Closed Snake-Oil Merchants - I

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Rowan's breath caught, in that initial moment. Just a half moment, a small surprise. It wasn't actually a surprise, though, given everything. She'd made the news before, in the aftermath of several incidents across the years. She had a cloak persona, an active one, so it wasn't completely unheard of to be recognized. In any other scenario, it was fine, too. Just bad luck that she'd been noticed now.

Her smile didn't drop, though, and she did her best to appear relaxed. "Maybe at a club? I've been around the last couple days. Been trying to have some fun before we got to business," she said, motioning towards Hannah, Ciccetti, and the coke. It was a flat out lie. She'd made it to Atlantic City that day, and hadn't had time to sightsee yet. Odds are, she wouldn't have time to at all, but that was just how the job went. Maybe there'd be time to catch a movie with Hannah and the new girl before they all had to get back to it, once this was done.

"That sound right to you?"
​
Rowan's eyes never left the goon's, the smile never left her face.
 
Okay, well, none of that was ideal was it? Alya flexed her fingers by her hip, and she could feel the skin along her arm prickle and cool. Behind the freezer seemed like the best place to dive when the gun came up, though Rowan seemed to be the one most in danger at the moment. Still, bullets didn’t really care what their target was, did they?

Alya shifted in place, her expression maintaining the same sort of vague disinterest she had looked around the warehouse with. “Is it odd to recognize a face?” She asked, letting her tongue move heavily through the words.
 


Ciccetti's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward-- not close enough to be any useful distance from Rowan; Hernandez, or Alya, but close enough to have better scrutiny of the people he was dealing to. The man who'd started the confrontation seemed to be conflicted at Songbird's words-- the grip on his rifle tightening as his lip quavered, uneasiness showing on his face as he tried to rationalize the persuasive effect of the speech. He had already distrusted the group upon their entry, so any rapport was likely absent-- though he certainly still seemed receptive, and it was enough to keep bullets from flying.

For now.

"... maybe." The man grunted. He rolled his shoulders, lowered his rifle. "Fuckin' maybe. I don't..."

Ralph Ciccetti rose a hand.

"Francis." He stated, shutting the man up as his eyes widened-- though not from looking at Rowan. His eyes were trained upon Alya, now, brow furrowing as he took a backstep towards his SUV. Ralph's expression melded into some sort of determination, then diffused that same calm, almost friendly demeanor.

"Maybe he's mistaken." He stated, plainly. "You know my daughter's big into that, ahh... MIRA shit. The Jurors, what-do-you-call-'em. Cloaks. Capes. All of that shit. I mean, I find it ironic, given her old man's job, but what can you do? She likes what she likes. And I'd give the world for her." He laughed, a bit, prompting a few sideways glances and smiles from his men-- they didn't quite understand where this was going, as he paced to the back of his vehicle.

"See, she likes this one Cloak in particular. Kept asking to go to a meet-up, see 'em while they were at a media event, get an autograph, whathaveyou. Shit like that. Now, far be it from me to deny a thirteen year-old girl what she wants, yeah? So I get some memorabilia. Pull some strings."

He pulled out his gun. Aimed it at the group. In particular, his eyes found Alya's. The rest of his men raised their guns, training them on the various individual bodies opposite the deal.

"I remember the name clearly, even now. Miasma. I remember her face, too. Looks a hell of a lot like yours. So I'll ask this, politely, so I don't have to tell my daughter I shot one of her favorite heroes-- what the fuck is going on, here?"

 
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Hernandez - no, Molt - flexed her hand, feeling her claws shift beneath the drug dealer's hands. She made a quick head count, made a note of the exits, then stepped forward, hands raised, casual grin plastered on her face. Almost instinctively, she put himself between the gunmen and the two girls behind her, making her the center of attention.

And the target.

"C'mon, man, think I'd bag a cape? Sides, the guerita and her friend here've been helpin' me corner for like, a month now." She looked over her shoulder, meeting Songbird's eyes. "That right, morena?"

