorschach's breathing comes in quivering husks, snarling, and the touch of the weapon against his cheekbone seems to set him off somehow. Rorschach twists and takes the blade instead in his shoulder, punching through the hollow his collarbone with a sick thud. That gets him in close quarters, however, and he grasps the head of the priest, his thumbs pushing through the eyeholds and gouging until he's rewarded with the telltale gush of fluid as those orbs split under the pressure he applies. The Priest's tongue at least seems to be intact as he begins to wail, falling to his knees before Rorschach as the vigilante tucks his gooey gloves back into the pockets of his trenchcoat. Janey's breathing. She's hurt, but she'll live, if she gets some medical attention on the soonish. "Messy," Rorschach says as the scene finally stills, all three of the warriors in some way stained with their fallen enemies.
Typhoid Mary	It's hard to take her eyes off of the wonderful display, almost like it was a circus show being performed just for her, but Typhoid is trying to make sure that Janey stays alive. She's not conscious, whether it's from injury, shock, or a nasty cocktail of both. "I got a pulse, but it's weak. She needs medical attention and more than the Cauterize the Wound Special that's my go-to," she replies grimly to Spawn's query.     With Rorschach making his way over, his own wound spilling blood down his front, she looks back down at the pale face of Janey. "It'll take too long for an ambulance to get here. Last I clocked it, ambulance gets here in a couple'a hours, if they come at all," she says, sliding her arms under Janey's head and behind her knees, lifting the girl with ease and hefting the slack body for a better grip. "I dunno you guys, but ah..." she hesitates, as though it's painful for her to admit something like this. "But, you helped keep my friend safe, even if it wasn't intentional. So, uh, I owe ya a little somethin'. You need a body or a favor, I might be willing to rise to the occasion. Dependin' on what it is," she finally says. "Name's Typhoid Mary. I gotta get this chick to a healer, so..."
Spawn	The entire time he stood over Janey and Mary, standing up straight with his magnum pointed at the fight away from them. Unbeknownst to him, one of the cultists stood up behind the trio, and had been approaching when he was blindsided and mulched by a cape. If Spawn was aware, he didn't show it. The only time he moved was when Rorschach stood after a few moments, and that action was to slowly put the revolver back in the shoulder holster, hammer unclicked.     "Is she dying?"     Another innocuous question, as the smg was moved to his left hand, so that his right could stretch outward toward the pair. It was easy to see the clawed fingers of those black leathery gloves, and easy to see the black leather almost 'moving' as if it were ink, shifting as if it were breathing, or moving like waves on a beach of despair. The glove seemed to 'tighten' around that hand, tight enough so that it was now possible to see every wrinkle and every line in his palm...and definitely easy to see when those lines 'split' open as if that leather was tight, swollen skin. From the tears, green fluid trickled downward, filling the whole hallway with innocuous glow. If Mary didn't move to intercept? Al would place that hand across the side of Janey's face...and his eyes would glow even brighter. He rasped out a moan, then, but it was nothing like the desperate needy moans of desire Mary might have been used to hearing...more like the raspy death-rattle of a man that wasn't long for this world.     If this happened, it would only last a moment at least, before the hand was pulled away. Some of Janey's more obvious injuries might appear lessened.     "I've done what I could. Go on and take her where you're gonna take her."
Rorschach	Rorschach jerks away and turns from the others. If his wound is bothering him, he doesn't show it, although there has to be a burning trail of agony going down his side. Or maybe not. Some have speculated that the man behind the mask isn't human at all. Or that there might be nothing under there in the first place. "Miracles from Hell and a kill-crazy whore. Strange soldiers. Strange times. The Inquisition of the Profane spreads. I...didn't see the pattern in time," he says. "They are black flies feasting the corpse of this world. Scavengers. They seek out the rot and feed on it to grow fat. They spread. In time, I will find the hive. For now...we keep hunting. We watch our backs. And we wait," he says. He pushes open the door to let the hot air in. The girl is, indeed, stabilized in Mary's arms, breathing easier, some of her wounds sealed. Spawn can feel a bit of her essence - the two are connected, for a time, soul to soul, by the demoniac magicks he's laid on her flesh. "I'll find more. I'll find you. Then we'll find them. Soon." Bleeding and ragged, the masked man walks down the steps and down the street, his stride even and calm. As if he had not a care in the world. But the ink on his mask squirms, incongruent and unreasoning, reacting to the heat of his body and the salt of his rage. He will tear their church down, if he has to assemble a pack of Fallen Angels to do it.
Typhoid Mary	"I don't know. Maybe?" Typhoid replies to the strange guy with a cape. There's something about him that's interesting, but also kind of gross. Repugnant. And, when his hand splits open and reveals green goop, Mary's nose wrinkles in distaste. "Sick," she comments, leaning back as Spawn squishes his green goo on Janey's face. "This better not be radioactive or some shit," she says, narrowing her all-white eyes at the man. "Wait. Miracles from Hell? Is that demon blood or something? Is she haunted, now?" she looks back and forth from Rorschach to Spawn. "Did you curse her, guy?" she groans. "It ain't like her life's a walk in the park, y'know. Just... Look, if there's some kinda cost for it, come to me instead'a her. All right? I can take it. She can't. Look at this lil' bitch," she sighs wistfully, looking down at Janey's face which looks noticeably better, color-wise.     She nods her head at Rorschach's crazy mumbling, "Sure, guy. Sure. We'll get 'em." If her eyes could be seen, they'd show her rolling them. The dude's clearly unbalanced. Maybe from blood-loss. "Hey, wait. Y'need the Cauterize the Wound Special or what?" she calls after him. "Ah, well. I'mma scram. I'll leave her at the hospital," she exhales. "See ya, creepy," she says and, kicking open the door--which had swayed nearly shut--she begins making her exit out of the bloody house full of dead bodies. No big. Just another day for Typhoid Mary.
Spawn	In truth, Al wasn't particularly sure -how- the girl would react to the force that worked inside her, the Necroplasma that surged through her veins, mending bones and staunching bloodflow, serving as temporary arteries and veins until they could repair themselves. She might have nightmares for a while, but after the night she's had, that was probably par the course.     As they both left, Spawn and Spawn alone remained in that den, unloading the gun in his hand and checking the magazine, before reloading and putting it away. When he was alone, with the dead and dying, he spoke more to himself, and to the dazed woman in the corner who'd seen everything.     "We can only ever pay our own costs. Just like these men are going to pay theirs."     He'd do one more sweep, make sure everyone remotely bad was incapicitated, though he had an idea, looking at the priest. When the cops arrived, they'd find most of the dead and dying goons hanging from chains and hooks in the ceiling, the still-living writhing and mouthing wordlessly through their masks. The priest was still on the ground floor, and on the wall before him, a larger version of the 'ink' symbol on that paper. Except burned into the wood, with the help of Necroplasma. From a nearby rooftop, Spawn would watch the whole thing. He was tired.     "What a fucking night."