Owner	Pose
Ventriloquist	It's late in the evening - And the outskirts of Gotham are quiet, but for the rich notes that come from the record player in the study. Voices in chorus, serenading an old man in a wing-backed chair, who rests before a fireplace that crackles and burns down to it's last few embers. It must nearly be time for him to go to sleep, but he's stayed up late with a visitor. That much is obvious, there's a Rolls Royce Phantom parked infront of the expansive doors of the mansion, and armed guards at every entrance. But the visitor is absent. There's a wine glass that rests on the table opposite, marked with red lipstick, still holding a mouthful of rich red... Surrounded by the wisdom of thousands, the Professore, one of the few surviving advisors of the Riley family, waits for his guest to return.
Brutale	Guillermo "Brutale" Barrera, having mounted the wall outside the villa and descended to the ground in a crouch, has made his way across the rolling green outside the monument wing of the mansion in his tactical gear. The grey leather gargoyle suit, lined with throwing knives and dirks and interrogation razors, clings tightly to the Hasaraguan ex-paramilitary's body, the stocky man staying low to the ground as he glides along atop his chunky black boots. His black goggles pick up the blacks and greens and everything in between of his nightvision mode, before he alights to the side of the manor. Finally reaching his target, he removes a key from his belt, purloined by The Professore's valet earlier that day, at much expense of the personal caterer's livelihood and continued health. Opening the door to the museum wing, Brutale steps into the villa and turns down his nightvision with an adjustment of his hand against his head, quietly stepping into the hall of paintings and sculptures and suits of armor through the displays of fine art.
Ventriloquist	It's a massive home. And even with the four armed men that his visitor has brought with them, the guard is woefully insufficient for dealing with a talented assassin. This late, the staff have all checked out, although there are cameras visible in most of the hallways. A blight on an otherwise traditional manse, but a functional one.
Brutale	Brutale reaches to his bandolier and draws a long, narrow pike blade, the narrow and austerely ornate handle along the outer edge of his palm, the hilt clutched between his thumb and fore knuckle, gloved finger loosely grasping the lowermost portion of the blade. Brutale steps out of the dark and into the light, behind The Professore in his study. He looks up and around warily, searching for any signs of opposition, before he moves to the familiar chair that his source, the mangled valet, identified as the retired advisor's favorite chair.
Ventriloquist	And yet there's not a noise. Not a single sound of protest, aside from the building chorus of italian voices that rise from an antique record player. One could be forgiven for assuming that the Professore himself might have fallen asleep during the long evening spent with his guest. And then, noise. Slowly approaching, a delicate click of footwear upon marble tile, towards the open study door.
Brutale	Brutale's finger tightens around the blade and it tilts upwards a notch in his grip, as he turns to face the direction the steps come from. His left hand moving to the side, the bestial figure sidesteps with puckish care into an alcove, moving behind a book case to observe. He is hidden merely by the chance that one may not examine the broad room too carefully, where he waits in the shade of a grand piece of furniture commonly overlooked.
Ventriloquist	"Professore," The voice coming from the corridor is rich, "The Scarelli family history is..." She walks into the room slowly - And it's Peyton. The same curves, the same hairstyle, and the same red outfit complete with the long gloves. "Incomplete at best. It seems almost like the families had some kind of a reason /not/ to complete them." Walking towards the two heavy chairs with a heavy leatherbound volume cradled in her arms - And strangely, no Scarface. "Of course, my husband would hardly have finished mine even if he hadn't gone for a swim." "Scarelli, hah." The voice is old, from the Professore's chair. A man on the wrong side of eighty, he shifts to regard Peyton more closely. "When he went belly up, we was happy to be rid of him. Why do you care so much, Riley?"
Brutale	Brutale leans out of hiding, seeing the familiar Peyton, but hearing her unfamiliar voice. He leans back into hiding, waiting until he hears the creak of upholstery and wood of her sitting down in the chair. Brutale is content to listen about details he doesn't much care for, merely monitoring the ebb and flow of the conversation until he has a signal. He wants surprise, the shot in the heart, the sudden uptick of vulnerability exposed. All he has to do is bide his time for the proper reveal of tenderness from the old man towards the needful hand of the younger primadonna.
Ventriloquist	"It's important to me to understand how we got to where we are to understand how to move forward." Peyton replies simply, leaning forward - She is moving for her wine-glass, when a liver-spotted hand takes hers, and the aged Professore leans forward in response. "Peyton. What you've gotta understand is that even in the family, some doors stay locked for good reason. There's nothing for no-one in them. Ghosts and skeletons."
Brutale	Brutale loosens his grip and allows his blade to move into the downward position of a Roman Iscariot, raising his arm to a crossward gesture as he moves out of hiding. There is the palpable sound of his heavy but form-fitted boots on the dull floor as he advances towards the space between the chairs, where the hands meet over the wine glass. He isn't here for Peyton. This is a controlled discharge of force, in such a manner that it engages an exchange of casualties in the favor of Brutale's overall objective: the dominance of tri-state university cocaine sales, in favor of pro-criminal justice, pro-military academia inside political circles and clandestine campus organizations. He wants this to be palpable, and he wants them to take revenge, but in the manner of theater. His own men don't understand theater. Just the feel from viewing it.
Ventriloquist	Peyton clicks a moment too late to do anything productive - But her response is still strange. Rather than shocked still, fighting, or flight, she pushes /up/ off the ground, and neatly manages to vault the chair - And this is used to keep some distance between her and the assailant. There's no call for guards, either... Because Peyton is looking out for number one.