C'mon, Rowan. Push 'em. Push 'em hard.
 
Shit.

Rowan's hands came out of her pockets, one going up towards the air as the other grabbed Ayla by the wrist and pulled her closer, placing herself in front of the younger girl. It didn't matter much, they were surrounded, but... at least she could say she made an effort. She was a kid, she really shouldn't even be out here. She didn't deserve to have to kill.

It was a blessing, then, that Hannah was still working to keep this smooth. Or, as smooth as possible, considering they'd been made. Her eyes caught those of Hernandez, and Hannah beyond them. A simple thing, and likely, as long as they didn't figure Molt out, too. It would just take a bit of talking, a bit of convincing, to sell it.

Maybe she'd been at gunpoint a dozen, two dozen times since her acquisition. From the outside, you'd think she'd be used to it by now. Cloaks were always in the face of danger, always acting boldly, flashy. Hell, maybe it was something Ayla was used to, but Rowan hadn't ever acclimated. It always set her heart racing, adrenaline pumping. Her breath caught for a moment, as she started to think through anything she could say to move this lie along. Then, with a deep breath, she spoke again, eyes falling to Ralph Ciccetti.

"Yeah, we're not anything. Mikey like, onboarded us at a club a couple months ago. Julie here just kinda looks like Miasma, kinda styled herself after her once she took off- before she joined up. Just, put the guns down, let's talk, yeah?"​
 
Ah, right. Well, she had a fan so that was nice right? Well, setting her father on fire was going to be less nice but — the prickling coolness spread across her shoulders. She couldn’t allow there to be too much vapor, she was too close to the others and she was far more liable to harm her allies with any fire.

“It’s like a uh, branding thing, yeah?” Alya said, keeping her tongue a bit sluggish. She shifted slightly, not enough to lean past Molt or move from Rowan’s side, but enough to watch movements. And, you know, it did feel a little safer here. “Mikey says it’s mostly in the hair, y’know?”

Did trying to help Rowan’s power actually help the power?
 


It was bullshit.

Of course, the three knew that; or, at the very least, Rowan did, given the immunity to her own abilities. The effect was not immediate, though there was hesitation in each of the men's eyes; the one who'd leveled the first accusation lowered his gun, slightly, and scowled, obviously not wanting to admit he was wrong. Rationalizations and doubt were introduced like illness. Truth was static, but a lie was viral. It overwhelmed, it twisted, and it convinced. Ralph looked away, for a moment-- suspecting something was wrong, and looking rather confused for it-- and then motioned for his men to lower their guns, shaking his head.

Onboarded. How rookie were these fucking cunts?

"You show up to a fucking exchange looking like a Cloak. I should fucking shoot you. All of you." Ralph spat, gesturing to the trio with his handgun. "Take the product and fuck yourselves."

The man nearest Rowan gestured with his gun, walking up to her. Only a few steps away-- and then mre inches. "Take your shit. Go. I want to see your ass on the way out." He looked back to Hernandez, at that. "And--"

There was only a soft grunt-- almost a gurgle-- and a flash of some brief light through the air; a lock of Rowan's hair fell to the ground, the disturbance air sending small tufts swaying side-to-side. The man stepped back; his eyes were half-lidded, twitching. He couldn't even raise his arm. The gun he was holding dropped to the floor, and he fell--

KKSKSHHHHHHRRCK.

-- a font of blood spraying from his neck as his head rolled from his shoulders, fully decapitated.

Blood sprayed out, jettisoned by the heartbeat which failed to register his demise; it took a moment for everyone to acknowledge the death. Ralph stared at the corpse, a moment-- brow furrowing, eyes widening-- until he looked to Rowan and the rest, his expression alight with fury. His gun shot up, and Hernandez found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO? YOU MOTHER--"

SSHCHCHRKKK.