Brutale	Brutale hardly alters course as Peyton displays incredible agility and precision in her evasion. There's a mere track from his goggles and his head to determine her likely direction and landing vector, before he returns his attention to his target. Perhaps, to his detriment, he leaves his back to Peyton Riley, as he steps aside the chair and grabs it with his left hand, swinging La Professore's chair about to force the old man to face him, staring him down as he holds his curved blade in his hand, left hand pinning the natural right side escape the old advisor may have. There are no words of the common hitman attempting to make peace with God by justifying himself to his victim, nor is there the laughter of the petty street thug or the sadistic savoring of forced victimhood for empathy, of the serial killer. Merely a cold, level, evaluating stare, to confirm he has his target.
Ventriloquist	"Boy." The Professore doesn't seem suprised when he's turned, or when he's met with a very real possibility of death. A leathered face of an italian who has seen everything and anything, his tone is measured - Even though pale blue eyes examine the blade. "There's faster ways to kill yourself." Peyton seems content with the distance she's created, one hand on the back of her seat as she considers fleeing, fighting or using her words. "If you want a war, this seems like a hell of a good way to start one." She seems calmer than the situation would allow for as well.
Brutale	The Professore's face is met with his own bulbous reflection on Brutale's black goggles. After Peyton's confirmation from behind him, he plunges his pike blade into the old man, heartlessly and cruelly, with such sadistic reflex that he can't help but exact carnal pain. The curved tip shoves its way into the man's collar and snaps it with the hard, ruthless force of Brutale's hard jam downwards, before he twists and swerves the blade out towards him, yanking ribs out of place in a hard bend as the blade twists about through the heart's central chambers and aorta. Blood splurts and sprays into Brutale's gray leather mask, as he works.
Ventriloquist	And yet as this awful evisceration occurs, the steps back from Peyton are slow and measured, towards the door but keeping an eye on the assassin. She's apparently unarmed, the red-clad woman choosing not to involve herself in this particular fight for whatever reason. Never taking her eyes off the bloody murder occuring infront of her, she ends up stopping in the doorway, blocking the easy exit from the room.
Brutale	Brutale, after the heart has been wrenched into several dislocated and lacerated positions, lets the victim exsanguinate in terror. Leaving the knife in place, he moves off his lurched posture above La Professore, and reaches to his bandolier, drawing a pair of fish knives. Five inches a piece, each with a dull serrated fillet blade and a whetstone sharpened tip of carbon steel. Small, demure blades, for a hand to hand confrontation with a highly skilled martial artist. Just an extension of what Brutale already has. Brutale, covered in blood and positively soaking in the warmth of it, stalks forward towards Peyton, trailing the stuff behind him in thick splatters. "So, Peyton Riley, do we have our agreement, then? A war?"
Ventriloquist	Peyton doesn't look ready to fight. There's nothing that gives away that the girl would even be able to, despite the fact that she's standing her ground with an armed man descending upon her. "War." She states simply. Her eyes narrow though a moment later, "But that is /nothing/ compared to what Scarface will do if you were here for me." The Ventriloquist regards him, her gaze cold. "I'm disappointed at how short-sighted you've been about this thing. Half of the gangs in Gotham are going to be looking to put nine grams of angry lead into that silly mask."
Brutale	"An angel is only a messenger, senorita," comes Brutale's response from beneath his stitched mask, as approaches the woman blocking his sole exit. "And I am a demon. I am only a tool. The angel is behind me, resting peacefully." Brutale sulks down as he stops before Peyton, waiting to see if she yields. "You may just kill me yet, Miss Riley. But do me a favor. Go to a place called California. You know it, si? Find it in the winter, when the heat of the city is gone and the mountains are clear. Find an old tombstone, in one of those graveyards for the Chicanos, or one for the railworkers, or maybe one for the Spanish soldiers that died there of disease. Take a piece of nice, coarse paper, and a piece of coal, and take an impression of La Madonna." Brutale's thumbs slide up onto the backs of his blades, as he watches her. "Keep the impression. Whenever you avenge someone, keep a souvenir from the man or woman you killed. You should keep impressions of La Madonna from the resting place of the damned's spirit, had they lived a different life." There's an impassive silence. "Some day, it may make sense to you."
Ventriloquist	"Swords to Plowshares, isn't it?" Peyton responds levelly, her guard still not up. She's not even really fully blocking the doorway, she's just 'in the way.' "You are a tool. And like every tool, you can be broken and cast aside, and the hand that wielded you cut from the arm. Don't pretend that you're just the messenger." A flash of danger in her eyes, a step back in that elegantly stepped heel. "You can't hide what you are from me. You're more than just an object - You're here because this is who you want to be, whether you admit it or not. It's who you are." And the unarmed woman turns, and begins to walk down the hallway. Leaving the gruesome scene behind her as she calls out to the guards. "Intruder!" It's not panicked though. It's pitched for volume only, and it's met with the sounds of boots and weapons. "I'd leave while you can." Is the last warning she offers, even while she makes her exit.
Brutale	"You will not remember my words in body, but in blood they shall guide your child." Brutale steps past Peyton Riley and turns down a hallway. With a swift leap, he moves through an open window, and out across the hill towards a low wall near a copse. Then, he mounts the wall with a quick grasp of the ledge and tip-kick upwards with his toes, hefting himself up and over, with a hip turn over and a kick of his legs to boost down to the other side.