Distinct, now. A flash of red, from the rafters above. If anyone had the faculties to look and see through the dark, they'd find only a cloaked figure-- a crimson cloak veiling identity and figure, full-body and tattered at the edges. Ralph's gun fell to the floor, as did his hand, and he let out a screaming gasp; a moment later, he staggered back to the SUV as the remaining three men trained their guns on the target above-- as well as the trio who'd arrived for the coke-- and fired.

KRAKAKAKAKKAKAKAKAKAKA
 
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They'd started to calm down as her words registered. It brought confusion with it, something Rowan was used to seeing. It was hard to reconcile what you knew with what you were being told was real. It's why she couldn't push the boundaries too much. The more outlandish, the harder to believe, the less likely, the less sway she held. Already, what she'd come up with was bad, and she knew that, but Miasma as a public figure was popular enough, and with Ayla looking so young, it was just plausible enough.

Frankly, though, it didn't matter. The man nearest her, close enough to touch now- his name was Francis- was trying to usher them out. Rowan prepared herself to argue to stay. They still had work to do, here. They still had to bring Ralph with them, they still had to figure out what this new drug was- and then his head was gone.

A lock of her own hair fell, barely disturbed as something flew past her face. She was stunned for a moment, frozen in place as he fell backwards, a bit of his blood staining her sweater as he went down. It was so fast, there wasn't hardly time to react. Ralph started yelling. Rowan raised her hands. "I didn't-"

A second flash, noticed now. Red, towards Ralph. His hand, and gun, fell, and he screamed. Rowan took it as a cue, and once again grabbed Ayla's wrist, pulling her to the ground. Molt was just out of reach, just barely too far away, but she had to trust her to be safe. Above them, a hooded figure, supposedly who was responsible for the assault.

"Guys, stop!"
​
She had to try. It was simple, so the odds should be good. The only worries were Hannah and the person in the rafters. So long as Molt hadn't internalized the identity of Hernandez too much, she should be fine, but she didn't know anything about who was up above. It was a shot in the dark, but she desperately didn't want to turn this into a bloodbath, even if the decision had already been made for her.
 
They'd bought it. They didn't realize the girl behind them had nothing to do with them - Julie wasn't -

Wait, Julie?

No, Miasma. Julie was Miasma. Molt cringed inside. Always felt weird getting caught up in Rowan's shit, even when she wasn't the target. Songbird, Miasma, Molt. They were here for the drugs. Here for the special drugs, and Ralph wasn't complying.

"Right, man, but about that -" Molt began. Her words were cut off by a gurgling groan and a thud. She whipped around instantly, eyes sharp, fingers flexed. Blood on Rowan. Fucking - did he - no, not hers. The guy next to her. She traced the line up to the rafters above, where a dark figure was perched. Couldn't make him out. One of theirs? Body relaxing slightly, Molt turned forward just in time to see the barrel of a gun pointed at her, Ralph screaming.

The screaming stopped being words as a streak of red hit him too, taking hand - and gun with it - to the ground.

"Fuck," she hissed. Grabbing at her hands, she peeled them back to the arms, sharp claws exposed dripping to the air. Everything was chaos. People were shooting into the rafters. People were shooting at them. Jumping back, she slit open her leg with a talon, slipping out her own gun and firing a few quick shots off in the direction of the dealers.

Have Miasma fill the place. Grab Ralph, if he was still alive, find the wonder drug, then throw a lighter and bail. That'd -

STOP.

Her hand seized, slipping off the trigger, gun falling forward out of her hands and clattering across the ground.
 
That was — blood. A lot of blood. Juli—a managed the ‘fuh’ part of fuck before she found herself yanked down to the ground, which was probably good given the amount of screaming that soon followed. Vapor quivered as it rolled off her shoulders and mixed with the air, leaving an ethanol taste in her mouth as she forced a breath into her lungs. Juli—yla, shook her head, trying to clear away that feeling of cotton that pressed against her thoughts.

Alya set her teeth as she looked up, catching a glimpse of the new assailant in the scaffolding overhead. They had range, and a clear line of sight in here. Could fire be used for cover? Alya winced at the commandment to stop, how did Molt deal with this? Alys pushed her breath through her teeth, which helped remind her body that she had a job.

“Going to try to break off and try to start a fire.” Alya said, low and quick.

And perhaps because nothing had gone right this day, she gave Rowan’s hand a squeeze.
 


Reporting shots fired. Agents, be advised, ACPD response time is approximately two minutes out. Do not allow coverage; do not let Ralph Ciccetti escape.

The command from Rowan was enough to stop the shooters in their tracks-- fingers hovering upon the trigger, practically shaking as their mind was given conflicting directions from sheer instinct. One of the men's noses began to bleed; Ralph was already getting in the car, reaching for the handle and seemingly unaffected-- or, at the very least, not entirely stopped. Most likely on account of his injury and a need for self-preservation that staying still would have counteracted. The man who was meant to be driving, however, stood with the door open, staring at the group with a scowl on his face.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, JAY-- GET THE FUCK IN-- MY FUCKING HAND--"

The driver seemed conflicted, naturally. He looked between his boss and the group from across the warehouse, struggling to find the words.

"I-- I just... I'm..."

As for the cloaked figure in red-- it was hard to stop a body already in motion.

KRAK.

Having already launched themselves from the rafters before Rowan spoke, they were beholden to gravity-- and their boots slammed into Hernandez's chest, sending them both to the ground with the figure atop Molt's changed body. The cloaked assailant's momentum carried them both along the concrete floor for a few feet and skidded to a halt near the door; a hand wrapped around Hernandez's neck, putting idle pressure on the jugular as another hand pressed a knife to his temple.

"Nobody move."

Their voice was tinged with an automated whine-- modulated. Deeper than an average human's, and slightly scrambled. "I see any of you take a step and he's going to have a blade halfway through his temporal."

Their face turned back to Hernandez. Only a blank darkness stared from within-- cloth and trick of the light, most likely.

"You think I wouldn't find you? After what we'd discussed?" The blade dug a bit past flesh. "I told you what would happen if you didn't do as I asked, you fucking rat."

DO NOT-- engage, you are NOT greenlight for lethal. Provide a description. Who is this? Powerset? Julian, get me a database lookup ready. NOW!

 
Everything stopped, just like she wanted it to. The problem was, so did Hannah. Rowan even saw that moment of hesitation from Ayla, and beyond even that, Ciccetti hardly hesitated. He was in the van, screaming to leave, and to top it off, Molt was pinned beneath their new visitor, talking about some deal that the real Hernandez seemed to have neglected to mention. Fuck, this had gone poorly.

She squeezed Ayla's hand back, and looked to her. "When I clear my throat, cover your ears. Hum a little. Try to tune me out best you can, okay?" Hopefully it would be enough. Problem was, she had no idea what to say, now. Not only was it dangerous, with Hannah stuck beneath the interloper, but very suddenly, lethal had just been taken off the table. Of course, the one time she would consider it, they decide it's off limits.

Providing a description was impossible, in this scenario. Rowan held her tongue in that regard. "Why don't we just calm down and talk, yeah? I think this might just be one big misunderstanding. Does that sound good to everyone? No one else has to die here, yeah?"

Just be careful, Hannah, I'll figure this out.
 
Molt was standing. Then she wasn't. The floor was concrete - not exactly the most comfortable thing to slam your head into - and the two-hundred odd guy atop her who'd just flying kicked her off her feet wasn't really helping the situation either. Coughing, she took a moment to catch her breath, ogling at her assailant with a mix of anger and incredulity.

"Fucking -"

He had a hand on her neck and a knife against her head. Said something about stabbing her temporal. She didn't know if she could survive that, and truth be told, she wasn't dying to find out. The knife dug into her temple, cutting through the skin. Instead of blood, thick clear liquid oozed out, her real mottled flesh visible beneath.

"MIRA. We're MIRA, you retard," she hissed, shifting to try and take some of the pressure off her neck - digging the edge of her tracker into her throat. "You want Hernandez, he's in a fucking cell."
 
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Okay, everything was going completely wrong then. Alya’s attention split from the two trying to drive away and the man who currently had Molt pinned. Liquid dripped from the wrist she held away from Rowan, her attempts to roll away and head for the car arrested suddenly by the threat of a knife. Those two weren’t going to stop, were they? Well — they were stopped now just for an instant but that wasn’t permanent.”

Could she make it to the tires in time? If she could get them burning then perhaps a MIRA response team could catch them fleeing, and if they tried their luck on foot, the boss was down an arm already. Indecision kept Miasma rooted in place, her gaze sliding between the two with a grimace.

If she didn’t do anything then she’d have just been a burden, wouldn’t she? Miasma turned her gaze to the would-be assassin and opted for Molt’s strategy of just telling the truth. Rowan could stop him again couldn’t she?

“I am going after the car, not you.” Alya said. She held for a second, maybe it was to watch for a nod or maybe it was just something for her own nerves, her heart was definitely doing it best to escape her ribcage. The she brought the heel of her hand down as she pushed herself up into a crouch, she turned away from the botched assassination attempt and dove behind the refrigeration unit full of coke. She moved to the edge and poked her head out, trying to gauge her distance to the car and an angle of approach that didn’t end with her getting shot. She tensed her right arm as the cooling alcohol glistened, fat droplets hanging ready off the tips of her fingers.
 


The gunmen, at this point, had retreated to the SUV Ralph had thrown himself into. Tires screeched as the vehicle lurched towards the rear loading bay of the warehouse; one of the gunmen was halfway in the SUV when it accelerated, leaving him to fall out of the car and onto his ass with a grunt.

"FUCKIN'-- WAIT-- !"

The SUV left him behind; he skidded along the concrete for a few feet before he lost his grip on the car handle, immediately trying to push himself up to his feet as he whipped his rifle back towards the trio and fired off a few warning shots while he retreated. He had a limp; something was definitely injured in the fall. The SUV continued to barrel out into the yard, slamming open the closed chainlink doors if unimpeded.

The situation inside was hardly better. The cloaked figure kept their knife on Molt's temple-- the other releasing its grip upon her neck, looking to Songbird. "Shut the FUCK UP." They barked out, looking back to Hernandez-- skepticism clear in their body language and tone.

"Bull-shit you're MIRA. Proof. Now." The blade dug deeper, poking actual flesh now. "I'm not asking twice."

 
The effect had waned, after they'd followed her instructions, and the dealer and his goons retreated to their van. It happened while she was distracted with Hannah, and how to help her, and Rowan only realized it was happening as the engine started and they began their escape.

God fucking dammit.

"If you so much as lay another finger on her, you're not leaving here, procedure be damned." Rowan pulled herself back up to a kneel on one knee, just as Ayla made her move. The cloak training was doing her well, given the lack of hesitation. They could discuss the positives after, if they made it out of this.

She returned her eyes to the interloper in front of her, trusting Miasma to take care of the SUV. From her crouch, she pushed her coat aside, resting her hand on her gun. She didn't draw it, knowing that would put whoever this was on edge. Besides, she wouldn't need it. Never did, though sometimes it felt more ethical than what she was preparing to do.

"Molt, Miasma, this isn't for you, so ignore it. Who the fuck are you, and why didn't goddamn Hernandez tell us about you?"​
 
The knife pushed deeper, sliding off to dig into Hannah's actual skin. She grit her teeth as blood began to run down her neck, shooting daggers at the idiot on top of her.

Rowan was - saying something. Said her name? Eh. Didn't matter. Her beef was with this guy. Their knee was digging into her side, and despite her layer of fake skin, the pressure of their body was making it hard to breathe. In a different context, in a different situation, with a lot less - actual physical discomfort - this might've been a bit hot. A bit.

"Agent Molt. Infilspec." She pushed at their arm, trying to lessen the pressure of the knife. "You are gonna be in so much fucking shit, my guy. You jumped a MIRA agent and let their target escape?"

She grinned. Behind the relatively normal - if a bit nicotine stained, and currently drooping - teeth of Hernandez, a pair of small white fangs flashed.

"There isn't a camera crew, asshole. You know what that means."
 
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“Damnit.”

Miasma broke from cover as the SUV roared forward, taking long steps as she sprinted for the warehouse’s open bay. If she could get there first then she could — a body tumbled off the side of the vehicle. Ayla tumbled to a stop as the rifle swung up, and she dropped down as a trio of wild shots were fired off. Gouts of flame burst in the air from the bullet’s passage like will-o’-the-wisps as Alya rolled back up to her feet.

“Drop the gun.” Alya said, in her best imitation of an authoritative voice. She scuffed the heel of her boot against the floor as she moved. She felt the ‘twing’ of a spring, followed by a rush of hot air as the vapor around her ignited. The girl flicked her wrist, and a burning whip uncoiled from beneath her sleeve. She brought the whip down with a ‘crack’ aiming at the limping goon’s hand.
 


There was a moment of silence as Blood Pact looked from Hernandez-- the Moltified Hernandez-- to Rowan, and then back to their quarry. The blade lingered upon the temple a moment longer, a guillotine hovering over a bared neck, only to be withdrawn with a dry, condescending chuckle.

"The fuck is this?" The figure stated. A hand grabbed at the face of Hernandez-- right where the dagger had made a tear-- and ripped it off, chuckling all the while. "Some Scooby-Doo ass shit." Then, guarding against any would-be sucker punches from the operative beneath them, the figure stood up-- sheathing the dagger, and tilting their head as they looked to Rowan.

"You can call me Blood Pact. I was tracking Hernandez for two months. Close to figuring his supplier out. Gave him an ultimatum to show me the product that's been leaking out onto the streets." They stated, crossing their arms. "Then he went dark, and showed up here. Had a contact tell me a deal would be going down. I figured I'd kill him, take the product, study it. Find out who's supplying him, too." They shrugged, at that. "Hernandez probably didn't tell MIRA about our agreement because he was more scared of me than you. Go figure."

Redlight for lethal. Blood Pact is an authorized vigilante. GRN-4. Do not engage.

There was a pause, as Blood Pact stepped towards the crates-- pulling one free, and beginning to sort through the contents. "So what brings the Boy Scouts to Atlantic City? You pinch Hernandez, then? I was working him. Bit rude, doing that, so let's call this even." A pack of cocaine was tossed to the side, then another. "Ralph Ciccetti's gon'a hide, now. Hope you know that."

The yard, meanwhile, was progressing in a more productive manner. The flame whip struck off the man's face, prompting a screech as he grabbed onto his head-- dropping his weapon and turning over onto his back, holding his hands up and trying to scoot back.

"FUCKING BITCH! I GIVE UP! FUCK! FUCKIN'H-- I'M DONE! I'M DONE. OKAY?"

 
Oh, that was frustrating.

"Maybe it's about time we reconsider that authorization, then." It was a mumbled response, not meant for Blood Pact. God, even their name agitated her. Despite her frustration, though, she took her hand away from her gun, and let her coat fall again to cover it once more. Back to looking like a normal person, if you could ignore the bloodstain on her turtleneck. Fuck, it was going to be annoying getting that out.

She rose back to her full height, distaste evident, as she looked over the scene. One dead, head removed from shoulders in brutal fashion, one severed hand from Ralph Ciccetti, and one apprehended, thanks to Miasma, who was currently dealing with that very man. She spoke into her earpiece as she watched their newfound captive writhe on the ground. "One apprehended, not Ralph. We'll need a medic, he's received a burn during the action."

With that taken care of, she made her way to Hannah and their new vigilante. "He wouldn't have gotten the chance to hide, if someone hadn't interrupted. We had it under control. Are you alright, Molt?" The change in tone from addressing Blood Pact and her fellow agent was notable, her frustration evident.
 
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